life is short
and worries are not;
people fail to (I fail to)
grasp it all;
life is short,
and so is my sight.
If only my myopic vision
Could stretch far beyond my bedroom window;
because life is short,
and there is much more to see than
the way I see.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Happy Thought Friday
I like my dog;
I like how his clumsy, capable paws cradle his face when he's sleeping. I like how he asks to come into a room by muffling a bark: "huff, huff, huff."
When I walk in the door, work-weary and burden-bearing, he greets me as though he were five and he just learned he was going to Disney World;
I like how he gives me slobber-soaked kisses, and I like how he has to shove something into his mouth just so he can make inscrutable noises.
Sometimes I try to interpret what he says so that I can talk back to him with my own inscrutable noises. Even though we cannot talk to each other, I feel like he bears my burdens and I feel as though I know his soul. His is a good soul; it is warm and it is kind.
I like how whenever I disguise myself with a hat or glasses he sees through my facade and he tries to take them off. Ineffectively pawing, he swats my sunglasses. I hear him saying, "I like you the way you are. You don't have to enhance your appearance. You think these things make you look cool, but I think you look weird. Be yourself."
Sometimes his eyes are sorrowful and sad and sometimes joyful and sometimes mischievous, but always sympathetic. Look into the eyes of an animal, will you?
My dog's eyes reflect a deep soul, one that has childlike faith: one that is content to lie on couches, accept the affection doled out to him, and dole out affection when it is not required of him.
Mark Twain said this: "The dog is a gentleman; I hope to to his heaven, not man's."
My dog has a kind spirit, even if he steals corn cobs out of the trash can, and even if he smells bad sometimes.
I like my dog, a lot.
He is better to me than I am to some people.
I like how his clumsy, capable paws cradle his face when he's sleeping. I like how he asks to come into a room by muffling a bark: "huff, huff, huff."
When I walk in the door, work-weary and burden-bearing, he greets me as though he were five and he just learned he was going to Disney World;
I like how he gives me slobber-soaked kisses, and I like how he has to shove something into his mouth just so he can make inscrutable noises.
Sometimes I try to interpret what he says so that I can talk back to him with my own inscrutable noises. Even though we cannot talk to each other, I feel like he bears my burdens and I feel as though I know his soul. His is a good soul; it is warm and it is kind.
I like how whenever I disguise myself with a hat or glasses he sees through my facade and he tries to take them off. Ineffectively pawing, he swats my sunglasses. I hear him saying, "I like you the way you are. You don't have to enhance your appearance. You think these things make you look cool, but I think you look weird. Be yourself."
Sometimes his eyes are sorrowful and sad and sometimes joyful and sometimes mischievous, but always sympathetic. Look into the eyes of an animal, will you?
My dog's eyes reflect a deep soul, one that has childlike faith: one that is content to lie on couches, accept the affection doled out to him, and dole out affection when it is not required of him.
Mark Twain said this: "The dog is a gentleman; I hope to to his heaven, not man's."
My dog has a kind spirit, even if he steals corn cobs out of the trash can, and even if he smells bad sometimes.
I like my dog, a lot.
He is better to me than I am to some people.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Today I was given another Monday morning.
Another morning to wiggle my toes and stretch my arms and
try to hide underneath the crunchy sheets that had been hanging outside
on the clothing line just yesterday.
I wanted to silence the alarm clock and snatch precious seconds for
oblivious rest:
Because I am sometimes afraid of the failures my Monday might bring--
the fear of every first year teacher.
Each day is a mystery; you try to control what you can--
But still,
You never know what awaits.
The mystery of Monday is why it's hard to get up in the mornings (sometimes)-- but hear it gets better.
Another morning to wiggle my toes and stretch my arms and
try to hide underneath the crunchy sheets that had been hanging outside
on the clothing line just yesterday.
I wanted to silence the alarm clock and snatch precious seconds for
oblivious rest:
Because I am sometimes afraid of the failures my Monday might bring--
the fear of every first year teacher.
Each day is a mystery; you try to control what you can--
But still,
You never know what awaits.
The mystery of Monday is why it's hard to get up in the mornings (sometimes)-- but hear it gets better.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Mother's Day Menagerie
Dear Mom,
I love you. I love you when you try to color my gray hair with a sharpie; I love you when you tell me I would look prettier if I fixed my hair; I love you when you always want to go to the thrift store to buy furniture you don't need; I love you when provide people who don't need to know with an embarrassing amount of information about my life; I love you when you tell me about shoe sales at Dillard's (and occasionally let me take your Dillard's charge); I love you when you try to flirt with boys on my behalf; I love you when you can't find the glasses you literally just put down two minutes ago; I love you when the phone rings 800 times a day and you talk loudly while I am trying to watch my stupid TV shows; I love you when you vacuum on Saturday mornings; I love you when you eat your salad for lunch; I love you because you are patient and kind and selfless; I love you all the time, especially when you make me macaroni and cheese for dinner.
Love, Anne
Saturday, May 7, 2011
There comes a time when you must get over yourself.
Get over your hyper-righteous convictions.
Get over your hyper-self-consciousness.
Get over your excessive worrying about what you did wrong
and your transient praise about what you did right.
When you're wrapped up in yourself, you're quite overdressed.
Get over your hyper-righteous convictions.
Get over your hyper-self-consciousness.
Get over your excessive worrying about what you did wrong
and your transient praise about what you did right.
When you're wrapped up in yourself, you're quite overdressed.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Litany of Hellos.
Hello weariness-- you've set in again.
Every year around this time, you sap my strength and motivation to complete any school related task. I am just tired of you, weariness, then again, that is what you're best at--making me tired.
Hello jellyfish-- you were my favorite picture this week.
I loved how you danced through the tank of water that looked
like a twilight sky. I am still scared of you, though; I don't mistake that grace and dainty demeanor for kindness. I respect that, jellyfish, so let's keep our distance this summer.
Hello exciting, vibrant, shiny new shoes-- you haven't arrived yet but I am expecting to buy you soon. However, weariness keeps reminding me that I have a lot of other stuff I can do before I sit down and purchase you. Here's to hoping you will adorn my feet soon.
Hello raspberry lattes-- you've helped me overcome those late nights creating yet another set of close reading questions for Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Thank-you, raspberry latte, for at least helping me attain a facade of acuity. Starbucks, I am forever indebted-- literally and figuratively.
Hello mother's day flowers--no-- you will not be for me-- not for a long time. But I will still admire you. And I will place that order. . . . before Sunday. You will not be forgotten. At least I will make an attempt to be intentional as to not to forget.
Hello dear person who's just sifted through themuddledmorass that is my mind-- you've just read a rather inane blog post and that will stain my conscience for at least the next five minutes.
Apologies, apologies.
Hello weariness-- you've set in again.
Every year around this time, you sap my strength and motivation to complete any school related task. I am just tired of you, weariness, then again, that is what you're best at--making me tired.
Hello jellyfish-- you were my favorite picture this week.
I loved how you danced through the tank of water that looked
like a twilight sky. I am still scared of you, though; I don't mistake that grace and dainty demeanor for kindness. I respect that, jellyfish, so let's keep our distance this summer.
Hello exciting, vibrant, shiny new shoes-- you haven't arrived yet but I am expecting to buy you soon. However, weariness keeps reminding me that I have a lot of other stuff I can do before I sit down and purchase you. Here's to hoping you will adorn my feet soon.
Hello raspberry lattes-- you've helped me overcome those late nights creating yet another set of close reading questions for Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Thank-you, raspberry latte, for at least helping me attain a facade of acuity. Starbucks, I am forever indebted-- literally and figuratively.
Hello mother's day flowers--no-- you will not be for me-- not for a long time. But I will still admire you. And I will place that order. . . . before Sunday. You will not be forgotten. At least I will make an attempt to be intentional as to not to forget.
Hello dear person who's just sifted through themuddledmorass that is my mind-- you've just read a rather inane blog post and that will stain my conscience for at least the next five minutes.
Apologies, apologies.
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