That was the year

This picture reminds me of trails left by jets flying high in the sky, where vapors are sharp and crisp right behind the engines and gradually blur and fade as they linger about in the blue sky.

I've always told friends and family that I am and forever will be amazed by the apparent quickening of time as I get older. The logical part of me understands that a week is a week and a year is a year and the elapsed time, by a clock, doesn't change. But the perception of time changes dramatically. I vividly remember how in the single digit and teen years of my life the school year seemed wonderfully, sometimes dreadfully, long. The early years are far more distinct and momentous than nearly any given year past the age of 20. We could say, "That was the year we went to Disney Land" or "That was the year we got dog."

The later years seem to blur together, and I'm sure it's because change slows. Unless you're a teacher or some other lucky professional, the calendar is 12 months long (instead of nine months separated by three month segments of freedom) and a week in June might as well be a week in January. This has become known to many as the "daily grind." Another day, another dollar. Working for the weekend.

In our society of progression where a step in reverse is capitalized upon by someone else, it's counter-intuitive to value simpler times and slower development. One of my favorite things about having kids is that you get to go backwards occasionally. To some extent I think parents do live out their ambitions through their kids, not because they didn't follow their own dreams and have all sorts of regret, but because there must be a value unconsciously placed on the experience of innocence and simplicity and the joy of learning. Slowly, yet steadily. Measured, yet distinct.

2011: That was the year we installed a new kitchen faucet. That was the year Margo started throwing her food on the floor. That was the year Miles got his first bike. That was the year our family focused on the present.

Turning point

I took this photo at a very old and rugged cemetery less than a mile from our house. While I had all sorts of great ideas for capturing shadow and light around the grave stones, the shooting session was cut a bit short as the temperature fell well below zero. I also forgot to reset my ISO. The entire shoot was done at a very noisy 1600.

Spring is just starting to shine through the dead of winter in Minnesota after a long stretch of cold and snow. As a child, I remember damming up small rivers that ran the length of curbs and sidewalks--the result of winter's snow succumbing to spring's warming air--with sticks and rocks and mud and watching as the river always, always found a way around the boy-made obstacle a few minutes later. As I look out my window now, I see places on our street and our driveway where I might have constructed such a dam to briefly hold the water I can see melting away from the snow covering only part of our lawn. What now seems so unsightly--week old snow covered by dust and mud--has, every spring, a natural cleaning process wherein the snow melts, the water washes away, evaporates, and the mud that once tarnished the pureness of winter eventually returns to the earth.

Much has changed at our home, too, since my last post. Our son Miles was born on December 29, 2007 and has been nothing but a joy. He is likely to be the only kid in his class with two middle names, Harold and Michel, tributes to my and Emily's dads. After taking time off and returning briefly to work, Emily decided to take a longer leave and stay home with Miles. I'm looking forward to the flexibility it will give us to enjoy more time together as a family. Additionally, I have found new work within the same company that allows me to work from home. The time not spent in stressful and polluted traffic is priceless.