As readers might recall from Season 1 and Season 2, I’d allowed podcasts to become a steady burble of background noise flowing through my waking, non-working hours.
Two weeks ago, I revisited the City of Magnificent Intentions.
And I’m in Ann Arbor, dreaming of waffles.
imagine my dismay when I discovered on Monday that The Piano Guys, one of my favorite musical groups, had accepted Trump’s toxic invitation.
Two important facts: first, there are two doors leading into this bathroom, one from the hallway and one from my housemate’s bedroom. Second, a deadbolt on the bathroom-hallway door allows it to be locked from the inside.
Somehow, slowly, stealthily, podcasts have become the soundtrack to my life.
Where moments before had been only a slew of green speckles, I could suddenly see a crouching frog. It had been there all along; I just hadn’t had the skill, the “sight,” to notice it before.
I went vegetarian almost six years ago. It started as a refusal to put my money into the meat industry and, once I lost the taste for burgers and sausages, it turned into a permanent habit.
I decided to put my money where my mouth has been since I started touting the importance of small-scale local agriculture six years ago.
Orlando. Baghdad. Baton Rouge. Trump. Dallas. Brexit. Nice. Ten thousand daily cruelties.
Dear Reader, I’m writing to you from my bathrobe. In a window seat. In a castle. In England.
Reaching through the grated door, I run a fingertip along the tiny white foreleg of a tiny white lamb curled on the straw inside. He slid into the world less than a week ago beside his glossy black sister.
Turns out, you burn through a lot of episodes when campus is a forty-five-minute drive and twenty-minute walk away.
Since moving to Ann Arbor, I’ve encountered more panhandlers in two years than I’d seen in the preceding twenty-three. And every time, no matter how bedraggled or desperate they appear, I always truck right past.
The word was used to translate the Latin benedicere, or “to speak well of,” which was used to translate the Hebrew brk, or “to bend.” To bless, then is to bend toward holiness.
Not long after my twenty-third birthday, I ducked into a restaurant bathroom and noticed something odd in the mirror. I squinted and leaned across the sink to confirm what I was seeing.
Stanton has a massive platform, and he stands on it with poise and humility. In an online world that screeches with hostility and self-aggrandizement, Stanton is the most elusive and vital kind of storyteller.
But this town won’t be mine for much longer. Rent payments have nearly wiped out my savings, so in about a month, I’ll be moving into my aunt and uncle’s farmhouse forty-five minutes away.
By mindlessly pitching organic material into the garbage can, I’ve ever-so-slightly interrupted the cycle that sustains life on this planet: when one organism dies, its molecules get broken down and rebuilt into the next generation of organisms.
What if a Christian politician actually gave a Christian answer to the refugee question? Yes, the refugees are dusty and tired. Yes, they are desperate. Yes, we will let them in.
But imagine what would happen to Los Angeles if an earthquake knocked out the electrical grid for a month. Plenty of hell can break loose in thirty desperate days.
Carefully examine relatives for non-swimmers and set these aside for later use. Wrap swimmers in bathing suits and grease liberally with sunscreen. Use SPF 20 or higher.
A few paper sacks on the wrong truck inflicted environmental and physiological damage that Michiganders are still trying to sort out three generations later. God–what else are we doing to ourselves?
Two more ticks joined the swimmer in the bowl. We flicked an intruder into an empty pasta sauce container and scrawled “Tick Jar” across the glass in Sharpie.
For yours truly, however, mid-April means “I-only-have-three-days-of-classes-left-and-HOW-many-papers-are-due-on-Friday?”
Who knew what community of spirit could be built among people who never speak? We say all that’s needed through smiles and held-open doors.
I raise a wistful glass to the days when neighborhood paper routes provided a bicycle-mounted kid’s first taste of financial independence.
Layers of irony form the crux of Dear White People’s satirical message: racism hounds us across generations, cultures, educational levels, socio-economic strata, and skin pigments.
As worshippers trickle into the little sanctuary, we smile and nod our good-mornings. Our collective sleepiness encourages contemplative silence. The low lights glow gold off the bare wood floor.
The past three months have swirled by in a flurry of skimmed articles, just-caught buses, and discussions over falafel and hummus about the drawbacks of capitalism.