reality

the weary traveler arrives; tired, haggard, rumpled, yet surprisingly clean-shaven thanks to the airport bathroom and my electric razor. I traveled a lot as a kid, and my mother taught me that airport bathrooms are meant for any manner of personal hygiene short of a full bath or shower.

so, after a dizzying array of activities, events, and spiritual renewal in NYC, of which it will take me the next week or two to contemplate and mentally file away, I arrived around noon to an unusually quiet and somber workplace. A co-worker died in a car accident over the weekend. In an office of 25 people, that hits everyone pretty hard. Suddenly, measuring diesel engine noise, examining data and writing reports seems ridiculously trite and pointless. My thoughts and prayers go out to his two daughters and the rest of his family.