Tigers Don't Care What Sheep Think

3:35 AM

I wasn't intending to write tonight. Not a blog post anyway. I was planning to eat some rhubarb pie and watch the United Way Healing the Heartland concert while simultaneously Pinteresting until my eyes bled. I had big dreams of slobbing out, wearing yoga pants, and stuffing my face with sugar as I pinned work out motivation.

What I ended up doing was laying on the couch, thinking about a random memory of my Oma blow drying my hair while I sat on the floor between her knees. I was probably 19 or 20 years old, and for a youthful memory that usually indulges in recollecting startlingly concise detail, I remember very little. I know we were watching TV, probably hooked on an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show and that while I sat there, with her knees bumping my shoulders, she rolled my hair into smooth curlers and gave the whole mess a final blast with the blow dryer when she was finished.


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I don't know why that particular memory was in my head tonight. I'm even less sure of how it confidently stormed into my brain and impeded my original Pinterest and pie plans --- I mean,  those are pretty dang tough to beat plans. But in any case, they did.

I guess I've been thinking a lot about memories, lately. The way life is this giant scrapbook and memories are the pictures you paste in sloppily, in and out of order. Sometimes you lose a picture. Sometimes a piece of it gets ripped off and is never found again. Some of them, though, some are treasured and protected so hard, only an act of God can take them away from you. The scrapbook gets old and the pages with withered. Ink fades and the pictures become less sharp. You do your best to pass the scrapbook on to the generations that come after you, but they can't appreciate your special scrapbook in the way that you do.

I'm twenty four, counting down the days to twenty-five. I'll hit my quarter-life crisis and have a 25% full scrapbook. It's still small, but it's finally gathering some heft and I'm proud of what's in there. Someday I'll be an old woman and have a collection of memories to share. A full scrapbook.


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I've been really focusing on cultivating a few values that I want to adopt as charactaristics of myself. Things like being calm in the face of confrontation. Letting the little things go. Giving myself, and more importantly: others, permission to be imperfect. Giving myself permission to not agree with everyone, not to like everyone, and not to mind when others don't like me. Reminding myself to be respectful and caring to all.

I guess, in all of that, I've been focusing also on the memories that I'm making now. Trusting myself to curate the good ones, protect them and put extra glue on 'em to make them stick. As I was getting ready this morning, I passed through the bedroom and glanced at my sleeping boyfriend laying in my bed. Very quickly, I thought to myself, remember this day...remember this man, when he's young and strong and healthy...remember what it is to know there are more days in front of us than I can count, or fathom...remember how it feels to love him infinitely.


Remember. Remember. Remember.
You'll never get this day again, and all you can do to preserve it is remember the heck out of it.
Break out your mental camera, snap a thousand pictures, and be generous with the glue. Put 'em in your scrapbook.

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Very often, the only thing I need in the world in order to feel instant joy, is a good jam, a warm breeze, and the windows down on my car. Coldplay usually does it right.  It makes me feel infinite. Incredible. Even if it's only for three minutes and thirty-six seconds.

Living in the capital city, with a backyard the size of the average kitchen, my pups don't often get the chance to run free. They live on a leash, which kind of sucks if you're a dog. I just need a tune and car, which sounds pretty high maintenance if you're a dog, who needs nothing more than a pine cone.

Case in point:






    
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I wonder if they feel infinite...
Or if they want to stash this memory away for a day when they're old and can't play so freely.
I know I will.
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So tonight, I didn't watch much TV. I didn't Pinterest.
I did eat pie.
And I remembered. I savored memories -- the only things that exist, even if only intangibly, to prove as evidence that those special moments happened. They happened and they're in my scrapbook, because they were important.

Pencil professions of love from my favorite sweet girl. Yeah, that's in the scrapbook.

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A few of my favorite additions to the scrapbook this week:






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Happy Thursday!
Remember. Feel infinite.


"A tiger doesn't concern itself with the opinions of sheep."  

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