Three Little Words

Words are amazing. It takes multiple words to define a single word. Multiple words which all have multiple word definitions. And then, of course, those words have multiple word definitions. Words are pretty much endless.

Word.

If you say a word over and over again it totally loses all meaning. Now I'm not really sure how to spell the word "word" because I've just used it so much.

Aaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!!!

My point is: words pack a wallop!

Language packs a wallop.

There seems to be an innate thirst for communication hard wired in to nearly every human beings. Some people don't seem to need to communicate with others. The rest of us see them as weird.

It's like a miracle when someone can say just the right thing to make you feel amazing, comforted, high on life, and ready to go out and own the world. It's even more amazing when it's all presented in a beautifully quaint, traditional, personal, modern manner.

I love you.

Three little words that convey a plethora of emotions, dreams, anticipation, doubt, tenderness, strength, weakness, support, and expectation.

What's more: it has a different meaning for everyone who says it depending on who they say it to and how they say it and when the say it and why they say it.

It's the most ambiguous and clear statement in our language.

It is a paradox.

Huh.

That's pretty fascinating.

Question: If you were to sum up my personality into three little words, what would they be?

Just curious

Tee Hee

My parents have always been really big on books, reading, and general edification focused on personal interests. When I was a kid I can remember new and second hand books filling every corner of the house. In fact, I don't think a number can be assigned to the books we own because there will always be another box someplace just waiting to be rediscovered.

In any case, I love it! I love the smell of books. I love the feel of ancient paper and the way a new book cracks at the spine when opened for the first time. I love re-reading favorites and learning new things from someone else's perspective. I love getting lost in another person's world.

Today I found a book of poems on a shelf in the basement. I can remember reading this book as a kid and finding a poem about a naughty boy who's nurse fed him to a lion. It was a funny poem. But I've never been able to find that particular poem again.

I have the book in front of me and I still can't find that poem.

But I found a few others I enjoy.

I'll share them with you.

These three are by Hughes Mearns.

He must have had a great sense of humor!

LITTLE WILLIE

Willie saw some dynamite,
Couldn't understand it quite;
Curiosity seldom pays:
It rained Willie seven days.


CARELESS WILLIE

Willie, with a thirst for gore,
Nailed his sister to the door.
Mother said, with humor quaint:
"Now, Willie dear, don't scratch the pain."


SISTER NELL

In the family drinking well,
Willie pushed his sister Nell.
She's there yet, because it kilt her --
Now we have to buy a filter.

Here's one by Lewis Carroll.

THE MELANCHOLY PIG

There was a Pig that sat alone,
Beside a ruined Pump.
By day and night he made his moan:
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his hoofs and groan,
Because he could not jump.

Here's one final poem. It is a folk poem from Greece.

THE CHILDREN'S SONG

The swallow has come again
Across the wide white sea;
She sits and sings through the falling rain
"O March, my beloved March!
And thou sad February,
Though still you may cover with snow the plain,
You yet smell sweet of the Spring.

Wow, that pretty much sums up today in Salt Lake!

Curly Hair Is Ugly

My mom likes to tell a story on me. She's told it at least three times in the last week, so it's sort of been on my mind. It's not something I'm proud of, but it happens to be indicative of my nature.

I was born with black hair.

It grew remarkably fast and by the time I was six months old it could easily be pulled into a pony tail with a fringe of new growth all around my head. By that time it had also turned blond. When I was two it was all about the platinum locks. At four it had settled into a sort of dirty dishwater blond -- not really blond but not really brown. In fact, I didn't really know what color it was because I didn't seem to match much of anything. Eventually I decided that I had "rainbow" hair because of the general mix of all normal hair colors.

The color never really bothered me. What bothered me was that I had straight hair. No curls, no waves, no nothing. I desperately wanted curly hair.

My little sister had bright blond hair that curled naturally. In effort to make myself seem like the lucky one, I set her in front of a mirror and told her that curly hair was ugly. I told her how much people hated curly hair. I told her it was horrible because it was something I wanted but could not have.

I was four at the time.

All through elementary school I would sleep on sponge curlers before a "big" day so I could become my ideal of pretty. By Junior High I had inherited my mothers old curling iron and would spend hours curling my very long, very straight hair into a wave because it was too heavy to hold an actual curl.

I still think curly hair is pretty.

But I flat iron my hair more often than not.

Tearing others down doesn't work. Lying about who you are and what you want doesn't work, it only makes you seem petty and small.

Every time my mom tells the story of how mean I was to my little sister, I feel of a wave of shame. Lately, it has also been followed by a wave of acceptance of who I am. Whether that is a little girl who wants something that won't come naturally, or a grown woman who still hasn't learned to be happy with what she already has in abundance.

My little sister may have cried for a while over what I said, but she still rocks her curly hair and for all I know has forgotten the incident entirely. Most importantly, she still loves me.

While I haven't forgotten, I hope that I have changed. I hope that I am not the sort of person who finds gratification in tearing down others. I hope that I can help build foundations of friendships even with those who I am not inclined to be friends with.

Maybe that way I can prove to be more than what I think I am.

Reckless

Have you ever felt a mass of pint-up energy concentrate in the pit of your stomach giving you wings to try new things without inhibition or thought for consequences?

Have you ever acted on it?

I want to.

But I'm not sure where to begin!

The possiblities are endless.

Although most are benign, some could be considered quite reckless.

*giggle*

Let's face it: I'm far to cautious to be reckless.

I'd like to be.

But there are some things a person simple can't be.

For me, it's the act of living totally in one moment.

I can't do it.

I'll always look at things from multiple angles; examining the facets and searching for flaws in the plan.

I can't be reckless.

No matter how much I wish I could.

Just Around the River Bend

This song has been my theme for the last few days. There seem to be so many options in life that keep me moving forward. Why choose to stay put when something bigger is always just up ahead?

As it so happens, I'm related to the real Pocahontas. Powhatan was my great-something grandfather!

Just Around the River Bend -- Judy Kuhn

Adam: White Powder

My brother, Adam, was born February 29, 1992.

He thought that being a Leap Day baby was the best! Of course, he was the smartest kid who had only had three birthdays!

If he were still here he would have just turned 19 and would probably be in all sorts of trouble.

He had a knack for trouble.

When he was about 10 my parents received a frantic phone call from the elementary school principal. Adam's teacher had found him playing with a bag full of "white powder" hidden in his desk. She took immediate action which landed Adam in the principals office.

Some weeks previous the kids had been subjected to the awkward cruelty of Maturation Week wherein the girls and boys were separated for lessons on the birds and the bees. As part of the course, they were handed sample sized hygiene kits containing deodorant, bar soap, and other seemingly innocuous items.

Lacking the need for hotel soap at home, Adam began picking at the soap during boring parts of his day. Pretty soon it had been ground into fine, white powder.

That's where the teacher came into play.

In the frenzy of accusation no one had bothered to really investigate the white power, much less ask the boy what he was doing with it in his desk or how it got there.

When Dad showed up to take Adam home for out of school suspension, this fact sprung into view.

Adam was back in school the next day.

Impromtu Tuesday Poem

Oh Tuesday bright, what will you bring?
A fanciful mystery or a terrifying thing?
Perhaps a small adventure,
A trip to someplace grand
That cannot be got to over sea or over land
A place that must be found
But never can be sought
A place that can be seen while soaring with feathered wing
And the price that must be paid is a shiny golden ring


Lalalalalalalalalalala!