One of the perks of my husband's job is the frequent flyer miles he accumulates. He used some of them to get me an iPad for our anniversary this year. Dear man, he’s given me a boost into the twenty-first century. I don’t twitter, tweet, text, tumble or pin; I don’t even have my face in a book, but I now have my head in the Cloud. And I am not alone. Apparently, there are a lot of people in the Cloud with me. You might even be one of them. It gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.
Being technologically challenged, I don’t pretend to understand the workings of this Cloud, but I don’t have to know how it works to enjoy its benefits. Still, I am a little nervous about using it. Can it get so full it starts to leak like raindrops from a nimbus? Or does it keep expanding like the ominous phenomenon generated by the FLDSMDFR in Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs? If so, is that a good thing? Is this storage depot as vaporous as a cloud and as easily penetrated? I don’t suppose my intellectual property is worth much, but it is mine, and I don't like anyone going through my purse without asking either. Perhaps all of these questions are silly and simply a reflection of my woeful ignorance. Perhaps I should relax and join the throng:
We all crowd the iCloud!
Yes, I am speaking tongue in cheek. I think technology is wonderful and I would rather do with it than without it, but I also think, and believe many would agree with me, that too much of a good thing can turn a blessing into a curse. After all, the tendency to overindulge is part of human nature. If you have any doubt, just ask the folks of Swallow Falls.
I already spend a lot of time with my head in the clouds so, in some ways, this isn’t anything new. Daydreaming comes easy when I'm a passenger in the car and the scenery is mostly billboards, or when I forget to bring a book to read while waiting for the dentist. I like where floating in the stratosphere takes me, the flights of fancy into other realms, the high-hearted pondering of the spirit as it wings its way heavenward like the ascendant lark. At the same time, I understand the need for coming "back to the furrows dip". Sometimes I need to pull my head out of the clouds and pay attention, listen to the voices next to me, or just be present. It's lonely sitting next to someone who is a million miles away.
Most of life happens in the furrows dip. That's where the crops grow. But they are watered from above. All we need to make this trying-to-move-with-the-times grandmother happy is a little perspective from both angles.