I wish I could tell you why people get mean when they’re really just scared. I wish I could tell you why they don’t write more songs about the smell of thunderstorms. I wish I could tell you why I don’t “get” avocado; no, not even in the form of guac; yes, I have tried […]
Long before you had a choice or a vote or a single tooth, you were saddled with a word that would become forever You. Have you grown into your name? Or has the name grown to fit your vastness?
There are things worth being afraid of: pestilence, vegan cheese, the awakening of the 17-year horde of cicadas, people who think it’s a good idea to eat aforementioned cicadas, Christopher Walken. There are other things not worthy of our fears: change, aging, our own littleness, mystery.
I suppose we were asking too much of you, 2021. We demanded that you atone for the sins of your predecessor. We commanded that you carry all of our hopes. We thought, at least, that you could be good-weird rather than civilization-tottering-weird.
If you have not been hiding inside a tree or running for President, you are aware: Pope Francis is in da house. No, not Tabby’s Place, alas. But, as I type these words, the Pope is a mere hundred miles from Ringoes, NJ, and he’s got us having all kinds of papal fun-cio.
Now is not the winter of our discontent. Now is not yet the triumphal procession towards spring. Now is the holy roll of ordinary time at Tabby’s Place.