The firefighter is flirting with the barista. (Shouldn’t a male barista be called a “baristus”?) There are a lot of other people in here enduring the beeps and whirs. They are, like me, seeking buzzes – particularly of the caffeinated type. This time change is killing us. Except for the barista and the firefighter. They are used to going to work in the dark. The rest of us have grown accustomed to having some vitamin D to go along with our morning commute.
Benjamin Franklin suggested daylight savings time. He was kind of a whackadoodle. It did not really catch on until the railroads standardized time and work began to be regulated by a clock. Farmers had always worked by the rhythms of sun, earth, and animal after all. I’m not saying I should have been a farmer. There is a talent for knowing the land and manipulating things with tools that I’m not sure I have.
But I do have a rhythm. We all do. I can swing a spreadsheet as others swing an axe or a dance tune. I don’t like to have my rhythm interrupted, and at least part of me fears it may not come back. But it does. It always does. Not always the same, for sure, and not always steady at first. The thing for me to remember is that I’m not calling the tune. Whether or not to dance, however, is totally up to me.