be grateful for each day ending in "day."

2009-11-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

Every day is a poem that the world has written just for you.

Every landscape you see is a painting that was created with your specific tastes in mind, every object an intricate sculpture.

Don't take it for granted.

Have you ever felt this?

2009-10-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

"Have you ever been in a car with a southern girl blasting through South Carolina when Lynyrd Skynyrd's "Call Me The Breeze" comes on the radio? Sunday afternoon, sun out, windows down, nowhere to hurry back to? I never had. I was twenty-three. Renee turned up the radio and began screaming along. Renee was driving. She always preferred driving, since she said I drove like an old Irish lady. I thought to myself, Well, I have wasted my whole life up to this moment. Any other car I've ever been in was just to get me here, any road I've ever been on was just to get me here. Any other passenger seat I've ever sat on, I was just riding here. I barely recognized this girl sitting next to me, screaming along to the piano solo.

I thought, There is nowhere else in the universe I would rather be at this moment. I could count the places I would not rather be. I've always wanted to see New Zealand, but I'd still rather be here. The majestic ruins of Machu Picchu? I'd rather be here. A hillside in Cuenca, Spain, sipping coffee and watching leaves fall? Not even close. There is nowhere else I could imagine wanting to be besides here in this car, with this girl, on this road, listening to this song. If she breaks my heart, no matter what hell she puts me through, I can say it was worth it, just because of right now. Out the window is a blur and all I can really hear is this girl's hair flapping in the wind, and maybe if we drive fast enough the universe will lose track of us and forget to stick us somewhere else."

-Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mixtape (read it).

2009-10-23T06:26:00.000-07:00

How to Be an Explorer of the World

(by Keri Smith, from her beautiful interactive book)

Always be looking. (Notice the ground beneath your feet.)

Consider everything alive and animate.

Everything is interesting. Look closer.

Alter your course often.

Observe for long durations (and short ones).

Notice the stories going on around you.

Notice patterns. Make connections.

Document your findings in a variety of ways.

Incorporate indeterminacy.

Observe movement.

Create a personal dialogue with your environment. Talk to it.

Trace things back to their origins.

Use all of the senses in your investigations.

Dreams come true.

2009-10-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

They really do.

Five years ago, I met a boy, and though I could write books about all the ways this boy changed my life, I'll save that for another time. The point is, this boy had such big, beautiful dreams. He wanted to be an actor. He wanted to be on Broadway. We spent countless hours nurturing this dream, and I always told him it would happen. I knew that it would, but I suppose that all best friends "know" that their counterpart will do whatever it is that they want to do. So maybe my conviction wasn't the most valid in this case, at least from an outside perspective. Whatever.

The truth of the matter is, it did happen. My best friend made his Broadway debut at the age of eighteen. I can search Google and YouTube and all of the Broadway websites we spent hours on back in high school, and things will come up about him. Every single time I do, without fail, I cry. I cry because he is the single dearest thing to my heart, and I am SO unbelievably proud of him; I cry because he deserves it; I cry because he is a shining beacon of hope, proving to me and everyone who knows him that dreams absolutely come true.

And while his success story is a bit more glamorous-sounding than some, dreams come true all the time. Think about it. When I was little, I used to play a very fancy and grown-up game called "College." I loved organizing my books and making up classes and decorating my "dorm room." Now I'm less than two months from being a college graduate. Ever since I was thirteen, I've wanted to live in New York City. In less than a year, I will. I used to dream of working at Barnes and Noble (seriously). Now I am. These are just a few of my many dreams, but no matter how big or small, I cherish them.

Dreams are beautiful and fragile things. They must be marveled at and handled gently. They must be worked for, HARD. But no matter how out-of-reach they seem, they ARE achievable. I promise.

How are you living your dreams today?

Poetry Collection!

2009-10-20T22:46:00.000-07:00

I asked people on Facebook, Twitter, and on this very blog to send me their favorite poems, and these are most of the responses that I got. It has been SO lovely to read them. Poetry is, perhaps, my favorite form of expression. I could easily post dozens more to this already sizeable collection (well, sizeable for a blog, I suppose), but I'll let the October 20, 2009 Collection stand alone without any interference from me. Whether you read one or all of them, I hope you enjoy. :)

Note: my poetry "collection" is ever-changing, ever-growing. Yours should, too. Send anything and everything you like my way, and I will do the same.

THE IMPULSE
Robert Frost

It was too lonely for her there,
And too wild,
And since there were but two of them,
And no child,

And work was little in the house,
She was free,
And followed where he furrowed field,
Or felled tree.

She rested on a log and tossed
The fresh chips,
With a song only to herself
On her lips.

And once she went to break a bough
Of black alder.
She strayed so far she scarcely heard
When he called her--

And didn't answer--didn't speak--
Or return.
She stood, and then she ran and hid
In the fern.

He never found her, though he looked
Everywhere,
And he asked at her mother's house
Was she there.

Sudden and swift and light as that
The ties gave,
And he learned of finalities
Besides the grave.

Change
Sara Teasdale

Remember me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.

Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew—
Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me.

The Red Wheelbarrow
William Carlos Williams

so much dependsupon
a red wheelbarrow
glazed with rainwater
beside the whitechickens.

This Is Just To Say
William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --

Emily Dickinson

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant --
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind --

if everything happens that can't be done

e.e. cummings

if everything happens that can't be done
(and anything's righter
than books
could plan)
the stupidest teacher will almost guess
(with a run
skip
around we go yes)
there's nothing as something as one
one hasn't a why or because or although
(and buds know better
than books
don't grow)
one's anything old being everything new
(with a what
which
around we go who)
one's everyanything so
so world is a leaf is a tree is a bough
(and birds sing sweeter
than books
tell how)
so here is away and so your is a my
(with a down
up
around again fly)
forever was never till now
now i love you and you love me
(and books are shutter
than books
can be)
and deep in the high that does nothing but fall
(with a shout
each
around we go all)
there's somebody calling who's we
we're everything brighter than even the sun
(we're everything greater
than books
might mean)
we're everyanything more than believe
(with a spin
leap
alive we're alive)
we're wonderful one times one

The Dead Dolly
Margaret Vandergrift

You needn't be trying to comfort me,
I tell you my Dolly is dead!
There's no use in saying she isn't
With a crack like that in her head.
It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much
To have my tooth out that day,
And then when the man most pulled my head off
You hadn't a word to say.

And I guess you must think I'm a baby
When you say you can mend it with glue,
As if I didn't know better than that;
Why, just suppose it was you!
You might make her look all mended,
But what do I care for looks?
Why, glue is for chairs, and tables,
And toys, and the backs of books.

Oh Dolly, my own little daughter,
O! but it is the awfullest crack!
It just makes me sick to think of the sound
When her poor little head went whack
Against that horrible brass thing,
That holds up the little shelf.
Now Nursey, what makes you remind me?
I know that I done it myself.

I think you must be crazy,
You'll get her another head!
What good would forty heads do her?
I tell you my Dolly is dead!
And to think I hadn't quite finished
Her elegant new spring hat,
And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night
To tie on that horrid cat.

When my mamma gave me that ribbon,
I was playing out in the yard,
And she said expressly,
"Here's a ribbon for Hildegarde."
And I went and put in on Tabby
And Hildegarde saw me do it,
But I said to myself, "Oh, never mind,
I don't believe she knew it."

But I know that she knew it, now,
And just believe, I do—
That her poor little heart was broken,
And so her head broke too.
Oh my baby! My dear little baby!
I wish my head had been hit—
For I've hit it over and over again
And it hasn't cracked a bit.

But since the darling is dead
She'll want to be buried of course.
We will take my little wagon, Nurse,
And you shall be my horse.
And I will walk behind and cry,
And we'll put her in this, you see,
This dear little box, and we'll bury her then
Under the apple tree.

And papa will make me a tombstone
Like the one he made for my bird,
And he'll put what I tell him on it,
Yes, every single word.
I shall say, "Here lies Hildegarde,
A beautiful doll, who is dead.
She died of a broken heart,
And a dreadful crack in her head."

The Desiderata of Happiness

Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,

even the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain and bitter;

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs;

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals;

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

The Soldier

Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:

That there's some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England.

There shall be

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England's, breathing English air,

Wahed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

She Walks in Beauty
Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meets in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,—

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

THE TYGER
William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Body of a woman
Pablo Neruda

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,

when you surrender, you stretch out like the world.

My body, savage and pleasant, undermines you.

and makes a son leap in the bottom of the earth.
I was lonely as a tunnel. Birds flew from me.

And night invaded me with her powerful army.

To survive I forged you like a weapon,

like an arrow for my bow, or a stone for my sling.
But now the hour of revenge falls, and I love you.

Body of skin, of moss, of firm and thirsty milk!

And the cups of your breasts! And your eyes full of absence!

And the roses of your mound! And your voice slow and sad!
Body of my woman, I will live on through your marvelousness,

My thirst, my desire without end, my wavering road!

Dark river beds down which the eternal thirst is flowing,

and the fatigue is flowing, and the grief without shore.

i like my body when it is with your

e.e. cummings

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

Oh, and on this poem of a day,

I found:

A flower on a bookshelf at work.

A paper heart on the sidewalk.

A piece of pink ribbon on another sidewalk.

I watched:

A meteor shower.

I made:

A collage.

Some poems of my own.

I loved:

you.

2009-10-20T11:06:00.000-07:00

What is your favorite poem? I want to collect poems today. And miniature things. But those aren't as easily found on the internet.

Hello, world. I am ready to hug you.

2009-10-19T20:08:00.000-07:00

My soul is re-charged.

I climbed up onto some railroad tracks today. It was beautiful. The sun was shining; the sky was my favorite shade of blue; the temperature was ideal; the company was unparalleled.

It just baffles me how people can go through life full of negativity. I mean, sure, I stress out. I'm perpetually nervous. I'm human. But goodness gracious, just look around you. No matter where you are, I can guarantee that there's something to marvel at. No? Then you're not looking hard enough.

It seems that redefinition is what being twentysomething is all about. I'm perpetually changing my mind, questioning things. And I've decided that's good. That's essential. And for the last three to four months, I feel like I am finally figuring things out. Wanna know what I've discovered?

I've discovered that as simple and cliché as it may sound, love is always the answer. That just about covers it all. Take it and apply it to anything -- it fits. I believe in love. I believe in being whoever you want to be, whenever you want to be. I believe in empowering others to be whoever they want to be. I believe in noticing, and I believe in sharing. I believe in me. I believe in you. And you should, too. :)

"You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things."

— Mary Oliver

Oh, and...

...let the sunshine in. :)