There is beauty . . .

. . . in the amaryllis crown . . .

. . . and all around that crown . . .

. . . in both the office-scape and the campus-scape, as well as the city- and landscapes . . .

. . . and in the inscapes, too, of all the people I have had (and continue to have) the pleasure of walking, talking, and being with in those varied spheres.

Thank you! All of you. For everything!


____
in·scape noun \ˈinzˌkāp, ˈin(t)ˌsk-\

Definition of INSCAPE

: inward significant character or quality belonging uniquely to objects or events in nature and human experience esp. as perceived by the blended observation and introspection of the poet and in turn embodied in patterns of such specif. poetic elements as imagery, rhythm, rhyme, assonance, sound symbolism, and allusion : inwardness — compare haecceity

Thinking about where I fit or do not fit . . .

. . . isn't as useful as considering who I am and who I hope to become. Life will let me wander through gardens, drop me into wastelands, allow me moments of floating in the clouds. Sometimes I will feel at home, sometimes I will feel uncomfortable, sometimes I will wonder if there is any land and people that matches my stride and mood and thinking patterns. But that isn't the point, not really. The point is that I need to find and refine myself, be comfortable being me wherever I land, and throw back my head and laugh at whatever in this world is so utterly ridiculous that I don't know what else to do with it.

I like . . .

. . . where this poem ends:

http://alicewalkersgarden.com/2010/12/i-will-keep-broken-things/

It's even better if you listen to the author, Alice Walker, read it. It's included in the iTunes U library under Emory University.

Maybe I should start my own shelf of broken things.

I am grateful . . .

. . . for friendship, for the daily renewal we experience and witness each morning, and for God's grace.

If I could wish you perpetual happiness or far more calms than storms, I would, in a heartbeat.

I am grateful that our hearts do beat, in unison even, as fellow beings in this mixed up universe.

Outside an owl hoots. If I were not awake right now, I would not hear its cry. How much of life do I miss because my eyes and ears are closed? Because I am asleep when I could be listening to the pulse of the universe?

Ode to the little dog whom I love. . .

. . . You can say what you like about modern singers and songwriters. You can wonder, as I have, why we sometimes hear more choruses and refrains than new lyrics.

But you have to admit that those singers and writers connect to the raw emotions of the universe.

I am sitting here thinking about the little dog who is almost sixteen and how she keeps choking for air. I don't know what will happen at the vet's, but I find myself, here, wishing for a song that has already captured what it is that I now feel.

The longer I live . . .

The more I really see . . .

The more I understand that we are all delicate creatures.

The treadmill . . .

...is where I try to make sense of the universe while expelling negative energy, pushing my body forward to meet modest goals, and clearing my mind.

I can't say that I ever make sense of anything, not really, but during the walking time, I have the illusion that everything is all right or will be.

I went to my first yoga class last week, and I could see myself going again just to hear the philosophy of life, mind, body, spirit, earth, relationships.

Lives . . .

I wouldn't mind being a rock.

A smooth rock that's perhaps spent some time in the riverbed.

I once watched children play in a small stream. I had gone to the park for a change of pace and to write.

My observations merged with the story I was thinking about and I saw the flat rocks as fish for the character to avoid. Pretend fish, of course.

I've always been alive enough to take care of people. And now, I find myself more awake but making lumbering Frankenstein mistakes.

Frankenstein needed an instruction manual. I've often wanted one for myself. Mine would tell me where to live in Wyoming.

Lately I keep thinking about the rock. The rock's purpose is pretty clear: sit in the meadow until someone picks you up, skips you across the stream. Then sink. And do whatever rock's do at the bottom--until something changes.

The rock piece wouldn't make a good story. Good stories require characters that act, react, and interact--not that are exclusively acted upon. But here's the beauty: the rock isn't looking to be a character or to even be in a story. How liberating! The rock just is.

Isn't that what people want, too? To be seen exactly as they are (rock) and liked and appreciated and accepted (mostly) because God created them? (I suppose some people's ideal isn't rock, like mine is. Some might wish to be perceived as something grander or better.) (And no, people don't want to be used...I just realized that I didn't want anyone carrying that analogy forward.)

I wonder if anyone has e-published a guide on how not to be Frankenstein. I bet someone has. And it's probably sitting on a server somewhere for me to download for .99.

I won't look though. I will instead close my eyes and see the gray smooth stone--perhaps it has wavy stripes running through it--resting below a shallow stream of water, waiting for whatever comes after one has sunk.

The all-encompassing list (an answer) . . .

. . . be happy

live alive instead of sleepwalking through lists

connect to others

be real. authentic.

. . . be even happier for the journey.

(because you asked on "a strong day". . . because this is all I could come up with . . .)