After four days awash in apples, cinnamon and honey, outdoor singalongs, family dinners, games of freeze tag, cleaning, sorting, reading Nora Ephron, ushering in a symbolic new year (we never really celebrated Rosh Hashanah as kids, but even then this was always the time of new beginnings, as it is for so many people, new (school) year, new you), now my dad is off to meet with Jazz at Lincoln Center peeps about revitalizing underprivileged schools and neighborhoods with jazz music, an ambitious plan, Wally's back at school, Alex to his post, and this invigorating fall air, clear, bright day makes me eager to settle down to work myself. There is always that sense -- every year -- that now you'll finally get organized. Keep track of things in your calendar, schedule necessary appointments, hang up jackets and file papers in hanging folders, maybe even start a meal planner, like the one my friend just sent me. Like keeping all these minor things sorted will somehow allow for grand dreams to take hold. And you feel energized with these schedules, notebooks, calendars and colored pens. Even though you've made all these promises before and never kept them. But maybe the continued optimism in that case is even more worthy of praise.
title: Ginsberg, Howl