The timing of the Great AOL Debacle couldn't have been worse for me. I have a lot going on right now and not much time to journal about any of it, let alone time to read or comment. I was barely keeping track of who had gone where, and and then today I deleted all the links on my new journal by accident.
Nevertheless...please come on over, add me to your bloglines, and give me a chance to settle in. I miss you all!
When I turned on the television in our Chicago hotel room Friday morning, a local station was doing a story on the Marshall Field's Department Store holiday windows. The eleven windows of the State Street store develop a fantastical story every holiday season, complete with elaborate design and animated figures.
(The Fairy Godmother Delivers Cinderella's Coach)
The exquisite detail and charm of the windows would warrant a news story each year entirely of their own accord. The interviewer spoke with the chief designer, and showed us the storage space housing decades of costumes and sets -- all interesting stuff. But the story has a different twist this year, since Field's has been bought by Macy's and the future of the windows is uncertain. People are unhappy about the acquisition of a local landmark store by a national retailer -- as we were out and about later in the day, I overheard one young woman telling the story to a companion and planning her own boycott of Macy's.
(The Baffled Prince Holding The Slipper After The Ball)
Why do these things matter so much? What difference does it make whether we shop at Macy's or Field's, at a Home Depot or a local hardware store, at a Walmart or a neighborhood retailer? What's good for business is good for America, right?
Oops -- that speaker was discredited over 70 years ago. Good business is good for America, and the world -- but what is good business?
We've obviously had a chance to reflect upon that over the past week or so in AOL Journal Land. And I think we all know that one of the things good business does is build community, or create a climate in which community builds itself. Certainly some of the apprehension felt by Field's customers has to do with their fears concerning the destruction of community.
The folks at Marshall Field's never had to create those display windows on State Street. They didn't have to continue thetradition decade after decade. People would still do their holiday shopping there, even if the windows were full of nothing more imaginative than plasma television screens and the latest in X-Box technology.
But the windows became a gift to Chicago, a gift that built community. Whether they are "consistent with Field's objectives" remains unstated -- but my guess is that they are. Community, good feelings, loyalty -- they are all precious business commodities as well as personal treasures. They are created by a business that cares enough about its customers to welcome them to its premises, year after year after year, and to treat them like royalty once they arrive.
(The Slipper Fits The Lady)
PS: For pictures of last year's windows, go here and here.
Most of the sandhill cranes in easern North America pass through the Jasper-Pulaski Wildlife Refuge in northern Indiana on their fall and spring journeys. There are probably 10-12,000 cranes in northern Indiana right now, although to see them en masse you have to be at the right place (J-P) at the right time (sunrise and sunset), which we weren't. Nevertheless, we saw several hundred in mid-afternoon yesterday. And we were treated to a view of a large herd of deer, a flock of wild turkeys, and four coyotes, all mingling in the fields far beyond the cranes.
******************************
PS: Don't these birds just look like they're searching for a convenient ATM?
The Pilgrims (including my I-don't-know-how-many-greats grandfather Digory Priest), who made an arduous journey across the Atlantic, mostly died in the cold and snow, and probably did not celebrate what we would call Thanksgiving Dinner with their neighbors, did so in order that they might create a society according to their own designs and, as a result, quite accidentally took the first steps toward the diversity and freedom we enjoy today.
They probably were't thinking that their sacrifices would bring us flash advertising. And the Wampanoag weren't realizing that they were on the verge of replacement by corporate America. But. . . just for today, just because we have made for a ourselves a day to pause and think of what we are grateful for instead of what we aren't:
I want to wish everyone -- including Joe, John, and my new colleagues at AOL Corporate, Bank of America, NASCAR, lovematch, and that pharmaceutical company that has showed up -- a lovely holiday ~ hope your drives and airport waits are not too long, your loved ones show up, your mashed potatoes are perfect, and you enjoy a long walk in the woods!
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!!!
Just posted in Joe's Magic Smoke (I only wish I could choose my font size over there) but you can read it here, too, if any of you are left. I notice that most of the journals I read have gone private or departed. Not sure how the private mode helps, as my private journal is blasting a BOA ad at the moment, and the dearly departed are hard to find -- I'm working on it, I'm working on it. In the meantime, for those who have stayed, if you figure out a way to retain your labors of the past months or years in an acceptable form, let me know:
NEW ENTRY, ENTITLED "THE FINAL STRAW -- THAT OLD CAMEL HAS COLLAPSED"
ONE WOULD THINK. . .
that aol might be trying to retain and recover those of its unpaid contributors who might have gone elsewhere.
ONE WOULD BE MISTAKEN.
More than a week after the ads went up:
1. My archives still indicate 1 post per month.
2. The archives still go to the wrong month, so to find an old entry you have to go back into archives, click on the CORRECT month, and got to the date in question, and then start all over again for the next one, etc etc. . .
AND
HERE'S THE WINNER:
I have always backed up my journal periodically with hard copies. I have several notebooks worth. Today I decided to work on that task a bit. In the past I would simply open an entry and click "Print." I would get a nice clean copy of the entry, with photos or other illustrations completely intact.
BUT GUESS WHAT????????????
THE ONLY THING I CAN PRINT NOW ARE THE ADS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
NOT my entries. NOT MY ENTRIES.
For the entries I have to painstakingly copy every single one into Word, save and print -- and the photographs all come out as about 1/10 the size of a thumbnail.
I hope the BOA commerical artists are happy.
I AM NOT.
Some of you know I've been posting my entries in the Comments Section of Magic Smoke while my own journal has been AWOL. Here's what I left over there today:
FINAL ENTRY: SWAN SONG
Well, it was nice, Joe. I enjoyed posting in your journal. But mine has been returned to me as of last night. The archives are still a mess and BOA still seems to think it has some kind of right to perch up there at the top, but at least I can post. And maybe I will. Or maybe not. Or maybe I'll post to both blogs for awhile.
I expect there's a lot of ambivalence around town, but maybe not. I seldom have my finger on the pulse of things. My journal doesn't get much notice and I think I know why -- I'm usually completely out of it with respect to contemporary culture. But some of the best writers around -- people who really care about words and expression -- visit me regularly, and I get to see what they are up to. And it was a delight to be a Guest Ed Pick last week -- just before the s--t hit the fan and consigned me to oblivion again.
I looked around at some other journal sites last night and sure enough, there are ads all over the place -- which only served to remind me again of how easily I see past much of the junk that pollutes our space in general. And I'm not so naive as to think that blogspot and typepad and livejournal might not someday do the same thing. Perhaps they are plotting even as I speak.
But here's where there can be no ambivalence as I see it: AOL, by providing no advance notice and no means or levels of choice, showed contempt for its customers, a contempt magnified by the lack of reponse from the "higher-ups." And the tech problems demonstrated an astonishing level of incompetence.
Contempt for the customer and technological incomptence are not foundations upon which to maintain a successful business. I had learned that from my very successful self-employed grandfather by the time I was five. I would submit that aol has some major repair work to do.
Good luck, Joe.
AND:
Sheesh. The last sentences of that last entry thanked you and John for keeping your cool and noted that it seems that you at least tried. But for whatever reason, they didn't appear. I rest my case.
I can post again!
Now I just have an ethical decision to make.
Although I'm not so ethical. As I just emailed Joe,
<<I'm thinking about how many years of free aol service this fiasco might be worth to me. Decades. Lifetime. Think heirs and assigns. I could be bought. If I had a journal to post in.>>
And now I do. Let the bidding wars begin!
Accessing my journal from work again.
Please stop by my new place! Hot chocolate available, along with some of those new dark chocolate Pepperdge Farm cookies. (Oops! Advertising?)
The goal is to have this in every single AOL Journal. What do you have in common with others? Do you like the same things? Post this and put the title of your entry "Survey Like None-Other!" This is a great way to introduce yourself to new readers!
And you should do it even if you NEVER do these.
1. What sign are you? Leo.
2. What is your favorite color? Crayola Blue Green
3. How many waffles could you eat in one sitting? One.
4. Can you touch your tongue to your nose? No.
5. If you had to choose between cats and dogs, which would it be? Cats.
6. What is something you have learned recently? Who Natan Sharansky is.
7. What is your favorite quote? The Henry Beston one that pops up in this journal from time to time:
We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals . . . We patronize them for their incompleteness, for their tragic fate of having taken form so far below ourselves. And therein we err, and greatly err. For the animal shall not be measured by man. In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.
Alternatively, from maps of centuries past (apocryphyl but whatever; still a great concept):
"Here there be dragons."
8. What is your favorite entry in your own journal? Oh, I like this one, I guess. And my Judi Heartsong winner. And this one, written after my stepmother died. I guess three pieces out of a year-and-a-half isn't bad.
9. What color is your bedroom? White.
10. Where is your favorite place to visit? St. Augustine, Florida.
11. What is one thing you want to accomplish this year? To catch up on my photo albums.
12. Why do you write in a journal? It's fun and I'm obsessed with it.
13. What is your favorite joke? I can't remember a joke from one second to the next.
14. Do you like the city or the country? Both.
15. What style is your house decorated? Totally eclectic.
16. Who is your favorite artist? I have eclectic taste in this department, too.
17. Can you pat your tummy and rub your head at the same time? Apparently not.
18. Are you a night owl? Once in awhile.
19. What is something youlove in your house? (If you have a picture you get extra credit!) The photographs of my children.
20. Do you believe in God? Yes, usually.
21. What hobby could you never give up? Reading.
22. What color makes you think of Hope? Yellow.
23. What color makes you think of Love? Purple.
24. What is your favorite flower? Daffodils. I have another favorite, too, but I donlt know what they're called. Freesia?
25. If you had one wish for the world, what would it be? Conversation.
26. Whats the best surprise you have ever received? My trip to Williamsburg with my grandmother when I was ten.
27. What can you cook like no-one else? Believe me on this one -- absolutely nothing.
28. What do you think about most? My work.
29. Who is your favorite poet? Mary Oliver, at the moment.
30. And last but not least, if you could wrap yourself up in one word...what would that word be? Appreciative.
I've spent quite a bit of time on what can only be described as a conservative Christian message board. But I have come to the conclusion that staying there is such a violation of who I am that it is impossible for me to continue. At the same time, I can't really say good-bye to some of the people whom I genuinely like and respect, since "drama queen" would be the inevitable label.
Here's the conundrum:
When someone posts something with which I completely disagree, my choices are:
(1) I can state my disagreement, which enables me to be true to myself, my beliefs and values, and my friends, but invites vigorous disapproval and accusations that I am trying to create controversy where none exists.
(2) I can, without indicating my opinion one way or the other, note that we had agreed to avoid controversy, in the hope that people will stop posting on the topic. This prevents me from being true to myself, my beliefs and values and friends, but enables me to remain a gracious observer rather than a pot-stirrer. Nevertheless, it invites vigorous disapproval and accusations that I am trying to create controversy where none exists, just as if I had made an argumentative statement to start with.
(3) I can remain silent, keeping my objections to myself, as I very often do. This also prevents me from being true to myself, my beliefs and values and friends, and enables the original poster and supporters to believe that their position is unquestionably supported. It is also unhealthy for me, as my ears begin to steam and my blood pressure to rise whenever I see the disputed topic heading, which almost no one else will publicly admit to seeing as controversial.
(4) I can stop visiting the site. This also prevents me from being true to myself, since I do believe that reconciliation among people is a Christian imperative, and since it, too, enables the original poster and supporters to believe that their position is unquestionably supported. However, my presence is hardly mandated -- it's a message board, not a community in which I must live, and my absence will no doubt improve my mental health.
I think I choose (4). In my own community, the real life one in which I live, I have an obligation to vote my conscience and to speak out against injustice at least once in awhile. I am extremely fortunate to live in a place in which most people share my views on political and social issues. I suppose that those who do not share them agonize over whether to leave, just as I would if I lived in a real-life community in which my own values were attacked on a regular basis. I know that people have left my church over the liberal social views of our pastors, and I would have to leave if the situation were reversed. I guess a message board is about the same.
It's discouraging, though. I was at a church meeting tonight in which we talked about how devastating it would be for the worldwide Christian community if we cannot find ways to talk to each other across political lines. Easier said than done, that's for sure.
I had my first uncomfortable -- probably dangerous -- experience in the cemetery yesterday. I've walked there for years, and now this. I am a little shaken and a lot pissed. I treasure my time alone, and now one of my favorite places has been marred.
****************
I am about half way through my walk and have stopped to look out over a huge ravine when a large white van passes me and then, to my dismay, begins to back slowly in my direction. The back of that van looks really big and has no windows, and the guy driving it looks a lot stronger than I am. I am hoping that he is accompanied by a woman -- the cemetery roads are winding and confusing and people often ask for directions. No such luck.
"Have you seen a little deer?" he asks out his window.
What kind of a dumbass question is that? I wonder. In a 400-acre cemetery there are probably 400 deer.
"No, I haven't, " I respond.
"There's a little deer in here -- so friendly and tame -- been here about a month," he persists.
"Nope," I say. All the deer around here are nonplussed by humans. My husband passed within three feet of one when he was out running the other night. Is this the adult version of the "Want to see my kittens?" trap?
Warning signals are passing through the back of my brain. Its reptilian portion is emerging from what had been a rather dull nap during a pleasant walk through crunchy yellow and brown leaves, reminding me that would-one attackers are supposedly repelled by confidence.
"Haven't seen any deer today." I look directly at him and feel a sense of panic as I realize for certain that there is probably no one else within a mile of us.
He looks at my dog. Small and cheerful, but you never know. I'm hoping he's looking at my cowboy boots, very hard and very pointed. Maybe he's thinking, now that he's actually pulled beside me, that I am older and more resourceful than he might have imagined from a distance. More alert, too. And not the least bit afraid to use those boots.
Later I realize that at this moment I am actually really scared, but I am not letting myself know that. "No deer," I say firmly, and begin to move away. He puts his car in gear and I walk with determined steps in the other direction.
The second half of my walk takes a lot less time than the first. I don't see another soul until I am within half a mile of the cemetery gate where a young woman is finishing her run and opening her car trunk. I stand some distance from her so that I don't startle her and wait for her to remove her iPod to tell her that someone has just approached me in way that has left me extremely uncomfortable. I hope that if she comes back here to run she leaves the iPod at home -- it was probably two full minutes before she had any idea that I was behind her.
I have a lot of time to think on the way back. I feel like an idiot for not glancing at the man's license plate, but I conclude that you can manage only so much at one time. Staying safe is going to have to be good enough. I try to decide if I am overreacting, but then I realize that not one of my male friends would stop his car to attempt a conversation with a woman walking alone in a deserted location. I am not overreacting; this guy has gone way beyond the normal boundaries between strangers of opposite genders.
So. No more late afternoon walks in the cemetery. What a BITCH.
On a happier note (and with a thank-you photo that I hope works; I had a lot of trouble with it the other day): I couldn't be more flattered than to have been nominated as a Weekly Pic by Guest Editor Jim, one of J-Land's finest writers and gentlemen. Thanks to him and to those of you who have emailed your congratulations and left comments. And if you haven't been by his journal before, take a peek, and be sure to check out its name. There's a remote chance that I will make it to Skellig Michael this summer, in part thanks to what I've learned from Jim.
If you even noticed her tonight, you would think that she looks like an ordinary suburban woman. Jacket, boots, calf-length skirt identifying her as a teacher in a religious school. Standing in the aisle looking for lean doggie food and Charmin Ultra. Standing in the checkout line reading the local newspaper and noting with satisfaction the defeat of the city councilman who sought to void a gay rights ordinance. Driving the several blocks home in the early darkness, enjoying the light from the houses set closely together when the neighborhoods were created seventy, eighty, ninety years ago.
But there's something about the waning nights of fall that evokes the melancholia of youth. Fall evenings when she strode across the fields of the Connecticut River Valley, wearing a jacket and boots with a much shorter skirt and much longer hair, ruing the demise of a relationship rushed into too fast and too far and ended too soon, trying to sort out whether she should let that hair swing down and waitress on the Vineyard or put on her big round tortoiseshell glasses and head for halls of ivy.
There's only one thing for a night like this. Pop a CD in and play Laura Nyro, LOUD ~ VERY LOUD, all the way home.
~ So let the wiiiiiind blow, Timer, I liiiiike your song.
And if the sooong goes minor, I won't mind . . . . ~
The other day on NPR, Robert Siegel did a story on the Virginia gubernatorial race, much of which focused on the differing religious and political outlooks of Democratic candidate Tim Kaine and Republican candidate Jerry Kilgore. You can listen to the story here and correct for yourself any unintentional errors that I make in this entry.
The All Things Considered website says that the campaign has "one particularly unusual twist." And indeed, Bob Siegel seems genuinely baffled by Mr. Kaine's forthright references to his Roman Catholic faith and his willingness to discuss its influence on his life and work, and Mr. Kilgore's comparative reticence about his Baptist faith. Mr. Kaine's life of public service began when he took a year off during law school to work as a missionary in Honduras, an experience which altered his perspective and set him on his life's path.
I am puzzled by Bob Siegel's treatment of Mr. Kaine as somehow unusual in his openness about the role that his religious experiences have played in his life, and unusual particularly because he is a Democrat.
Or maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just sick and tired of the media's pandering to the religious right and open-mouthed astonishment whenever it finds people of deep faith and religious conviction whose political and social values tend to run counter to what the media persists in describing as religious.
You know what? -- we aren't so hard to find. But we aren't particularly loud-mouthed, we don't go around making outrageous statements for the sake of shock value, and we have this terrible habit of being tolerant of the views of others. And we aren't afraid of our doubts, our questions, or our uncertainty.
Nearly everywhere that I worked as a lawyer before I switched careers, I found myself in the midst of people who made decisions every single day on the basis of thoughtful and carefully articulated religious belief. EVERY SINGLE DAY. Jews, Protestants, Catholics. Some were pro-life, some were pro-choice. Some were pro-death penalty, some were ag'in it. Some for prayer in schools, some not. Some Republican, some Democrat. Some passionate environmentalists, some who probably own three SUVs today. People differ. But it is not unusual, in the United States of America, to find people who make daily decisions, ranging from how to treat a difficult colleague to how to resolve complex ethical dilemmas of advocacy, on the basis of religious beliefs which they readily discuss and evaluate.
It's also not all that unusual, although perhaps more so than I would like to think, to find Christians who believe that their faith tells them the following: Care for the impoverished and disenfranchised. God made us all as we are, so: Include everyone. Don't go to war. God forgives everything. Be attentive. Cherish and protect the created universe. Try not to kill people. If you can't help it, regret it and try harder not to. Extend yourself to all of the people of God. That means everyone. GIVE AWAY EVERYTHING THAT YOU HAVE.
Me? I do all those things to perfection. Okay, so maybe I make a teeny little mistake every now and then. Especially on the humility part of Micah 6:8. And I do have a little bit too much in the way of stuff.
But I am here to tell you that there is nothing unusual about Tim Kaine and his attempt to live according to the dictates of his religion. The religious right does not have a lock on that.
Spring extends across a few weeks, from the arrival of the rough-winged swallows, shivering against the cold mornings of mid-April, to the departure of the final stragglers at the end of May, the black-throated blue or Canada warblers who just can't get themselves underway for the final leg of the journey north. Summer is long, usually too long, with the Perseids providing a welcome break during the hot, sleepless nights. And Winter extends itself far beyond any reasonable welcome. ("Reasonable" might be defined as about ten seconds, and yet Winter persists in its delusion that its presence is required for months on end.)
But the height of fall, the most perfect, most spectacular, most welcome time of the year, lasts for only a few glorious days. This is it. This is all there is. Right exactly now.
In our decade Before Children, my husband and I did some backpacking -- in nearby forests, on Isle Royale in Lake Superior, in Glacier National Park. We always thought that we would share those experiences with our children, but they went the organized sports route from elementary school on. Years and years and years of week-ends sucked away by soccer games and tournaments. I loved watching them play and grow, but I was always aware that we were giving up on some special times with them.
We did go backpacking as a family once, in western Pennsylvania when the kids were all in middle school. It was a perfect fall week-end, with the gently rolling hills all mellow yellow in color and a layer of leaves crunching under our boots. And when we made our way back to the parking lot after two days of hiking, the place was dizzy with ladybugs. Ladybugs on the trees, in the air, parked all over the cars.
The same event took place a couple of weeks ago along the Lake Erie shoreline. Thousands of ladybugs made their stand on the beach, nestling against one another in patterns of color on driftwood and rocks as they huddled against the wind. They reminded me of a really good week-end when children still lived here.
I was just engaged in a conversation elsewhere about writing, which reminded me of certain exchanges in the deep and murky past. The protagonists are my classmates and I, 11th graders in an advanced English class. The antagonist (the only one with a speaking part) is Miss Palmer, the woman who taught us all to write. The time period is some decades before the self-esteem movement in vogue today.
"Young ladies, the fewer words, the better."
"There was no reason to hand in three pages of verbal diarrhea when you might have made the same point more effectively in a paragraph."
"The language on this campus is appalling. Girls, if you had any command of the English language, you would not find it necessary to use swear words. The simple fact is that your vocabularies are pathetically limited."
"You're smart, but you're not nearly as smart as you think you are."
Chant for Samhain
A year of beauty. A year of plenty.
A year of planting. A year of harvest.
A year of forests. A year of healing.
A year of vision. A year of passion.
A year of rebirth.
This year may we renew the earth.
This year may we renew the earth.
Let it begin with each step we take.
And let it begin with each change we make.
And let it begin with each chain we break.
And let it begin every time we awake.
~ Starhawk
This entry has 5 comments: Hide Recent | Add your own
Absolutely magnificent photos. I look forward to seeing this journal evolve. The light in this picture is wonderful. I will save this chant for future Samhain celebrations. We all seem to be drawn to things Celtic, these days... Lisa :-]Stunningly simple. Stunningly beautiful.Yes, I know more or less how this happens. The weather changes, chlorophyll production stops, and the green that it created fades away so that it no longer masks the true color of the leaves.
I tend to think it really happens because God the Painter is at work. Whenever I read the creation story in Genesis, I am struck by what a delightfully imaginative and good time God has. "Hmmm . . . I think maybe an eagle . . . and an owl . . . and a black-throated blue warbler . . . and a gannet, the best bird of all . . . and some furry things, and some fuzzy things, and some striped things, and palm trees and Norwegian spruce trees, and the ocean, and glaciers, and, oh, back to those trees, all those hundreds of colors of green are very nice, but couldn't we have red and orange and yellow ones, too?"
No, I'm no Biblical literalist. But I do think the Bible tells the absolute truth: God is an artist. How God must have loved those dinosaurs, to turn them into birds!
I have two main walks that I take. One goes through the neighborhood to what we call Lower Lake, a small sort of oval shaped lake in the heart of the suburbs. Sometimes I drive up there and walk around and from Lower Lake to Horseshoe Lake, half a mile further away. The walk around and between both lakes is about 3.5 miles. My second regular walk is through the huge cemetery a couple of blocks away. This maple is on one of the cemetery roads, a short distance from where someone I cared for was buried last week-end. The cemetery was positively on fire with color yesterday.
This entry has 4 comments: Hide Recent | Add your own
Dear Robin:
Well, Robin, I think this could be a good place for you. And, might I add, you are one of the few in the journal community who can correctly spell the word "cemetery..." LOL!
beautiful! Living in FL, I miss the fall colors. Can't do it -- can't maintain two journals. Hell, I can't even maintain my life. So I am moving my entries from Sycamore over here and continuing on at Midlife Matters.
Other people have written eloquently in the past few days about the journaling quandry. I second everything they've said (y'all know who you are) and add: it's just impractical, at least for me.
It's been an intense week: we had to go out for dinner tonight so I could have a margarita, and it's only Tuesday!
I'm the Testing Coordinator at our school. (What can I say? -- I needed the money.) We offered the ACT last week, we're in the middle of the state graduation tests, the PSAT is tomorrow (postposed due to the High Holy Days), and we're trying to organize an SAT prep course to start in a couple of weeks. Since the Jewish holidays decimated most of our October work schedule, nearly all of the preparation for these exciting events -- room assignments and proctor negoatiations and location of materials and instructions to custodians and last minute calls to the College Board and dire warnings to students about, oh, whatever -- has been crammed into the past few days. I finally left work a bit after 7:00 tonight, having spent much of the late afternoon roaming the school to pilfer clocks and pencil sharpeners for the testing rooms tomorrow. And somehow today I also taught eighth graders about Maritime Canada, 11th graders about the Berlin Wall, and 9th graders about the Tang-Song dynasties
It rained all day, so I didn't have to feel too bad about missing the action outside. But I was aware, all day, of the contrast between the mindset that dreamed up the idea of standardizing and testing and slotting human beings and the mindset that appreciates this:
There are, by the way, more tree pictures over at Sycamore.
