I think we see things differently on those days.

My car rounded a bend, and through the trees I could see the river. The scene was perfection: bare trees arrayed on a grassy plain, standing watch next to the Potomac. If I’d shot a photo, it would have brushed up against Ansel Adams in intent if not quality. It took my breath, and I gave thanks.

Soon I was on a bridge crossing the river and then into Maryland. But the scene stayed in mind as I drove toward my destination, the road now winding through rustic small towns that seemed to take me even farther from the office.

I’ve thought back on those minutes often as 2011 disappeared into time past. I’ve thought how I need many more of those minutes.

I’m not one for resolutions at the new year because I know how weak I truly am to remain resolute. And just as I resisted writing a post encapsulating all my data journalism and digital learning from 2011 — Census, Book List, Python, Django — I resisted a Jan. 1 list of “I Resolve To’s” because I am convinced that in a year I will look back and think, “How ambitious; how off base.”

But this one thing I do know: I need more of the real, more of the analog — the continually variable that I can touch and feel and know in my bones and which cannot be replicated by ones and zeros. I need more of the trees and the rivers and the majestic sky and what they declare and less of the incoming barrage of breathless missives that amount to nothing very much at all.

I have a hunger inside that digital does not fill:

I need the feel of strings under my fingers, the harmonic overtones of an A chord through a tube amplifier. Or an A minor 7 for the cloudy days.

I need dirt under my fingernails, packed in from sowing seeds and digging up fallow soil. I need dirt on my knees from the daily acknowledgement that I need more strength than I have.

I need my people, my boys, my love, tucked close and laughing and riding this adventure together, never left as an afterthought to the list of tasks.

Our Digital Now should be giving this to me, but it’s not. No, not at all.

It’s giving me good things, helpful things. I can find the cheapest gasoline in town without driving around. I can see video of a dictator caught in a desert culvert just moments after it happened. It’s even giving me a voice right here. But it’s giving me way too much that’s useless along with it. It’s giving me a tsunami of the useless, of feeble boastings in 140-characters, of insistent urgings that insist I turn my eyes away from the trees and the sky and the river, to take my hands off the strings, to get up off my knees. And in the end, it doesn’t feel like life but like death.

So, I have no resolution for the new year. I just have a direction. I’ll remember it framed in a scene of trees on a riverbank.

We were in a second-floor conference room in the USA TODAY building in McLean, Va. That side of our glass-enclosed HQ faces the intersection of the Dulles Toll Road and the Capital Beltway, and for the last few years we’ve been front-row-center to the construction of new HOT lanes for the Beltway and the work going on for the new Metro Silver Line.

Loud noises are not uncommon.

At 1:50 p.m. I checked the time. I have a bad habit of frequently and obviously looking at my watch, which implies that I am bored or inpatient. I’m not; I just like to know what time it is. I’ve always been a clock-watcher. I’m always on time. So, I looked, mentally noting that I had a free hour until my next meeting at 3.

A moment later, the floor began to vibrate. There was a sound, rumbling, like the bulldozers and cranes that had been outside for months, but somehow different.

“Is that a crane coming toward the building?”

I stood to push back the shade and look out the window. I never got that far. The room began shaking from side to side, and people in the next room started exclaiming.

Earthquake, I thought. I dove under the conference table and lay on my side while the room pulsed.

Part of me was in disbelief. They always said earthquakes don’t happen here.

And then it was over, and someone said, “Let’s get out of here!” And then we were outside, everyone trying to make a call on a cell phone and no one getting through.

“I’ve said it before, but we really should …”

Sometimes, I wondered whether people were thinking not about my grand idea but rather, ”How can I get away from this man?” Mostly, they encouraged me — even though at the end of our talk it would be clear that other priorities held sway, and my pet idea had to go back to the shelf.

And so it did. Until about two weeks ago.

That’s when a spark out of nowhere set fire to the pile of kindling I’d been setting up all that time. Suddenly I found myself giving my pitch and hearing, “Let’s do this.”

And so for the last two weeks I’ve found myself in a room with the very people I’ve been bugging — some of the smartest, most creative people in my company — each one focused on turning this idea into something you’ll be able to see.

And the best part is that the end product is going to be way better than I ever imagined. Because now it won’t be my idea, but OUR idea.

A pile of kindling. A random spark.

Never give up.

I feel this way each September, embracing the transition from summer to fall more than any other change in season. This, I am sure, has its roots in the school calendar — 13 years of public school and another half-dozen of college conditioned my psyche to understand that Labor Day is summer’s last hurrah before the start of a new term. September has always marked a new time, a beginning again, another chance.

September seems particularly on time this year. If you’re a journalist, you’ve probably heard that my workplace is reorganizing, the result of long-standing trends in its business and in journalism in general. We’re not alone. All of us who ply the trade have spent a decade watching our ranks thin, our business models implode, and our products change in a frenzy of reinvention that takes on the aura of shooting arrows while blindfolded. Journalists of all kinds — print, broadcast, even web — were slow to recognize the oncoming train of an always-connected digital society in which everyone owns the metaphorical printing press. Just as we laughed at our parents who couldn’t set the time on the VCR — “but you just press these buttons!” — the newsroom data nerds and digital prophets, the ones who heard the train whistle years ago and tried to get their brothers and sisters to just open a spreadsheet for goodness sakes, have had their own chuckle, albeit one tinged with melancholy. We knew the day would soon come when digital ignorance would not be bliss.

And yet, it’s September.

My family moved often when I was young. From fourth grade to ninth, I attended six schools in three school districts.

That’s why September, announced with cool air and a display of stars in the crisp early sky, reminds me that seasons do change. For this I am thankful. And soon  — as leaves turn gold and fall to the ground — we’ll remember that some things need to die before they can live again.

No office email, no office phones. Just a week to enjoy my family, feed my soul, fix up things around the house, and keep learning new skills.

So, I:

Hiked to a waterfall: Took a five-mile hike with my family through the Shenandoah National Park to the 86-foot White Oak Canyon falls. The trail, which ascends 1,000 feet over about 2 miles, had us breathing hard. The falls was spectacular, and we ended the day spent but inspired by the beauty.

Planted a garden: Our fourth year as amateur farmers, and each year we understand soil and seeds a little more. Given the time I spend in front of a computer screen, digging in dirt is necessary for emotional health. Watching seeds grow into food connects me to bigger things.

Studied Python: Inspired by hacker-journalists at the annual IRE computer-assisted reporting conference, I’ve jumped head-first into the Linux world with the goal of building apps using Django. After getting Ubuntu set up and finishing the Django tutorial, I decided to step back and study Python, the language Django’s built upon. Aaron Bycoffe responded to a Twitter query and recommended the free How to Think Like a Computer Scientist. Made it through 11 chapters this week and now understand Django a lot better.

Upgraded to Lucid Lynx: Speaking of Linux, my week off coincided with the latest update to Ubuntu. Demand was high and getting the download tough, but I eventually got it rolling. You can’t beat free.

Spent time with friends and family: Really the best part. Lots of laughs, intense conversations, great fun.

So now I’m feeling fresh — fresh enough to handle the 252 emails that rolled in when I booted up my work PC this afternoon.

“Never stop learning.”

Plenty of people, regardless of industry, argue otherwise. Play it safe, take few risks and stay with the tried and true — that keeps the bills paid and the lights on.

Decades ago, “No one ever got fired for buying IBM” was a phrase you could bank on. IBM had it all — the kings of the air-conditioned mainframe, making oodles of money, and very snug in their white-shirt-and-tie ways. But they were slow to learn. PCs came along, the mainframe business withered, OS/2 failed to unseat Windows, and tens of thousands of people in IBM-hometowns found themselves unemployed. IBM’s come back, but it’s nothing like the company it was in 1980.

Stop learning, rest on the existing models, and it’s easy to become a mainframe-hawker in a PC revolution. Or a railroad tycoon watching with disregard as Henry Ford mass produces Model T’s.

I’ve practiced Jerry McBride’s advice better at times than others. Lately, very much so. I’m on a learning jag. My latest quest is Ubuntu, Apache, PostgreSQL and Django. Last night, this little screen brought a smile or two:

P.S. My bookmarks and RSS feeds prove one thing: There’s no excuse for not learning; the Internet is the best free library you’ll ever find.