This life. This parenting life. This teaching life. This digital life.
It’s so hard to find a clean moment, to feel the real cool breeze. Those thick drops suddenly fall from heated skies and I’m out at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched, watching my work shirt turn dark with wet, feeling cool wet realness in my hair. Glorious, beautiful rain.
She walks into the home. Hello? And two laptops are flipped open and I’m staring at a desktop. There are screens charging here and there. Later we walk the warm night, wet breeze, conversation healing us, and I watch lightning strike in a snappy circle over the San Francisco Bay.
All the dots connect.
The black cat is curled in a little ball on the green couch. He has no use for screens. He tells me he is hungry by rubbing against my leg. If times are desperate, he wraps his paws around my calf muscle and my achilles leaps in fright. He meows. He doesn’t tweet. He wouldn’t mind eating a tweet.
The other day the black cat caught a hummingbird. Somehow Milo knew and we rushed to the back door. We brought the cat in and I lifted the tiny bird on some newspaper. Shocked, it shot off in a straight line right into a wall above some steps, dropping again to the ground. It seemed to have lost its ability to control altitude or perhaps its reason. How terrifying to taste the slow motion world with such a heart. I ran over and lifted it up again. This time it turned and shot straight into the open kitchen door, literally landing on the stove. (The cat, suddenly wearing an apron, added salt and pepper to taste.) I brought it outside once more and it shot towards the side of the house. We have found not a feather since.
This digital life can feel rudderless, liftless too. We fly at great speeds in a straight line.
Out of the open air.
Into the frying pan.