Ithaca, New York, United States
March 12, 2017


This week finds me in snowy upstate New York, feeling more than anything, the way time shifts and flies in flurries — how it's less constant than every measurement would tell us.

History and the future and the present mixed mixing yet to swirl.

This is my partner's childhood hometown, the place I went to college, a place her family moved to and from and back again.

I'm talking with her parents, talking about our future, their family history, memories three generations old. Of old age, youth, the phases of life. Through it all, time swirl swirling swirling.

There's this story that time is linear, steady, flowing straight forward from our birth to death.

But in days like these, I'm reminded of the eddies, the waterfalls, the way rivers never quite run in a straight line.

As we walk through the forest, Autumn's leaves still crunch under fresh Spring snow, and I'm struck by the smallness and preciousness of each of our journeys, and how fleeting few moments we really get.

The current pulling, pulling, pulling. Steady. Relentless. Beautiful.

Have a wonderful week, whenever you are. :)


p.s. The best thing I saw all week was this story about a lost book from one of my favorite writers. While I'm still not sure if I'll read it, since it would be against the author's wishes, I'm inspired to know that Walt Whitman wrote a book we've never heard of.

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