New pens are one of the more pleasing things in life. New pens, good spelling, and a big, blank piece of paper. The expanse of white and possibility is a subtle sort of joy. Sometimes life feels like this paper. Some days I can’t imagine life on earth ending or ever reaching a day when I look back and realize that the bulk of life is behind me. Other days the future seems short and fleeting. I find myself frustrated with how I have lived so far and desperate to accomplish more. I am simultaneously eager and anxious to begin to write on the paper before I realize that I have already been writing for 19 years.
Metaphors can get tricky.
I am currently seated in Biola University’s campus coffee shop in Southern California. SoCal in January isn’t all that bad: the sun is out but there is a light breeze. My table is near the door and outside it is bright and busy. The leafy tips of palm trees are peaking into view and I am deciding that they are their own brand of beauty. Yes, I have begun the slow emergence from my snobby Northwestern definition of natural beauty. It is a bit shocking.
I want a new cardigan = Buffalo trip.
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