Tis not too late . . .

The music is calming; folk music from Folk Alley, out of somewhere in Ohio. And out of the window behind the computer screen which faces north, the sky turns steadily from a powderly blue to a cold steel gray. It will soon be dark except for the pin pricks that are the stars. The day closes quickly, I think.

I sense many endings at present. The day, of course, and the approaching solstice portends year’s finish. Classes close, and I wish good bye and good luck to students. Merry Christmas, too many of them say, when actually it is Chanukah. Oldest child finishes her semester and heads for the Spring to a season abroad studying in Israel. And what ending is this, I wonder. Perhaps this move suggests to me the move away and out, and though I feel some actual relief in my body at the exit, I feel also great sorrow as this comet heads off into the Universe. I know that these celestial wanderers fall into the Earth’s orbit at various times, but sometimes it is a long and silent wait. I watch the night skies.

Sometimes it is expectations that end. I’d hoped to re-establish some type of regular contact, but that did not occur as I had hoped. Perhaps I did not try hard enough, or else I tried too hard. The desire remains though the expectation expires.

Youngest child came home this past week-end wearing an eye make-up with which she did not leave the house. And what ending is that, I wonder?

Struggle continually to stay not intimidated by the assumptions of power and rightness by the Christian majority. Why should public school events be held in a sectarian institution of any denomination. I can’t see around this corner.

Finally, last night’s dream (night, as compared to evening, when I think my consciousness is more in control) were filled with endings, I suppose, and the mood of this day had been set by something that occurred to me yesterday or the day before.

Reading about Ludwig Wittgenstein. A very difficult man, I think. And yet another Jew whose work organized somewhat the consciousness of the 20th century.

I’m shopping for a GPS system. The compass for the 21st century—did Thoreau own a compass, I wonder?