Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that does fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.

When I was seventeen, I wrote an essay about The Tempest in which I said, of this slight, wonderful bit of verse that happens to be a bejeweled lie, that it was a form of magic because it created a “self-sufficient actuality.” I know this because 1) I have had the phrase “sea change” sloshing gently against the shores of my mind for the past thirteen years; 2) as a result of this long-lived ear-worm, I stole those words two months ago and used them in the title of a Utata project I manage; and 3) when I finally took a photo to submit to the Utata project page, I was reminded of my essay—and during the time it took to scan my Polaroid, I dug it out of a box containing bits of academic ephemera so that I could unearth the precise tone of my early pretension.

I share this with you because 1) I still love the phrase “sea change;” 2) I cherish the tremendous sense of assurance with which I always used to write, and I hope it has not faded too much; and 3) there are things gently bubbling beneath the surface of this year that make me feel I too am becoming—slowly— something rich and strange.