The beginning...

We've been working fairly constantly since I got back from break. I don't mind work, and it was worth it all to sleep/camp in our own house on Christmas Eve, after a year homeless. I'll throw up some pictures when the place doesn't look so much like a construction site, but here's one to start out with, so you know where I'm coming from. We'll be done by New Year's Eve. And that's a promise. Just wait and see.

Elma Fuddly

Christmas was unpredictable. I guess that was a blessing, stepping out of the comfort zone, blah blah blah. I played for the entire Christmas program at church—what a heart-stopping time. The stress was practically dripping off my fingers. Gotta love adrenaline but when I can’t use it immediately, it pools in my muscles and starts to ache. I can’t decide whether my favorite part was the middle of the first piece( where I forgot what key the song was in), the time I dashed up front to sing with Grandma because she was having trouble with the song (and I do. not. sing. in. public), or the last of it, when I thought I was done and sat down only to discover, as the entire church is looking at me, that I’m supposed to accompany while the guys sing “We Three Kings.” By that point, though, it was jolly, since so many other things had gone wrong, and been switched around, that I was feeling rather cheerful--it couldn't get any worse. It helped that the boys were all dressed in fluffy blue bathrobes and Elmer Fudd hats, though. I dearly hope somebody got a picture. Ms. Linda shouldn’t have told them to use their own discretion when picking out wise man outfits.

A Ronny Christmas

“How are you doing today, Ronny?”


“Oh, fair to middlin’. I’m just hanging on like a hair inna biscuit.”

“Are you going up on the mountain to open presents?”

“Naw, I don’t worship no Christmas tree. The little’uns are going to be doing their ho ho ho, Merry dang crap, but I’m just gonna go drink beer and watch the game. Bah, humbeer.” And he laughs.

What a cheerful man Ronny is. He truly has a heart of gold. If he hates you, he's going to kill you (literally); but if he likes you, then there is nothing on heaven and earth that he wouldn't do for you.

Snapshots

A silent, snow-swept ridge, empty save for a large brown dog, old and moving stiffly now but still full of repressed glee, and a girl, dodging slowly in her winter farm gear but still running. Everything is muffled—the cows stare out from the sheltering pines, boggle-eyed and too astonished by the spectacle to make a sound from their forest shadows—and even the dog’s low-pitched whuffs and the girl’s high fox-yips seem to fade before they reach the tree line. C’mon, girl! They flip snow at each other and struggle forward through the drifts, until they reach the fence-line and cross.

The girl crouches beside a thick log wall, wire strippers and an outlet her hands. It is dark outside in the snowy woods, but in this open room, covered with sawdust, boards, and pieces of tile, it is warm. The iron stove in the corner glows with heat, and adds its flickering light to the glow of the work lamps. She is singing under her breath, "It's a marvelous night for a moondance," loving the way the sound echoes in here, and mixes with conversation from upstairs where the others are laying tile, a job she will complete tomorrow. She finishes twisting the copper wires together and wraps the ends in electrical tape, screwing the completed outlet into the wall and moving on.

The girl stands behind her father, hands on his shoulders as he runs an electronic debrider in the large, infected wound. She’s hungry, and wishes she could blame her dizziness on the faintness that always accompanies low blood sugar, but she can’t. It’s amazing, what her father’s hands can accomplish, but as the blood makes a quick trickle down the skin, she feels a sweep of vertigo. The anger doesn’t help—why is this happening? I don’t understand—and she feels a surge of shame. Her life will consist of this, so she grits her teeth and focuses. Surely I can control my own mind...and her hands relax as the dizziness fades.

She sits in the half-light glow of an empty half-finished house, next to the window whose frame she’s just sealed, and stares out at the dark and snow. The cat in her lap curls deeper into the tan work coveralls that are pulled down to snug around her waist, and pushes her head into the girl’s stomach as the absent-minded petting ceases momentarily. But there is so much to think about, so much to worry over. She feels her soul shrink a little more every time she thinks about the work she could have put into the past semester, and didn’t. I am ashamed. And she worries even more for a sister who can’t seem to see that a failure to give everything she has, now, is going to keep her from realizing the future she has planned. She worries about money, and about her future and her past. Her faith in herself is almost gone—and she wonders how giving your worries to God actually happens. She needs to know.

The couch is almost too small for the people piled on it, but it doesn't matter. The girl shifts to accommodate an elbow in her ribs, and continues crocheting the soft red yarn in her hands. She laughs and sends back a quick retort to her cousin's jibe about empty ring fingers; and then the girl indulges herself in doing what she does best. She fades back into the couch and watches everyone around her, stepping outside of the talking and laughing to simply enjoy the picture and the feeling of family. It is a beautiful thing and tugs on her heart so hard that she almost can't stand it--so she takes the unfinished hat in her hands and plops it down over the back of her tall cousin's head, turning him into a Jew with questionable fashion sense and adding to the joy.

The girl darts into the house and up the stairs, shedding snow and clothing. Once she warms her fingers under scaldingly hot water, she reaches for a brush to attack the icy dreadlocks gently clinking against her frozen ears—and then stops. She leans forward intently, one hand lightly touching the mirror, and really looks. For months it’s been, You look tired. You need to get more sleep, and stop worrying so much. Are you all right? But now the eyes looking back are glowing, clear green with a golden center, brilliant and alive in a laughing, rosy face. She leans back with a surprised chortle, thrilled beyond belief.  I guess I woke up, after all.

Illusion

A little bit of reality and a whole lot of "what was I eating to dream this?" mixed together. And I left out the part where the mighty hunter tripped and rolled down a bank, and Coco fell on top of me. The horse that was watching looked appalled.

Silent snowswept ridge

Seemingly empty
Save for a small dark figure
In shades of brown and green and blue
Stark against the landscape
Waiting
Watching a world encased
In perfect stillness
By her side sits
A large brown dog
Graying at the muzzle
But upright and alert still.

A sudden wind snatches
At the snow
Sending bright coruscation
To obscure the ridge in a
Shimmery cloud
The sky ripples for a moment
As the icy particles wave apart to give
Short glimpses
Of the pair on the ridge
And the figure leans on her spear
Worn skins and bright beadwork
Brushing wolverine hood back
From her face
As the crystals whirl ‘round
The wolf crouching at her feet
Eyes the wild woods
With deadly intent
A shadow stirs deep in the trees
And the pair darts forward
Skimming wild drifts in an
Uncivilized wilderness
The wolf releasing a long
Rushing howl
To mingle with her high fox-yip
As they give chase.

The wind dies
And the snow settles and shifts
Leaving only a laughing girl
And an aging dog
Dashing along a sparkling ridge
Skirmishing and barking
And giving the high call of a fox
Unaware
Of the solitary wolf and hunter
Waiting
Watching from the shivery swirls
Of ice
That dance in their wake

Finals are Imminent

All of my finals are...tomorrow.
My head hurts.
I wish I hadn't given up on biochem. Because I realized I couldn't win, so I didn't even keep trying. I should have.
Also, I'm so very, very lazy when I want to be. And I hate that about myself. Nobody else will believe it, and that makes me feel even worse.
So, we have a lovely mixture of self-loathing and glycolysis degredation and amino acids and hot and sour soup in a massive red-and-black bowl and despair and little bits of snow and a prospective climbing "date" and the pentose phosphate cycle and class additions and piano recitals and burned fingers and the chocolate chip cookies that burned them and Fructose 1,6-bisphosphatate that is turned into Fructose 6-phosphate by...wait for it...Fructose 1,6-bisphosphatase-1. The levels of which are regulated by Fructose 2,6-bisphosphatate. Which is regulated by insulin.
Basically, I'm a wreck. But when I'm wallowing, it does me good to write out all the reasons why. So then I can look at the list and feel justified in my wallowing and maybe, perhaps, feel a little better about life in general. Because of the good things that sneak onto the list, even when you're not looking for them.

Waking up tired

I dream a lot. Some nights, I wake up in the middle of a particularly interesting version of reality, grab a glass of water, and then go back to bed and pick up the dream where it left off. Until a few years ago, I didn't know that not everybody can do this. I also didn't realize that people don't always know that they're dreaming, or that they can't control what happens once the dream begins.

Unless you can't connect the dots, this means I'm a little odd. But it's not my fault, I swear.

It's called "lucid dreaming", or waking dreams, whichever you prefer. Creepy, huh? I've actually continued dreams from night to night, once or twice, and when it happened again this week I thought I'd do some research on the subject. Since finals are upon us, the research consisted of ten minutes of surfing the interweb--but still. I found out that some people are actually able to hold conversations while their brains are still in sleep mode, and can control how fast or how slow the dream goes. I haven't tried yet, but it sounds like fun.

Last night, I dreamed about flying.

Incidentally, I also dreamed about foxes. Thus, the flying fox.

more bloody lines

I'm not sure my heart is good for many more knocks. At least not without damage.

I love debating between my friends. Some of them are so precious when they get worked up! Everything from Lord of the Rings chronology to the proper seepage time of jamaica leaves--every side argued with skill and style, or at least enthusiam. Especially with LotR.

We talked about jewelry and dress this evening at dinner. As one of the two that don't have pierced ears, I tend to advocate that simple is better. Therefore, I kept out of it tonight, because I didn't want to bring discord into the house on Sabbath--but I think there's something not quite right with the line of reasoning that "Jewelry is just fine. There are a lot of people who do it out of rebellion, but that's not why we do it. Old people just focus on the effects of your spiritual life instead of worrying about the actual God-relationship itself. We shouldn't have to change what we do because it bothers them. They shouldn't judge us." All of which are true.

Except that, the reason the "old people" think it's so alarming when young people pierce their ears is that it usually IS a sign of rebellion. Remember the whole "fruits" thing? To my idea of common sense, it is rational to avoid something if it is practiced by people I don't want to be associated with. I'm not going to dye my hair black and dress like a Goth--not because there's anything wrong with that, but because 99% of the people who do, do not exhibit characteristics which I want attributed to me! Yet if I did dress like that, could I blame people who assumed that's what I was like? Could I blame them for being offended if I was claiming to be somebody else, representing God, while still taking on all the appearance of someone who is not?

And, actually, when the people in Acts were eating meat offered to idols, which was perfectly fine because they didn't believe the idols were holy anymore, they offended people. People were bothered that they would do something like that, because they themselves still struggled with idol worship. But the people eating the meat just saw it as a way to save money, since they got it discounted after the heathens used it. How practical! It appeals to me.

But what did the apostles tell those thrifty Jews (or was it the Jews who were offended? I don't remember. "Thrifty Jews" just has a nice ring).

Stop eating the idol-sacrificed meat.

Wow. You know, I think that if I had lived then and gotten half-price lamb, I would have been offended. How dare they judge me because something I do bothers them? There's nothing wrong with what I'm doing.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Still. Stop eating the cheap meat.

But I didn't say any of this tonight. Not yet. People were having so much fun with this conversation that it would have taken a lot of lung power to make myself heard, and I don't roll that way. I just sat there and fidgited and practiced my invisibility.

The conversation ended with a friend saying that we need to live according to how we actually believe--all of us, old and young. He feels that the old people live more conservatively than they actually believe, and the young people more liberally. But he ended with a strong statement of things we need to be doing, such as keeping the Sabbath focused solely on God, and being different from those around us in our actions and purpose--not necessarily what we look like. Hmm. Well. There are some good things in there. The debate ended on what felt like a good note.

In fact, I was enjoying myself. A lovely Friday evening in Southern Village, leaning back against the couch and falling asleep as another friend combed my hair with her fingers. Around me, talk hummed in a contented fashion as we simply enjoyed each other's company, after flinging some mad scrummy nosh (translation: eating really good food). I was so contented!

And then...two of my friends casually started setting up speakers and a computer. Of course, I never let go of consciousness enough to miss anything odd happening in my vicinity, so I wake up to find that they have every intention of watching a movie. With plans to watch an episode of their favorite show afterwards.

I was dumbfounded. A movie? Did we not just finish saying that we had to live out our faith, particularly and specifically with keeping Sabbath all about God? What about standards? How are we any different?

I said goodnight and left early, and that question has haunted every step since. The friend I left with walked me to my car. I hesitatingly said her name, and she sighed and said, "I know." Neither one of us could answer it, this question of mine. How can some things be so clear to me, and yet to others they are opaque? Is it a question of raising, a question of theology, or a question of lifestyle? When do we acknowledge grey and when is there a time to take a stand on right and wrong? And am I right to feel disappointed again?

Again with the lines.

bits and pieces

Blips from the thing I call my life. Although sometimes, instead of living it, I feel like holding it out, dripping, at arms length like some horrific but perversely fascinating thing I've just dredged out of the deepest weedy parts of the ocean. It's that strange and awful and horribly funny sometimes.

On Tuesday, I drove nine hours (ending at midnight) through constant torrential downpours which turned to snow as I got further north. The semis would pass me and I couldn't see a thing; and it was dark, and I hate driving after dark; and there were no really visible lines on the road; and traffic was horrific. And, unfortunately, I was so high-strung and tense the entire time, trying not to die every single second, that I cursed out loud for the first time in my life. And I did it multiple times, with increasing volume. I was appalled but didn't hold back, merely promised myself that, once I left that car, the incident would never again be repeated. It still makes me shudder. I hate swearing.

Oh, and I was desperately trying to get someone to cover my 6am shift, and might have somewhat manipulated a nice young man into doing it for me--I know it's not right, but I was desperate--and now, he wants a date in payment. Huh. I generally don't turn down a date if it's someone I know enough to know that they have certain morals--say, aren't going to drug my food--and are generally pleasant. And so I do not mind, but at the same time, I feel like to a certain extent I couldn't say no if I wanted to, since I owe him, and I don't like that feeling.

On Wednesday, had my interview at WV School of Medicine, which I think went well. I did make the mistake of wearing heels, and then being toured around by the sweetest, most scatterbrained med student ever (Oh! Let's go up to the top floor! There's a really good view of the Law school from there! Oh, let's go to the playroom!). My feet still hurt. Oh, and then I drove back 9 hours (again mostly in the dark), but it was much better because I discovered that you can "rent" audiobooks at Cracker Barrel. I got into this young adult spy book, which was lacking but much better than the Nora Roberts romances I could have gone with. Reading that stuff would be bad enough--having someone else read it to you? Infinitely grody.

And today wasn't much better--I've hurried through it in a daze. Had to work at six, had to scramble to overnight the last of my reference letters to a school to be considered by them, might have to reinterview at another place because they did a crummy job the first time around, have to prepare for a mini-recital on Monday with a song that I love but am nowhere near performing, got approached by the Air Force about a scholorship I qualify for (which I'm actually considering, kind of), had my antivirus run out (and that stuff is expensive to renew!), and now I'm running in to a piano lesson to try and fix all of my problems. And I'm 15 hours behind in practice, because I started late and have had no time for piano, even though I love it.

I'm a bit whelmed over. And tired. Here come finals...somebody, shoot me now. Quick.

Spike

It does not matter how long I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes--
When I open them I will still be looking for things I won't find.
Places I don't want to be but should.
Things I should not be but am.
Maybe it's just the fever talking, but that doesn't mean it's not true.

And yet it's not just one place that I do not want to be
But rather, any place that I would be alone
It is not just one thing that I would rather I was not
But rather, many things I wish I could claim
And I still seek recognition in each face that crosses my path

But what matters? If you could answer that question
It would itself become obsolete.
How strange it is, to be always running
And not knowing where your feet are taking you
Or if you even want to go.
Do I?
Another useless question.

Heroes must be driven and strong and good
So why take the name and responsibility
When the name embodies something I am not?
Fierce and fearful
Where would such a combination even venture
To  make a difference?

And yet
These questions may not be here tomorrow--
Because if my head shatters as it feels like it might,
Neither will I.
How dramatic.

lines in the sand

I feel like I'm getting slammed from so many directions. Being hit hard by illness doesn't help--head aching, throat hurting, and general grumpiness from malaise.

Not to mention we stayed up until 1 am last night (when was the last time I did that? 2009?) just like freshman year, but without the boundless energy I seem to remember. Where in the world did it go? Downtown was lovely--full moon and all--and we hit up some pandora on the overlook beside the Hunter museum and danced for an hour. I love swing! And then we livened it up a bit. Annalisa is the queen of salsa, and she tried to get some sway into this white girl. Poor dear, I don't think it worked.

Which brings me to the second point of slamnation. Keep in mind, my friends, that I love you all fiercely. But our opinions are going to differ here.

While we were planning out downtown adventure, a friend of mine casually asked, "So, is there a place to get drinks down there?" I was confused for all of half a second, thinking, Of course; we're going to be at Rembrandt's, coffee heaven. What kind of...oh. Then it hit me. Hard. She wasn't talking about tea.

Another friend shared covert looks with me, but others chimed in a bit hesitantly with their answers, mostly positive. Although the idea was pretty much dropped immediately, it still left me a bit shell-shocked, and increasingly angry.

My friends drink.

I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to this. My sibthings tell me that they pretty much expect it of nearly everyone they meet. But my people aren't "everyone." They're mine. And it breaks my heart. I thought we were different--if not in our personal choices, at least at a unit, when we are together. We've never used alcohol, and yet have had so many good and glorious times that my heart feels like it will burst from happiness. And so when this suggestion came, I felt as if the ground had suddenly disappeared under my feet.

I've grown up to be different from the majority, with standards that are shaped not just what I've been told but what I sharply and instinctively feel, in my soul, to be right and wrong. And I'm sitting here now trying to figure out why. I don't feel like we're better than other people because our standards fall in a different place. I do my very best not to judge other people when their actions are different than mine, even when I feel that sharp, dangerous feeling. And I was so thankful to have found my people. Because they are good and kind and I can depend on them for anything.

And they are still. But I despise alcohol. The idea of it becoming something we do sends a shock of hatred through me that I didn't even know I had. And yet, apparently, people that I love feel differently. My best friend indulges in an "occasional glass of wine," but she has never done it around me and I like to believe that it's because she loves me. Because she knows I don't like it. And dear, when you hear about this, please, call me. I miss you and need to talk to you so badly. Because I am new to this, as old as I am, and it hurts. And I know that the choice is yours to make, and hers as well. And I will always stand beside you, regardless.

But, to bring it into our group? On one of our nights?

I'm angry again. And still not sure what to think, to say. And here, I am protected in this, because my friends don't really blog, and so I can be angry and hurt and bewildered in safety, with mostly strangers to know.
And so I have so many things hitting me at once.

Yet, this may be a small thing. And it may not. And who am I to say? I have no desire to draw a line in the sand--and yet, for me, the line has always existed. I simply did not need it.

Under d'Sea

Scuba certified now, what! Holla! It was a really long weekend, though. I got a very tiny amount of sleep and this particular picture was early the morning of our last dive. If I had one where I was geared up and didn't look like I would fall down if a stiff breeze hit me, I'd put that one up. But I don't. This is it.

Oh, and I did I mention it was about 40 degrees out? I nearly died of hypothermia.

Blue Grotto, site of my first foray under 45 feet of water. Absolutely spiffing!

The only seniors on the trip. See our amazing certs? Well, mine is on the bus, but it was there in spirit.

He likes to move it move it. Courtesy of Kulaqua.

The freshman who made life a little more interesting. Actually, it reminded me very strongly of trips in academy.

I Smelt a Rat

    
     Isn't it adorable? I call it the Incoming Rodent. Not this specific one, but a smallish marsupial thing just like it. I came home from school a few weeks ago and Amanda had decided that her life was not complete, nay, would never be, until she could become the proud owner of one of these pseudo-flying critters. And so, with much ado and fuss our fate was sealed, and we pick up Tweak/Twitch over Thanksgiving break. I picked out the names--Alex's offering of "Zeus" was summarily rejected. I'm hoping she ends up acting like a Tweak.
     See those little toes? I think there are six of them. Which is infinitely creepy, but righteously awesome. They actually make little nail clippers just for sugar gliders. I never would have guessed.
     I think I'm almost as excited as Mandy.
     Let's see if I'm as excited when it's been running around and squeaking for five nights straight.
     But it's so cute.

What if?

Could you die for someone?

Let me rephrase. Do you love someone, anyone, enough to die for them?

Keep thinking. Don't answer yet. When I say die, I'm not talking about a vague abstract. No hero disappearing into the dark, or drifting away underwater, or dying a noble death held in some sobbing person's arms. I'm talking about bloody and painful. Where you feel every inch of your life draining away in a coppery stream, where the excruciating feeling of whatever is killing you is nothing compared to the knowledge that you are ending--that everything you've ever known is disappearing, forever? Could you brave suffocation? Fire? Ripped and torn and bleeding skin? Shattered bones?

Either hesitation...or a firm yes, as you think of that one person. All right. You could do it--as long as the person you loved was safe. In your chair, right now, you might feel the slightest hint of noble intentions (be wary--these often come back to bite you in your sit-down-upon). After all, it wouldn't be so bad if they knew what you did for them, right? If they knew you loved them, and they loved you back as much?

Well. What if it were different? What if they never knew at all? Would you feel like it was a waste, if your sacrifice was unnoticed, unappreciated? If you could somehow look back after death, and see him or her going about their life without a single thought of what you did--perhaps forgetting you altogether. Would it be worth it then?

Perhaps more hesitation. The "Yes" might be fainter. You may begin to frown. No, that isn't right. That's not how it's supposed to be--taking somebody's place should leave some kind of memory, or love, or even gratitude.

Here's the kicker. What if they hated you for it?

Would you save your friend, brother, sister's life if they lived it believing you to be a traitor? Betrayer? Coward? If they thought of you only to despise what  you had done? That kind of misunderstanding that festers with its being left unresolved...forever. What if, eventually, that hatred simply became indifference, and you passed out of memory? Forgotten except with contempt?

Look back at the person in your mind. Imagine them looking back at you with anger, snarling, face twisted into a mask of rage. Knowing this, would you still allow the life to be ripped out of your soul for them?

Would you die for somebody else now? Anybody?

I wish I knew what you were thinking. I want to know.

I know I'm thinking...I've been indifferent. I forget. And somewhere tucked away inside this thing I call a heart, there is a piece that couldn't bear it if I were to ever show a snarling face towards my rescuer.

It is time to wake up.

This doesn't count. So since I'm explaining a blog I didn't post and pictures I'm not showing, this is our garage/house thing--it's going to double as a house for a while. I'm so excited.

 And this is my family. I'm so proud of them. We went ziplining in Gatlinburg and mum went wild with the camera.

 These are my turkeys. I raised them from tiny little fiends to large fiends. The male has never liked to be touched--he puffs up and drags his feathers to show his disapproval. But the Ladybird loves being petted, and she makes this little purling noise deep in her chest. I thought the male was going to attack me here.

 These are mah 'wee duckies! They're neurotic but finally have gotten over their fear of water.

 And this is Coco. She's the sweetest, smartest, best dog in the universe. She's getting old and arthritic, but she still jumps up on the golf cart seat whenever it's time to go anywhere. She sits up very straight and looks over and laughs at whoever is driving, and she lays down in every puddle and jumps in every pond she sees. And she closes her teeth over your arm very gently when she wants you to stay and sit beside her. And she never drools or is nasty. I want her to live through another winter.

I'm kind of  homesick. And I wanted to share what I miss so much. And I figure pictures isn't cheating on my no-blogging policy, which I'm starting to think was stupid. Because I shouldn't be holding myself to other people's standards. And besides, I'm too opinionated to be quiet. See?

But this still doesn't count.

Epiphany and a Half

Just found the Absolute. Funniest. Blog. Ever. I thought it was stupid, but I perservered through the first post and discovered that I can laugh really loudly in public places even when I'm desperately trying to shut up.

Read it.
http://www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

Also, I've decided to stop posting for a while. I realized I've posted more in the past year than the last two or three put together, and reviewing them have realized I've said less of substance; and for no other reason than because I like to know that somebody is listening. Which is human nature, but still somewhat pathetic. For me. Because I need to work on my relationships in the here, the now. I'm not always good at that.

One last random thought--tornado weather makes me want to dance. It's beautiful and shifting, and reminds me of a reckless child, angry one moment and playful the next. Yesterday was awesome. Although I didn't get to see even one of the five funnels! All I did was walk in the lovely wild weather, listening to the sirens go off. I wish fall lasted longer.

Sober

Twenty people died last night. They were caught in the same storm that came through here at about six this morning. I woke up to my alarm and a tornado siren, and the wind ripping around this flimsy college-kid trailer that the sibthings and I call home.

I'm pulling them out of bed and making them get dressed, and the next thing you know, the lady from across the street is staggering over through the storm to tell us that there's a tornado and we need to go to the dorm. It sounded like a plan to me, since I could see the thick red line galloping across the radar screen, fifteen minutes out. So we showed up to sit in the lobby for twenty minutes, until the wind died down enough to go home. At first, I was disgruntled because of all the unnecessary fuss.

Turns out, that same storm had been moving east across the southern states and had already claimed several victims. It didn't actually touch down in Ooltewah, but the eye passed right over us. And I wonder what we would have done, what I would have had to do, if things were just a little bit different.

Life is such an easy thing to lose.

Decide

After a while, looking beyond today only gets you to tomorrow, if you're lucky.

The only problem with keeping all your thoughts in your head is that, sooner or later, they'll make a desperate attempt to claw their way out.

You don't get to pick when.

No time to breathe!

Updates on my week.

1) First, it has been my busiest yet. I was quite whelmed over until I realized, hey, every week was like this last year. So it's time to pack up the violin and start working.

2) I'm wondering where I got the delicious SmartWool socks that are on my feet, after having dug them out from under my bed. But seriously, where did they come from? And why did I not know about them before?

3) I read a few passages from Pride and Prejudice yesterday, the part where Darcy thinks Elizabeth is plain until he realizes her eyes are amazing and he can't get enough of her. And I melted, maybe just a little bit.

4) I realized that real life doesn't work that way. In several different painful ways.

5) I played Frizbee golf for the first time, and confirmed that I am most definitely terrible. And that I'm lucky to play with. Maybe I've got a gift for channeling talent to other people. Or maybe I just suck.

6) I got out my climbing shoes after church yesterday and stared at them for a while. I was sort of appalled when I realized I was too tired to pack all my gear and head to Foster, but I slept on a blanket in the sun for a while and it was beautiful.

7) A friend spent the night, and I woke up past midnight with her cold toes rubbing my foot in her sleep. And I laughed because I love my friends, even if their toes are cold.

There's more, but I've got a religion presentation to do for tomorrow and a room to clean and...no energy to do it with.

Scattered souls of bread angels

I accidentally poured out my bible this morning, all the scraps of paper with cursive scrawled on their surfaces, front and back, criss-crossing sermon annoucements and index cards. There are bits of poetry, the verses with heavily crossed out sections and notes in the margins, and prayers written when they are too harsh to be spoken. And some are both, I think. I'm bad at that--instead of keeping a comprehensive journal, when I need to write, I grab whatever happens to be closest. Which would explain, if you were wondering, the three paragraphs of worried debating scrunched between my biochemistry notes for chapter six. It frustrates me, because I'd like to keep all of it together--I might want it someday.

Call it superstitious, but sometimes I think that I pour a tiny bit of my soul out onto each piece of paper I touch with a pen. Sometimes I think that if all those scraps of paper were collected, gathered into one place and allowed to take whatever shape they desired, there would be an exact likeness of what we call a personality, a character, a soul, whole and complete--staring back steadily, framed from the essence of the words on the page. I wonder if I would like what I saw.

Anyway, I was just thinking, after all that, that that's why I love to read what people write (got to love the three 'that's'). Because it lets you look into a piece of them that they may not even know they're showing. It's why I love to get emails from people like Becca, because when I read them I can hear her; she's so good at putting herself on paper. And Lubke; when I read his prose and poetry, several years ago, I knew we'd be friends before we even met. And we were.

My mom is here. She came down to visit today, and of course, being the wonder she is, helped me get the house clean. Which is why my bible got dumped out, which is why I started thinking about scraps of souls seperated from each other. Which is why, although this blog could be completely revised and the idea I wanted to get across would actually make sense, and my grammer would be more aesthetically pleasing, I will simply let it go. Mom is pulling fresh bread out of the oven, and I think the angels just began to sing. That'd be a terrible thing to miss. I think my nose just started quivering from sheer happiness.

I sat on the curb tonight.

Right outside of Hulsey, after scuba let out at nine. My bag nestled beside me, and my braid dripped down my back. I had my phone in my hands, and I was absently turning it and polishing the orange cover, with my elbows on my knees. I know people assumed, if they wondered at all, that I was waiting for a ride. But I wasn't. My car was sitting a few dozen feet away, with half a tank of gas and the keys in the ignition. But there are some places you want to go that a car won't take you.

There are tears here. I don't like them. They burn, and when they are willed away they stick until it hurts to swallow. But, even after all these years, I don't know what to do with them. So I sat there contemplating my phone and letting people think I was waiting for someone--and I was. Hoping that, if I provided the opportunity, somebody would come along with the gift of a few moments. That would have been nice.

But they never came. So after a while I took a deep breath and stood up, slung my bag on my back, and grabbed my keys. I let the car take me home, since tonight, at least, I didn't find a way to where I wanted to go. Maybe tomorrow.

Rosemary

The air is heavy
Flowing sluggishly, pouring
Into the darkening hollows
Under pear trees and hedges
Lightning slides effortlessly
Through the throbbing thunder
Mixed with the tang of rosemary
That lives quietly in a red pot
Here on the porch rail
Beside my elbow.

Elevator

This is my rough draft of the Flash Fiction for Creative Writing.

She blinks, walking in from the sunlight to a dark lobby. There are starburst aftereffects clouding her vision—even so, she deftly slides around the corner, even half blinded, and strides rapidly towards the elevators. Both doors stand open.


A man, perhaps young, perhaps not, stands in front of the elevators, several feet away, facing the opposite direction. His body angles away from the elevators, indicates his disinterest even more than his lack of movement towards them. She doesn’t really look at him, only registers that he is not in her way and is not heading for the open doors that are her destination.

Her shoulder curves, her foot takes the step to lead her towards the elevator—and he turns to look at her, sends her waves of attention and intention

—cold sweat—

she doesn’t look back, but she feels it in a shudder down her spine—and her heart sinks. She’s on the elevator now and pushes the button, wills the doors to close, wills him not to appear, watches the “4” light up on the bank of lights

—he’ll see it—

watching the doors pause an eternity, slowly slide almost shut until a shoulder shoves between them, almost too late to make it, but he does and he’s on, and she asks him what floor, can’t stop being polite, although now she feels irrational panic, why should she feel that way?

—always knew the doors wouldn’t open if you were caught between them—

silently curses the lit button that tells him where she’s going. He looks at the bank of lights, telltale lit circle, and replies “four” but she barely registers it except as affirmation she doesn’t want, already caught up in furious rationalizing. But her rational coldly reminds her that floor three is the men’s floor, that the only boys she sees on fourth are with their girlfriends, that his intentions are screaming a warning

—how do I know I’m right but I do—

elevator rises and she keeps a tight rein on the panic that still blooms where it began the second he looked at her, and she sees his subtle intent body language, she knows what happens next

—bloody hellfire and damnation—

slides her hand down in her bag, fits her few keys through her fingers, clenches her fist to test the grip. Already she thinks of what few advantages she holds if it comes down to it. The shoulder bag is the first thing that will go, to free her arms—if time permits, straight at his face. Silently she reviews the training—how to put your body into a swing to get maximum impact, how to defend if attacked from behind

—thank you Max—

and the elevator stops

—has it only been ten seconds—

and the doors open. She hesitates, she knows he won’t move first, doesn’t want to force the issue, walks out, takes the third hall. Behind her, perhaps ten feet, he follows. She curses the silent carpet, checks his position as they move. He maintains the distance and she maintains her pace, stifles the urge to run. She passes doors—so does he. Only ten more feet left

—only my door and the fire escape left—

and no more doubt now, only fear she’ll screw this up. Her hand hangs down, forgotten, keys extended, as she plans her response

—Father don’t let me forget what to do—

the adrenaline begins to flow down her fingers; she stops planning stops thinking stops everything but movement and just listens

—red and silver hell, he’s still moving—

and her key is in the door, it’s turning, and she’s tense because this is the most dangerous part, sings out “Hey, Mary!”

—please somebody please be here—

and the door is closing behind her with a bang, because all doors here open and close like the crack of doom but she’s safe and has to shake out the adrenaline, or maybe she just shakes, and rubs out the key prints on her palms. Much later, she wonders why it never occurred to her to factor screaming into her plans.

There is one more door, across the hall, that he could have taken; one reason to be on fourth that didn’t include her, didn’t warrant the sweat chilling on her neck, didn't require her fear of what she had to do.

She listens for the next few minutes, but nothing disturbs the quiet of the hall. Far away, an elevator hums.

     *     *     *     *     *

I wonder if the rest of my Workshop group will understand why the grammer is so bad--that that's how you think in that situation, without periods and pauses and punctuation marks. I wonder if they'll suggest I change certain aspects to make it more reader-friendly. I wonder if I'll tell them that I just wrote it exactly as it happened, that it's not fiction at all.

Probably not. But I'll know.

What a strange place I'm in.

In my mind, I mean.

Trying to get back into the flow of testing, problem solving, writing. And to make the matter worse, I, for the first time in my life, am horribly afflicted with senioritis. Which sounds like I should be crabby and wheeling around in a little chair with electric locomotion, taking long afternoon naps in the sun. I guess two out of three isn't bad.

On the flipside, I got my MCAT score back. Apparently there's some big umbrella of silence that hangs over what the actual number is; not that I care. I'm well aware that there are many, many people who are smarter than me, and it doesn't bother me because I'm not competative. At all, maybe somewhat. And as much as I enjoy a righteous arguement, for the sake of peace I bow to convention and will not volunteer what I got--but I'm smiling a lot these days. It's so good to be done! I'm so pleased.

So now I'm scratching my head wondering, "Where do I go from here?"

No, but seriously, where do I go? Loma Linda had Adventists. It also has a whopping brutal price tag. Compared to the D.O. school in my hometown. Which has no Adventists. (The Adventist deal is mostly based on the Adventist men, among whom my mother hopes I will meet up with my future intended. Which is a worthy cause, but still, I'm not sure the slim chance is worth $40,000 a year). And then...there are still other schools. So, where do I go from here?

I  Relient K song.

Effort

I had the first class of my first day of my last year at Southern. Creative Writing. To me, that's a hopeful thing, sign, premonition, wish, call it what you will. But seriously, how bad can a year be that starts with the first class I've even taken that was entirely for knowledge and experience that I want? Me. Not for my major, not as a stepping stone to the things that I've decided I want to accomplish. Just for the joy of it.

That's what this year is going to be about, you know? Joy. Lots of it. Intense as flooded river, as deep as the fathomless places in the sky between the stars, quieter than the whisper of snow on snow. Just the way I like it.

For a long time it's been all about trying--be more outgoing. Make the effort, do more, be more. I'd forgotten how effortless it can be. And that doesn't mean that nothing requires work; simply that trying too hard, and for the wrong reasons, leads to unhappiness. What should be easy is the reason you're making the effort in the first place.

I stared up at the dark last night before I feel asleep and talked to Amanda about random things, like sisters do. I got my first pair of climbing shoes (purple) and my first harness (pink. the gods must hate me). Hurrah! Two things I waited for forever, it seems.

Arpeggio

They're back.

Oh, are they back.

Everything changes. I'm learning to accept this, as much as my DNA snarls in protest. But some things, some wonderful, achingly beautiful things, will never, ever grow old, or strange, or unfamiliar. I sat in a warm glow of friendship tonight. Not just any friends. My friends, my people, my family. It's been 18 months. The people at the Taco Bell here in Ooltewah must have thought we were all ready to be committed, but we were just happy. I could feel the emotions swirling around in eddies, currents of contentment, laughter, joy, this bewildering but exhilerating wave of...excitement? thrill? peace? I know exactly what it feels like when crucial pieces of your life walk away, but having them come running back in the door and into your arms is another thing altogether.

There really aren't the words. Music, maybe. Each of us, individual notes, chords, scales. Together, a masterpiece. Other than that...I can't explain it. I hope you know what it's like.

Together.

I'm so happy I may spontaneously combust. Hello, senior year. You already rock my world.

The Dilemma of the TV

I've barely been in my new house for 18 hours & already my world is sliding off of the nice stable platform I built for it out of expectations, & into the realm of the unknown. I forsee intense moments of navigation ahead, if I can stop focusing on the way I want things to be.
I get kind of startled when things don't happen in a way I expect. There's always a moment of panic while I try & adjust my equilibrium, & then the sudden grasp of balance & the sigh of relief. Just like when you make a grab during a hard climb, the second after you commit & before you are sure the hold is there, when you're straining over a million possibilities & empty space. Change & I have never been good friends, the kind you sleep in piles of sleeping bags with, where you wake up & no one is quite sure which foot belongs to who--more like a new acquintance with possibilities but an unpredictable personality, who you watch with fascination but more than a little wariness as you get to know each other.
When I was ten I thought that, as soon as I was twelve, I would know what was up. I'd have a firm grasp on the world & it would all make sense. When I was thirteen, I waited for 18. By 18, I didn't expect anything different, but when 21 rolled around I was surprised at how much had changed. A year later, now, I've finally settled into expecting that nothing I expected is going to turn out quite like I expected it too. Which is kind of twisted. Actually.
I do want a few things, though, with this house & the new challenge of co-existing peacefully with my two younger sibthings. I want to not always come home to the herd of freshman that seem to follow Alex around, even though I don't blame them. I want to work things out with Amanda so that we don't resort to yelling when our versions of housekeeping (not to mention alarm clocks) don't quite coincide. But the biggest thing right now is, I DO NOT want to have the TV on. Pretty much ever. I hate how I can't read in the same room because I can't concentrate, & how my neck keeps turning to look at it when something interesting happens. & how nobody can carry on a conversation with it on. But I have a plan. I'm going to wait a few days, so suspicion isn't turned on me, & then I'm going to haul it out of the cabinet & yank a wire out of the back where they'll never see. That's pretty much what all this chatter was about. I was in the living room and it took about two minutes to realized that this was change I wasn't going to deal with. I grew up without a TV & I hate them. Of course, the other two did as well, & they like it. Go figure. But it has to die.

Shatterglass

She grew up thinking that all the mirrors were broken & wondered why until the day she realized nobody else knew it. Her mother caught her patting the glass & touching her face & frowning. Looking up, she asked, mama, why does the mirror lie? Her mama asked what she meant, & the girl said, that's not my face. That's not what I look like inside.

Her mama knelt beside her & said, see? Here's my face, & here's my reflection in the mirror. They're the same. But the girl shook her head & said, no, they're not. Can't you see? Nobody looks like they do in a mirror. The mirror doesn't show how beautiful people are. She looked at the mirror & then her mama in disbelief & asked, is this what everybody else sees?  

Her mama smiled at her & said, that's what makes people like you special. Always look at what the mirror doesn't show. But the girl stopped looking for a mirror that showed who she really was, & carried the ache in her heart because she knew that all the mirrors in the world were broken.

all the better to...eat black cherries with

She looked into the future, at all the dark, interestingly scary places in it, & said, my, what big teeth you have, & the Future shrugged back & said, well, at least we'll never bite off more than we can chew, & what were you expecting? These adventures come with a warning label. She blinked & thought about it for a moment & realized that was exactly what she wanted.

fath agus uaigneach

In all reality, summers at home are lonely. Summers at home where you're supposed to be preparing for a test that really isn't all that preparable for is an even bigger isolater. Throw in a cell phone with limited service and you've got yourself one heck of a I'm-so-feeling-sorry-for-myself fiesta just waiting for the violin music to get started.

You know it's pretty bad when my whole family, grandparents included, sit out by the chicken pen in the evenings to watch the ducks chase my turkeys, which incidentally are also afraid of the chickens. What can I say? No TV. So that's been my entertainment. The five movies I have on good ol' Righin here have been watched until I can recite, word for word, the engaging reparte between Watson and Holmes, and hum the theme music to Gladiator in my head. Ugh. Also, I'm learning to pronounce Irish. Righin means stubborn, which my computer is. Ha.

So Kelly's half grown kitten is a blessed relief. I've never decided if I'm more of a cat or dog person. I don't think it's really important, honestly, no matter what it tells about a person's character (?). Kind of the way I feel about Ben's wacky INFJ classification. It's just the way it's gonna be.

But this cat...she makes me laugh. So absolutely her own personality, so crazily communicative that she gets more across than a lot of verbal types I know. Felines may be short on sympathy, occasionally, but what she lacks in submissiveness she makes up for with snap and spice, and what I swear is amusement. Crazy cat.

MCAT in one week, three days. Pray for me?

Black cat on a fence
Would have you think her path is chose by random chance
But really, nothing a cat will do is happenstance
No question to her keen cool mind where she will wonder hence

Green eyes flashing in the night
She can sense a thousand things that lesser creatures miss
The rustle of a mouse’s step, the cool wind’s faintest hiss
She carries her own ghostly glowing effervescing sight

Lady of audacity and perfect self-possession
A master of the twitch of tail, and tilt of head to show disdain
For called commands, and gesturing hands, and any drops of rain
A narrow slitted eye and spitting growl to greet transgression

Ronny.

He steps out of the truck and I think, Well hello, Hickville. Where have you been all my life?


Ronnie is the epitome of a redneck, a medium-height, skinny older man with scraggly grey hair and a questionable sense of humor. As he approaches us in the falling dusk he is weaving slightly, although for the amount of beer he consumes every night it is a miracle he could even stay on his feet. I’m fairly certain that if I were to ingest half of what he does, I would die of alcohol poisoning. But he does so cheerfully, and keeps right on trucking.

One of the most eccentric people I know, his scrawny-ness is completely offset by his wife, who towers over him in both height and girth—the kind of person at whom my uncle Keith shakes his head admiringly and says, “Now that’s a big woman!”

On this evening he’s dressed in what I later find out is totally typical Ronny attire—ragged short cut-off shorts, an old white wife beater with the axel-grease of bygone days still decorating it, knee-high used-to-be-white socks, and laced high work boots. On his head was an old confederate hat from the Civil War days, complete with a blue jay and cardinal feather, and numerous old buttons—across his chest was what looks like the type of man-purse that Davy Crocket would wear, canteen shaped, with a long leather fringe hanging off of it. His .25 pistol is stuck in the back of his pants and his long musket is propped up in his back window, but no, Ronny isn’t here to fire guns with us, although he did take a shot with the little brother’s new Beretta. No, Ronny is there to fire his cannon.

This marvel of modern engineering is handmade. Currently, it consists of a large rusty pipe about three, four feet long, six inches in diameter, with two handles at the bottom and a piece wielded on to make it stand up at an angle. Still weaving slightly, he hauls it out of the truck and proceeds to pack it full of gunpowder and cans of baked beans, beating it down with a shovel and pouring water down the barrel. He tells us, “The blueberries were too expensive, and I couldn’t find no sauerkraut, so I got the beans.” I just look at him in disbelief.

Now, mom has only heard about Ronny. This is the first time she has had the privilege of meeting him, and he’s drunk as a skunk, dressed like the Redneck poster child and about to fire a handmade cannon off of our new house site to Lord knows where, armed with a shovel, baked beans and a handful of bottle rockets. For the fuses, you know. Her eyes can’t get any wider. Even my dad is grinning because we’re not sure if he’s about to fall over or blow himself to kingdom come.

They set up on a pile of evacuated dirt. The cannon is pointing somewhere between the direction of my grandfather’s house, a mere ½ mile away, and John’s old abandoned place in the jungle, which everybody knows it haunted. It’s getting dark at this point, and mom and I crouch down in the cement stairwell and peer over. Dad and Alex retreat to a safe distance, and Ronny goes up to light the fuse, which he does with his cigarette.

He retreats. Nothing happens. The fuse has gone out, although it’s still glowing quietly. None of us know what to do—it’s like the bomb that won’t go off. Except for Ronny, Ronny always knows what to do. With the fearlessness of the perpetually inebriated, he grabs the shovel, strides over to the cannon, and begins beating it. At this point, my mom is clutching my arm and uttering squeaks of alarm, because she just knows we’re about to be splattered with alcohol-soaked little pieces of Ronny, and she can’t stand it. I’m laughing too hard to do anything about either one of them.

He finally realizes that nothing is going to happen, so he bends down to the now burned-off fuse and relights it. Three and a half seconds of retreat, and the thing spectacularly explodes in a shower of paper, sparks, and the distinctive smell of baked beans. The cannon itself is shot backwards five feet, and we’re all dancing around like proper heathens, yelling, whooping, and hollering as the sound rolls in a palatable wave over the mountains, deep like thunder sunk into your bones.

At this point, we notice a light flashing erratically across the top of the opposite field. It’s my uncle Keith, and he’s hiding behind a massive pile of dirt and plant life, yowling at the top of his lungs and trying not to wet himself. I don’t blame him. It’s not every night you have a drunk Confederate soldier shooting baked beans at you out of a cannon.

Jack

His name was Jack and he was six foot six, blue eyed and husky with years of work. They were young farm boys, most just turned eighteen, fresh out of high school and headed straight for the Vietnam war. He and his buddies were caught between the dread of the unknown and a strange excitement from traveling so far away from home, some for the first time. He was nineteen.


To the man they were masters of marksmanship—any one of them could pick the eye out of a squirrel at hundreds of yards. They’d done their basic training, but they’d been trained from the first time they carried a gun that it was never, under any circumstances, to be turned on another person. They talked about it quietly among themselves, wondering to each other if they’d be able to do it, to pull the trigger. Jack couldn’t imagine it, himself. Despite the desperate situation overseas, he knew that the enemy was going to be made up of other young men just like himself, just with a different skin, a different language. With the others, he asked himself if he could pull that trigger—and there was no answer. He dreaded finding out.

They were dumped out on the edge of the jungle after the long flight, and sent straight out to hassle a formation of the enemy, and hunt them down. For several days as they pressed inward through the steamy verdancy, so foreign to all of them, there was no resistance. They were apprehensive, but growing bolder as the hours passed and no shots were fired. He remembers they were cracking jokes; the sergeant just shook his head but didn’t say anything.

And then, as Jack haltingly says, everything changed. They reached a site where the Vietcong had just vacated, dust still settling from the air. And in the middle of the abandoned camp was the body of a soldier, not American but one of the Allied forces, strung up by his testicles, left to die. He was still warm.

The Vietnamese had left him there to intimidate the new American troupes following behind. It was the worst mistake they could have made. Jack cried as he sat in the chair in the office, reliving the moment when a bunch of innocent, uncertain farm boys transformed into mad killing machines. He choked out that they had torn across the jungle after that, mowing down anybody they came across, without a thought in their rage. Everyone. His broad shoulders shook as he sat with head bowed, telling us what he had never told his family, grieving for the loss of innocence in that boy he had been. And I thought, someday, Lord, make them pay for what they did to him. Make them pay.

oats are kind of...sharp

I could call this the summer of the wheat. Or the oats. But it's more like the summer of long silences, and solitude, and study, interspersed with bouts of furiously hard work.

Stacking sheaves of oats into rain-shedding shocks.

Hiding like a wild creature, seeing what they see.

My daddy, temporarily taking the team's place.

Life is so fast paced at times that's imagining an era where everything was done by hand is beyond our reach. Except, not anymore. I love knowing how to do these things.

1988

I wish I could say today has been off to a good start, but I'd be lying, and I have a strict no-tolerence policy towards lying. I wish I could say that Amanda let me have the shower first, but if I did, I'd be passing over the exquisite agony of a cascade of icy water. I wish I could say she'd hugged me. Or Alex. Said something different than "I need my comb back." I love my family, but they're not terribly demonstrative, at least, we kids aren't.

I'd like to pretend mom and Amanda didn't get into an argument after breakfast. Mom wanted to make a special dinner and she wanted help thinking of ideas--Amanda let her know she didn't care. I'd rather it have ended there, but instead, it evolved into a request for her to just stop watching movies in the evenings, be a part of this family, and culminated in my little sister walking out after declaring that all we do it bitch to her all the time.

I wish I had more than a shaky grasp on my temper. Then, perhaps, I'd not have these fingernail marks on the palms of my hands from trying not to lose it. I'd like Amanda to know that I love her, more than my own life. I'd give anything to not have it come down to harsh words because as much as I don't want to fight, I will not stand by while she hurts our mother. Our mother. Who walked out near tears because my sister doesn't seem, sometimes, to care about anybody but herself.

So I will finish studying here, and I will answer some phone calls. I will run by the store and pick up things for tonight, and I will go home and start so that when mom gets home, and dad finishes work, there won't be any scrambling before Sabbath arrives. And that will be the only part of today that redeems it, and it will be more than worth it.

I wish this had happened any day but today. Happy birthday, me.

Indevan

I wandered out to the barn last night as dusk was settling down and getting comfortable on the hills where we live. The boys were shooting their pistols and revolvers--they have a small arsenal between them. Believe it or not, I have never fired a handgun, which I find appalling (generally sticking to my favorite, a .22 rifle, because even though it sounds like a light wimpy gun with no kick, if you're good with it, it doesn't matter that the bullet is small. And I'm not too bad). So the boys undertook to teach me.

It's not what I expected. Heavier, rougher (two pinched fingers), louder, and less accurate (I couldn't hit anything). But I do believe a concealed weapons permit is a good idea (everyone should take the class), and I want to know more about handguns so I'm not so leery of them. Knowledge makes a better weapon, anyway, in more ways than one. And I need to get better. Granted, the bottle cap fell out of the knothole, but my brother claims that it was just because the board jarred it loose. I can't really contest that yet, but I'll show'm. ;)

We stopped when the sun sank below the horizon with an audible groan of relief, and the fireflies began to scatter across the pink-skied hayfields with small shrieks of joy. The fields and forests were fair crackling with them. And then...a red fox ran across, weaving between the round bales of hay. He stopped and looked at me for a long moment. There's something unworldly about looking into the eyes of a wild creature. It makes you feel...smaller. A little more humble. I have a lot to learn.

Dirt under your nails

There's a satisfaction to be found in a long, freshly planted row of tomatoes that I'm not sure can be experienced anywhere else. I do know that we ended an evening this week just that way, over in the new garden at the new house site. Dad had just finished showing me where the living room is going to be, and we were discussing which kind of stone to use for the fireplace (river rock, of course), and what style we should use when we lay it out. He showed me a handful of perfect arrowheads they found where the barn is going to be. I'm so excited--so ready to have a home again. This new place is lovely of an evening.

So I had plans skipping through my thoughts, and dirt under my fingernails, and I sat back and watched a beautiful sunset as Thomas, our huge loveable barn cat, rubbed against my knee. His deep rumble of a purr is the most soothing sound I know. I watched my mom weeding the asparagus (50 feet of it!) across the way, and dad and the little brother putting up a fence for the half-runner green beans, and I thought, God, this is it. I am, in this moment, perfectly content with my life, who I am, what I do, what I am becoming and where I am going with it. I have missed this feeling, this joy. So if there was ever a time for me to keel over and die, this would be that time, because it is impossible for this moment to get any better, and if I had to go I'd like to do it planting tomatoes.

Obviously, I'm still here (typing from Valley Vista summer camp where I have hacked into their internet after working over an unsuspecting young man who had an idea what the password might be). So I figure that there must be even more amazingness coming up, things I don't even know to dream about, because I live and breath; and also because I feel God's excitement when we discuss my future. If he sees that much to look forward to, why shouldn't I be just as thrilled? Future, this one's for you--may you be filled with freshly planted tomatoes.

(H'okey, I know this one is a bit silly. I was just happy. Still am.)

For Alex and Victor

Every time I read through these, I’m hearing “Vanilla Twilight” run through my head, by Owl City.

Watching our last night draw closer
Guess this means I’m getting older
How’d we never see what this might mean?
The hardest part of moving toward our dreams
Your picture in my wallet
I cried the day I saw it
That crazy little kid I knew just grew
I like the man you turned into

Horizon lightens as the fire dies
And we start to make our goodbyes
We feel the minutes quickly pass
Wish we had a million and a way to make them last
What you’ve been to me you’ll never know
And as I stand and watch you go
You turn back long enough to smile and say
“I’ll see you again someday.”

all the bedtime stories sound like warnings

Our new foal is pretty clueless. Like all new babies, he likes to chew on things as his teeth come in, and every once in a while he'll take a bigger chew than society deems acceptable. The welts on my stomach and shoulder can attest to this, and he just barely caught my just-recently-broken-and-wrongly-healed finger in his strong little teeth. The shriek this poorly planned move elicited sent him skipping and whirling across the round pen, and I swear he was laughing. The little shnitzel.

The little sucker isn't named yet, sadly, and we've been fishing around for something that fits him perfectly, that will immediately give any newcomer a correct impression of his character and temperment. Dad says that we also have to give him a name that, if we have to sell him, won't scare buyers off. Unfortunately, this rules out Trouble, Mischief, Scalawag, El Diablo, or my personal favorite, Spawn of Satan. Grandpa calls him Rastus (not a complementary name--they don't get along well ever since the little bugger took a hefty nip out of the tail of grandpa's coveralls). Amanda wants to call him Alf, but I don't think that this gives an accurate feel. I'm sticking with Rascal for now. That's nuetral enough, right?

But he is a cute little devil. Even though he's losing his baby hair.

He's also getting ready to lose his mom to a rare form of cancer, which horses typically never get. That's one of the reasons he's such an imp, is that she's not feeling well enough to nip him and set him straight when he's acting rambuctious. So when I try to warn him away from biting, my heart's not really in it. I watch him nuzzle up to her and fall asleep leaning against her side in the sunshine, and I know he's just a little horse, but they feel loss too. And my heart aches for him.

Stargazing

We laughed a lot.

Everything had a bright side, nothing was as serious as the world made it out to be, everything ultimately made sense. And if it didn't, it didn't matter because we were all together. Even saying "forever" was ok, because rationality didn't hold up to the bond we knew we had. Perfect ingredients, notes splashed across a page of music and it all fit like we had been made for each other. Spilled milkshakes, rock slides, sunburns, killer science classes, and (literally) thousands of miles under the wheels. Special dinners and crowded hot tubs, late nights and pictures caught those years and smiles and adventures and tears and heartache and stargazing. Close enough to see the glow inside the others that the casual observer might miss and miss out on. We had the blond adventurer, the exuberent enthusiast, the artsy musician, the curly-haired dreamer, the driven athlete, the quietly fierce one, the incessent talker, the rugged outdoorsman, the laughing blue-eyed one, the talented designer, the ironic realist, and the crunchy granola one.

But forever is shaded a million different colors, and the wheels keep turning. Like the fourth of july firecrackers that spill out from an epicenter into long bright arcs across the sky, we traced different paths--different colleges, different countries, different worlds. The bond  holds but the immediacy is gone. And that still bites.

Grip as hard as you can, when you open your fist there are just a few dying sparkles left.

I got caught on this train of thought when I got home from Indo and turned on my cell phone. In my voicemail was a cheery call from the athletic one, just back from Gimbie and eager to talk to me. That was two days ago, and I ask myself why I haven't returned the call yet. Closest I can come to answering that is, I'm afraid. No, not afraid of her--she's one of my closest friends. But my subconcious remembers the months it took to adjust to the absence of them all, and even though I tell it that these precious people will slip right back into the holes they left--it doesn't believe me. And that would hurt just as bad.

Why am I so afraid all the time?