The past couple of nights have been tough ones. The night before last found me leading a group of fourth graders through a cityscape that was very reminiscent of downtown Boulder, Colorado. The children were walking, according to form, in a single-file line and I was hard-pressed to keep an eye on both ends of it, as I had stragglers and sprinters. This caused the line to increase to an altogether unmanageable length, and I found myself jogging back and forth to encourage and impede progress, alternately. Suddenly, from the front of the line came shouts of "Hey, Mister Caven didn't tell you to do that!" and "Get back here!" When I looked up I saw a small band of kids crossing four lanes of traffic. It was precisely at that moment that a power line snapped and fell down in front of me, blocking any hope or chance I had of reaching the children on the other side. Oncoming traffic, high voltage: horrifying combination.
Last night I was driving up the road to what I surmised was my childhood home. I had been told that there had been a terrible fire, and as it came into view, I could see that the entire front of the house had been burned off, leaving it exposed to the elements. Night was falling, and I could hear sirens approaching from the distance. This seemed odd to me, since it appeared that the flames had been extinguished some time ago. That's when the nose of a 747 dropped from the sky and landed just yards from the fire scarred remnants of my house. The fire trucks had been dispatched in anticipation of this fresh, new disaster. Very proactive for chaos, I thought.
Both mornings I woke up thankful that the new day was starting. That was the up side. The down side was the lingering feeling that something awful was on the way to happening. Maybe I'm just too sensitive. Maybe I'm not quite awake yet.