I was driving south yesterday, listening to the radio, and that Beatles song came on. It was a lazy summer day, the long grass buzzing gently with sunshine and bees. I had just taken a detour to stop at a farm stand and my backseat was full of spinach and young garlic and strawberries and scallions, and I was ever so slightly lost on a backroad I haven't traveled in ten or more years. I was looking for landmarks, swaying hills and big trees and old trailers and swaybacked barns. And I was singing along.
"We all want to change the world," said John Lennon, and I thought of you and your column and I looked at the landscape, buttercups and indian paintbrush and those purple flowers I always forget the name of, and I thought, I don't really want to change the world at all. But I know I should want to. And Megan does.
This mindlessness, this contentment, is a privilege. I feel guilty about it. And I think I'm correct-minded, I would have agreed with you in those earnest undergraduate conversations, if I had been over in the hippie living community instead of playing a drinking game on the other side of campus. We need to change our world. But I drift into a dreamy state way too often, I look out the window and I sing along and I go around a curve in the road and I think, does this look familiar or not, and I smell the tang of that young garlic in the backseat and I can't be sure whether I'm lost or I'm right where I'm supposed to be.
Write a column, please. Some of us, even the ones on your side, don't like to think about the hard things. Or we're far away from them. Or we're lazy, unprincipled, dreamy. I am all those things, and you're not, and it's why I admire you so much.