I remember when I was still a little kid thinking about how old I would have to be before I felt grown up. What grade would I be in when I stopped being a kid?
For whatever reason, I determined that time to be fifth grade. In fifth grade, I would feel old.
And I was right, I did feel old in fifth grade and it seems that every year after that I felt even older.
You can smile at that last sentence. I am.
When I started this project, I thought again about numbers. Though I had planned on doing this for 365 days, how many days though, before it felt like a lot? One hundred? Fifty?
As it turns out, day 87 feels like a lot of days. For someone who has a hard time finding the energy to do anything even two days in a row. Eighty-seven days seems like quite a bit. Eighty-seven days driving to church, walking the grounds, learning to listen, learning to stand still, learning how hard it is to filter out the regular noise that we become used to.
This morning I drove past a golf course and found myself saying, "How long has that been there?"
And then driving past a gas station where the words "Touch Free" had been painted over. There had been a car wash there. I remembered the car wash. How long had it been gone?
The world has a life of its own and will move quickly past us. It has no desire, no need for us to notice and yet we have a need, a desperate need, that we are often unaware of, to notice things, to be aware, to welcome change, to hold onto memories with one hand even as we let go of them with the other.
The picture I took today is one I described yesterday. I don't want you to think I just use pictures from other days. Every picture is fresh from this morning. I love this picture, the patterns, its icicle type appearance, the oddness of it hanging onto a palm.
It makes me think of winter, even in Florida. It makes me think of crisp nights and fat, wet snowflakes that land on you like that unwanted slobbering kiss from your mother's second cousin twice removed that you see only once a year at Christmas. It makes me think of pine and the smell of pine and shiny wrapping paper. It makes me think of things that are gone.
And so, like I said, I hold onto the memory with one hand and I let it go again with the other.
For whatever reason, I determined that time to be fifth grade. In fifth grade, I would feel old.
And I was right, I did feel old in fifth grade and it seems that every year after that I felt even older.
You can smile at that last sentence. I am.
When I started this project, I thought again about numbers. Though I had planned on doing this for 365 days, how many days though, before it felt like a lot? One hundred? Fifty?
As it turns out, day 87 feels like a lot of days. For someone who has a hard time finding the energy to do anything even two days in a row. Eighty-seven days seems like quite a bit. Eighty-seven days driving to church, walking the grounds, learning to listen, learning to stand still, learning how hard it is to filter out the regular noise that we become used to.
This morning I drove past a golf course and found myself saying, "How long has that been there?"
And then driving past a gas station where the words "Touch Free" had been painted over. There had been a car wash there. I remembered the car wash. How long had it been gone?
The world has a life of its own and will move quickly past us. It has no desire, no need for us to notice and yet we have a need, a desperate need, that we are often unaware of, to notice things, to be aware, to welcome change, to hold onto memories with one hand even as we let go of them with the other.
The picture I took today is one I described yesterday. I don't want you to think I just use pictures from other days. Every picture is fresh from this morning. I love this picture, the patterns, its icicle type appearance, the oddness of it hanging onto a palm.
It makes me think of winter, even in Florida. It makes me think of crisp nights and fat, wet snowflakes that land on you like that unwanted slobbering kiss from your mother's second cousin twice removed that you see only once a year at Christmas. It makes me think of pine and the smell of pine and shiny wrapping paper. It makes me think of things that are gone.
And so, like I said, I hold onto the memory with one hand and I let it go again with the other.
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