Every few months, I go out to Interlochen Public Radio and tape about a dozen of these essays that air every Sunday.
Sometimes the taping goes well; other times, not so much. And then I rely on the kind IPR staff to erase my errors.
A while ago, I was driving home from the studio, scolding myself for a bunch of mistakes and misstatements, the starting and starting over.
Then, glancing up, I saw a huge flock of geese, heading south. I always marvel at their elegant navigation, the way they fly in the shape of a V.
But as I watched the geese, I realized they did not maintain a perfect V but were constantly arranging and rearranging themselves. Making course corrections on the wing. And I felt strangely reassured.
Because the geese reminded me that nothing in this world is perfect for long or forever. And so, these remarkable birds have figured out not only how to make a V but how to remake it, again and again.
The way I remake my essays—not as gracefully or in mid-air—but with the same diligence.
Glancing up, I watch the geese flying steadily, unevenly, south and out of sight.
