Week before last I went to a conference in Dallas. The weather was perfect.
I spent an evening at the Dallas temple, which is currently rocking a spot in my top three.
I loved it so much that I went back for a little afternoon serenity.
And naturally I hit up a Rangers game. Darvish pitched. The evening was perfect. I wore a t-shirt. There was a perfect breeze. The stadium next to the water was too gorgeous to handle, and they had a rentable field for kiddos to use during the game. The sky, the wind, the ambiance. I even talked my way into free parking.
And in between it all, a conference about dying and a lot of appreciation for my life, my breath.
Do you ever go through months at a time where you don't really feel like writing in your journal and then suddenly you can't stop writing, sometimes at the rate of multiple entries per day? The other night I was having some insomnia and I remembered that line from Billy Collins
And when my heart is beating
too rapidly in the dark,
I will go downstairs in a robe,
open it up to a blank page,
and try to settle on the blue lines
whatever it is that seems to be the matter.
It probably doesn't help that I recently started reading the collected poems of Dylan Thomas. I can't help but feel a little sad that I read "Do Not Go Gentle" and thought the whole thing would be just as life-changing when it turns out that I basically can't understand anything else in the entire book. Needless to say, I'm reading it with a yellow crayon and highlighting the few phrases that impact me. What is it about reading with a writing utinsil in hand that makes me feel like a poet?
I'm heading on a trip soon and I just really need a fantastic book to read during my (get this) 2 layovers. Sometimes when you don't plan ahead and you don't want to pay $1200 in airfare, you just have to suck it up and get some really good airport literature.