To remain in this moment becomes perhaps the closest we can come to ultimate harmony. It’s tricky.
It requires dismissing the past, shunning self-imposed limitations and savoring every ounce of life. Living in the moment also gets a bad rap. That’s what happens when folks jet to Vegas or say yes when they should say no, invoking a Carpe Diem Clause.
The Carpe Diem Clause, however, doesn’t cover gambling losses, lost teeth, lost wages, marriage annulments or penicillin shots.
Brianna Wiest wrote a book called The Truth About Everything. She also wrote a post for Elephant Journal that I wrapped in cheesecloth and hid behind my disc golf bag. It’s 10 questions to ask yourself when you don’t know where your life should go next.
All it took was a parade. We’d talked in church about joining the Pride Parade a few years ago. Grace heard keywords – parade … ride a float … matching T-shirts! She was stoked. So I explained what the Pride Parade meant.
She remained stoked.
We didn’t end up walking. She went off with the grandparents that day. The conversation happened, though. When I wrote about it, today’s guest poster, Mo of Mocadeaux, chimed in on the CD for the first time.
I want much for them. Peace, not a pampered path. Purpose, not existence in pretend. Experiences, not empty days when the moon rises and sets without peace and purpose. I want to drive them places they want me to take them.
I want also for them to venture into places I am not.
The influence and support they’ll have from their parents will never cease. What of those times when she’s chosen to play on a new team, in a far-off park? When she’s on a stage somewhere I am not, rehearsing and projecting?
It took a while before my tenderest-hearted girl ever watched cartoons.
She saw the PBS stuff – Caillou, Telletubbies,Big Comfy Couch – but not the violent, irreverent stuffs of our childhood. Wile E. Coyote and Sylvester the Cat. The Jetsons and the Flintstones. The Really Rottens. Woody Woodpecker, and most of all, Tom & Jerry.
Elise finally got to see the eternal feud of Tom & Jerry.
Jerry pushed a piano down a staircase after Tom had attacked him with a mallet and butcher’s knife. On this particular episode, Tom actually gave up the ghost. His spirit floated heavenward, where he had to wait in line for St. Peter.
It involves a finger prick and a reading. How’d I do with that late-night snack? My glucose monitor doesn’t lie. I know what to expect mornings after three bowls of Frosted Flakes the night before. I know what to expect when it’s been an English muffin and sun butter.
I try to start my mornings with a tall glass of water and stretching.
They replace a swig of Coke Zero and bleary-eyed checks of the mobile phone and blog comments. I crack eggs to eat over medium with a warm tortilla, or scrambled, wrapped in tortillas or mixed in with strips of corn tortilla, fried in olive oil.
I drew where I shouldn’t have. Like, during church. I drew when I shouldn’t have. Like, during church. Or math. (In art class, I didn’t always draw. Go figure.) I drew a cartoon bird on a serving tray at a restaurant and the girls all tried to use that one.
Marie found these self-portraits just the other night while cleaning out the games and coloring books table. Perfect for today’s word, your art.
I’m not sure how horribly accurate these are, but that’s youthful me there, on the left, and grown-up me, there, on the right. (I have no nostrils, Grace points out, but a lifelike representation of details such as nose holes might prove distracting.)
Or, cookies. Traffic. Egg burrito. You call one of those words for the Photo a Day Challenge, maybe I’m not struggling to conceive of some creative way to document brushes. Brushes. Brushes with the law?
Every time I have one, I’m concentrated on not pissing myself. Not photos.
“Can you snap a shot of Elise’s paint brushes?” I asked Grace. We were in Walgreen’s printing pictures she would use in a collage for her friend, who’s moving to a different school. We pushed the 10 p.m. closing time. On a school night.
Each draft pick in pro sports has such an impact on the franchise that picks the player, the player, of course, and also the players picked before and after.
Take the 1988 NFL Draft, for instance. The Indianapolis Colts selected Tennessee quarterback Peyton Manning. He gave the franchise quick cred, won a Super Bowl, and helped the Denver Broncos to a title at the end of his career. They couldn’t make their mind up until … draft day.
The other choice? Washington State quarterback Ryan Leaf, who went No. 2 to the San Diego Chargers.
They were considered an even match, Manning and Leaf, before the draft. Manning went on to win 186 games, pass for 71,940 yards, and garnered 14 pro-bowl selections. Leaf? He started 21 games, won four, passed for 3,666 yards (yikes) and never made a pro bowl.
We’re all about culture up in here, at Coach Daddy.
Toby writes a blog called Dumbass News. No, it’s not the detroit red wings fan newsletter. It has a very distinctive symbol and news that you’d find disturbing and amusing. Or, just disturbing, if it happens to be about you.
He’s here at Coach Daddy today to talk about a refined cultural event that takes place in his home state.
Check out his pages, too, where the language has a few more crayons in its array then we do around here (unless you count all of Kathy’s submissions from Kissing The Frog. She has Toby-esque license, apparently.)