Riding a Bike in Vienna
I can bike down each of Vienna’s alleys. I can scrape my elbow on any number of her streets. Still, the city will never be completely mine.
I can bike down each of Vienna’s alleys. I can scrape my elbow on any number of her streets. Still, the city will never be completely mine.
Every year, the Romans made promises to the god, Janus (hence January), who was often depicted as two-faced: one facing front and one facing back.
I decided to be an astronomer at age ten. I am an astronomer now because God is gracious and I am stubborn. It is because of the former, and in spite of the latter, that I am also a Calvin alum.
The chord sounds a little different—less jaded and sweeter but less sappy—and I’m really glad. Glad to know I’ve changed and glad that a book has changed with me.
I don’t like resolutions because they are either so small as to be accomplished in a couple months or so general as to be forgotten within the same amount of time.
I gunned it up what looked to me like an incline about as threatening as what you might find on, say, the eighth hole of a miniature golf course, though it may as well have been a mountainside.
While I was home we hosted gatherings, which means we cleaned. As it turns out, my mom’s idea of clean and my idea of clean are not the same, and have not been the same for some time.
My roommate wears a retainer as well, and this is comforting as it lessens the embarrassment of the dreaded “retainer lisp.”
My resolutions are bricoleur. They are messy and vibrant and ambitious and mundane. It is a dirty, wrinkled list held together with Scotch tape, because this is the time for it.