I Took the Cedar-Strip Canoe Down the Most Remote River in Michigan… in the Winter
Getting into the river was a comically tedious process. Everything was covered in a foot of snow, and the banks were mostly iced-over.
Getting into the river was a comically tedious process. Everything was covered in a foot of snow, and the banks were mostly iced-over.
I believe every crushed spider, on some level, represents a failure to respect and love the world we’ve been given.
And, on that Sunday, George remembered.
What has a man from all the toil and striving of heart with which he toils beneath the sun? For all his days are full of sorrow, and his work is a vexation.
Last week, I spent an hour and nineteen minutes with an onion. Inspired by Robert Capon’s twenty-two-page chapter on the theological implications of mindful onion contemplation, I came prepared for a reflective and mystical experience.
I want the noble purpose of an educator without having to put in the hours. I want to retain a teacher’s saintly glow without having to fight for the daily miracles.
No algorithm is going to teach mandated reporters that white families are just as dangerous as other families.
Turning out in droves despite rain and wind and snow, we marched and chanted and beat on bucket-drums and blew on whistles and papered the campus with fliers. We disrupted classes. We shut down buildings.
If you ever hear me screaming “What if there’s more? What if there’s more?” I’m just singing along.
Coming off a slow, ugly but eventually conclusive first-round victory over Montana, the Wolverines are riding a wave of 10-straight wins. May the streak run longer than their inseams.