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He believes me. But that is nothing new. He always did because I was a rule follower. I played by the rules he understood. But there are new rules now, ones he doesn't know yet. He'll learn. Just as I'm learning.
Mary E. Pearson
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Mary E. Pearson
Age: 69
Born: 1955
Born: August 14
Teacher
Writer
SoCal
Mary E. Pearson
M.E. Pearson
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More quotes by Mary E. Pearson
I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)
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I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.
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I think that maybe forgiveness is like change - it comes in small steps. (256)
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Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?
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My timing is off. But I had to get it out. Some things you have to tell, no matter how stupid they may sound. Some things you can't save for later. There might not be a later.
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Boredom reigns on all levels. The rain is a welcome change. I have seen the pond swell and the creek surge. I press my palm against the glass, imagining the drops on my skin, imagining where they started out, where they will go, feeling them like a river, rushing, combining, becoming something greater than how they started out.
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Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?
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Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)
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it is amazin, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created - a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress - a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets
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I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.
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Percentages! Those are for economists, polls, and politicians. Percentages can't define your identity.
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On a small planet, where minute follows minute, day follows day, year follows year, where tradition marches on with a deafening, orderly beat -sometimes the order is disturbed by a dreamer, an artist, a scribbler - sometimes the beat is changed one person at a time.
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I wonder at the weight of a Sparrow.
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Words have longer lives than people.
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...and time becomes a forgotten detail.
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Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.
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Picture yourself five years from now. Where do you want to be? Remember that. Every day. That's how you'll get there.
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Maybe we all have a dark place inside of us, a place where dark thoughts and darker dreams live, but it doesn't have to become who we are.
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Whatever you choose for your stationery is your favorite color because it's where you pour your heart out.
Mary E. Pearson
I used to be someone.
Mary E. Pearson
