See, there's this book (http://www.amazon.com/Unfinished-Business-Extraordinary-Trying-Things/dp/1596916753/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1277750537&sr=8-1.) The long and short of it is that we all have unfinished business, and it likely compiles every day. I know that I, personally, don't have nearly enough days that I just live the crap out of.
Now, mind you, that I haven't even read this particular book yet. But it's such that I know I'm going to love it, just based on the idea of it. I love that someone thought about it and took the time to go back and finish some of his unfinished business. To thank people who have gone unthanked. To return library books and visit places and see sites.
Thinking about this, in terms of myself, leaves me daunted. I see my life as a minefield of opportunities wasted, regrets, lost friends. In fact, thinking about my unfinished business is not quite inspiring. So where do I go from here? Do I quit my job and make it my life's work to go back and revise all of the missed chances? Do I settle on just starting to leave no business unfinished from here on out?
At least I have no old library books to return.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Believe
"Maybe the camera crew is at someone else’s house, a spotlight haloing over another’s fleshy story. Maybe the mailman is delivering the good news to your neighbor, or a different city entirely,and you come home to a rash of catalogues, the second notice for a doctor’s bill, a plea from the do-gooders for whatever you can spare.
Maybe you haven’t cleaned your kitchen floor in weeks, forgotten to nourish the front garden, spilled too much coffee in your car, weaving through traffic.
Maybe you are 10 pounds heavier than last year.
Maybe your skin is betraying your age.
Maybe winter is ravaging your heart.
Maybe you are afraid, or lonely, or furious, or wanting out of every commitment you entered with vigor and trust.
Maybe you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, chosen your meals badly, ignored the advice of those who know you best.
Maybe you are stubborn as a toddler.
Maybe you are clumsy or foolish or hasty or reckless.
Maybe you haven’t read all the books you’re supposed to.
Maybe your handwriting is still illegible after all these years.
Maybe you spent too much on a pair of shoes you didn’t need.
Maybe you left the window open and the rain ruined the cake.
Maybe you’ve destroyed everything you wanted to save.
Still.
If anything, believe in your own strange loveliness. How your body, even as it stumbles, angles for light.
The way you hold a dandelion with such yearning and tenderness, the whole world stops spinning."
—Maya Stein
Maybe you haven’t cleaned your kitchen floor in weeks, forgotten to nourish the front garden, spilled too much coffee in your car, weaving through traffic.
Maybe you are 10 pounds heavier than last year.
Maybe your skin is betraying your age.
Maybe winter is ravaging your heart.
Maybe you are afraid, or lonely, or furious, or wanting out of every commitment you entered with vigor and trust.
Maybe you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, chosen your meals badly, ignored the advice of those who know you best.
Maybe you are stubborn as a toddler.
Maybe you are clumsy or foolish or hasty or reckless.
Maybe you haven’t read all the books you’re supposed to.
Maybe your handwriting is still illegible after all these years.
Maybe you spent too much on a pair of shoes you didn’t need.
Maybe you left the window open and the rain ruined the cake.
Maybe you’ve destroyed everything you wanted to save.
Still.
If anything, believe in your own strange loveliness. How your body, even as it stumbles, angles for light.
The way you hold a dandelion with such yearning and tenderness, the whole world stops spinning."
—Maya Stein
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
