
Is it really going to be 2020?

Is it really going to be 2020?

It’s after 1 a.m. on a Saturday night/Sunday morning and while I’m ostensibly doing work for a class I’m taking, I can’t stop thinking about a phone call I received today. The bottle of wine I just finished is helping with the deep reflection, just FYI.

“Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.”
— Emily Brontë
As a parent and homeowner, it can be difficult to not become a slave to tasks.
The ceremony should serve as the base camp of a mountain, but far too many people treat it like the peak

I was dying to work for a Fortune 500 company.

I began playing organized basketball at the age of six.
By the age of ten, I was playing year-round for various travel teams in various leagues, almost always in the age bracket above mine. There was never an offseason. Camps, practices, summer leagues, fall leagues, spring leagues, open gyms – I did it all. When state rules prevented us from holding official practices, we all met at our point guard’s home and conducted practices on the full court in his backyard.
Basketball was an everyday thing.

We’re a nation of clutter. We’re a society of packrats. We love our stuff.

Another whirlwind year.
I was sure it was nothing.

There are people that take pride in being the last one at work, their car always in the parking lot, their light the only one on in an otherwise pitch-black office. Their career is their life. They’re still at their desk while the cleaning crew vacuums around them.