The End Begins

Each year is a kaliediscope of experience, turning and colliding with each other in bookends of time. A year. A simple measurement to account for a stretch of life that has elasped. Maybe some things marks left on the outside or they've landed elsewhere, harboring underneath the surface.  Things I've earned and things I've simply taken. Things that have been given to me, gift after gift. Or thrust at me without want.Things that are sweet. Sweet and golden like honey. Things that are repulsive. Things that turn me red with anger or embarassment. Things I've asked for; things I've held on to, things I've lost, maybe buried. Things that have made me soar and things that have knocked me down. Off my feet. Things that hurt and continue to hurt, the scab repeatedly ripped off. Things of significance. Things of grace. Things so trivial they shouldn't be mentioned. Shrugged off, forgotten like dust. Things so beautiful they didn't seem real. All these things collected, smashed together and then piled one on top of the other. And it will continue on, until the year is years, and each one can be lain out for you to remember. Here's to a year of everything. 

Good Arms Vs. Bad Arms

I took a snowball to the eye this afternoon. He was at it all day with random outburts, but that one I had to laugh at when I caught a glimpse of Megan's face coming from the opposite direction. Earlier he smacked me and yelled "unicorn!" I yelled "Dinosaur!" and then he took off. He's been telling me "The sky's the limit!" but he seems to be hitting the ceiling quite often...
I have a soft spot for this kid, because he doesn't like people touching his things, he doesn't like people being in his space, and he doesn't like things changing on him. He wants independence. It's like an eruption of ill-logics since that is what is seemingly occuring to him. BUT, he also wants me. That's the soft spot that just won't go away, even if I have to let out a long sigh and tell him to stop. He hits me then grabs my hand or hugs me, as if he suddenly remembers that he likes me and wants my help. Well, all be darn, kid. Let's collect ourselves and not lose our sangfroid.

I can't say I haven't just wanted to throw my arms up and let a few screams fly while I whack the shit out of something too. It must be somewhat relieving. I hit the gym instead, but I'm in need of another center of focus. Swimming is wonderful, but the foot isn't allowing running....Boxing, yoga, basketball, or, ah, writing! 

D

Beauty in the Breakdown

I'm having a moment of panic which means I need to write. There are only a few options I have once I enter this state and this one helps me think things though. I'm trying to graduate - hard enough in and of itself, but I'm also trying to insert preferable situations in the midst of it. A lot needs to happen this next year and, as with most things, they rely on time and money. I feel like getting my degree should be able to just happen; given the requirements and deadlines, I could just do it and get it out of the way. Then Africa and a different job would come more freely. But as it is right now, with this degree lingering, I am unsure if those two desires are even going to be able to happen, at least in the timeframe I want them to. 
The somewhat hopeful component to this whole fraction is that this degree is serviced to those on the world-wide-web. So if I aim (and I do) to be somewhere out in that wide world, this shouldn't really be a problem at all. In theory. The theory, however, has proven to be a little defective. So I am also going to turn to another option in the moment of panic: prayer. I'll admit, I haven't said many prayers at all lately. At times, it gets me banking on something, has my hopes up, and then I deeply struggle with accepting the outcome. But Africa involved lots of prayer, and that was a major beauty in the experience.