I sit at Midnight Coffee on a Sunday morning. It is the end of May, and Iowa City is emptier. Students have moved out. Things are calmer. A gentle breeze blows the bug that lands on my laptop screen away.
There are few things better, in my humble opinion, than sipping a vanilla cappuccino with skim milk, listening to Jose Gonzalez’s In Our Nature, and staring into the endless possibilities of a blank page.
***
A bird lands on my table. And then it floats to the ground. It nibbles on the crumbs of a scone. I think there are blueberries in the crumbs. The scone is gone before I can identify it. The bird darts away before I can identify it. I don’t know anything about scones or birds, so my identification would be of little use.
I am nothing like Henry David Thoreau. I’m staring at a street instead of a pond. The smell of exhaust mixes with the purple lilacs on the corner. And yet here I am sitting outside, describing a moment, and getting closer to my worlds.
It is very important, in my humble opinion, to be close to our many worlds. Powers and principalities push us this way and that. And that way and this. Image and text assault us from our many screens. These things would take our attention. We’d be better off if we didn’t let them. I write this sentence fully aware that it appears as though I’m trying to take your attention through a screen with these words. But I suppose you should know that I don’t care if you are paying any attention to these words. These words are about me getting closer to my worlds. I’m happy to share them with you, but I don’t want anything from you.
I’m happy to be in this moment. These many worlds are better when we are together, so I’m happy for you to be in this moment with me, but I’m not banking on it.
***
I’ll be stepping into a department chair position in July. I quietly place this announcement in the third beat of this blog, worrying this new job will ask much of me, and courageous that I will be able to answer its ask well. Summer vacation feels shorter this year. The rhythm of my life as an educator shifts. Rhythms are always shifting. Things are always changing. So be it.
I’m less attuned to what comes next than ever. Instead, I’m here in this moment, sipping a vanilla cappuccino with skim milk. Jeff Tweedy sings about being tamed by rock n’ roll in my headphones. A discordant, gorgeous slew of chords assaults my ears. I finish typing this sentence, prepared to turn to the book I’m writing. Ready to write a few emails that a department chair might send. Happy to be here in this moment. Happy to see what comes next.
Samuel Jaye Tanner 