There’s a Light at the End of the Tunnel
My English teacher in high school never let us use cliché writing. But today I’m making an exception. Sorry Mrs. I can’t remember your name.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
For the first time in months I feel like some of my difficult days are over. I’m a little happier and accentuating the positive a little more. Although I do wonder, how much of my identity is actually wrapped up in what I do verses who I am, or better yet- who God made me to be.
I’m working on that but for now, growth is good and I’m feelin’ fine.
There’s a Light at the End of the Tunnel
My English teacher in high school never let us use cliché writing. But today I’m making an exception. Sorry Mrs. I can’t remember your name.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
For the first time in months I feel like some of my difficult days are over. I’m a little happier and accentuating the positive a little more. Although I do wonder, how much of my identity is actually wrapped up in what I do verses who I am, or better yet- who God made me to be.
I’m working on that but for now, growth is good and I’m feelin’ fine.
Bed by 7:30
On Saturday I went to bed at 8:30. I lied. It was 7:30. I’m turning into my parents. I had my elastic-stretch-to-infinity-and-beyond pants on (the ones that I wear only when I go to Dairy Queen) and I was reading in bed- and that was my recipe to fall asleep.
More than anything I love time when I can be lazy- the real lazy. The kind of lazy that you let yourself be after you’ve done the chores and you’ve completed (most of) the to-do list. That’s when I dwell in my lazy. But dwell in a good way. I’m simple.
After falling asleep at 7:30, I woke up at 4:30. Too early to get up at 4:30. 4:30 is what my grandparents do. There, I have covered 2 generations of family sleep patterns in 1 night. When I woke up I stayed in the quiet darkness of early morning. I love that time of day. Sometimes I wish that the early morning would last for an entire day. The silence is so calm. If I had to be a time of day- it would be the quiet morning.
Bed by 7:30
On Saturday I went to bed at 8:30. I lied. It was 7:30. I’m turning into my parents. I had my elastic-stretch-to-infinity-and-beyond pants on (the ones that I wear only when I go to Dairy Queen) and I was reading in bed- and that was my recipe to fall asleep.
More than anything I love time when I can be lazy- the real lazy. The kind of lazy that you let yourself be after you’ve done the chores and you’ve completed (most of) the to-do list. That’s when I dwell in my lazy. But dwell in a good way. I’m simple.
After falling asleep at 7:30, I woke up at 4:30. Too early to get up at 4:30. 4:30 is what my grandparents do. There, I have covered 2 generations of family sleep patterns in 1 night. When I woke up I stayed in the quiet darkness of early morning. I love that time of day. Sometimes I wish that the early morning would last for an entire day. The silence is so calm. If I had to be a time of day- it would be the quiet morning.
Life is Finite
We got the call on Saturday while we were at the wedding. It’s a weird thing emotionally to leave a friend’s wedding to go to Brandon’s grandfather’s house and wait for the funeral home to arrive and pick up the body. October 30, 2010 marks the day that Brandon’s grandfather, Jack, died. He left a legacy for a family that will remember him forever.
I learned that family is powerful. I watched daughters come around their dying father and give. They cooked, they cleaned, they cared for so that in the end their father would be comfortable. So comfortable that he didn’t even realize he was sick. At 6 feet tall Jack was down to 115 pounds, unable to use the restroom (kidney failure), and no appetite (although the occasional doughnut and cigarette sufficed).
Life is so finite. Death is a slap-in-the-face-reminder that life has an ending– a point that will force all internal clockwork to a stop– when the last breath is gasped and body finally lets go. There’s something mysterious and powerful about death. I’m not trying to assert morbid thoughts, I’m just reflecting enough to wonder how my own un-infinite life will play out.
Life is Finite
We got the call on Saturday while we were at the wedding. It’s a weird thing emotionally to leave a friend’s wedding to go to Brandon’s grandfather’s house and wait for the funeral home to arrive and pick up the body. October 30, 2010 marks the day that Brandon’s grandfather, Jack, died. He left a legacy for a family that will remember him forever.
I learned that family is powerful. I watched daughters come around their dying father and give. They cooked, they cleaned, they cared for so that in the end their father would be comfortable. So comfortable that he didn’t even realize he was sick. At 6 feet tall Jack was down to 115 pounds, unable to use the restroom (kidney failure), and no appetite (although the occasional doughnut and cigarette sufficed).
Life is so finite. Death is a slap-in-the-face-reminder that life has an ending– a point that will force all internal clockwork to a stop– when the last breath is gasped and body finally lets go. There’s something mysterious and powerful about death. I’m not trying to assert morbid thoughts, I’m just reflecting enough to wonder how my own un-infinite life will play out.
Salud (sah-LOOD)
This weekend, my perspective smiled. While exploring Chicago with one of my optimistic friends, Julie, I realized that I’ve been mopey (or is it moppy?- no that’s not right). I’ve been a person who mopes (not mops). I’ve only mopped like 3 times in my entire life (because Brandon takes complete ownership over the hygiene of our floors). I’ve moped more than 3 times though.
The world is not crashing in on me, even though the martyr side of me would feel like a hero if that were the truth. I’m not going to be a moper anymore (and I’ll never be a mopper).
While I was with Julie, I kept thinking that Julie is so happy and healthy. I want that.
When I studied in Mexico, people toasted their glass with the word: salud. Health. I think about that often, which is actually ironic since during part of my time in Mexcio I had dysentery (aka an amoeba that my roommate and I endearingly named coronita). I digress. Instead of being consumed with the weight of life, I’m going to start focusing on salud. Less moping, more health.
Salud,
hanna
PS- Thanks Jules!
Salud (sah-LOOD)
This weekend, my perspective smiled. While exploring Chicago with one of my optimistic friends, Julie, I realized that I’ve been mopey (or is it moppy?- no that’s not right). I’ve been a person who mopes (not mops). I’ve only mopped like 3 times in my entire life (because Brandon takes complete ownership over the hygiene of our floors). I’ve moped more than 3 times though.
The world is not crashing in on me, even though the martyr side of me would feel like a hero if that were the truth. I’m not going to be a moper anymore (and I’ll never be a mopper).
While I was with Julie, I kept thinking that Julie is so happy and healthy. I want that.
When I studied in Mexico, people toasted their glass with the word: salud. Health. I think about that often, which is actually ironic since during part of my time in Mexcio I had dysentery (aka an amoeba that my roommate and I endearingly named coronita). I digress. Instead of being consumed with the weight of life, I’m going to start focusing on salud. Less moping, more health.
Salud,
hanna
PS- Thanks Jules!
The Dog Whisperer
Inspiration can come from different sources. Tonight- my inspiration is strictly mindless.
(Click photo to enlarge)
Row 1: Portrait of Hubble, Pulled a king size duvet comforter into her cageRow 2: Fastest-Eater-Ever, Afraid of everythingRow 3: Learns how to escape cage, Ate 3 mice (3! in a row!)Row 4: Shredded 2 pairs of my leather boots, Discovered how to open doors
Our dog is weird.