Chapter and Verse

After the fall,

when the wind 

has turned the trees

to bones

and the leaves

to remnants of last week's 

ticker tape parade 

when the fire has 

gone out of everywhere

but your eyes

and even the little flame 

that usually appears 

at the tip of your Bic pen

when you sit to write

is snuffed out by

the inky darkness.

then, will you turn to me?

pages in a series,

waiting to be either

kindling and smoke

or chapter and verse.

Poem Fragment

Donald Miller sent out a tweet today, and, Billy Collins style, I borrowed it and worked it into this fragment of a poem.

I'd like to think

when I get to heaven,

there'd be no more talk

of earthly treasures

or the inordinate 

measures of 

success.

Just a "well done"

or "good fight"

or "you made it, 

you're home"

will do--

as long as it's 

followed by,

"Beloved"

with no condition

on its use.

The View from a Kitchen Window

If I had it my way, I would always live in a house with a window over the kitchen sink.  This is, in fact, the first house I've had that has a window over the sink.  And it's a good thing, since I don't have a dishwasher and spend a considerable amount of time standing at the sink.  I am so glad I have that view. 

So, while I've been snowed in today, I've observed the changing landscape through that window.  Watching the way the sun streams through at different times of day and completely changing the way my kitchen looks and feels.

The house I grew up in had a window over the sink that looked into our backyard.  When I was little, all I wanted to do was play outside, and my mom or grandmother could wash the dishes (again, this house had no dishwasher) and keep an eye on me at the same time. I was a little prone to finding trouble when I was little (okay, to be honest, I am still prone to finding trouble). 

And, my grandmother's house had a window over her kitchen sink that looked into her side yard.  Again, when I was playing outside, alone or with my sister and cousins, she could keep an eye on what was happening.  Then, when it was time to go home, she stood at the window and waved at us as we left.  Always.  Without fail. And I miss that.  I miss her.  Maybe that's why I am feeling nostalgic about kitchen windows over the sink, today.

 

Teaching

Whether I intended for this to happen or not, my profession has become one of my most defining characteristics, and I am not entirely sure if it's healthy -- nevertheless, I spend 8-10 (sometimes more, rarely less) hours a day playing my part.  I have been doing this in some form or fashion for the last ten years, though my elementary school teachers would tell you I have been doing is since at least the second grade.  However, officially, since I was 22, I have been teaching.  Little did I know when I began, all those days ago, standing in front of my very first group of wide-eyed-brimming-with-possibilities students how inasmuch as I wanted to help change their worlds, they would, in turn, radically and irrevocably alter mine... mostly for the better (though to be honest, I miss some of my unbridled optimism that seems to have been replaced with a stolid sort of realism).

And to divorce myself from my profession seems nigh-unto impossible.  Someone asked me over Christmas break what my dream job would be -- if I could do or be anything, what would it be?-- and I looked at him -- wordless -- blank stare -- unable to speak because I cannot see myself doing anything else...is this my dream job, the culmination of all my hopes and dreams? Not exactly.  It's more like my liver or kidney or lungs -- how could I ever hope to function in the world without being a teacher?  Even when it hurts.  Even when I fail. Even when I am exhausted and exasperated and discouraged almost beyond recognition. Good or bad. For better or worse. Sunshine and storms. (Well, you get the point, I am sure).

In theory, I could go to work by 7:45, leave by 3:45, and bide my time until summer, or winter break, or spring break.  I could teach the wrote lessons proposed by somebody else, fill out my paperwork, comply in every technical manner, cross every t -- dot every i -- could be a fairly easy, pretty sweet gig if I did -- if I could. 

But I cannot.

It just isn't in me.

And, though the thought of a job I could leave at the office sounds appealing at times -- I am quite certain, in a regular 9-5,  my soul might shrivel up into an unrecognizable shade, barely resembling what once composed me.

And to the outside observer, my life might seem really small. At times, it feels really small. But, in the course of almost any given day, I bear witness to a large scope of what it means to be human. The joy, the pain, the hunger, the passion, the tedium, the excitement of discovery, the disappointment with yourself and others, the sense of accomplishment, and even (or especially) the struggle to just get by some days.  And, even on those days when it's me who's struggling just to get by, I can't imagine doing anything else, and I wouldn't trade it. 

In progress...

This is a poem in progress, but part of my Lenten practice this year is to write something every day. Could be poetry, could be a letter, could be 'most anything. I am working on a Lenten poem, too, but here's what's been bouncing around in my head since I read a blog post the other day (by Donald Miller and from which I borrowed heavily).

I was told,

once,

the world

had been missing me

that

insomuch as

the world is a 

gift 

to me--

(rather surprisingly)

I am a gift 

to the world--

an ineffable verity

long forgotten

in the days since:

all I saw was 

complete loveliness

all I heard was

replete symphony

all I felt was

hunger

or pain

or pleasure...

you know, the real

elements

of life:

pure and unadulterated--

the raw honey 

poets try to hawk

on street corners

and farmers markets

and the side of

some rural highway

Rewriting my Grandfather's Obituary...

It seems trite to say that losing a loved one is difficult... even with the hope of heaven, it still hurts, deeply.  Anyone who says differently is not being honest with you and/or with himself/herself.  I find a certain measure of catharsis in writing, so that's what I'm doing.  Read it if you'd like.  I suppose this is really more for me than anybody else.  The newspaper in McAllen had a very nice, very standard obituary for my Grandpa.  However, I'd like to think I could write a better -- truer -- version.  Here's my attempt:

Irvin E. May went home to be with the Lord on January 27, 2013.  He was 89.  He lived a full life in those 89 years.  Born on a ranch in Wyoming, Irving worked the cattle, loved the land, and made his home.  When duty called in WW II, he answered it humbly yet bravely, and he served in the Army in the South Pacific.  After returning home, he met and fell in love with Mildred, the woman who would marry him and be his companion through the joys and sorrows of the following 64 years. Life's adventures took them from a ranch in Wyoming to a home in McAllen, Texas.  Always ready to serve his community, Irvin was a member of the American Legion, a little league baseball coach, a Royal Ambassador leader, and a 3rd Grade Sunday school teacher.

Irvin's influence does not stop there.  He helped raise two sons, Patrick and Ronald, and had tremendous impact on the lives of his three grandchildren, Ronnie, Bonnie, and Leesa, and his great-grandson .  He provided everyone he met with practical examples of living simply and selflessly.  Never found without a smile and a kind word, Irvin moved throughout his days lightening the load of those who were heavy burdened and encouraging those whose troubles threatened to overwhelm.  He delighted in listening to others, and when he spoke, it was with a combination of humility and authority and wisdom.  However, no game was ever too silly to play with his grandchildren -- he spent many hours drinking tea out of a plastic tea set or pretending to be in school along side long-suffering stuffed bears and dolls -- and he laughed and smiled all the while.

Perhaps one of his greatest legacies is his propensity for smiling and finding the bright spot in any situation.  Just ask anyone who spent any time around him; he never had a harsh, cross, or unkind word to say.  If something did not go his way, he would smile, accept it gracefully, and then find a way to make the best of it.  Though his family members mourn his passing, they are so very thankful for Irvin's life and the impact he had upon everyone he encountered. 

Readability: the dietetics of words

you read me 

like a book

cover to cover

voraciously seeking

my

deeper meaning

...inferencing my tone

and theme

... developing  my

character

... puzzling out the precepts of my plot

or 

like a newspaper

hungrily gleaning

whatever truth you can find

amid the posturing

and etiquette 

and politeness

of my rigid columns

and perfected typeface 

and marginalized existence

or

like the back of the cereal box

--trying to ascertain my

nutritional value...

asking yourself if my

sweetness

is all natural

or, rather,

(as so often the case in this world)

artificially

constructed with 

such attention

to detail

and

complexity

in an attempt to

recreate 

simplicity

--questioning

whether I 

really contain 

the ingredients

you want

and whether or not

what 

you want 

is 

what 

you 

need. 

or

like a poem

--focusing on finding

the rhythm

(of my heart,

of my days,

of my mind)

intermittent iambs?

troubled trochees?

doubtful dactyls?

sporadic spondees?

airy anapests?

--lingering over words

and wondering

how they 

made

their way

into my

composition

--keeping your dictionary

at hand

for those words

in my stanzas

with which you 

are not

familiar

(though they be

few

and far between)

or

like a prayer

trembling on your 

lips

half hope

half fear

all 

benediction

Commonplace Environment -- Inappropriate Hour

What makes something (or someone, for that matter) beautiful? Worthy of note? Worth more than a second glance?

Maybe because it's January, and I always seem a bit more contemplative and melancholy in January, or maybe it's because it's gray and rainy and cold everywhere I seem to go these days (Austin was all gray and rain until I left on Saturday, Lubbock was mostly sunshine until I got here on Sunday...).  Regardless of reason, I've found myself concentrating on the rather abstract construction of beauty.

It doesn't help matters that I am gearing up for a unit of British Romanticism, and we're reading Frankenstein, Shelley, Byron, and Keats (especially Keats, right, when he posits "Beauty is truth, truth beauty" ?) Also, for another course, I am about to teach The Tempest, and goodness knows it makes much ado about beauty.

And then, a few days ago, for the first time in a very long time, I was called beautiful.  And, being the kind of woman I am, I cannot let well enough alone. I cannot take the compliment to heart and go along my merry way.  Oh no, I have to take time to stop and think about the true nature and construction of beauty.

I spent my winter break in the Texas hill country, so I was surrounded by beauty of the more obvious kind.  The area from just north of Austin to just south of San Antonio provides some of the most aesthetically appealing landscape you'll find anywhere.  Downtown Austin is one of the loveliest downtown areas I've ever wandered (and I've whiled away some deliciously lonely hours in many-a-downtown scene). So much beauty in one locale; I had to catch my breath several times (despite the rain and the cold).

However, I must admit, I was thrown a little off balance by the way people around me -- the sea of nameless faces rushing here and there -- did not seem to see the same things I saw.  "Of course," I reminded myself, "they see this all of the time."  And, there-in lies the rub, right?  However one defines or constructs beauty, being in constant contact, having consistent access to the beauty, lessens its shine, if we're not careful. So, for these people, rushing around downtown, the environment had become commonplace and the hour inappropriate for beauty.

I do not pretend to have all the answers, but I try to be aware of small moments of great beauty in my daily life. Some people might say that's difficult to do, living in Lubbock, Texas.  However, I would beg to differ.  There are so many beautiful sights, sounds, and people.  Especially the people.

So, my challenge to you (whoever you are, reading this) and more specifically to myself, is to actively acknowledge those moments of beauty, and to seek to be more perceptive of them.  To appreciate and recognize beauty and talent and joy in the most unexpected context.  I know my life will be fuller and richer for it.

Un espoir merveilleux

I keep thinking about 

your yellow gardening hat

and the way you used to tip 

the olive green watering can over

ever-so-slightly 

so the water would 

splash my head --

to help me grow,

you said.

And I can almost hear

your sweet, strong voice

say my name when I walked

 into your room and surprised you

even though

I think you always expected me,

somehow --

I hear your delight, 

even now.

Oh, I haven't had a tea party in ages

but I remember how 

to make a proper pot

and how to hold it 

as I pour

and how you

take [took] your tea --

and not just becase

you take [took] it like me.  

Firmament

I never really knew
 there were
so many shades of blue
(and degrees of separation
from you)
But
I have fallen
(or should I say risen?)
 in love
with these  wide skies
painted
mano-a-monochromatically
at midday
and reinvented each evening
 in hues
so variant and brilliant
and matchless
I stand
speechless 

in the best of ways
and humbled at the
absolute extravagance
(and bereft
because
it too will leave)

Still I stand
firmly rooted in
this transient
red dirt
having
never known

there were
so many shades of blue

Pages

For a while now,
     it has seemed
          that your leaving signified
                pages being ripped
                      from the binding of my book.
Leaving a chunk of my chronicle
     missing
          destroyed
               empty
                     almost as if those pages never existed
                           as if we never lived, loved, laughed, or cried
                                  as if our lives and our hands never intertwined
                                  like those two ancient oaks in my grandmother's back yard.

And maybe, that's how it has to be for you.
Maybe that's the way you have learned to live. . .
How the heartache and pain of your past has taught you to survive.

So, you have ripped me out of the pages of your book.
You must feel the way the binding is loose,
The way your story is incomplete. . .
but you carry on, calmly,
nonchalant
And though there will come a day you will miss those pages
I am glad you are happy, now. . .
missing pages and all.

As for me. . .
I realize,
when you left, you did not
violently rip those pages
out of my book --
but rather
gently forced me
to start another chapter.

Thank you, for that.

Shades of Gray:

I like the way I can see the places
where my fingers repeatedly hit the keys on my key board.
One swift stroke after another.
Sometimes forceful
Sometimes hesitent
Always thoughtful
A testament to the work that I've done
and yet to do.
Just a slightly different shade of gray than when
I took my computer
out of the box
over a year ago.
I've left my mark on them.
Subtle.
Seen only in certain lights
but significant.

And it makes me realize:
Even things that start out new
untouched by time
or worry
or use
or care
will end up
going throughout life
existing, primarily
in shades of gray.

Freshly painted black
or white
at the touch of life
real life
it subsits
in shades of gray.

Chopping Onions

Until yesterday, it had been a long time since I had done one of my very most favorite things -- hosted a dinner party.  The past few months, okay, six and a half months to be more exact, I haven't really done much in the kitchen. For various reasons, I was in survival mode.  I ate out, ordered in (Pizza Hut's Wing Wednesday was my very good friend), zapped frozen dinners, baked a pizza, or relied on the kindness of friends to feed me (I am sure you are reading this, you know who you are, and I cannot thank you enough for taking care of me).  School kept me busy, then I was packing up my little house to move to a bigger house, then I was unpacking my things into my bigger house, and then I jumped into summer school.

I have been going through the motions, eating because I need to or because it makes me feel better (and no need to expound on the dangers of finding comfort in food, I know them).  For a long while, my love for cooking utterly disappeared. I would find sparks of it here or there (making a cheesecake for some friends, a lasagna for someone who just had a baby, a pie for a housewarming party, chopped bbq for someone's birthday at work). . . but even then, I was just going through the motions -- following the recipe exactly (If you know me, you know that's something I rarely do).  I baked a lot more because, for me, baking does not require creativity or spontaneity (in fact, my experiences with baking have led me to believe that creativity and spontaneity are frowned upon -- just ask my family members about the cookie debacle of 2004).

I forgot how much I need to be in the kitchen.  Cooking and entertaining is a huge part of who I am. And for a while, I lost that part of myself.  Preparing delicious (and often out of the ordinary) dishes, laughing and joking over a good meal (be it gourmet or down home) -- feeds my soul -- and so, going without it for so many months -- it's no wonder I felt lost -- I was missing a big part of my identity -- I was starving my soul.

And it was, in part, my own fault.  I let myself get too busy.  I made excuses about time, the size of my house, the expense, the fact that other people were too busy themselves, or had kids, etc. Until, yesterday, late morning, I decided. . . enough was enough.  I was going to invite people over and force myself to really get back into the kitchen.

And that's just what I did.

After summer school, I stopped off at a local grocery store and bought all the things I would need to make a semi-gourmet meal.  On the menu: Shrimp Burgers, Mushroom Burgers (for my veggie lovin' friends), and Turkey burgers Puerto Vallarta Style.  For sides: Vegetarian Couscous Salad and roasted sweet potato fries.  I started working at about 3:00 PM. Washed the produce, and got out my fancy chef's knife with the red handle (and boy do I love that knife) and my giant bamboo cutting board.  I lined everything up, and I began.

I chopped a lot of things yesterday. Bell peppers, serranos, mushrooms, scallions, garlic, and, of course, onions. Now, usually, I cannot chop an onion without crying.  In fact, even my grandmother's tried-and-true method of holding a piece of bread in your mouth while chopping the onion, does not usually keep the tears at bay.  I always chop the onion last because I know it will make tears stream down my face . . . and I hate that they always make me cry. . . yet, those pungent onions, well, they must be chopped, no meal would be complete without them.

While I was chopping onions yesterday, fearing the tears would start at any moment, the entire situation snapped into perspective. . . and chopping onions became a metaphor for life. Or at least, for my life.

When it comes time to chop the onions, I have been known to try to find a way to do without them, but onions tend to be necessary ingredients in many-a-dish, so they cannot be excluded.  So, then I try to chop them as quickly as possible. However, doing so usually leads to uneven pieces, or places where the onion has not been cut through completely, and sometimes my haste makes waste or just a big ol' mess (and I have, more than once, come close to loosing a part of my thumb). So, now, I have learned to move efficiently but carefully through the process of chopping onions.  The point of chopping the onions is not to get through it quickly, but to chop them in such a way that including them in a recipe improves the meal as a whole.

So, chopping the onions, while not usually pleasant, is necessary. And without the onions, the dish would be lacking an important component, one of the best flavors, the element that makes it whole.

So I chopped the onions yesterday.  And the meal turned out great. And the dinner party was fun.  I fed my friends. And I fed my soul.

Now, my new house is really starting to feel like my home.

A fine mingling (or a fine mess)

"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." ~(Henry) Havelock Ellis

Now, I do not have much respect for the man who said it (in spite of his renown as a leading psychologist of his time and with consideration for his enthusiasm for eugenics and disturbing sexual predilections) but I will be the first to admit there's a considerable amount of truth in his words.

Life is, without a doubt, the process of learning what to hold on to and what to let go.  I like the idea of calling it a "fine mingling," though, because it implies a pairing of the bitter with the sweet -- and I say pairing rather than blending, because when something mingles it maintains its own properties.  Letting go is letting go, holding on is holding on.  When they mingle, sometimes you focus on the letting go, sometimes you focus on the holding on . . . a season for everything. But the main point is, you can't blend the two together.  You cannot let go of and hold on to something simultaneously.  The two are mutually exclusive. With everything, the good, the bad, the wonderful, the painful, the meaningful, the insignificant -- you are either holding on or letting go.

When I think of the mingling of letting go and holding on, I am reminded of my most recent trip to Chicago. I sat, alone, for at least an hour on a bench in Union Station (the site of that famous scene at the end of The Untouchables). Nothing expresses the mingling of holding on or letting go, of the way things come and go, better than a busy train station like this one.  People who are coming into the city, people who are leaving the city -- rushing to catch a train, walking slowly to admire the breathtaking architecture -- hanging on tightly to a child's hand, a briefcase, a shopping bag, or letting go of a friend's embrace, some change for the homeless person, or an empty Duncan Donuts' coffee cup.  And it's beautiful yet chaotic at times (the rush of people when a train arrives or right before an important one leaves) and at others it's lovely yet empty -- save for the woman sitting on the bench, taking it all in and waxing poetic. This station is truly a fine mingling of letting go and holding on -- a visual juxtaposition of all these disparate life events (some important, some insignificant). These people make the choice to hold on or let go.  Sometimes events force them to make the choice, but, ultimately, it is still their choice.

It used to seem like letting go was the harder of the two choices.  How do I let go of something I want to badly, or that I've worked so hard for, or invested so much of myself into? Sometimes, in the past year or so, letting go feels more like things are being wrested from my hands until I finally give up and relax my grip. If you know me at all, you know I am tenacious (at least that's what I call it, some might call it stubborn).  I work hard; I stay focused; I make things happen by sheer force of will. . . I never cry uncle. . . I never say die. . . I don't give up. . .ever.  So you can see how letting go has always been a problem for me.


However, in the last year or so, I have also learned that holding on is not as easy as it sounds.  My, eh, tenacity also means that I grasp things tightly. . . hopes, dreams, plans, goals. . .once I get my hands on 'em I hang on for dear life.  There's practically no disentangling them from my firm hold. (Thus, I suppose, the wresting I mentioned in the previous paragraph).  This is, I must admit, as much (if not more so) a fault as it is a virtue.  So, lately, I am working on following those immortal words of wisdom from .38 Special:


Just hold on loosely, but don't let go. . .
  
Easier said than done, but I'm learning. Maybe it's that God has finally gotten through to me in spite of my, eh, tenacity.  Or maybe it's because I'm 30, now, and with age comes wisdom. . . or maybe, deep down, I've known it all along.

I'll tell you one thing I do know --  this whole process (deciding what to hold on to and what to let go) is not only a "fine"mingling, but I would also venture to say it is a fine mess.  What makes it a mess?  I think logistics of knowing when and how to let go or hold on can make it a mess. And I'd love to tell you that I have the answer -- the secret formula -- but the fact is . . .
I'm just muddling through myself. 

On being 30 for Nearly a Week. . .

I thought those of you who know me (and read this blog) would enjoy this as much as I have!  I looked back at my blog from when I turned 25. I wrote about what I had done by the age of 25, and then what I wanted to do before I was 50. It made me laugh.  I cannot believe how different I am from the woman I was five years ago.  And, for the most part, it's for the better. . . but there are parts of that version of myself that I miss. But that's another blog for another day.

So, in honor of being 30 for nearly a week (and actually -- for the most part --  really loving it) I thought I would check off the things on my "To Do Before I'm 50" List that I have already accomplished!

So, here we go:
To Do By the Time I'm 50 (In No Particular Order and highlighted in green means I've accomplished it!  The side notes in Blue are just little interesting bits of information):
1. leave the country

2. go to graduate school (MA in Literature from Tech!)

3. get another dog (a friend for Jonah)-- Tried this, but couldn't keep the dog because of time/space issues.

4. get something I have written published -- a book review counts, right?

5.  take a dance class

6. run in another half marathon (Going to run in a 10K soon, and that's half-way there)

7. see a Broadway play (Broadway in Houston counts, doesn't it?)

8. buy a house
9. have a window seat in a big bay window
10.  dance the night away

11.  invent an amazing recipe that everybody loves. (This has become one of my greatest life skills! I am a great cook, and love to invent different dishes).

12.  help the homeless (I hope to continue to keep this a consistent part of my life).

13.  go rock climbing (Nothing Serious or steep, but I've done a little and would love to do even more!)

14.  spend the day reading in a hammock
15.  sleep out under the stars

16.  ride a horse along the beach (In retrospect, this is one made me laugh out loud.  Not sure where the whim came from )

17.  see the St. Patrick's Day Parade in Chicago. (I came very close to this one! Maybe for my 31st? See my next blog post to read some of the highlights of my trip).
18.  learn how to "throw" pottery
19.  go to Hawaii
20.  marry the man who loves me every bit as much as I love him
21. have three kids (The older I get, the more likely I think it will be two, rather than three, if any at all. )
22. write a book

23. teach college classes (Great. Lots of fun. But not quite the perfect world I thought it would be).

24. see a baseball game in all the old major league fields...(Been so several, but still have a few more to go.  Bummed that I've been to Chicago twice now and have yet to catch a game).
25.  spend a week on a tropical island

26.  live a life that matters! (I am still working on this one.  I know my life has mattered and I know it will continue to matter, but I want to make it more about loving others and less about loving myself).

Love of the Skim Milk Variety

Okay, so one of the things I love about my students and the school where I work is our poetry club.  I love that every other Thursday, students want to spend at least an hour (usually more like an hour and a half) reading their favorite poems, original poems, and offering constructive feed back.  Poetry is, after all, one of my very most favorite things!  It's also great because it challenges me to share my poetry with people in person (rather than simply via a blog).

So, after all that, let me share the poem I wrote and then read at poetry club today.

Love of the Skim Milk Variety

Love
. . . just ain't love
when it's of the skim milk variety
almost transparent
resembling the taste of love
but lacking the substance
taking love's place on the refrigerator shelf
but somehow leaving it empty and
unsatiated.
the poorest of substitutes
for the whole milk kind of love
an impostor
but worse
because it's so close to the real thing
that people drink it anyway.

Love
. . . just ain't love
when it's of the skim milk variety
But that's all you seem to find these days
unless you know how to wait
and wait patiently
for the good stuff to come alone

Love
. . . just ain't love when its of the skim milk variety
and baby,
I'm done.

I need the real
. . .unhomogonized. . .
. . . unpasturized. . .
. . . unadulterated. . .
kind of love.

Or nothing at all.

Lessons Learned from some of my favorite books:

Now, I have read some really great books lately. I mean some real page turners!  (This is the place where I tell you that if you have not read The Hunger Games , you absolutely must as soon as possible!)  However, it has been a while since I have read anything that moved and inspired me (rather that simply entertaining me!)  Don't get me wrong, I love to be entertained, but I also need to be moved by what I'm reading (at least some of the time).

Reflecting on the current inspiration-less state of my reading has led me to think about the different books I have read over the course of my life from which I have learned an invaluable lesson.  I am talking about books that have changed my life (and if you haven't read them, might possibly change yours.)

Anne of Green Gables:

I read this book as a young child, and it resonated so deeply with me.  You see, I was a bit too imaginative for most of the other kids at my elementary and I spent a lot of time alone and a lot of time being made fun of (until the 4th grade when Becky quickly and steadfastly became my best friend, but that's another blog for another day).  When I read Anne of Green Gables for the first time, I found (to borrow a phrase from the book itself) a kindred spirit.  I felt such a deep connection to the girl who loves nature (that's me) loses herself in a pretend world for hours (me again) and who wants little else in the world than to make it more beautiful for others.  Anne's silly misadventures, frequent miscommunications, and spropensity for mishaps seemed to echo my own.  I learned a lot from the Anne-Girl (as she is often called in the book).  I learned to look for the bright side in every situation; I learned to accept myself for all my quirkiness (and that someday, someone will love me not in spite of but because of these traits).  I also learned to be comfortable in my own skin.

The Little House on the Prairie Series:
I could go on and on and on about these books.  I read them cover to cover, in order, and as soon as I finished the last one, if I had nothing more tempting to read, I would start the series over again.  I learned a lot from these books, too.  The main character, Laura, was kind and considerate (good traits to learn) but those were not her defining characteristics.  She was first and foremost an independent young woman.  She took care of herself, she took care of her family, and (while respectful of authority) she had no problem forging her own way in the world.  I learned the most from her independence.  I am, perhaps, independent to a fault, but it has served me well in my nearly 30 years.  I know how to take care of myself,  I feel confident taking on any adventure life throws at me, and I am rarely daunted into giving up on a dream/goal/pursuit.  At a time when such independence was not valued in a woman, Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote in such a way that encouraged and fostered independence in her young readers.

A Little Princess:
Now, despite popular belief, this book does not act as a proponent of self indulgence or spoiling.  Instead, it offers insight into what life might be like if one lost all that was familiar.  In this classic by Frances Hodgson Burnett, a young woman must first adapt to life in London rather than India, then the loss of her father and all of her fortune.  Sara has every reason to whine, complain, and give up.  However, she takes everything in stride.  She cries, she mourns, but she does not allow it to dampen her spirit entirely.  Sure, she has her momentary pity-parties (honestly, don't we all?) but they do not comprise the majority of her thoughts or actions.  She goes about her work as diligently and cheerfully as possible, she cares deeply for others who suffer as much if not more so than she does, and she never loses hope.  I am so thankful I read this book as a young girl because there were times (even in my young life) that I could have worried only about myself and my problems instead of looking around to see how I might lighten the burden of another.  I often found myself thinking of this book when I was tempted to wallow in my own pain and misery.  This is the kind of princess that more little girls today should try to emulate.

An Old Fashioned Girl:
I realize I am getting quite long winded about these books, so I'm going to make it shorter and sweeter.  This Alcott book changed my life when I was in high school.  It was, of course, well beneath my reading level, but I read it anyway. And then I read it again.  And again.  The main character, Polly Milton, was the most optimistic, kindhearted, selfless young woman.  The lesson I took away from the book is simply this:  When you are miserable, sad, upset, or hurt, the best thing you can do is go out and try to find a way to make the life of someone else better in any way you can.  Helping others and keeping busy are the best ways to overcome the impulse of wallowing in self pity.

The Kite Runner:
I skipped a lot of years and books between The Kite Runner and An Old Fashioned Girl.  In a future post, I might go back and fill in the gaps (I might also write about the books I hate(d) and why. . .but that's another post for another day).  As for this novel, I do not think I will ever recover from reading it; nor do I want to.  That book changed my life.  The plot was moving -- the characters real, gritty, and honest.  In one of the pivotal moments, one character tells the protagonist, "There is a way to be good again."  It turned out that the way to be good again required facing fears and throwing aside selfish desires for the sake of another.  I want to be the kind of person who faces her fears and throws aside selfish desire and ambitions.  I am fascinated by stories of redemption, and this is one of the truest redemption stories I have ever read.

I have been working on this post for weeks, but just now had the time to finish it. I hope you enjoy it! Feel free to read/disagree/agree or open a dialogue about these books!
 :)

Wish I could take credit for this one. . .

If you don't read The Burnside Writer's Collective (click here to visit) you should!  They have all kinds of articles on pop culture, literature, movies, social justice, etc. etc. and one of the best parts is the section devoted to poetry and prose. 

I read this poem the other day, and it really resonated with me, so I wanted to share it with you.
It's untitled, and it's by John Pattinson. (Click here to see the original posting.


I do not see your face in the moon
Though once I saw your face in the moonlight, and
I cannot find you in the sunset
Though once we walked
Through an explosion of amber, ruby and topaz
And talked of nothing and all things and sun things.
I look for you in the stars of steel
And space-age plastics that orbit my backyard
Relaying phone calls not from you and television programs
You never approved of.
Once I had you but now I have lost you.
Yet I do not suffer from the delusions of the brokenhearted
Because I do not see you everywhere I go.
I see only that you are not with me.

Making Plans. . .

I don't know how many times I've heard someone say, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. . ." or something of that ilk.  Sure, the people who say that might follow it with a rather genial chuckle to themselves, but at the heart of their statement, there seems to be an undertone of disappointment, or dare I say, anger, frustration, or pain?  This age-old saying, while seemingly innocuous, almost implies that not only does God laugh at our plans and our our ability to achieve them, but he might be actively involved in squelching/ruining/derailing any sort of plan man makes.  At least, that's what the adage seems to imply, and that's what is has sounded like to  me the last 1.2 million times someone has said it to me, lately.  As well meaning as the speaker might be, when he or she says this, I shut down. . . I rebel. . . I find myself saying, "No!  That most certainly is not true, and how dare you say those trite words to me?!?" I might have been guilty in the past of saying such things, but now I know better.  Now I know that a heartfelt "I'm praying for you" followed by fulfilling that promise is the best thing you can do for someone whose plans have been pummeled to bits by the storms of life.

If you know me, at all, then you know I am a plan maker. That's just how circumstances of my life have taught me to live. My desire/need/compulsion to plan can be one of the most endearing things about me, or it can be one of the most frustrating (it just depends who you ask).  I make plans and I work my absolute hardest to make them happen. I make plans.  Sometimes my plan is to just see what happens, but still, that is a plan.   I just have to have a plan.  And not just one plan either.  I like to have at least a plan b, though often times I have plans c and d waiting in the wings for their chance to shine, should plans a and b fail or become fruitless and/or obsolete. 

In the past couple of years, I realized that my need for "back-up" plans could actually be seen as a lack of faith, or proof of neurotic tendencies, or evidence of someone who needs an escape hatch when life gets tough.  So, for the sake of  being an adult, stepping out on faith, committing to something with my whole heart, I gave up my back-up plans. . . all of them. I gave up on planning for all the contingencies, and found peace when I finally gave up planning for what to do when the other shoe dropped (as it inevitably had for my entire life. . . thus the planning compulsion).  It was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.

These past couple of years, with the exception of losing my grandmother, have been the absolute happiest of my life, so in that sense, giving up my back-up plans was the best decision I could have made.  However, now, without warning or clear reason, I find myself having to scrap the plan I had committed to so wholly.  The one time I could really use a plan b or plan c, or heck, even a plan z, I find myself without one.  Adrift. Directionless.  Lost. I wish I could just buck up, get to my drafting board, and come up with a new plan.

I know that giving up my back-up plans was the right thing to do, but right now, I will admit that I'm kicking myself for not tucking away some little, tiny, scrap of a back-up plan, just-in-case I needed it on a rainy day.  But, I didn't.  And so -- *gasp* --  I must get along as best I can without a plan (for now).  As much as I loathe this particular hand life has dealt me, I know God is in it, too.  He is good all the time -- even when I don't understand it, even when I can't see it, even when I'm angry, even when I am heartbroken, even when I don't have a plan anymore and I'm not sure what to do with myself.  So, I'm a mess, but I'm a beautiful mess.  I don't have a plan; I don't know when I will have a new plan; I don't know when I will ever feel like making plans . . . but I trust that one day, I will. 

Poets and Poems that I always seem to turn to . . .

I can't write my own post right now, but I wanted to share with you the poets and their poems whose lines are swirling around in my head right now. . .

Robert Frost:
"Nothing Gold Can Stay"
Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay:
"Sonnet LXIX"

The heart once broken is a heart no more,
And is absolved of all a heart must be;
All that is signed or chartered heretofore
Is canceled now, the bankrupt heart is free;
So much of duty as you may require
Of shards and dust, this and no more of pain,
This and no more of hope, remorse, desire,
The heart once broken need support again.
How simple 'tis, and what a little sound
It makes in breaking, let the world attest:
It struggles, and it fails; the world goes round,
And the moon follows it. Heart in my breast,
'Tis half a year now since you broke in two;
the world's forgotten well, if the world knew.

Pablo Neruda:
"20"

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Escribir, por ejemplo: "La noche esta estrellada,
y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos".
El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.
En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.
La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.
Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.
Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.
Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.
Pensar que no la tengo. Sentir que la he perdido.
Oír la noche inmensa, más inmensa sin ella.
Y el verso cae al alma como al pasto el rocío.
Qué importa que mi amor no pudiera guardarla.
La noche está estrellada y ella no está conmigo.
Eso es todo. A lo lejos alguien canta. A lo lejos.
Mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Como para acercarla mi mirada la busca.
Mi corazón la busca, y ella no está conmigo.
La misma noche que hace blanquear los mismos árboles.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero cuánto la quise.
Mi voz buscaba el viento para tocar su oído.
De otro. Será de otro. Como antes de mis besos.
Su voz, su cuerpo claro. Sus ojos infinitos.
Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.
Porque en noches como esta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.
Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.