8:18
At 8:18 tonight, David Day and I are driving the streets of Scottsdale and feel trapped.
Finishing my call, I look up at the top-heavy mop heads of the cluster of palms above me.
It is the color of exuberance.
The seasons tell our story wrong.
In the midst of bland Corporate Land, the battered, vintage arch is unexpected.
For what are you working? What will be the sum total of your career?
Sometimes it’s hard to go to street level.
Alone in a city, with an evening to myself, I am wandering.
When I finally notice the old man, he is looming over me with his arms raised over his head.
Ralph Waldo Emerson once called enthusiasm, “leaping lightning.”
In my dinner with a new colleague, Kim, we have just reached a major turning point.
It’s Monday morning, and at 8:18, I am cresting a mountain range.
It is Sunday morning and my soul is, once again, soaring on the intricacies of the music of Bach.
As I step outside to photograph the snow that is quickly building on the grass, I decide to get as close as the camera will let me.
Every year, I am always taken by surprise by the first sign of life in the garden.

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