Lord, I was Born a Ramblin' Man...

I realize that I am not posting very frequently these days. This frustrates me, probably far more than it frustrates any of you out there reading my thoughts. Blogging has been a fantastic way for me to process things about which I'm thinking, to bounce ideas off of people. Unfortunately, my time constraints have been such lately that this avenue just hasn't been easily available to me. I hope to do better.

Over the next few weeks I'll be doing a lot of travelling. I love going places, even if it's for work. On Monday I'll be flying to Tulsa to speak with a minister whose church may be condemned for a Home Depot. The following week I'll be going to New Orleans to hear from people faced with the prospect that their city won't let them rebuild - instead it intends to give their property away to commercial developers to create the "new" New Orleans. Then I'll be flying to Texas (with Tiger) to see one of my best friends for a couple of days. And in April I'll spend a week in North Carolina, speaking to people about the importance and constitutionality of school choice.

In honor of these adventures, I present an appropriate piece by Billy Collins, one of my favorite modern poets:

Passengers
by Billy Collins

At the gate, I sit in a row of blue seats
with the possible company of my death,
this sprawling miscellany of people—
carry-on bags and paperbacks—
that could be gathered in a flash
into a band of pilgrims on the last open road.
Not that I think if our plane crumpled into a mountain
we would all ascend together,
holding hands like a ring of skydivers,
into a sudden gasp of brightness,
or that there would be some common place
for us to reunite to jubilize the moment,
some spaceless, pillarless Greece
where we could, at the count of three,
toss our ashes into the sunny air.
It's just that the way that man has his briefcase
so carefully arranged,
the way that girl is cooling her tea,
and the flow of the comb that woman
passes through her daughter's hair...
and when you consider the altitude,
the secret parts of the engines,
and all the hard water and the deep canyons below...
well, I just think it would be good if one of us
maybe stood up and said a few words,
or, so as not to involve the police,
at least quietly wrote something down.