My One-hundred-and-eleventh Post

Some of you might have noticed that I have not been blogging nearly as much as I used to. This is because every time I sit down to write something clever or witty, I end up writing some simpering rubbish about how awful my life is. But right now I’m working on a political post that is really scary. It’s scary because those of you who know anything about government will realize that I know nothing. Those of you who know little about government will be bored to tears.

So brace yourselves.

My One-hundred-and-tenth Post

My grandma is really good at sending letters. One time she wrote me a letter thanking me for coming to visit her. The next day when I checked the mail, I found another letter from her, because she was afraid she had forgotten to actually thank me in the first letter. But I like getting mail a lot, and I like my grandma a lot, so the letters are a good thing. Not unexpectedly, my grandmother sent me a letter last week after I had been to see her (my mother was in town, so I actually had transportation to Salt Lake, where my grandparents live). Here's the first paragraph of the letter, which is just... well, you'll see...

A strange item showed up after you and your Mom were at our house last week. I asked your mom, but she did not think it belonged to her, so the only alternative we have is to return it to you. Enclosed you will find a shiny gold fake coin. It was behind the couch mixed up with the pink afghan which was also behind the couch.

Yes, folks, my grandmother sent me a shiny fake gold coin. I'm not exactly sure why she thought it had to be mine, as I don't think I've made a habit of leaving behind gold coins when I've visited her in the past.

I love the fact that the coin had gotten "mixed up" with the pink afghan behind the couch. Scandalous! That afghan is such a bad influence.

Anyway, now that you know the truth, you should all be jealous, because my grandma is awesome. And there ain't nothin' you girls can do about it.

My One-hundred-and-ninth Post

When I was eight or nine, I asked my older sister to pick a poem that she thought represented me. I have no idea why. I think it was probably because I was learning about poetry and how it usually symbolizes something else. So I wanted a poem that characterized me. She chose a poem by Emily Dickinson, and I had her write it out for me in her "fancy" writing. In the past, whenever I was having a hard time, I would think about it and be comforted.

Recently the first line has been running over and over in my head. “How lonely is the little stone/That rambles in the road alone.” After a while of just hearing those words in my head, I started to actually think about them. Why had I never picked up on how disparaging this poem was? It was about a lonely little rock who doesn’t care about anything. So I looked up the whole poem so I could sit and stew about it for a while. But when I saw the actual words, I realized why I had never picked up on it before. I was remembering it wrong.

How happy is the little stone
That rambles in the road alone,
And doesn’t care about careers,
And exigencies never fears;
Whose coat of elemental brown
A passing universe put on;
And independent as the sun,
Associates or glows alone,
Fulfilling absolute decree
In casual simplicity.

The stone isn’t lonely, it’s happy. The stone is happy because it doesn’t depend on other people or uncontrollable events in order to feel fulfilled. It adapts and is happy whatever the circumstances.

I wonder why I was remembering it wrong today, when I never have before. I like this poem a lot more now.