Certain things happen in this life—in any and every day. They are the bones. Then we apportion our own meanings to them, flesh them out in the way our minds work and they become stories. They are created into gods or goblins (or at least good or bad), depending on our mindset that day, that year, that lifetime.
And yet in reality they are much more scant than that. They are what they are, not what our emotions paint them to be. With our ‘good’ stories, we paint and repaint until our canvas is thick with meaning, with what really happened and why. We do something similar with our ‘bad’ stories; sometimes we even revel in portraying the situation as blacker than it was in actuality.
In the end, does it matter why? We spend so much of our lifetime trying to find the why. If we could just accept the bones as bones and let them stand or lie where they are, giving passing consideration to them but not weaving stories around them, we would live much more in the present, more in reality and less weighed down by untruths and stories we have concocted to try to make sense of these bones.
Now, to do my conjuring trick to change this philosophical moment into a health-oriented thought: Bone both is good. We should consume that often, perhaps more often than we eat meat.