Thursday, March 20, 2014
She reflected on a previous conversation about the many bridges situated across from her office as she gazed at them with distracted comprehension. She had likened the bridges to life, growth, and relationships. At the time, they were a meaningful and illuminating metaphor for so many things, including hope. A total of five bridges; 1.5 intended for pedestrians, the rest assisting the daily hustle of cars and trucks across the river. The river flowed beneath them all, seemingly indifferent to the mad rush occurring above. The river knew what it was doing. It had a direction, a way of getting there, and its own timeline. And yet, it was a facade of glass with gentle ripples as it flowed along, all the while masking the tumult and fury of the undercurrent. Certainly, a more befitting metaphor for the times then the exposed, unyielding bridges. With apt irony, Neil Young brought her attention back to her desk-- the stack of papers to grade, the journal articles to read, notes to write, emails to send. The reality of the desk and its obligations evaded her generally good sense of reason and duty. Instead, she shifted her eyes and mind back to the window, the river...just drifting.