On My Heart

Spots

My hearted has been spotted.
Spotted by places.
Places have spotted my heart.
My heart has spots in it because of those places.

The road above my Grandma's driveway.
A spot.
In snow, rain, or shine, I have sat upon that space and pondered the heavens and wrestled within my own head.
I have danced there, cried there, and talked there. I have run to there and from there. 
In that spot, I have drawn closer to God, closer to myself, and closer to those people who I yearn to be with.

The road leading to my house has spotted me too.
Up and down. Up and down. 
On a sled, in my yoga pants, and with a school bag.
On that hill, that long winding hill, I have found space to think, the first daffodils of spring, the way to my neighbor's house, and dad's truck coming up the driveway. 
It was a place of exercise, mediation, dogs, and shin splints. 
It was the way to and from home.


I spot some spots that dot the globe, brilliantly white.  I spot them as I drive and fly; their serenity spots me every time.
On that mount, diverse, yet consistent, I have seen miracles, heard thoughts, and found comfort.
I have been schooled, I have listened, and I have been calmed.
I have been overwhelmed. I have walked there, talked there, and felt loved there.
I don't even have to stand in that spot to be marked by the occasion.  
Just driving on the road flying past it or parking beside it instills that calmness in my heart.  So I often drive by just to be inspired by that spot.


I spot these places of comfort and include them repeatedly in my life.
But really the places become spots on my heart.
Pieces of my sanity.
Pieces of my spirituality.
Possessed by the places that allow for my understanding.

Dear Self: A Moment of Honesty

Dear Self,

Once upon a time in my current situation, I spent the day working and studying. I slept in until 8:00 because I was tired from getting up so early on the day before in order to finish a paper before 8:00. I planned; I ate; I sang to myself; and then I left bravely for the day.

By 11:00, I was teaching a room full of silent seniors, who surprisingly were not as excited about Shakespeare's Othello as I was. I asked them questions. I read with them. And I tried to think of anything that would get their interest. On the inside, I was begging the minutes to pass more quickly so that my misery could end. Finally, they passed. And I was able to sit back and readjust for five minutes before my next class came in; I prayed in my heart that somehow I could shake off my fears of repeat and approach the lesson with a few adaptations. My prayers were answered and the lesson went well.

I went grocery shopping, which I had needed to do for three weeks. I came home and worked on reflection assignments. I went to work only to find that I had overlooked some details in helping mentor one of my athletes. It is frustrating to know that I dropped the ball, especially, when as a perfectionist, I am good at blaming myself.

Although there were some fun finds during the day: like a Shakespeare supplementary reading guide and a National Geographic issue to add to my classroom library, I just ended my day with a cranky attitude that no one could please or satisfy. I came here, here to my writing in order to talk myself out of pointless and unjustified angst.

As I just wrote, I realized that this built up feeling at the end of the day isn't uncommon for me these days. In fact, one time I was feeling emotional because of another long day, and my roommate finally and kindly told me what I needed. I said, "what do you think? Don't you have an opinion?" She said, "I think you need to go to bed." When tonight I saw a repeat of said inner crankiness, I knew that she was right that night and her wisdom will now be my answer to my feelings when living on little rest: sleep it off. Some people may laugh when Scarlet O'Hara says that "[she] can't think about it today. [She'll] think about it tomorrow," but I say "AMEN sister!" Sometimes, the world of dreams is the best medicine for moodiness.

And I never fancied myself one of those females, but I'm starting to believe and be honest: women are weird sometimes. And I am woman. What a realization.

Ado, ado.
Goodnight.

P.S. I feel much better. This shouldn't be a post-script, but writing about my answered prayer immediately made the pent-up mood dissipate. Gratitude changed my attitude and threshold. I was immediately calmed when I wrote that paragraph; The Holy Ghost calmed my inner storm.