Time Rushing Past
Spring is upon us. The trees are budding and blossoming and swelling with the promise of summer. Grackels and robins swirl around the neighborhood in great clouds, their voices clanging from the branches, their beaks bobbing up and down in the grass. Squirrels are attempting to remember where they hid all those acorns. Sparrows are squabbling over prime nesting spots inside clothesline pipes and atop porch lanterns. Inside the house, flies spontaneously generate out of air and dust and drifting cat hair; I have become a leaping samurai warrior, armed with a blue-tipped flyswatter, declaring death to these buzzing black concentrations of matter.
I pass among this bustling whirl of growth and energy, and I look at it, and remark upon it - and yet I fail to set it down in words and images, in pixels and megabytes and photons glowing through the screen. Teaching is sprawling through my life like a massive underground fungus; the classes and lectures are only the fruiting bodies peeking up between the leaves. Below the surface the tendrils reach out and infiltrate all parts of my life, waking and sleeping. I find myself dreaming in PowerPoint slides. I struggle to find clear ground, bare rock upon which I can stand and contemplate the changes around me.
In other words, I've been too busy to write. Forgive me.
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