Wednesday, December 29, 2010
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
(Last night as I was trying to sleep, I looked out the window and sat straight up. Here along the lake we see stars more often than most people in Chicago, but... framed perfectly by the window and bright as diamonds was the Big Dipper. There are just some gifts that take center stage...)