My ceiling fan is overactive. Well, overactive or stagnant. Exhilarated or depressed, it knows no in-between. Switching it to medium speed leaves its blades so slow-moving that the air they encounter strolls with them, rather than run away with the force of the blade motion. But put it on high, and the metal stem rooting the fan to the ceiling shakes its rubber hips like Shakira singing a duel to death (those hips don't lie. . . ).

Sometimes I turn the fan speed down, respecting the fine line between an overactive fan and a potential guillotine. Yet, once the low speed and silent accompanying motion reassure my worries, I find I miss the comfort the fan provided. Dangerous, perhaps-- far too busy, no doubt. But it kept me comfortable; the fan did its job and soothed my pain (pain being here, of course, the heat of a Georgia summer). When the blades are inactive, I can't imagine what could go wrong with a high speed fan crowning my room. When they're begging to slow down, I wish I had seen sooner the struggle they experienced in their high speed chase right back to their beginnings.

When will the fan learn to relax? To alternate between speeds, but find contentment in the speed of each present moment? Perhaps I should buy a remote switch to acclimate the fan to a life of intervals. . . or simply learn to appreciate the contentment it already provides.