Sometimes we need to be gently but firmly reminded that life is not of infinite length. I’ve been chugging along in my syncopated rut for over three years now, paying no mind to the leaves falling off the trees and the hairs falling out of my head. At the end of the last publication cycle I was ripe for such a guided epiphany. One morning I awoke to discover I had floaters—and I do not refer to the utility reporters who drift from department to department to tackle all manner of jobs on a paper. (I’m the guy who does that on this paper, and I don’t think I’d float. I’m more of a water-treader.)
No, and for no particular medical reason, I discovered I had a left eye full of cobwebs and fog. The fog has now lifted, but the cobwebs remain. I’ve just about made friends with them. And like most constant companions, they have the potential to grow wearisome but they have much wisdom to impart. I’m used to being irritated by things and people in general, so their presence in my field of vision is no great imposition. Rather than yelling at them to leave me alone, I’m heeding what they have to tell me.
Some people stop and smell the roses. Not only do they smell them, they take pictures of them and put them on Facebook. Then they command everyone else to “like” and “share” them. Good people do so. Sometimes they’re not roses, they’re cats, or sunsets—or w
