The Rose Angel

The Royal Panda Rose Angel

There are no stars out tonight

But those of memory.

—from a poem by Hart Crane

It’s a night I feel keenly.

I look back at the emails, the activities, the flotsam and jetsam of what, three years ago was an ordinary day, a day that unlike the next day  marked no particular end  and no special beginning, with a fascination one feels for an absorbing  puzzle.

September 29 is my September 10, the day that marks before from after, the day you could not have  known would be the last day of normal as you once  knew it.

September 29 stands as a testament that not all change requires a conscious effort, such as the Wu Food Project;  some habits do not require the erosion of three weeks to wreak a change, but happen in one cataclysmic instant, in a big bang.

As my life suddenly shifted on its axis,  I developed a heightened sense of  time and laughter and beauty and  kindness,  but in that moment, I also began to lose track of my physical self.

Sorting through the last three years in search of my former me  is like looking for a lost sock. I’ve got the matching sock  in hand–so I know I am in here somewhere, and if I look hard enough, I am going to find me again.

So far, so very good. The Wu Food Project has been a joy.  I am grateful to Mr. Wu for his patience and for his supportive advice–and to everyone for their enthusiasm for the cause.

Never has looking for a lost sock been this much fun–or this meaningful.

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