How old do you think this toy horse is? 40 years? 80 years, tops?
It’s somewhere between 1600 and 2000 years old. It was excavated from Karanis, Egypt, and is on display at the Kelsey Museum of Archaeology (item 3772). I viewed it over the weekend and was amazed by when I saw it.
It’s incredible to think that some children nearly 2000 years ago rolled this little horsey around, making it journey across rocks, and floors, and walls, probably making neighing sounds just like our kids do.
Some adult with a name that we will never know made the hole for an eye. Maybe we can imagine our parents or grandparents finding a way to carve out that eye hole.
So if we can feel so much commonality across time — if we can imagine people’s uniqueness but also see how similar, and tender, and recognizable they are across time —
— is there any reason we can’t honor the same across geography and borders in our own time? The children who play and the parents and grandparents who love them have dreams, and affection, and worth, just like our own.
I was riding my bike and looked down to find a very shiny, very cute bug. I don’t usually call bugs cute, but this one was. “What’s your name?” I wondered. “Might it be something in the human realm? Crystal? Horacio? Lila? Or maybe it could be something more conceptual like horses sometimes have?”
That’s when I decided this bug could be named That’s How the Cookie Crumbles.
That’s How the Cookie Crumbles rode with me for a good while. My new friend crawled around sometimes, but mostly stayed in a little nook near my brakes. We journeyed through multiple parts of town. As I pedaled, I thought about how this bug doesn’t know anything about the larger geography, the town’s infrastructure, or even what a bike is. But nevertheless, we traveled together. I’m sure That’s How the Cookie Crumbles knows all kinds of things I’ve never known either.
And here I was, one miniscule human being, flying on a rock throughout space as I rode a bike.
I, too, am a Ride Along, with a multitude of others — fellow humans, green bugs, and more species than I can count, constantly propelled by gravitational forces in a universe of which I, and we, know next to nothing, really. At least on the scale of what could be known.
And it is a very good ride, isn’t it? Or at least, it could be.
And when it isn’t, why can’t we see that our borders mean nothing? In the grand scheme of things, we are riding along on a rock together, and we could just as readily honor one another rather than separate, violate, starve, deport, and malign.
We could marvel. We could journey. We could celebrate. We could protect.
For those of you who are new to this highly inefficient project of mine, here’s a quick recap: Since September 2023, I’ve been riding my e-bike to every street in Ann Arbor in alphabetical order. When the weather is warm (right now, it is!) I set out from my house and ride to a new street, exploring my city in a structured yet adventurous way. On any given day, I don’t know where I’ll go until I plug the next street into Google Maps. I like to call this “curated randomness.” Both words in that phrase feel appropriate.
As of today, I’ve completed all the streets starting with the letter D, bringing my total mileage to 2529.5 miles. Each time I finish a letter, I write a little reflection on the process and what it feels like to be connected to a sense of place.
As Zelda and I zoomed during this season — that’s my bike’s name — I happened upon so many flowering trees. This was especially true in May. It was a contagion of discovery, as I would turn a corner here or there and suddenly find trees newly in bloom where they had not been just a few days before They kept surprising me.
If I had an instinct to pause or take a photo, followed by a thought of, “I’ll just do it tomorrow,” or “I’ll catch that later this week,” I quickly realized how unlikely that would be. Because only a few days later, that tree would no longer be in bloom. Others would have taken its place, but I would have missed out on *that one.*
And this brings me to the title of this reflection: “Sometimes, later could be now.”
While life continuously changes, how many times do we put off what could be the most important to us?
Calling or visiting a friend…
Playing with the kids without checking the phone…
Getting involved in a community…
Taking action on an important issue…
Booking the vacation…
Saying “Thank you” to the people who need to hear it…
Prioritizing our health…
Taking a step in the direction of a dream…
Saying “I’m sorry” to loved ones who haven’t heard that yet..
Voicing “Yes,” to something outside of our comfort zone…
Snapping photos together…
Learning a new language…
Saying “No” to injustice…
Standing up for ourselves…
Sleeping more…
Eating without interruption…
And…
And…
And…
Whatever it may be for each one of us, truly, later could be now. So what if we act on it? Enjoy it? Choose it?
I’ve been making a list on my phone. The title is, “Summer Memory-Making.” While we haven’t officially hit astronomical summer yet, Memorial Day marked the informal start, and that’s when I thought to myself, “This summer, I want to create a memory every single day.”
It doesn’t have to be monumental, but every day, I want to do something that I know I’ll remember later. The truth is, I probably won’t recall the exact day it happened, but I’ll remember that time when _______.
So far, this list includes things like meaningful conversations, farmers markets, stopping by a library exhibit, a documentary, a local festival to try food from city restaurants, and an experience with a friend where we had a cocktail in one restaurant and then dinner in another. Most of my memorable experiences have cost nothing.
I’m enjoying this greatly, and I want to recommend it.
I saw The Times of Harvey Milk, a 1984 documentary, in my town’s historic theatre, and it really moved me. I’d like to share the trailer and an extended quote from one of his speeches.
CW: Anti-LGBTQ Language from Interviewees
You can stream The Times of Harvey Milk on several platforms.
Somewhere in Des Moines or San Antonio, there’s a young gay person who all of a sudden realizes that she or he is gay. Knows that if the parents find out, they’ll be tossed out of the house. The classmates will taunt the child and the Anita Bryants and John Briggs’ are doing their bit on TV, and that child had several options. Staying in a closet, suicide, and then one day that child might open a paper, and it says “Homosexual elected in San Francisco,” and there are two new options.
An option is to go to California and stay in San Antonio and fight. Two days after I was elected, I got a phone call, and the voice was quite young. It was from Altoona, Pennsylvania, and the person said, “Thanks.” And you’ve got to elect gay people so that that young child and the thousands upon thousands like that child know that there’s hope for a better world. There’s hope for a better tomorrow. Without hope, not only gays, but those Blacks, and the Asians, and disabled, and seniors. The us’s. The us’s without hope, the us’s give up. I know that you cannot live on hope alone, but without it, life is not worth living. And you, and you, and you have got to give them hope. Thank you very much.
I’m smiling at the camera while wearing my black robe, ready to officiate at a wedding. There are many white chairs behind me — set up for when guests will arrive later.
Over the weekend, I was honored to officiate a wedding for some dear friends. During their ceremony, I read a quote that I have likely shared on this blog — oh, 4 or 5 times now? It’s a perfect quote for a special occasion, and I’ve shared it for weddings, commencements, ordinations, milestone birthdays, and large life transitions. It’s from Frederick Buechner. He writes,
In the entire history of the universe, let alone in your own history, there has never been another day just like today, and there will never be another just like it again. Today is the point to which all your yesterdays have been leading since the hour of your birth. It is the point from which all your tomorrows will proceed until the hour of your death. If you were aware of how precious today is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all. — Frederick Buechner, Whistling in the Dark
This is a great quote for milestone days.
But also, Frederick Buechner didn’t write this about milestone days. His point is that every day — every single today — is this unique. Every day is a hinge moment. Every day is precious.
I was thinking of this all over again while riding my bike yesterday afternoon. I kept receiving the scent of honeysuckles in the air, as I zoomed by them or as the breeze met me. Why not this day, too? Why not this moment, too?
The The Edelman Fossil Park & Museum in Mantua, New Jersey.
While in the car, I listened to the Sunday story on NPR’s Up First podcast. This week, they connected with paleontologist Ken Lacovara. In 2007, he found a “bone bed” in southern New Jersey, which contains more than 100,000 fossils of more than 100 species. Remarkably, these animals all died the very day that an asteroid hit the earth 66 million years ago. The bone bed contains iridium, a rare element most common in asteroids and can tell us a lot about the initial day of the earth’s 5th mass extinction event.
Smuggling Grace 