Stop the Glorification of Busy

As a college senior I worked two part-time jobs in addition to student teaching.  Hearing fellow students complain about the stress of student teachng without the added workload of the other jobs, I admit I felt superior. When my kids were small I took pride in juggling work, home and volunteer duties.  I wore the bags under my eyes from sleep lost in order to allow more work hours into each day like dark, puffy badges of honor.

Busyness becomes a god we sacrifice far too much to.  Our health, our families, our friendships and our peace of mind all suffer when we continually push ourselves beyond what is reasonable.  We develop tunnel vision looking only towards our goal and missing the blessings that surround us every day.

There is danger in the pride that comes from living life as though we can do it all on our own.  One day we look up and realize that is exactly how we are doing life–alone.

We will be much happier when we slow down,  doing one task at a time and giving it our full attention.  We will find more satisfaction in the work. Then to be truly happy, once that task is finished we should put it away and turn our attention–our full attention–to the people in our lives.

Mama Kat prompt: What were you writing about a year ago?  Something I still need to remind myself!

A New Day

He wakes again before the first real light, slipping away in that part of the day that still registers only in black and white.  Experiences and interactions have yet to color this day for good or ill.  It is still merely potential, and it beckons him from our bed.

Making Do

 Barbara Brackman's Material Culture

My Happy Sewing Place

Several years ago I came across these vintage promotional items on the internet.  The button is from WWI, and the booklet came out during the Second World War.  Materials and goods were scarce during wartime, and people drastically altered their lifestyles as a matter of patriotism.  It is easy to romanticize those days, but the sacrifices people made were real.

Times aren’t nearly so bad for me in present day Topeka, KS; still, these images speak to me.  Around the time I stumbled across the images above, we started to go through old photographs to cull pictures for the many “memory board” activities that preceded my son’s high school graduation.  My kids began to point out how many of their childhood photos showed me in clothing I still wear today.  They give me a hard time about the twenty-year-old items in my wardrobe, but it doesn’t bother me.  I don’t care much about fashion as long as I look presentable; and if I am home painting or gardening even presentable becomes negotiable.  Thumbing through those photos, an idea for belt tightening hit me.  While the kids were all three in college or dental school,  I followed the philosophy behind the WWI button:  I am making my old clothes do.

I was able to do this because:

I have always believed in buying quality.  So, what is in my closet is well constructed from reliable, natural fabrics.

I do not follow trends.  I choose things that have simple lines and classic design which keeps them from becoming dated too easily.

I personally don’t place a high value on fashion.  Some people express themselves in what they wear which would make this choice harder.  I express myself in art, writing and decorating my home.  For me clothes are pretty much just functional.

I hate to shop.

For the past five years I have been embracing this lifestyle.  It fits well in my overall life-simplifying plan. I play little games with myself to keep it light-hearted, choosing one garment at a time to wear to death.  As I write this I am wearing the current target, a blue striped Ralph Lauren shirt circa 1991.  The cotton is worn, soft and comfortable, the collar and cuffs gently frayed at their edges.  Its like an old friend I will miss when it is gone…   just as I will eventually miss the peach shirt that steps into replace it or the lavender that will replace the peach.

I wonder about the sense of gratitude I now feel for the literal shirt on my back. With each garment that passes to the rag bag, I feel a sense of satisfaction that it has served its purpose well. Would I even notice my old favorites slipping away, if I had not made the commitment to be conscious about fully using what I have before buying more?  I suspect not.  Five years ago I thought I was making a sacrifice, but instead I find myself content and more aware of simple everyday blessings.  In the end, making do has been no sacrifice at all.

Oklahoma, Here She Comes

Another look back to that back to school season that took the Dentist to her training in OKC.

A few days ago we loaded a mix of things passed down from family, found along the curb, or purchased for just this day into a moving van and headed into the new adventure that awaits our daughter as she begins dental school in Oklahoma.

The excitement was palpable.  Everything she has worked for has been leading up to this day.  What a joy that we were all able to help her out and be here to share it with her.  And yet that darned van full of her stuff lurking out front did seem to mock me just a little bit.

To me the hardest part of a move is always when you are looking at what you are leaving behind.  Once we got there and started pulling the place together it was good times!

We arranged an explosion of mirror bubbles over her bed.

And discovered much subliminal messaging in her art…a glittery golden Kansas outline, a reproduction of an architectural drawing of her high school signed by friends and teachers at her graduation, and a series of prints her father did in studio his freshman year of college documenting his own letters home.

There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

We found the perfect spot for this La Femme à la fête, a souvenir  from her visit to a winery in France, to send her off each morning with a toast.

Most of our time was spent hefting furniture and unpacking boxes.  I will include more shots of the assembled apartment next time I get to visit.  The place is tiny, but really wonderful.  And adventure waits right outside her door.

And the Other Is Gold: TToT

My grandma (third from the left) with some of the friends she played softball with back in the day.

I don't know if it is because I have reached a certain age, but recently circumstance has brought old friends back into my life after years of separation.  I didn't part with any of these women on poor terms.  Rather we became busy with the responsibilities of careers and families.  In some cases moves put miles between us.  In each case these were women I love who have enriched my life with laughter, shared tears, and immense wisdom.  

Early this summer a mutual friend told me she had been in touch with our old friend Beth.  Completely in keeping with her fearless nature, Beth had signed on to donate a kidney to a friend.  When it turned out that Beth's kidney also matched a different person awaiting transplant, and another donor matched Beth's friend a whole saga began.  By the time the operations were complete,  the circle had expanded to include ten people giving and receiving kidneys at KU Med Center in Kansas City.  By the point I heard about all this, Beth was recovering nicely and was ready for visitors.  So, we went, our lunch date extending into the night.  Despite not seeing one another for fifteen years,  we picked up the conversation as though it had only paused a minute earlier.

About a week later I ran into another strong woman friend in the grocery store...not my usual grocery, or hers either.  It has been ten years since we have seen one another despite living in the same city.  When we knew each other our daughters danced, and she and I did many volunteer activities together to support the ballet.  Life handed her a series of misfortunes that she certainly didn't deserve, but unsurprisingly she handled them with courage and wisdom.  I am sad that I had no idea she was struggling with these challenges and therefore did nothing to reach out.  I am not surprised, however, to find her on the other side as positive and strong as ever.  Coincidently, she is moving closer to my house now, and we've had the opportunity to enjoy each other's company once again--picking up the thread of our friendship just where we laid it down years ago.

At the beginning of the month I received a letter from a high school friend who I have not seen in over twenty years.  For ages we stayed in touched through long, colorful letters.  Months might go by without hearing from each other when suddenly one of us would find a fat envelope stuffed with page after page of detailed stories of the latest off-the-wall experience one of us had.  The last three or four letters I have sent over the years have missed their intended mark, and I had no idea how to find her.  Out of nowhere a fat envelope stuffed with pages detailing her life fell through the mail slot in my front door one day and my heart soared.

Yesterday, I was at an inservice taking a break from a dry presentation when someone came up behind me and squeezed my shoulder.  I turned around to discover an old friend, the mother of one my daughter's dearest childhood friends.  Again, we hadn't seen each other for a very long time and hadn't gotten to actually visit in even longer.  At the end of the day we got together and talked heart-to-heart for a couple of hours.  What a joy to discover that her little girly-girl has grown up to be a chemical engineer who loves her work.  My heart swelled with pride for her despite having not seen her for many years.

When I was a Brownie (about 1967) we used to sing a song at Scouts that declared Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver, but the other is gold.  There is no way that I could fully appreciate the meaning of those words in my Brownie Scout days, but today I know them to be the absolute truth.

My Ten Things of Thankful this week:

Beth (and Gwen for reconnecting us)

Beth's brave contribution to the successful kidney transplants

Charleen

Robin 

Kelly

Old friends

Good memories

Support, love, laughter, tears

That is more than ten, but I am blessed with an abundant life.

The Shared Bedroom

There is something to be said for sharing a bedroom with a sibling.  Negotiation skills are forged within limited space.  A person learns to share. Courtesy for another’s needs and feelings emerges in the give and take of how loudly music should be played and what time the lights need to be dimmed.

A shared bedroom is no place to nurse a grudge.  A person can only tolerate a line of masking tape down the center of the room for so long before realizing amends must be made.

Not only does sharing a room with a brother or sister teach a person to consider the feelings of another human being, it also gives ample opportunity to practice asserting your own needs in an appropriate way as well.  You must learn to stand your ground, or at least your floor space, effectively without flaring conflict.

Shared space encourages strong relationships.  Living in close proximity to another person you witness their ups and downs.  You’re given an intimate view of their dreams, successes, and failures as well as how they cope with each.  Before you realize it, you find yourself pulling for the person who has driven you mad for so long.  You feel real empathy for him when he is down and take real joy in his victories.

Our wisdom and our diplomatic prowess develop over time through what we experience in daily living.  One thing I know for sure, when the leaders of the world gather to make decisions that affect us all, I want to be represented by someone who shared a bedroom with a sibling growing up.


Written in 2013.  Even more pertinent today.

Summer's End

Only one more day.  I am due back on duty at school on August 1st.  I am not ready.  I have not stopped moving all summer long, working my way through my to-do list.  I ended the school year really wiped out.  I was certain I was more drained than I normally feel in May and I looked forward to the respite the summer would provide.  Now that my summer break has dwindled down to a matter of hours, I am not sure how well I refilled my reservoir.  Ready or not, I am heading back.  

In reality I know it is true that as each summer draws to a close I feel the same sense of disbelief.  The break always goes too quickly having been filled with far too many commitments to be truly refreshing.  This time of year always brings with it a degree of letting go--a skill I am not particularly good at.  

Below is a wistful look at summer's end a few years back...

The calendar may not reflect it, but summer is nearly gone. I consciously will the pace to slow, wanting to hang on to each passing day.

When summer ends my girls will go.  One to Tennessee; one to Texas. Both too far.

I love when we are all home.  We work all day and play in the night.  We are up too late and the morning arrives too early.  And so it goes.  But summer will end and my girls must go.  Their life awaits.

My tempo will be disrupted. I'll be off balance.  I will wander through their rooms, summer's sudden end making my footing uncertain. My world will move in slow motion.

I wouldn't have it any other way. The girls will be discovering their worlds and discovering who they are within those worlds.  They'll have much to tell. Messages will fly in two different directions and back again from each. Rapid-fire reports of challenges faced and victories won.

In time my footing will become more certain.  My days will fill again.  A busy patter of activity will make the days fly by.

I'll wake one day to wonder where the school year has gone.  Summer will be coming and my girls will be on their way home once more.

July 29, 2011

Currently

Discouraged by the events of the past couple weeks, I looked over some pieces I have written over time hoping to discover hope.  This piece written at this time of year five years ago reminds me that we have been through hard times before. The issues remain frighteningly constant.  We have known discouragement, and we have prevailed.  

Currently, the world is just a little mixed up.

Currently…

…I am saddened by the loss of civility in our culture.  The crass and vulgar language that is considered appropriate in public spaces makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  The aggressive and disrespectful way people treat each other wears on me.

…I am furious that the interest rates on student loans are doubling, and that those we elected to represent us are doing nothing to stop it.

…I am worried that the wealthiest and most powerful are using their influence in a way that will insure there won’t be a middle class in America for my grandchildren.

…I am heartened by the young people I know personally who have strength, character and  humor despite the culture we have handed them.

…I am awed by every day heroes who reflect the very best in us as they selflessly rush in to eradicate danger.

…I am surrounded by miracles- Grown children who grasp the importance of family; plants that doggedly grow and bloom , sharing beauty regardless of the care I offer; babies on the way, new lives filled with potential.

…I am trying to leave the world a little better than I found it through love and compassion.

…I am comforted by the knowledge that I am not alone.

The world is a mess, that is true.  Still, it has been a mess before.  Time and time again we have seen that human beings hold within us the power to improve the world.  It will take effort and require a tireless insistence on our best.  We must not pander to our most base instincts.  We were not intended to be just another beast in the animal kingdom.  We are intended to rise above.

Currently, I believe in the promise we hold within us to heal.

Security

I lay in the dark sifting through a thousand thoughts left over from the day, sorting them into the proper cubby in my mind.  I’m restless and realize I can’t remember if the back door got locked before we came up to bed.

My husband is snoring lightly beside me sleeping soundly.  I say his name three times before he responds.  I ask about the door, and he replies the same way he does each time this scene plays out, “Yes, it’s locked.”

He stirs, is still a moment and then wordlessly crawls out of bed.  In the dark he half sleepwalks down the stairs returning a moment later to report his findings.  Some nights we’ve left it open; tonight it really was locked.  Either way I sleep easier knowing for certain.  He understands this.  It is why he goes wordlessly into the dark.

Checking the backdoor at night is only one of the ways that my husband makes sure I feel the security of his love.  Through his fidelity, commitment, responsibility, honesty and care he makes each of my days secure.

It only takes a minute or so for his breathing to shift back into the slow heavy rhythm of sleep.  I reach out in the darkness and stroke his cheek issuing a silent prayer of thanksgiving before joining him in peaceful slumber.

Operation Apple Recovery

This summer I am engaged in war with the local squirrel population.  We are competing for the apples and tomatoes I am growing.  So,far I am not winning. Thinking of other gardens and epic battles with nature's creatures of the past, I went back in the archives to remind myself that occasionally I do win a battle.

Last Fall we enjoyed our first crop of apples.  We had planted the tree years ago and had grown several crops.  Every year we saw the branches fill with apples.  We watched as they got larger and closer to ripeness, our mouths watering at the thought of the yummy treats a tree full of apples could produce.  Every year just as we had begun counting down the days until harvest,  we would go to bed one night with the vision of  a luscious tree of fruit in our heads only to wake the next day to empty branches.  No sign that there had ever been apples remained.  Apple, core, stem,  all were gone along with our dreams of homemade apple sauce and the crunch of a sweet juicy apple.

This was an affront we could no longer tolerate.  So, we became detectives looking for clues.  Chief suspects?  A yard full of squirrels, the mama possum who brazenly scaled the back fence each and every night, and most likely the pair of raccoons that we fought to keep out of the chimney.

Each growing season saw a new plan of attack.  We researched natural repellents for each of the suspects.  We sprayed the tree with hot pepper spray which might as well have been pure water for all the repulsion it provided. We covered the tree from top to trunk in netting.  That became problematic when both a bird and squirrel found a way into the netting and we couldn't figure a way out for them without placing ourselves within striking distance.  We covered the trunk in an attempt to make it impossible to climb, but apparently our thief  used the fence to jump into the tree rather than climb.  Each growing season began with high hopes for our latest battle plan only to end with a stripped tree.

Last spring my husband had had enough.  He came home one night wild eyed a live trap in tow. When I asked what would happen if he actually caught anything, he grinned and said we would figure that out if and when we had success.  Up the trap went to the roof of the sleeping porch.  It was fortified with cat food which was reportedly irresistable to raccoons.  Every night my husband scaled a ladder to the rooftop and the trap was baited.  Every morning back up he went to find the trap sprung and the food missing.  This was our routine as the high school prom approached.

When my daughter and her date arrived home in the wee hours they startled a humongous raccoon who scurried away from them almost as quickly as they scurried from him.  The enormous creature attempted to shinny up the downspot but awkward and portly (apparently from eating trees full of fruit), he lost his balance somewhere near the roof.  He scraped along the uneven rocks of the second floor as he tumbled down the side of the stone house.  The kids hurried inside wide eyed as a thud sounded in the bushes.  The next morning there was no sign of the raccoon himself but the side of the house was covered in a trail of raccoon blood.  War is hell.

One villain down-literally-the trap and the battle moved to the back fence area.  To our surprise it captured not one but two opossums.   There is a trick to removing these unattractive creators from the trap as they really do "play possum" and convincingly so.  You can be completely convinced you are removing a corpse when you suddenly face a mouth filled with tiny spiky teeth and a spitty sounding hiss issuing forth.  The details on this stage of Operation Apple Recovery are too ugly to share.  Suffice it to say the opossum family no longer resides out back.

While Man vs. Wild played out on Westwood the tree silently produced its best crop yet.  Picking time approached.  We were optimistic but not overly confident.  The yard still teemed with dozens of squirrels who had not been eliminated as suspects themselves.  They seemed to taunt us with their chipper scampering around the tree, but each morning we awoke to branches still brimming with apples.  Although we still don't know who the real culprit was, when harvest came last fall the apples were ours for the picking.

We enjoyed apples in the fall until we could eat no more.  I made some simple syrup and added lemon juice to cover and freeze apple slices. Now from time to time I pull out a container of those apples and cook them on the stovetop with some cinnamon.  I run them through the blender and have yummy homemade applesauce for lunch and a house that smells absolutely wonderful.  Also, it is a healthy treat which is important.  We need to be in tip top shape because apple growing season is just around the corner.

April 2011

A Drive in the Flint Hills

Traveling down Interstate 35 near mile marker 106 in Kansas you'll find yourself in the Flint Hills.  I love this open space of rolling grasslands.  The grasses display an array of colors that never ceases to fascinate me.  The undulating plain goes on forever in all directions interrupted only by the occasional tree or livestock.

There is a point as you head south on the highway that the otherwise straight and predictable roadway disappears into the gentle curve of the land.  Look into the distance and you can see where it emerges from the hills and continues on its way.

To me the highway is a metaphor for life.  We make our plans and head on our way, but life throws an unexpected obstacle in our path.  The thing may appear to swallow us whole.  Our vision may be limited so that we may not be able to see our route.  The best we can do is move forward always trusting that we will come through this thing.  The way will become clear once again, and we will continue on our journey.  We only have to trust.

Surely Goodness and Mercy

This was a weekend for reflection.  I came home Friday ready to relax my mind and body.  Instead I was greeted by the news that a neighbor and friend from church had died suddenly this week.  Two doors down and I had no idea.

I didn’t find his death shocking because of his age or general health.  I find it shocking because I hadn’t even considered it happening.  Because it was yet another death in that generation that separates me from death. Because he leaves a wife who loved him and shared his life, and her pain makes me wince.  And so my weekend began with a funeral, a farewell to a wonderful person.

Afterwards, I met with a friend to create a gift for another friend.  I took individual strands of silk and marino wool and through the waft and the warp, through friction and pressure and the saturation of water that reminded me of the tears of a lifetime, I coaxed those fibers into a silky woolen scarf that will warm my friend.

Sunday afternoon I met my sister at an estate auction where a lifetime’s possessions of a man she knew were being sold.  Table after table told the story of a life.  A love of photography. A well traveled, well read man.  A long marriage.  His life had ended and was on display for all to place value on.

On the way home I considered how brief life truly is, and how grateful I am that goodness and mercy really do follow me each day.

River Town Residences

Hermann, MO

 I love the feel of an old river town where the houses seem all brick with
 white porches. Get close to the Mississippi or further East and those humble houses tend to sit shoulder to shoulder lining the street all in a row.  I love a town where not only the mansions are adorned and gilded, but the tiniest of homes is dressed to the nines in gingerbread and stained glass.  I love a town where beauty is not reserved for a lucky few, but within the grasp of us all. 

The Difference Between Women and Men

I stopped to fill up with gas the other day and noticed a woman employee chasing a rat around the pumps, whacking it with a broom at every opportunity.  A very animated female customer jumped up and down while loudly cheering her on.

A man was pumping gas at the pump in front of me.  The rat circled the man’s pump several times as the lady swatted it repeatedly with the broom–to the left, to the right.  The man didn’t appear to notice either woman or rat.  The woman announced she was getting a bigger broom and retreated to the station past the cheering woman who continued to urge her on.

The rat took advantage of the cease fire to hide under the man’s car.  Finished paying, the man jumped into the driver’s seat, threw his car in gear, and sped away leaving a flattened rat in his wake having never been aware any of this drama had unfolded in his presence.

This, I believe, illustrates difference between women and men.

Moments

Our life stage determines how we measure time.  As children time moves almost too slowly to measure.  From one Christmas to the next is an eternity. When we become adults with responsibilities at work and to family, the days are so full they seem to happen in chunks.  Years peel off in one great bunch and we wonder where the time has gone.  Yet, for the elderly each passing day is examined  with rumination.  Time has slowed once more.

I remember as a child answering the phone to hear our neighbor Maude saying the same words she did each time she called, “Put your mother on.”  On this day, my mother happened to be on a ladder attempting to get a coat of paint on the kitchen wall before beginning dinner.  She asked for me to take a message, but for Maude the situation was urgent.

It turned out Maude had been reminiscing about a bowl that she had used on her dinner table years before.  She simply had to know at that very moment if she still owned that bowl.  Being physically unable to access her cupboards, she had called for my mother to come next door and check for her.  To my mother in the midst of raising a family, the dish could wait.  To Maude to wait was to risk she might not know in time. In her head Mom reached a compromise; I got to do the checking and Mom returned to her ladder exasperated.

Maude has been gone for many years now, the things in her cabinets dispersed among her family and friends long ago. The kitchen Mom was covering in a cheery orange glow that day no longer exists.  Both houses remain clear in my memory as do the women who lived in them.  I can’t tell you what hour, day or year the phone rang and I heard Maude on the other line; but I can picture it vividly.

In the end, I believe time passes too quickly to truly measure in a way that holds real meaning. I have moments collected in my mind still fresh as when they were happening, moments of joy, others of horror or sadness, but all moments that make up my life. The days and years don’t matter nearly so much as the moments.  It is in the moments that we really live.

The Old Emerson Fan

This ancient Emerson Electric fan was old as dirt when my husband and I bought it for ten dollars at an auction in 1985 the first summer we were married.  He thought he could rewire it and get it working again; I thought it was cute.  When we got it home, we were both surprised to discover that it ran like a top as soon as we plugged it in, and it cooled a room better than the brand new fan we had purchased just days before.  That new fan didn’t survive to make the move to our current home, but the little Emerson still gets used every day in the summer.  It’s a perfect reminder that we don’t actually need fancy or excess in our lives.  Reliability, simplicity, contentment—of these things I am a big fan.

The White Space

“White Space is where the world and all distraction falls away. Where the voice of the Divine can be heard. Where the Truth of who you are is found. Where miracles happen.”
― Valerie Rickel

I sit at the kitchen table in silence sipping tea and letting my eye travel over the simple shapes in the cupboard.  My mind begins to clear and my shoulders relax. I need these quiet moments.  I savor the stillness, though too often I forget to include it in my day.  Too often I feel guilty for sitting in stillness in a world that values busyness.

But the White Space is productive too. Only here can I hear myself think.  Hear the whisper of the small still voice that guides me and loves me and emanates from God.

I am better suited to face the world as I emerge from the stillness.  I think more clearly and forgive more readily.  I am more in tune with myself and my God.  I am renewed in the White Space.

Embedded in the prose are my Ten Things of Thankful

Silence 

Tea

Home

Calm

Security, Assurance

Uninterrupted Thoughts

The Voice of God

Restoration

Forgiveness

Going to the Chapel

Danforth Chapel on the campus of Kansas State University

It is safe to say that I am not the woman that my in-laws envisioned as their son's wife. There were regional differences, religious differences, and political differences.  Despite these differences there was one very fundamental commonality we did share.  We all loved their son.

I do believe that they knew this fact to be true by the end of their lives; they seemed less certain at the outset of ours.

There was much tension during the planning of our nuptials.  To make the day easier on all of us we decided to have a small wedding for immediate family only.  We would hold it in the "all faiths" chapel on the campus where we met.

The morning of the wedding there were a few last minute details to see to.  My groom and I had agreed to tackle the tasks together, but he could not be reached that morning. Miffed, I finished the jobs on my own and prepared myself for the ceremony.

It wasn't until much later that I learned he was tackling something much more difficult than any of the tasks I had in mind.  He was standing up to the parents he loved as they attempted to persuade him not to go through with the wedding.

While waiting with my sisters for our cue to enter the chapel word came that the men of the bridal party were ready whenever we were.

As I stepped into the aisle at the back of the chapel, I linked arms with my dad and took a deep breath.  I looked up and saw the man I loved waiting for me.  He looked small and uncertain until he looked into my eyes.

A smile crossed his face and lines crinkled in the corners of his eyes.  I stepped forward moving towards him, moving towards our future.  The closer I came to both, the tighter my chest felt.

I was overwhelmed with emotion.  When it came time for my vows I could not speak. My tears flowed unchecked.  Silently, he reached into the pocket on the inside of his tux and removed a white handkerchief.  Gently, while looking into my eyes and smiling he wiped my tears away.

Struggling, I could only speak loudly enough to make my vows known to the kindly priest.  That was enough.  He proclaimed us husband and wife.

What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.  Thirty-three years, one month and nine days later no man has.

In that time there have been many tears, some of joy, some of sorrow.  Without fail, my wonderful husband has been right by my side to dry my eyes.

For my valentine:  When love is certain it can overcome obstacles.  In overcoming obstacles, love becomes more certain.

Valentine's Kiss

My valentine woke me today

The way he has nearly every morning for going on three decades now

With a kiss

Not a long, passionate kiss

But a short, efficient kiss

Punctuation

Setting off the fact that we have been given the gift of another day

And we should not waste it

2012