It is the day before a new semester. The summer has officially come to an end. What have I learned? That I have learned nothing when it comes to ceasing the procrastination. Will I ever learn? Will it ever strike me to prep a class at the end of(more) a semester so that I don't have to do it again right before I teach it again? Will it ever strike me to take care of this stuff at the beginning of the summer rather than waiting until the last minute? I have a feeling that next summer I will be learning this lesson again. Perhaps someday it will stick...doubtful. (less)
My day is ambling slowly, creeping towards something inevitable. There are deadlines that loom and yet the long striped green back of my day meanders, feelers and legs finding distraction at every turn, hoping for a crunchy leaf or perhaps daydreaming about cocoons.
Have you ever noticed that you notice more things about your face, your skin, your pores, your eyebrows when you're looking at yourself in a mirror that is not your own? Visiting friends or staying in a hotel, you discover all these elements that were somehow undetectable in your(more) own mirror. So then once you see that random eyebrow hair (how the hell did that thing get so long?) or maybe it's the freckles on your shoulder that you hadn't seen before, does it change how you see yourself? I usually wonder if others have been seeing that part of me and how it is that I am so blind to these little pieces of myself and I wonder if others miss their beautiful aspects as well. Other people's mirrors are great spaces of self-discovery. (less)
I am at the precipice of doing and accomplishing. It all boils down to a simple choice of actions. Do I continue writing or do I finally get around to using those space bags that I thought were so important to have a month ago? Or do I write(more) that syllabus and get on the lesson plans that I know need to happen or do I instead write up summaries of last semester's courses? All of which need to happen and time is of the essence - one because of a looming inevitable deadline and the other because if I wait too long, I shall forget the subtle nuances of last semester's experiences. This is a moment like so many others in my day. Moments that halt action and leave me wanting to become a baker. (less)
Some of her earliest encounters with anxiety were with socks: socks on the wrong feet, socks not fitting right, and then there were toe-socks, which defied all foot logic. Being a lefty, it was drilled in her young mind to know the difference between left and right. She was(more) terribly precise at it, having moved far beyond making an "L" shape with her fingers at the age of three. Socks, however, dismantled the entire paradigm and left the overachieving youngest of four children in an ocean of anxiety. With no clear delineation between left and right, how was she to know which was which? HOW??? She would take extreme care when dressing for church or grandma's house, the only places where wearing shoes were expected. She would examine each sock, carefully searching for clues that might intimate to her its inclination. As was nearly always the case, even with close inspection, she was wrong. They did not "fit right" as they should. She failed and in her humiliation, she was determined not to show her face in public, begging parents for a reprieve. Everyone would look at her face and instantly know that she did not know her left sock from her right. Agonizingly, she acquiesced to her parents' pleas to simply "get in the car," but deep inside she knew that she had let them down. (less)