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!


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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.