a lesson from spring.

a few weeks ago at church, they announced that they would be collecting photos of "new life" to use for power points, weekly bulletins, and the website, and they encouraged everyone to participate and be on the lookout for inspiration as we celebrate easter and the coming of spring.

since i can never resist a photo challenge, i started my search yesterday afternoon on a walk with mr. lesley and sir winston in the afternoon sun.

and i learned something as i walked...

i learned that you see a lot more of the good stuff when you are trying to find the good stuff.

flower buds that would normally evade my gaze now stood out to me. 

the reds and yellows that can sometimes fade into the background suddenly invaded my view.

and because i was looking, i saw it.

of course most of the trees are still barren and the grass may still be dry. 

but because i was focusing on the flowers that practically scream "new life" i didn't have a chance to notice. 

now the life parallels here are quite apparent, especially for me.

this winter was hard.

the cold of it seemed to permeate my every day.

it felt dark. 

it felt never-ending. 

it felt like a lot of anxiety and questions and doubts.

but, now it is spring.

figuratively and literally.

i feel new strength and grace to seek out the good and to know that beauty is there, sometimes {well, a lot of times} right in front of my face. 

this is so different from pretending life is perfect or avoiding the difficulties; instead, it is choosing where to focus your gaze. 

i'm thankful for the changing of seasons...

for the reminders of where i should be looking...

and the good stuff to be found when simply choose to see it.

this girl is just so cool.

color me katie.

you're awesome. 

that's all.

(thanks kara!) 

you're ok. go ahead and bloom.

(source)

no matter where you're at. just bloom. it will make you feel better.

today i will be taking my own advice.

thanks for the reminder mr. churchill...

(this is now a permanent fixture on my computer desktop...i need all the reminders i can get some days.)

xoxo

a sweater for your heart.

this site is pure goodness.

it definitely made my morning.

enjoy.


xoxo

the summer day.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

-mary oliver

i am in LOVE with this blog.

http://www.todaysletters.com/

do i know these people? no.

do i feel like i know them? yes.

should i steal this fabulous idea? maybe.


check it out for a little sliver of sunshine.


xoxo

I need to get out my machete already...

"But how?" my students ask. "How do you actually do it?"

You sit down, I say. You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. So you sit down at, say, nine every morning, or ten every night. You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind- a scene, a locale, a character, whatever- and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what the landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also, severe hypochondria. There may be a Nurse Ratched- like listing of things that must be done right this moment: foods that must come out of the freezer, appointments that must be canceled or made, hairs that must be tweezed. But you hold an imaginary gun to your heard and make yourself stay at the desk. There is a vague pain at the base of your neck. It crosses your mind that you have meningitis. Then the phone rings and you look up at the ceiling with fury, summon every ounce of noblesse oblige, and answer the call politely, with maybe just the merest hint of irritation. The caller asks if you're working, and you say yeah, because you are.

Yet somehow in the face of all of this, you clear a space for the writing voice, hacking away at the others with machetes, and you begin to compose sentences. You begin to string words together like beads to tell a story. You are desperate to communicate, to edify or entertain, to preserve moments of grace or joy or transcendence, to make real or imagined events come alive. But you cannot will this to happen. It is a matter of persistence and faith and hard work. So you might as well just go ahead and get started.

-From Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott


"Clearing a space for the writing voice" is a necessary, and yet daunting, task. I often feel the constant prodding to document, express, provide a voice for the unending, and often random, ponderings that consume my thoughts, and yet...at the end of the day...there's yet another blank page in my notebook. Ugggghhh.

I can't even count the number of small notebooks I've bought over the years with the intention of taking down scribbles of life whenever the opportunity presents itself. But alas, I've failed miserably every time and the notebooks' only function is as scrap paper for my gum or a place to write down directions, phone numbers, or a casual game of hang man.

But what I've learned from reading Ms. Lammot this afternoon is that writing demands discipline, just like anything else in life. It must be a daily, deliberate, conscious choice to begin "hacking away at the others with machetes." But it's worth it.

So, like she says so eloquently, "You might as well just go ahead and get started."

Here's to yet another life discipline.

Let the writing commence.


p.s. I leave for South Africa one month from today! Seriously amazing.

thankful.

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out
in different directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you

in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster by the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

-w.s. merwin

tonight my heart is saying thank you to God for: friends who are quickly becoming family (i love the laniels!), my students and the strength they possess, my bedroom reading chair, baby lola, a car that i want to throw off a cliff (oh wait, not too thankful for that at the moment), music that is good for the soul, new adventures, spring break road trips with great friends (moab, utah!), surprise visits from a dear college friend, poetry, reading my students poetry, free pastry day at starbucks, my sister, ben and jerry's ice cream, happy hours, record players (i officially NEED one), live music, and last but not least...the large amount of SNOW falling from the sky outside my window at this very moment...yes, i am most thankful for the snow day we WILL be having tomorrow and all the fun that will go with it:)

xoxo

Happy National Grammar Day!

Here are just a few of the reasons why National Grammar Day might have taken over as my new favorite holiday...

#1 Grammar Rock gets a comeback.
I could watch these videos all day long.

#2 I am reminded yet again how much I love Grammar Girl.
Yes, Grammar Girl is a real person.
She has a podcast and gives a lot of great tips.
I suggest you go here for an unparalleled conglomeration of activities to celebrate today.
Knowledge is power, people.

They even sell AMAZING t-shirts like this.
(My birthday is May 20th and you know I would sport this shirt proudly.)

#3 The internet helps me see that I'm not alone.
There are others who cringe when they see things like this
(and not because of John McCain).


#4 I find grammar blogs!
The Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar
The Afternoon Nap Society

#5 Lastly, I watch ridiculous music videos that put me even further on the margins of society.

I hope you find a way to celebrate the wonder that is National Grammar Day!

one of my absolute favorites. enjoy.

Singapore

In Singapore, in the airport,
A darkness was ripped from my eyes.
In the women’s restroom, one compartment stood open.
A woman knelt there, washing something
in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach
and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.
Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.
Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.
A waterfall, or if that’s not possible, a fountain
rising and falling.
A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When the woman turned I could not answer her face.
Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and
neither could win.
She smiled and I smiled. What kind of nonsense is this?
Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.
But first we must watch her as she stares down at her labor,
which is dull enough.
She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as
hubcaps, with a blue rag.
Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing and rinsing.
She does not work slowly, nor quickly, like a river.
Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don’t doubt for a moment that she loves her life.
And I want to rise up from the crust and the slop
and fly down to the river.
This probably won’t happen.
But maybe it will.
If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn’t.
Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only
the light that can shine out of a life. I mean
the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,
The way her smile was only for my sake; I mean
the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.

~ Mary Oliver ~

(House of Light)

rachel's story.

i watched this for the first time this weekend, am watching it again as i get ready for bed tonight, and feel like i need to wake up to it every morning.

one woman's story.
such great wisdom.

a timely reminder: know God
know yourself
know the Gospel
know your purpose

please visit her site and watch her video.

it will be more than worth your time.

adorable.

this is so ridiculously adorable that i just had to share it.

"trip home/ambitious goals for the new year" blog coming soon!

an excerpt from my current read...

The next morning I told Mom I couldn't go to school again. She asked what was wrong. I told her,"The same thing that's always wrong." "You're sick?" "I'm sad." "About Dad?" "About everything." She sat down on the bed next to me, even though I knew she was in a hurry. "What's everything?" I started counting on my fingers: "The meat and dairy products in our refrigerator, fistfights, car accidents, Larry--" "Who's Larry?" "The homeless guy in front of the Museum of Natural History who always says 'I promise it's for food' after he asks for money." She turned around and I zipped her dress while I kept counting. "How you don't know who Larry is, even though you probably see him all the time, how Buckminster just sleeps and eats and goes to the bathroom and has no raison d'etre, the short ugly guy with no neck who takes tickets at the IMAX theater, how the sun is going to explode one day, how every birthday I always get at least one thing I already have, poor people who get fat because they eat junk food because it's cheaper..." That was when I ran out of fingers, but my list was just getting started, and I wanted it to be long, because I knew she wouldn't leave while I was still going. "... domesticated animals, how I have a domesticated animal, nightmares, Microsoft Windows, old people who sit around all day because no one remembers to spend time with them and they're embarrassed to ask people to spend time with them, secrets, dial phones, how Chinese waitresses smile even when there's nothing funny or happy, and also how Chinese people own Mexican restaurants but Mexican people never own Chinese restaurants, mirrors, tape decks, my unpopularity at school, Grandma's coupons, storage facilities, people who don't know what the Internet is, bad handwriting, beautiful songs, how there won't be humans in fifty years--" "Who said there won't be humans in fifty years?" I asked her, "Are you an optimist or a pessimist?" She looked at her watch and said, "I'm optimistic/" Then I have some bad news for you, because humans are going to destroy each other as soon as it becomes easy enough to, which will be very soon." "Why do beautiful songs make you sad?" Because they aren't true." "Never?" "Nothing is beautiful and true." She smiled, but in a way that wasn't just happy, and said, "You sound just like Dad."

the story of sydney.

My heart is heavy today for a girl I've never met and a family I barely know. This 11 year old girl is about to meet Jesus any moment after over a year of fighting with a brain tumor. My mind and heart fail to understand why some people experience such excruciating pain and suffering, but I am beyond encouraged when I see those who through it all can cling to the hope of Jesus so tightly. The Ives family is an example to all of us. Please pray for peace, comfort, and hope to fill their hearts in every moment.

The Story of Sydney Ives from Jeremy Wells on Vimeo.

"Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."
2 Corinthians 4: 16-18

national poetry month.

The Iceberg Theory

all the food critics hate iceberg lettuce.
you'd think romaine was descended from
orpheus's laurel wreath,
you'd think raw spinach had all the nutritional
benefits attributed to it by popeye,
not to mention aesthetic subtleties worthy of
veriaine and debussy.
they'll even salivate over chopped red cabbage
just to disparage poor old mr. iceberg lettuce.

I guess the problem is
it's just too common for them.
It doesn't matter that it tastes good,
has a satisfying crunchy texture,
holds its freshness
and has crevices for the dressing,
whereas the darker, leafier varieties
are often bitter, gritty, and flat.
It just isn't different enough and
it's too goddamn american.

of course a critic has to criticize;
a critic has to have something to say
perhaps that's why literary critics
purport to find interesting
so much contemporary poetry
that just bores the shit out of me.

at any rate, I really enjoy a salad
with plenty of chunky iceberg lettuce,
the more the merrier,
drenched in an Italian or roquefort dressing.
and the poems I enjoy are those I don't have
to pretend that I'm enjoying.

-Gerald Locklin

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

-Billy Collins

Happy National Poetry Month.

after all.

The brooding ghosts of Australian night have gone from the bush and town;
My spirit revives in the morning breeze,
though it died when the sun went down;
The river is high and the stream is strong,
and the grass is green and tall,
And I fain would think that this world of ours is a good world after all.

The light of passion in dreamy eyes, and a page of truth well read,
The glorious thrill in a heart grown cold of the spirit I thought was dead,
A song that goes to a comrade's heart, and a tear of pride let fall --
And my soul is strong! and the world to me is a grand world after all!

Let our enemies go by their old dull tracks,
and theirs be the fault or shame
(The man is bitter against the world who has only himself to blame) ;
Let the darkest side of the past be dark, and only the good recall;
For I must believe that the world, my dear, is a kind world after all.

It well may be that I saw too plain, and it may be I was blind;
But I'll keep my face to the dawning light,
though the devil may stand behind!
Though the devil may stand behind my back, I'll not see his shadow fall,
But read the signs in the morning stars of a good world after all.

Rest, for your eyes are weary, girl -- you have driven the worst away --
The ghost of the man that I might have been is gone from my heart to-day;
We'll live for life and the best it brings till our twilight shadows fall;
My heart grows brave, and the world, my girl, is a good world after all.

-Henry Lawson

*Sign up for a poem a day (I got this gem a few days ago). It will make your inbox happy. And it will get you in the mood to celebrate National Poetry Month in April!

i wish life was a musical.

I've been on this musical kick lately (ok, so maybe just the last 24 hours). It all started with HSM 3, then I danced around my room singing tunes from Hairspray this morning, and now Once (which counts as an indie/emo musical of sorts) is playing in the background.

Although my voice is horrendous (if they diagnosed people as tone deaf, I would be the first with a prescription), I really wish all of life was as fun as a musical. I mean who wouldn't want to jump out of bed with a song and dance ready to go every day?

The other source of this newfound love of musicals could also stem from my major crush on Zac Efron. Yes, it's true. Give me a copy of Teen Bop and a life-sized poster on my ceiling, and I've officially reverted to middle school again. I've come to terms with it though. I've accepted it. I'm not ashamed. Please don't judge me.

Confessions are good for the soul after all.

Love.

Without warning

as a whirlwind

swoops on an oak

Love shakes my heart

-Sappho

I like to think of love like this.

History.

"This is the meaning of [America's] liberty and our creed: why men and women and children of every race and every faith can join in celebration across this magnificent Mall and why a man whose father less than 60 years ago might not have been served at a local restaurant can now stand before you to take a most sacred oath."

For how far our country has come, I am so proud to be an American.