It's probably bad when you're admiring the spectrum of blues, purples, and reds that decorates your very swollen, very sore ankle.

I am quite cantankerous.

Anne Stayed Home: Happy Easter

Stream of Conscious Easter Post: Convoluted Prose to Follow
Today I went to Walgreen's dressed in taupe shorts to my knees and a striped polo shirt that belonged to my dad (that is also nearly to my knees). Also, lured by the promise of poppies, I bought a Martha Stewart magazine to add to my . . . homeliness.
Yes, I was that dowdy.
Earlier today I wore a white dress and polka-dotted shoes and they were very cute.
So I can also be stylish.
In conclusion, I am 2/4 stylish and 1/4 dowdy and 1/4 so completely eclectic I could be classified as both at the same time; (I realize that first fraction can be simplified. My logical brain is not that far removed from use.)
Since I am feeling guilty for a completely nonspiritual post on a very beautiful and sacred day, I leave you with my favorite poem by George Herbert. Notice how the poem's form matches its content; as man joins with God, his spiritual wealth increases. I will not analyze; I wish not to murder to dissect-- at least not today. Thus, I leave you with the knowledge that Anne was rather dowdy today, but thanks to the sacrifice of Christ, God doesn't see her as such.

Anne Travels: Washington, D.C. Vol 2

In the National Gallery, I stumbled across the portrait named "The Peaceable Kingdom." This painting hung over my grandpa's dining room table in Pendell, Pennsylvania. As a little girl I would muse over this painting, wanting to step inside and experience the world portayed here: a world where animals and people peacefully coexist, but perhaps more tellingly, a world where people and other people peacefully coexist.
I think God led us to this portrait unexpectedly, so that we would remember George not only in death, but in life. Easter is a time of reflection. It is the reflection of one man's death, yes, but it is the remembrance of how He conquered death in order to achieve eternal vitality for those who deserved nothing but punishment and shame. Because of the promise of resurrection, we needn't fear death, even when it comes for those we love; even when it, one day, comes for us. While the sting lingers, even after time heals, we can say, O, death, where is thy victory? It cannot destroy us.

I remember my grandpa.
I remember him in the white tee shirt, stretching back in a worn blue recliner. How I loved to jump in that recliner, lean back, stretch my feet out; They did not reach.
I remember my grandpa.
He took us to Denny’s
Listened to Polka music
And woke up at 5am to the chatter of yellow birds outside his window. He may not have known me,
But I thought I knew him
When he wore his blue baseball cap
And told me he liked me
Because I liked to eat. A lot.
I remember Pop Pop
I see him
Strong, resilient
He does not lie there
Under the pale white sheets
Tubes, wires, encircling his body two legs missing
Pop Pop is still driving the Buick
On top of Jericho Mountain
Singing Johnny Cash songs
And counting his money
At the old dining room table
With Paradise
Hovering above his head.

Anne Travels: Washington, D.C.

All hail the almighty metro.
After navigating the labyrinth that is the Franconia-Springfield parking garage (unscathed, mind you), we embark on this metal tube which hurls us to a new destination. We put our faith in this hollow casing that will hurtle us (and a myriad of other D.C. denizens) to the outside world, because when you're actually in the metro (for any length of time) you feel as through you're transported into some sort of covert, creepy, underground lair. You crave sunshine; it comes only in doses. You crave fresh air; it's much better than the scent of the man next to you. You just want freedom; it is only nine stops away. Then you will tumble out of the metro, rushing just like everybody else to the same place.
Alas, despite these sharing a cramped space with a myriad of people (from all walks of life) is
adventurous. You see things. You see people, interesting and boring people. Most importantly though, you see different people.
There is the kind mother who wears khaki pants and a denim jacket. (Isn't that the staple outfit for a reasonable woman?)
There are the working sort whose eyes are glued to a mechanical device of some sort; they carry brief-cases, look important and wear neutral colors.
There are the cheerful tourists and the disgruntled tourists.
There are the happy babies and the screaming babies.
There are the dowdy dressers (in over-sized tee shirts and denim skirts to their ankles) and the hipster trendsetters (who still wear over-sized tee shirts and denim skirts to their ankles but manage to look cool).
The metro is the great equalizer. After all, when we board, we are all at its mercy and we become its minions; we are forced to bond with the many enclosed within its shellacked walls; we are all forced to tread upon the same dingy, apricot carpet and sit on the same vinyl, scuffed seats. Ah, blessed be those seats, because they are difficult to procure.
All hail the almighty metro; without you we would actually have to drive in Washington, D.C.
And that, my friends, is probably a fate worse than being smashed into the armpit of a stranger. Or, is it?

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