In sixth grade PE, Mr. K yelled at me at this time of year, during basketball, because I wasn't paying sufficient attention, in his mind. "ALPHA!" he yelled, "Getcher head outta the clouds!" I think I took it pretty hard. Head in the clouds? Not paying enough attention to the game? Got to focus more. Got to kick it up a notch. I was a tall kid, and Mr. K felt deeply that I should be using my height advantage to score points, grab rebounds, dribble to and fro as if my life depended on it.
Well, so many years later, I have a message, a shout out, a final confession to Mr. K: my head is in the clouds, and I like it up here. Today, the day of the sports spectacle of all spectacles, the super duper galactic bowl championship of the universe, a tense contest to determine who is the best of the best at moving the brown oblong leather spheroid up and down the 100 yard demarcated playing field of honor, guts, and glory financed by ads that cost millions of dollars per minute, my head is way in the clouds. I am a confirmed and unapologetic cumulonimbus cranium, through and through. I got so much more out of riding my bicycle today, taking a few pictures, and staring at the clouds than watching some game on the television, there's no contest. I love the clouds and the wildflowers. All clouds are perfect. All wildflowers are beautiful. What game? Who's playing? Get up. Go ride.