Even Steven

I've never worried much about money.

It's a terrible thing to say, I know, especially these days, but it's true. Many years ago, a
palm reader told me I'd never have to worry where my next meal was coming from. I'd
never be rich -- I'd spend the money as fast as I earned it -- but it would always be there
for me when I needed it.

I don't put much stock in fortune tellers -- this one in particular told me I'd meet someone
by the time I was 23, but shouldn't get married until I reached 25. In this case, however,
she was right on the mark. It's almost uncanny how it happens. Yesterday, for instance,
I discovered that my beloved CD player no longer does anything but open and close its
little mouth. I knew I didn't have enough for a new CD player, and wondered how in the
world I was going to manage without one until Christmas. Moments later, I happened to
notice a letter on my desk from a magazine for which I'd written an article last month.
Inside was a check -- a much larger one than I'd expected -- more than enough to cover
the cost of a new machine.

I'd like to think that not worrying about paychecks or rent payments has been good for me
-- less materially oriented, more capable of understanding the endless cycle of yin and
yang, good and bad fortune, the essential oneness of fate. The truth is, though, that it's
made me less appreciative of some of the things in my life than I ought to be. I take
for granted that my grandmother and her stories will always be there, that my dog will
limp along forever, that the ideas in my head will percolate until some distant point in the
future when I have time enough to write them down.

Watching my students tonight -- seeing how much some of them have matured in just a
few short years -- made that passage of time seem all the more real to me. I'm still not
worried about my bank account, but I'd like to start taking better notice of the people who,
like everything else in my life, are only given to me on loan.