It's a grey, wet day and the tractor trailers on the Interstate throw up white wakes of startled water drops. They rocket upward and forward for several yards and then, as the pull of the road wind dissipates and the energy is spent, they slow and fall back to the slick, black highway, only to be startled again by a pickup truck or an SUV or a hatchback. The Interstate is a hectic and fitful place for a drop of water.
I used to collect ideas and thoughts like a librarian, shelving them in their appropriate places. I used to add new sections to my library every year. This year I spent more time rearranging the shelves, thinning out the collection. I'm beginning to realize that I've shelved a few things in the wrong place. I'm moving things around, leaving some things on the cart, putting some on the curb.
What have I learned this year? How am I different? I've learned a few loose facts, though I can't think of any of them right now. I spent a little time with my father. I've made a difficult job transition. I've admitted to myself and to my wife and to a close friend that I am an agnostic, that I can't remember or relate to the faith I had in such abundance when I was a younger man. I am more at peace than I've ever been, though not without that familiar howl of random, indistinct longing.
Soon this year will be gone, this arbitrary demarcation of days passing by. Next week we will think about what is to come. Today let's think about what has been, about what is now. Right now, if I close my eyes, I don't see gods and heroes. I see people. My imagination is a dance of faces and voices and children and women and men. This feels more right to me.
It's a grey, wet day and my coffee shop window looks out on the Interstate. This grey light, this dance of water and wind, gets into your thoughts. It's a good spot for reflection.
Hello, friends. How are you?
Later. Love.
