Sometimes it feels like my life is about poo. This isn't metaphorical.
As a pet sitter, almost all of my appointments deal with this:
And one can't forget that I have the honor of spending my days with the little guy, who is endlessly fun, but he does tend to do what comes naturally.
Not to mention my own contributions to the universe, which I choose not to share with you in picture form.
I have measured out my life in poo.
Okay, that might be a bit of a bastardization. The real line is: I have measured out my life in coffee spoons.
How amazing is that image?
Leave it to T.S. Eliot to astound with words. This little snatch is from The Long Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which is one of the poems I keep in a familiar place so that I can re-read it from time to time.
I think about the image--measuring out his life in coffee spoons--and the repetitive, contained nature of of it, and it makes me wonder how I measure out my own days (besides with poo). I'd like to think that I measure my time in smiles or laughter, but the truth is that I have measured out my life in words--word by word, meticulously constructing sentences that complete paragraphs that complete texts. I'm okay with that.
How do you measure your days?