At the table next to me, three friends have gotten together for a Sunday morning Scrabble game. I walked by their table just as one of the guys was announcing that if he ever has a daughter he's naming her A-E-I-O-U.
Running through my neighborhood, I found an epic hopscotch game—yellow and blue and pink and orange stretching 343 squares into the distance, each with a distinct shape and carefully designated number. As I ran along side it, I thought about the time and care involved in such monumental hopscotch, but mostly I thought about the thrill of that first square, kneeling down and looking out at never-ending sidewalk, wondering and delighting over how far it might go. I ran up to Tucson Boulevard and then turned around to pass by the hopscotch again. Weaving around the chalk lines, I decided that it was time for me to start writing again, to start writing and to mean it. About every six months I grab my Ferris Bueller diary and make a solemn vow to write on a regular basis; I write something that seems stirring and important, and then I forget about it for another six months. It’s never really that stirring or important, but it’s the act, the practice, the moment of kneeling down on the sidewalk that I miss, and maybe even need, in my life.
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