Class is at Ten...

With due credit to Robert Browning's Pippa Passes...

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
My classes start at ten -
All's right with the world!

And that's how it's been since I woke up 7:30 this morning! Ridiculous, n'est pas?

Mother Teresa said...

A blog post, to mark the birth centenary of this remarkable woman. 

"If you judge people, you have no time to love them."

How true it is! You love someone not because they are good, kind, and generous (even if they are), but because they are themselves. And there's no need to complicate that love with judgement.

“Smiling Faces Do Not Mean That There Is Absence Of Sorrow!
But It Means That They Have The Ability To Deal With It”
- Anonymous.

Rafa Says...

Right now I don't think if I am No. 1 or I am No. 5.... I am Rafa, and I go to every tournament to try to play well and to try to be competitive and win as many matches as I can.  For me, important thing is that I feel that I play well, feel that I am competitive to try to win everybody.  And when we finish the season, we will see where I gonna be, no?

-Rafael Nadal

Substitute tennis with life, and it's the best philosophy you can find. Actually attempt to do so, finding exact parallels and all that, and you'll end with up with something that could be out of a crappy self-help book. And most self-help books are crappy, with tall claims, threadbare philosophies, rhetoric, and vague instructions of how to live your life that you wouldn't know how to translate into your day.

This, however... you see, it ain't a morsel thrown to us mortals from someone who has achieved inner peace, or what ever said book is preaching. It is a very real struggle, of a very real person, to try to play well, to give his all to his tennis, to each match, to each game, each point. To find satisfaction, to find life in that struggle. 

To me, Rafa is proof, that it can be done: that you can enjoy what you are doing, that every day deserves your best and that you can give that best every single day, even when it is not your day. That you can keep fighting when you are down, that a struggle need not be tedious, that you can win said struggle, if you persevere. 

That it doesn't matter, what the world labels you. You are yourself (oh, 'I am Rafa' sooo sounds better), and you decide what is truly important to you. You define your own victories and defeats, and you can be happy, as you go about reaching said victories.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No, it doesn't come easy to me, this living by the day. My mind is clouded by fear of the future, by spectres of the past. But as my Rafa battles the hard-court season, I shall fight my own battle: to live my life, to push aside my demons--fear and guilt and laziness, to do what I love, to enjoy what I do.

'And when I finish this semester, we will see where I gonna be, no?'

Parding your beggon

Digs up happy, fun memories, this one. Enjoy!

The Muddle head from Petushkee

-Ogden Nash

I knew a man from Petushkee
As muddleheaded as could be.

He always got mixed up with clothes;
He wore his mittens on his toes,
Forgot his collar in his haste,
And tied his tie around his waist.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

They told him as he went about:
“You’ve got u’r coat on inside out!”
And when they saw his hat, they said:
“You’ve put a saucepan on your head!”

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

At lunch he scratched a piece of bread,
And spread some butter on his head.
He put his walking stick to bed,
And he stood in the rack instead.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He walked upto a tram one day
And climbed in very sprightly;
Conductor thought that he would pay,
Instead he said politely:

“Parding your beggon,
Kister Monductor,
I’m off for a week’s vacation;
I stop you to beg your cramway tar
As soon as we reach the station.”
Conductor got a fright
And didn’t sleep that nite.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He rushed into the first café:
“A railway ticket please, One way.”
And at the ticket office said:
“A slice of tea and a cup of bread.”

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He passed the man collecting the fares,
And entered a carriage awaiting repairs,
That stood on a siding, all by itself.
Half of his luggage, he put on a shelf,
The rest on the floor, his coat on his lap
And settled himself for a bit of a nap.

All at once he raised his head,
“I must have been asleep”- he said.
“Hey, what stop is this?” he cried
“Petushkee,” a voice replied.

Once again he closed his eyes
And dreamt he was in Paradise.
When he woke, he looked about,
Raised the window and leaned out.

“I’ve seen this place before, I believe,
Is it Kharkov or is it Kiev?
Tell me where I am,” he cried.
“In Petushkee”, a voice replied.

And so again he settled down
And dreamt the world was upside down
When he woke, he looked about,
Raised the window and looked out.

“I seem to know this station too,
Is it Nalchik or Baku?
Tell me what its called,” he cried.
“Petushkee’ a voice replied.

Up he jumped: “It’s a crime!
I’ve been riding all this time,
And here I am where I began!
That’s no way to treat a man!’

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

PS: Will find a fun pic to go with it, one day. For now, me off to sleep.

#tilts head#

Why do I insist on spelling 'em busses?

And I've had no practice at all...

"There is no use trying," said Alice; "one can't believe impossible things." "I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

 - Lewis Carrol