The humans before us, the one's in our classrooms, are anything but abstract, yet that's how we officially see them here in Jersey. Data points dictate what we do in the classroom.
I wish I were making that up.
The parsley in our garden decided to bolt, so we ate it. I chopped up most of the plant, as well as a few dozen cilantro sprouts rising towards the May sun, and mixed them with some potatoes and honey, and celebrated the start of summer.
A parsley plant lasts a couple of years; we last about 38 parley plant lifetimes, give or take few--that's a finite number.
I saw a lot of people die back when I practiced medicine, and most of them were young--pediatricians carry a special kind of sadness.
Parsley plants are not abstract. Recipes, until eaten, are.
Children are not abstract. Global economies are.
Fingers picking parsley plants are not abstract. Words are.
So why write?
I once had a child come on our van with a stab wound to the heart--her blood graced the ceiling, the windows, and our bodies. That she survived spoke more to her will than our ability. Her resuscitation was a clusterfuck, but she survived anyway.
I wonder what she is doing now. Is she living her life as passionately as we hoped we'd save it?
Looking around, the answer is probably no.