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2008-02-23

An Introduction of Sorts  

I am the wife. Sometimes I think that my hubby knows more about me because of my blog than any conversations we have had recently. Isn't technology weird? We use all of these time-saving technologies and end up with less time. It seems like the technology becomes more important than the life we are supposed to be saving time for. I think that a lot of things we do in life just obscure what is actually important.

I was one of those people. I worked long hard hours. I worked on big projects. I did interesting exciting things. I traveled to big places and wore business suits with short skirts and sensible shoes. I took all my luggage as carry-on so that I didn't have to wait for baggage claim. I knew the fastest places to eat. I worked really hard and got the job of my dreams.

The funny thing about that is that my first thought was "Wow, I should have dreamed bigger."

Now my dream involves a sailboat, warm water, fresh fruit and maybe even a bit of rum. I don't care if the code has a memory leak. I don't care if the root drive failed and somebody forgot to mirror it. I really don't care that the backup failed.

There I said it. I don't think that working as whatever for whomever is important. I don't think that the number of digits in my salary is important. I don't think that this quarter's numbers really matter.

I think it is important that the children I brought into this world are safe, literate, happy and healthy. Beyond that, I want to snorkel and live my life at a slow pace with no time-saving technology.

Sea-Fever
John Masefield

I MUST down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again to the vagrant gypsy life.
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

What next?

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