This is my mom, my brother, and I, in commemoration of what my mom has given me and both of my brothers (and its not just insanely curly hair, either). She's been a blessing, a teacher, a friend, and a beautiful picture of Christ.
Cranky dripping Monday, Sitting in the back and wishing I could sleep. Getting in their faces because they can't either. It's too much, all this dripping. Better is a rooftop than a castle with a cranky woman; Better anywhere than a classroom of discontents. Nothing is blessing; it's all pushing. Labor and pain and pushing. The night endures forever and Where the heck is the morning? Attitude. She got an attitude already, Says fifth period. And I smile, To prove them wrong And to warn them with a sassy smirk of attitude. If I can hold out two, even three, hours; This too shall pass. But tomorrow is Tuesday And I hate Tuesdays.
Hi all you Internet friends. I have been thinking a lot about age: being young and being old. I feel old when I shop for Spanx (yes, that did happen), when I rent storage units, when I buy coffee at Shell stations so I can do fourteen-hour roadtrips, when I go to bed at ten-thirty, when I know what pro-rated rent is, when I can book plane tickets without a hitch. I feel young when I use the handle of a large cast iron skillet to pry open the hood of my car at the said Shell station, when I wear beaded moccasins without socks, when I listen to my grandpa's stories and realize most of his life happened before I was born, when my bare face sunburns and I don't wash my hair for three days. Age is a funny thing; it is relative and it is existential and it is beyond me. I feel that I will always be young, that I am somehow innately youthful, that muscles will last, that hair won't thin, that my stories won't grow cold. But then I think about my grandparents; I will on...
Today was a day of Bob Dylan and coffee. I sat on my bed a lot and did a variety of things, none of which were rushed. I spent a long time before noon reading and praying with the blinds open and a cup of coffee. After lunch, I worked, made brussel sprouts, and drank another cup of coffee. The difference between a snow day and a Saturday is that a day like this is a bonus. You don't have to get everything done, whatever you do is just extra. And the feeling of getting ahead is, well, heady. And the extra rest feels like a blessing from heaven (which it is). And between the coffee and Bob Dylan you have a little time to process life, catch up on the flying whirlwind of it all. For me, I had to process The Fight. It was, by no means, a good fight or a dramatic fight or an intense fight. But it was the first in my classroom, and it shook me up. It lasted probably only 30 seconds or a minute and it was more of a butt whipping than a fight really. B had the upper hand, meaning the poo...
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