"closet" pet peeves

1. Hoods that cannot actually be worn
2. Faux trouser pockets
3. T-shirts so thin you have to buy two
4. Nylons

summer cometh

A bold statement to make? Perhaps. Especially since there was a nice glisten of frost on the lawn this morning. But summer is definitely coming. And soon. How do I know?

Because summer softball starts tomorrow. And I, for one, am darn near geeked about it. I just plain old love to play. Granted, it's just church league coed slow pitch, but last year we weren't half bad. I have a fabulous sliding scar to prove it. Actually, to be technically honest, I have three scars. A triple hit, as it were. But the ones on my ankle and lower hip are inconsequential compared to the palm-sized beauty on the outside of my knee.

I had shorts and low socks on, ok? I didn't really expect to be sliding. But the right fielder blew the throw and I had a chance to stretch a triple into a homer...so of course I did it. The only problem was, the ump didn't clear the bat for me, so at the last second I had to sort of hop over it before going down into my slide. Hence the triple scar. It was a junior-high level slide. Not so graceful.

But I was safe and that's all that counts. That and the fact that I earned some points with my more masculine teammates. Ha.

But enough reliving the past! Tomorrow a new season starts! What has been done last year doesn't matter. Ol' Red and I are ready for another season at first base. And...I have tall socks now. Bring on the gravel!

blossom time

Pear blossoms stink. I didn't know that until I brought a handful into my house and ensconced them in a vase on my mantle. They are white, delicate, beautiful...and a bit stinky. It's that rotten flower smell. So from now on, I leave them outside to attract bees and turn into pears. Yum. Pears do not stink. Well, unless you let them rot, of course. But I digress.

The old, gnarly pear tree is just outside my bedroom window on the south side of the house. It surely is beautiful just now. The big, pale blooms have matured and are beginning to drop from the stem. This morning, in the still-dim early-morning light, a gust of wind kicked up and a shower of petals swirled through the air and across the dark green lawn. Ah. Magical.

today's deep thoughts

There's nothing wrong with a bit of ordinary--as long as it does not become a god.

Along the same vein, rebelling for the sake of rebelling is just as senseless as conforming for the sake of conforming.

Eating a sweet and juicy orange, however, should be accomplished with zeal no matter how messy the process becomes.

Luverly Lassitude

Last night, I slept with the window open. Fantastic. Spring has truly arrived. I woke up this morning at 6:30, and hit snooze as per usual, but instead of fully resuming unconsciousness I lay half-awake, breathing in the fresh air, hearing the bird song, and seeing the beginnings of the sunrise. Happy Friday. Oh, happy Friday indeed.
Today would be a good day to be a lanscaper or mailman or anything that took me outside. Instead I sit at a desk in an office that admirably has a door, but no windows. Ah, well. If I did have a window I assuredly wouldn't get as much work done. And if I were a mailman, winter would be much less pleasant. Give and take.

ps: the small bunch of daffodils in my yard have bloomed as of yesterday. Sweet yellow goodness.

ode to spring

Here I stand,
breakable.
Alive. Incomplete.
Hopeful.
Easily amused.

the honesty dance

Wanting to believe I am beautiful, managing it
some days—parts of days—struggling to hold on.
Struggling to be beautiful all the way through.
Wanting to always know that I am beloved,
cherished, magnificent, sexy. Failing to
eradicate the doubt. Failing to quite
erase the images of “more prettier” people
from my head. Failing to quite
manage to love my nose. Failing to
surrender vanity.

Failing, struggling, wanting.
Believing that all three of these
will someday cease. Clinging to
that. Clinging to faith. Living for the
moments—hours—half-days—nights
when I do not feel broken.

Let go let go let go.

The sweet soul ache for another. The pitifully small
trust that all things happen in God’s time. The fierce
independence and resolution to tackle
everything with bared hands and no excuses.
The lazy hours of longing. The belief that no one could
ever love me as you can, Lord.
The shame of my own imperfect passion.

I almost wish that I would
stop being moved by music.
It does me no good, stirring my heart like that. Making me
think of poetically melancholy things and dreams
worthy of a teenage-level crush.

And yet…
I stumble. I stumble. I dance.