Cursive || Handwriting
Which do you prefer?
The uniform appearance of typed letters, or the handwritten equivalent?
Which do you prefer?
The uniform appearance of typed letters, or the handwritten equivalent?
I was going to write something about my laceless shoes today, but that highly dignified topic will have to wait because as I was getting an afternoon coffee I found myself watching a homeless man who had set up residence at a nearby table.
Long dreadlocks encased his face and a desperately grunged hand held his large coffee cup. He didn’t look to be too much older than myself.
With his free hand, he tossed five tightly rolled balls of paper, constructed from sugar packets, as if he were playing with dice.
Each time, after they came to rest, he would pick up one or two, seem to tally his points, then toss them again. Roll after roll, each turn lasting no more than 20 seconds.
I don’t know what he saw on those faceless, imagined dice, and as I watched him, I didn’t know what I saw on his face either.
This is totally safe.
Collectively, my siblings and I have 85 years of life under our belts. That’s a lifetime of totally safe behavior.
And when you live thousands of miles away from any major body of water, you have to create your own surfing opportunities.
If that means standing in a red, Radio Flyer wagon and having your brother whip you around in a not-even-close near-perfect imitation of ocean waves, so be it.
Would you change anything if you could go back in time?
If you could turn around and look your past self in the eyes, what would you tell that version of you?
Would you tell them to step lightly? Or plow ahead with abandon?
Would you correct the course of past mistakes and change the outcome, or let the event unfold exactly as it did before?
Do you have regrets?
Do you find yourself looking in the (metaphorical) rear view mirror, wondering what you missed?
The Love Language | Boulder, Colo.
Sometimes, I just don’t feel that creative.
A mind block shuts me down.
I reach out into the void that is the gray matter of my brain (which coincidentally I found out this weekend isn’t fully formed until about the 25th year of life…gives me 385 more days to use that as an excuse) and I get nothing in return.
Nothing.
The void remains a void.