GEE-WHIZ AWE

Dear Spike:

I'm writing to you from somewhere over the U.S. Midwest, en route to Philadelphia for a conference. 

It all seems so technologically fantastic to me: pecking away at the keyboard on my phone which is connected to the airplane's wireless Internet system. But, as is the case with pretty much all new technology, the gee-whiz factor is going to go away quite quickly. Eventually, this will all be old-hat -- or even obsolete. 

Things change. That's the way things are in this world. 

That also happens to be the reason why I'm on this airplane to begin with -- because my life is changing, too. 

While I'm still employed at the same job I've been at since hour mother and I moved to Salt Lake City in 2003 -- and while I enjoy that job quite a bit -- I'm growing more and more aware that it's unlikely that I'll still have a viable newspaper career in 10 years. That's a big part of the reason why I went back to school, a few years ago. And it's a big part of the reason why I have begun working, part-time in a few other capacities in the world of education. 

So this week, I'm headed to Philly to learn more about how to prevent dropouts as part of my job with a group that works to give struggling kids a second chance at school. And next month, I'll start commuting once a week to Utah Valley University, where I'm teaching a class on crisis reporting. 

One of these things is a stepping stone to my professional future, I suppose. Or maybe I'll be doing something entirely different -- something I haven't even thought of and could nary conceive of at this time. 

Or maybe, just maybe, I'll find some way to continue doing what I've been doing for the past decade: Comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, as we journalists like to imagine it is our job to do. 

The future used to be scary to me. Now it's simply fascinating. I enjoy all of this. Whatever direction the world takes me, I have you and your mother. And whatever I do, I'll always look at this world with a gee-whiz awe. 

Love,
dad