Wednesday, September 29, 2010


Yesterday I emerged from my little cave at work feeling shaky from having a very tense discussion with a business partner that was only just south of open warfare. I was feeling pretty awful and expected the weather, which had been rainy and glum, to match my mood - I think they call that feeling the pathetic fallacy.

It turned out that the rain had lifted, and the sky was simply blooming with towering cumulonimbus clouds and sunset hues that ranged from blue to gold to copper red. It was a little like getting called to the assistant principal's office and in the midst of dreading the encounter finding out that you're parents are there to pick you up from school early. Boy, what a wonderful sight.

I climbed up onto the roof deck of the parking garage, which also fortunately happens to sit on the crest of a hill, and surveyed the miracle of those clouds and the light falling in great yellow golden shafts to strike the hills and the dells and the little lakes that I could see.

You won't hear me talking about my faith much in my writing - I consider it a private matter for most of us - but I'm pretty sure someone important was trying to get my attention.

"Don't sweat the small stuff," I thought to myself after a few deep breaths, "There are always clouds to fall back on."

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Quiet House

Our house is quiet tonight and the rain is pattering softly outside. It sounds a little like a laid back un-syncopated steel drum band out there with the gentle metallic sound of water in the drainpipe and raindrops hitting the top of our steel garbage can.

The rest of the family is sleeping and Maggie the cat is curled up on the rug here beside the sofa.

I'm so used to being up at this time of night with my son, I think my body has integrated the timing into my internal clock. I'm just finding myself awake now at 1 or 2 or 3 a.m. regardless of the circumstances. This would not be so bad were it not for his new habit of getting up at 5:30 a.m. - the clock moves too quickly.

"Maybe today he'll sleep late," I think as I write this - hope springs eternal.

I'm glad tomorrow is Saturday. I'm teaching again this fall on Saturday, but it still feels like a weekend to me.

Things are changing again. I can't say exactly what's moved, or is moving, but I feel like I do when I'm in Port Authority late at night and all the busses hum dissonantly like migratory beasts around a watering hole. I think of the many far flung destinations of those busses as I pass through the wide brightly lit corridors emptied of the hustle of the daylight hours. I feel like all the destinations of the world are open to me, even though I'm just taking the 126 bus back home.

Good night.