For anyone who reads or keeps up with me in the grove of little things, I am relocating my blog over to tumblr, for the simple reason that I like it much better.
You can find the new blog here: http://taylorleon.tumblr.com/
Thanks!
a grove of little things
life connected at the roots
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
floaters
Of all the weirdness-es in our super bizarre human bodies, I think floaters rank pretty up there. I'm talking about those little black dots that drift in and out of your vision, like a pesky little pepper flake somehow hopped his way onto your eyeball for a free ride.
Floaters are technically "deposits of various size, shape, consistency, refractive index, and motility within the eye's vitreous humour, which is normally transparent." I don't really know what the vitreous humour is, but apparently its made out of some kind of gel, and over time, it breaks down (like most stuff in our body). The damage it incurs is what results in floaters -- little particles that drift around in the stuff. What we see is not the speck itself, but its shadow on our retina.
They seem to be the worst, or the most pronounced, when you're looking at a bright sky. I think I first noticed one in my eyeball one afternoon in college while I was lounging on a blanket in the grass. Since then, I won't notice them for weeks at a time until one day, BAM, floater. Then its all I can do but see it there, an unwelcome friend, a houseguest that did not get the memo to hit the road. I think the only way to remove them is with some kind of fancy procedure and I feel highly uncomfortable with my eyeballs and laser beams coming anywhere close to one another. (Exception: if the laser beams were coming FROM my eyeballs, that would totally rock.) So my tiny flaw is here to stay.
But for all the occasional grief my floater gives to me, no one else seems bothered by it at all. In fact, it's the weirdest thing. They can't even see it...[probably because most of my friends don't walk around with an opthalmoscope (except for maybe Janelle in a couple years)]. Nope, it seems I save the harshest criticism and finest microscope for myself. Let no flaw go unnoticed: large pores, those tiny premature grey hairs, uneven arm lengths, floaters, freckles, toe widths, etc. There are about a million things that can be wrong with you that no one else will ever notice. If you are female, you definitely know what I'm talking about. But friends, it's time for a change!
Now before you take a sledgehammer to your bathroom, I'm not saying we should throw out our mirrors. There are times when it's good to reflect on who we are, especially underneath that 20 square feet of skin thats wraps us all together. I'm just saying that when I do find myself in front of that glass, I want to be kinder to the soul staring back at me. I want to give myself a break, to take a few steps back and see that I am pretty much like the rest of us --amazingly, sometimes bizarrely, but always beautifully -- human.
Floaters are technically "deposits of various size, shape, consistency, refractive index, and motility within the eye's vitreous humour, which is normally transparent." I don't really know what the vitreous humour is, but apparently its made out of some kind of gel, and over time, it breaks down (like most stuff in our body). The damage it incurs is what results in floaters -- little particles that drift around in the stuff. What we see is not the speck itself, but its shadow on our retina.
They seem to be the worst, or the most pronounced, when you're looking at a bright sky. I think I first noticed one in my eyeball one afternoon in college while I was lounging on a blanket in the grass. Since then, I won't notice them for weeks at a time until one day, BAM, floater. Then its all I can do but see it there, an unwelcome friend, a houseguest that did not get the memo to hit the road. I think the only way to remove them is with some kind of fancy procedure and I feel highly uncomfortable with my eyeballs and laser beams coming anywhere close to one another. (Exception: if the laser beams were coming FROM my eyeballs, that would totally rock.) So my tiny flaw is here to stay.
But for all the occasional grief my floater gives to me, no one else seems bothered by it at all. In fact, it's the weirdest thing. They can't even see it...[probably because most of my friends don't walk around with an opthalmoscope (except for maybe Janelle in a couple years)]. Nope, it seems I save the harshest criticism and finest microscope for myself. Let no flaw go unnoticed: large pores, those tiny premature grey hairs, uneven arm lengths, floaters, freckles, toe widths, etc. There are about a million things that can be wrong with you that no one else will ever notice. If you are female, you definitely know what I'm talking about. But friends, it's time for a change!
Now before you take a sledgehammer to your bathroom, I'm not saying we should throw out our mirrors. There are times when it's good to reflect on who we are, especially underneath that 20 square feet of skin thats wraps us all together. I'm just saying that when I do find myself in front of that glass, I want to be kinder to the soul staring back at me. I want to give myself a break, to take a few steps back and see that I am pretty much like the rest of us --amazingly, sometimes bizarrely, but always beautifully -- human.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
You Are Here
Do you ever feel a song was written just for you? This morning it's "You Are Here", off the Wailin Jennys' new album Bright Morning Stars. Try it. Love it. Buy it. [Don't steal it!] :)
You wonder why you wonder when
You wonder how now and then
How you became who you’ve become
You are here and yet you dream of being there
Of being where you think the good life has begun
Every darkened hallway, every fallen dream
Every battle lost and every shadow in between
Will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason
And there’s no making cases
For getting out or trading places
And there’s no turning back, no you are here
Who can say who made the choice
In the matter of your birth
Who brought about the fateful day
You are here and born with fire and desire
You’re the only one can stand in your own way
Every broken arrow, every hardened smile
Every foolish gamble, every lonely mile
Will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason
And every sign of love, every seed thats growing
Every sweet surrender to that silent knowing
Will bring you to your knees and closer to the reason
Friday, May 20, 2011
looking up
This morning I opened my front door to check the weather. Of course, on the internet there are a million ways to find out everything I could want to know, from temperature to humidity to wind speed and UV index...but there is something nice about discovering parts of the world for yourself. And so when I check the weather, I like to step outside.
It's not that it was too warm...probably only around 80 degrees or so. It was that no-good awful dampness, that hellish humidity, the sheer amount of moisture in the air that seemed to choke my good spirits right there on the front porch. I like to sweat. Give me a hot, sunny day, and I'll make the best of it. But I can't handle feeling like someone turned my city into a giant sauna. It's one of those days where everything suggests rain. You can smell it in the air, you can taste it, you can see the clouds hanging heavy over the hills. From the tallest trees to the blades of grass, even nature seems to be standing on her tiptoes to catch the first drop. But it's not coming today.
It's hard to wait for the things we really want, especially when they seem so close at hand. I want it to rain so that the tomatoes, squash, and cucumber in the garden will spring up out of the grown and into my salad bowl. I want an adventure - want to wake up in a new city and dive into the faces, the culture, the task ahead of me. For months now, I've been treading water. Not drowning, but not swimming either. I'm sure I wasn't meant to be a permanent resident of this border town between youth and adulthood. With one eye always on the rearview and one to the sky waiting for good providence to fall upon me, I'm forgetting not only to look ahead, but to remember the place I'm standing right now.
But sometimes we have to stop looking up. Stop waiting for life to happen to us. Stop wondering when it will ever rain. The right time is so many times right now, and its funny how different life looks when you are an object in motion. It's funny how many times when you're breathing hard and your heart is pounding, when your eyes are on the road, that those selfish clouds finally let it out. The rains bring cool winds, relief to the ground, and new life for all. But one thing is for certain, if you don't leave your house -- if you're just standing there on the porch, you'll never get caught in the downpour.
It's not that it was too warm...probably only around 80 degrees or so. It was that no-good awful dampness, that hellish humidity, the sheer amount of moisture in the air that seemed to choke my good spirits right there on the front porch. I like to sweat. Give me a hot, sunny day, and I'll make the best of it. But I can't handle feeling like someone turned my city into a giant sauna. It's one of those days where everything suggests rain. You can smell it in the air, you can taste it, you can see the clouds hanging heavy over the hills. From the tallest trees to the blades of grass, even nature seems to be standing on her tiptoes to catch the first drop. But it's not coming today.
It's hard to wait for the things we really want, especially when they seem so close at hand. I want it to rain so that the tomatoes, squash, and cucumber in the garden will spring up out of the grown and into my salad bowl. I want an adventure - want to wake up in a new city and dive into the faces, the culture, the task ahead of me. For months now, I've been treading water. Not drowning, but not swimming either. I'm sure I wasn't meant to be a permanent resident of this border town between youth and adulthood. With one eye always on the rearview and one to the sky waiting for good providence to fall upon me, I'm forgetting not only to look ahead, but to remember the place I'm standing right now.
But sometimes we have to stop looking up. Stop waiting for life to happen to us. Stop wondering when it will ever rain. The right time is so many times right now, and its funny how different life looks when you are an object in motion. It's funny how many times when you're breathing hard and your heart is pounding, when your eyes are on the road, that those selfish clouds finally let it out. The rains bring cool winds, relief to the ground, and new life for all. But one thing is for certain, if you don't leave your house -- if you're just standing there on the porch, you'll never get caught in the downpour.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
don't call it a comeback
I checked this blog today for the first time since....yep, November. I guess my schedule has been getting the best of me. The New Year has meant two new jobs that have me working over 40 hours some weeks - a harsh change from the life of leisure I was enjoying in 2010.
But, it is one of my things this year to write more, which means coming back to this tiny little spot on the internet more often. So here's to a new year, and change, and writing more in 2011.
What goals/resolutions/challenges did you set this year? How are they going?
Monday, November 8, 2010
living for the mountain
Last night I had the wonderful opportunity to hear from my friends Laura and Bryant, who recently finished the amazing feat of hiking the Appalachian Trail (or the AT, as they say) which spans 2,179 miles from Georgia to Maine. They literally walked from one end of the country to the other, enduring torrential downpours, fierce winds, and the broiling sun along the way. They slept in tents or wooden shelters. They met countless insects, a rattlesnake, and beautiful, kind hearted people of the mountains. Last night we gathered as people who love Laura and Bryant, people who were here all summer in our air-conditioned houses, wondering about the adventure our friends were living out on the AT. Laura and Bryant put together a slideshow of pictures and video from the trail, and all of a sudden the adventure we had read about and heard about came to life before our eyes.
As the slideshow reached its dramatic finale, we watched a video clip of Laura and Bryant's final steps to the top of Mt. Katahdin, the last point on the Appalachian Trail. As the hikers climbed, the sun also climbed the sky, spreading its warm golden red rays across the peak. It was hard not to feel like the whole universe must have been dancing and shouting and celebrating with them, and it was hard not to feel the joy that contagiously swept across the room. There, in a little church, a group of people got lost in Laura and Bryant's story. When the lights came back on, we wiped the tears that had gathered in our eyes. I think if you had invited us then to hike the AT, we would be on the next bus to Georgia. This is what it means to be inspired.
There was one thing that Laura and Bryant said that I'll always remember. They talked about how on the trail, you've got to be totally in the present. You can't afford to think too far ahead or too far back. Every day you wake up with miles before you, and a pack to carry. Each day is its own adventure. At any point, something could happen to bring your journey to a halt. Snakebite. Ankle sprain. Infected blisters (I know, gross.) So even though L & B had an amazing goal in mind - hiking the entire 2,179 miles to Mt. Katahdin - they knew that if the trail ended for them tomorrow, every step would still be worth it. I couldn't help but think of the many plans I've made, the finish lines I've raced to, the carrots I've dangled in front of my face to push me on and forward. I wondered, am I walking merely to win? Am I living for the mountain peak, the end of the trail, the accomplishment of my goals ? Laura said she realized that if she had only been hiking to finish, she would have missed the beauty of life everyday on the trail. When our eyes are only on the future, we miss the adventure of right now.
My friends inspired me greatly. They inspired us all, and not to actually hike the AT. No, last night, we were encouraged in a deeper way. Laura and Bryant didn't want us to chase after their dream, but to pursue our own. They challenged us to peer into our own selves and find those things that are engraved inside of us, the truths and the passions and the desires that make us come alive. It was incredible to watch my friends in the middle of their great story, and to realize that my own story is unfolding before my feet. So here's to blisters and rattlesnakes, shooting stars and sunrises, and all the valleys and peaks of life's journey. I'll get to that last mountain someday, but for now, I think I'll enjoy the view from here.
As the slideshow reached its dramatic finale, we watched a video clip of Laura and Bryant's final steps to the top of Mt. Katahdin, the last point on the Appalachian Trail. As the hikers climbed, the sun also climbed the sky, spreading its warm golden red rays across the peak. It was hard not to feel like the whole universe must have been dancing and shouting and celebrating with them, and it was hard not to feel the joy that contagiously swept across the room. There, in a little church, a group of people got lost in Laura and Bryant's story. When the lights came back on, we wiped the tears that had gathered in our eyes. I think if you had invited us then to hike the AT, we would be on the next bus to Georgia. This is what it means to be inspired.
There was one thing that Laura and Bryant said that I'll always remember. They talked about how on the trail, you've got to be totally in the present. You can't afford to think too far ahead or too far back. Every day you wake up with miles before you, and a pack to carry. Each day is its own adventure. At any point, something could happen to bring your journey to a halt. Snakebite. Ankle sprain. Infected blisters (I know, gross.) So even though L & B had an amazing goal in mind - hiking the entire 2,179 miles to Mt. Katahdin - they knew that if the trail ended for them tomorrow, every step would still be worth it. I couldn't help but think of the many plans I've made, the finish lines I've raced to, the carrots I've dangled in front of my face to push me on and forward. I wondered, am I walking merely to win? Am I living for the mountain peak, the end of the trail, the accomplishment of my goals ? Laura said she realized that if she had only been hiking to finish, she would have missed the beauty of life everyday on the trail. When our eyes are only on the future, we miss the adventure of right now.
My friends inspired me greatly. They inspired us all, and not to actually hike the AT. No, last night, we were encouraged in a deeper way. Laura and Bryant didn't want us to chase after their dream, but to pursue our own. They challenged us to peer into our own selves and find those things that are engraved inside of us, the truths and the passions and the desires that make us come alive. It was incredible to watch my friends in the middle of their great story, and to realize that my own story is unfolding before my feet. So here's to blisters and rattlesnakes, shooting stars and sunrises, and all the valleys and peaks of life's journey. I'll get to that last mountain someday, but for now, I think I'll enjoy the view from here.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
a moment of silence
Life is really noisy. We are both driven by sound and drawn to it. An alarm clock on my phone wakes me up every morning. ( Dun-nun-nun-nun dun-dun nun-nun-nun) The gurgling of boiling water for making coffee reminds me its time to pour my cereal. I crunch on my Weetabix flakes while I browse my subscriptions on Google Reader, the latest Brooke Fraser album playing in the background.
I climb in the car and the engine vrooms. For a reason unknown to me, it sometimes takes another turn of the key to get it to really start. These days, I like NPR in the mornings, whether its commentary on US foreign policy or a side-splitting interview with David Sedaris. I like to listen to other people's stories. I pull up to work where the bells on the door handle jingle at my entrance...followed by hellos and friendly greetings from people huddled over paintings and craft projects. They are chatting boisterously and listening to "Stand By You" from The Pretenders. The printer is thinking (loudly) and the phone rings occasionally - it will be this way for the next several hours.
On the way home, the high school marching band is practicing in the parking lot. The drumline plays a cadence as I pass, and I feel almost regal. Remove your hats, ladies and gentleman, the president is driving by. The dog is barking in the neighbors' yard and friends are laughing and visiting in the living room. Even in my room, where it's only me, the fan that blows in the cool breeze from the window is putting in its two cents...click, click, click, click. If I'm lucky enough to doze off into dreamworld, I will wake shortly to a lawnmower's roar and the blades of grass protesting their violent demise.
Later, at my parents' house, the television is on, in both the kitchen and the den, so that it's possible for Mom to watch SVU reruns and whatever awful thing being broadcasted on Headline News Channel. The cat wants to be let out, the conductor of the nearby train is bragging of his arrival, and dinner is being prepared on the stove, where cooking onions sizzle and pop.
It's 2010 and quite possible to spend every waking moment with some kind of sound, noise, talk, or music filling your eardrums. The world is sometimes a giant Abercrombie & Fitch store shoving a paralyzing dance beat down our throats. Did the universe not get my message today? Did no one read the memo? I am looking for a little peace and quiet. I'm on the hunt for a moment of silence, but like an endangered rare bird or mythical creature, I'm not really sure that it even exists.
I climb in the car and the engine vrooms. For a reason unknown to me, it sometimes takes another turn of the key to get it to really start. These days, I like NPR in the mornings, whether its commentary on US foreign policy or a side-splitting interview with David Sedaris. I like to listen to other people's stories. I pull up to work where the bells on the door handle jingle at my entrance...followed by hellos and friendly greetings from people huddled over paintings and craft projects. They are chatting boisterously and listening to "Stand By You" from The Pretenders. The printer is thinking (loudly) and the phone rings occasionally - it will be this way for the next several hours.
On the way home, the high school marching band is practicing in the parking lot. The drumline plays a cadence as I pass, and I feel almost regal. Remove your hats, ladies and gentleman, the president is driving by. The dog is barking in the neighbors' yard and friends are laughing and visiting in the living room. Even in my room, where it's only me, the fan that blows in the cool breeze from the window is putting in its two cents...click, click, click, click. If I'm lucky enough to doze off into dreamworld, I will wake shortly to a lawnmower's roar and the blades of grass protesting their violent demise.
Later, at my parents' house, the television is on, in both the kitchen and the den, so that it's possible for Mom to watch SVU reruns and whatever awful thing being broadcasted on Headline News Channel. The cat wants to be let out, the conductor of the nearby train is bragging of his arrival, and dinner is being prepared on the stove, where cooking onions sizzle and pop.
It's 2010 and quite possible to spend every waking moment with some kind of sound, noise, talk, or music filling your eardrums. The world is sometimes a giant Abercrombie & Fitch store shoving a paralyzing dance beat down our throats. Did the universe not get my message today? Did no one read the memo? I am looking for a little peace and quiet. I'm on the hunt for a moment of silence, but like an endangered rare bird or mythical creature, I'm not really sure that it even exists.
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