Long weekend turns into work.

I don't want to work tomorrow. I just want to play and sit around.... too bad life doesn't work that way, huh?


maybe if I was 12 months old...

I often think what it would be like growing up now. Would my parents let me have a cell phone in 6th grade... would I be THAT kid.. I guess not, I never had game boys.


Would I play outside-- with internet and all-- would I still like grass?

I have a lot of unpoetic, empty thoughts lately. Like... nothing-ness. Nothing deep, nothing solid, nothing passionate... Just thoughts like, "I hope my gas stove doesn't blow up, ok- lit- coffee- water--- shower..... ah bark doodle face. Weather, news, recommendations,...... crap sugar. huh up 9, make bed, hide key, better comb my hair,........ i used to love this song..."


Every once and a while, I feel like the numbness of my existence is going to lead to an over-the-top lose-my-mind quarter-life-crisis. Where I just up and do something nuts like get a perm.

AND THAT, dear friends, is what confirms that I have gotten dull.... the fact that getting a perm would be a crisis action. I mean, most people in crisis of a rut decide to do something like move to a monastery and become vegan. But I've already done that (albeit only for a weekend during the second year of law school.... back when there was the webcam of the turtle).


Is that just life? Like, you decide to get a dog.... and then.... you are tied down. And then next thing you do-- is have a baby.... and quit sleeping full nights... (oh wait! that happened with the dog).... and then you are wearing solid shirts that aren't cute, and you have rooty hair.... and last year's memories shared as stories over microwave french toast and blended up orange juice concentrate?

I feel passionate about injustice, I suppose. And mediocrity. Often times I catch myself wondering this: Is Matt passionate about agriculture... like plants... etc... or is he passionate about business. Like, there is nothing I love more than putting a few wheat berries in a tin can full of dirt and watching it sprout-- an dpush the dirt up... and the wheat berry on the end of a blade of grass... and then becoming this absolute luscious green... and turning into a tall blade of grass.

But could I make that my life's passion? I don't know that I could.


Or a hammock that is set just perfect... and laying in it with a friend- and talking about what you would do when you grew up... as though it had not already come.


Or I like cleaning things up... like the barn. There is something so satisfying about that first shovel across a pile of manure. you see it wet and green on both sides of a slightly less muddy path through he lean-to. I suppose you don't know the feeling... but it is sort of like being able to truly measure success or accomplishment. Or like mowing an over-grown lawn.. or combining a bean field.

Passion is something that wanes with age... or I suppose with the realization that you aren't as important or as big as you thought you could be when you were in high school.

I remember my boyfriend in law school, and I were sitting in the park looking down over the city of San Francisco talking one night-- and he said something like, "we can't work in those buildings-- we aren't tall enough or beautiful enough- we don't have nice enough suits or law degrees from Stanford." Or something to that extent.... I remember being a little irritated by the fact that he thought we weren't enough to have the dream jobs of big buildings.

I know he was kidding on some level-- but I think it was a reality that I was yet to face at the timing of that conversation. In fact, I was hurt by his lack of ability to think I would do great things (or that he would)... but it was just a reality.

Now, I work in a big building-- but the reality that I will not pass life-changing legislation-- that I probably won't be the first woman president-- or a judge --- or.... a tour-guide to Bangkok... well, it's just set in... and that's I think, maybe, what kills passion. The realization that reality has hit- that you are past your prime, that working in a big-building-- really isn't the catch of the week. That a condo over looking the lake- is just a two bedroom area where more empty, thoughts can occur consisting of ... water, coffee.. shower... bike.

I think that's life.. and learning to live richly in a small way might be what saves people. Like eating yoghurt out of a wine glass in the morning- with a sliced up banana.. Or reading a book of poems. Or just by implementing beautiful things in your life. Like a latte that has a heart swirled into the top with creme and a sprinkle of cinnamon. But, yet, these are not things to be passionate about, are they? That's like being passionate about shot glasses and collector spoons... isn't it?

Passion is fighting for what you care about... and there are few things I fight for.


“It isn't what you have, or who you are, or where you are, or what you are doing that makes you happy or unhappy. It is what you think about.”