On rare occasions the artistry of our efforts bring a brief reprieve, a bright island of peaceful reflection in the dimming light of day. Museums brimming with the industriousness of our passage summon quietly to their halls. Hallowed corridors softly mute our foot steps. Varied opinions in judgements rendered barely clear our lips: "utterly ridiculous"; "positively enlightening"; "the essence of truth"; "the boldest of vanities", before falling dust like to the marble floors. Winding hallways, lined with displays of yesterdays arranged in ascending order, bring us to the present covered in the dust of ages. With an enlarged perspective and, ideas collected like keys on the janitor’s ring, we stand at the back door somewhat overwhelmed. A moments reprieve is all we get, though it is all we need, to discern that the worship of this passage hasn’t made it any more certain. Seasons come and go, tides ebb and flow these things I know and can depend on just as surely as our passing. And yet, we pause and brush the dust from our shoulders and wipe it from our shoes as if we are untouched, immortals. Stepping into the streets the door is closed, the curtains drawn and we walk on in denial. We’ve viewed the evidence of those who have passed before. They’ve gone ahead, leaving a somewhat ambiguous trail of ideas. And, so we go. Through the darkness, with pockets full of keys, we grope like blind men. We go anxiously feeling for the door ways, searching for the knobs and, fumbling for the key. All the jingling keys. Oh, if they could only point the way and say which door they open or which ones should never be.
J. Robert Wynn 11/23/98