I fear what is to come, and what will become of me...

It's been one of those semesters when I just feel like I'm always one step behind where I need to be. I'm so close, and then I just barely get a hold of that final foothold. It's like Frodo and Sam, you know? Except that my Sam isn't yelling, "Don't you let go. Reach!" ...or is he? Have I just been to deaf to listen?

For church this last Sunday, Claire and I went to the local E-Free church instead of going into Lincoln. Their regular pastor was gone this week so they had the associate speak. In general, the message was fairly repetitive...which bothered me then, but now I am thankful for it. These last two days I've had his words, the words of the psalmist ringing in my ears, "It is good to be near God." I've heard it said that repetition is the best way to learn...but now I truly believe it.

What does this have to do with my inability to listen? The pastor also mentioned that when we feel distant from the Lord it isn't because He has moved--He's waiting for us to come back to Him. We're the one's moving away. I'm the one that's been moving away, and that is why I have been falling behind in everything.

I've been filling out grad school apps and am just generally concerned about that whole process. What if I don't get in to the school I want to? What if I don't get in at all? It is good to be near God. I should stop worrying about these things and remember that regardless of where I end up, it will not be alone and it will not be without God.

These are things I am hearing tonight. So I'll reach out for that hand that never stopped wanting to hold me. It is good to be near God. It is good.

"Will You please hold me? And sing me a love song again, say the words that heal my heart. Sing me a love song and then, let Your words remind me who I am. You never failed me before..."

I could never save myself...

There's an itch inside me. (I mean this both literally and figuratively.)

Many (if not all) of you know that I was badly sunburned a few weeks ago. Well, it's mostly "faded" now, and the pealing is mostly all gone.... but the itching. The itching will not go away. I'm lucky I have any skin left with how itchy I've been. People will comment on my sunburn (still) and I don't know if it's actually residual red from the burn or from my constant scratching. Maybe both.

Just as the itch on my skin is irritating, so is the itch in my soul. The difference is that I have not been able to scratch away the discomfort therein. Instead, it goes on bothering, becoming more incessant and more irksome everyday. Everyday, another part itches.

I would like to say that the answer to this itchiness would be to write....and I do believe it would help. As I told a dear friend in a note the other day: I have not had time to write, and therefore have not been writing everyday. Perhaps the stagnant waters of my soul started here. I was not moving the waters, becoming still in the routine of the day-to-day. Even now, I think to myself that I should be reading for a class instead of engaging in this potentially cathartic activity.

There are other things.

How do you swallow the words of nights past? Take it all back, let things play out the way they were meant to. Why did you ever open your mouth to begin with? I lack the grace to take these things in stride.

How do you console a friend that has just told you her dad in terminal? That he cannot speak to her the way he used to? She tells you not to cry for her, but these tears have been pushing for days, and this is just the news that wants to send them over the brink. You can spend all the time in the world working on homework for your Death, Dying, and Trauma class, but when those hard questions come up you just may not have the answers. I don't know if my arms are brave enough to help you carry this. 

How do you carry a friend's secret? Carry it wrapped up in your heart, tucked away. Let everything that is negative bounce off your shield, leaving dings and scratches. I don't know if I'm strong to hold up forever.

A friend once told me I had strong arms. Arms that could help one bear their burdens with a simply hug. All I want is for someone with strong arms to hold me. Tonight I couldn't stand the silence of my dorm room, so I slept. I went to work. I got back to the dorm, knowing I would be alone again. So, I decided to go for a drive, thinking it would make my heart feel less heavy in my chest.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. My friend now has a strong set of arms that will hold her through all things--in their vows he mentioned that he would be her shield. It gave me chills.

Now, I sit here, thinking of all the things I need to do, just wishing, praying, for some strong arms. For someone to be my shield. Because in that car ride I realized that when I am in need is when I give the most. I asked the Walmart lady if she was having a better night...only to get a long explanation about how it was worse than the other day. And even though I felt like my heart would burst, I gave her a smile anyway and told her that I hoped things would start looking up soon. I need someone to protect me for this emotional fatigue.

I am so itchy. And I just want it to go away.

"Hold fast, help is on the way." [Casting Crowns]

I ride (write) to find my own meaning...

I've mentioned before (back at the beginning of this blog, ...because they love you) how I feel connected to Eowyn from "The Lord of the Rings." She is perhaps my favorite female character in all the literature I have read thus far. It runs deeper than her relationship with Aragorn (or lack there of) or Faramir (something I long for).

I feel like she is cruelly misunderstood by the general audience. There are two main things I see:

1. People have only seen the movies. Now, I love the Peter Jackson adaptation of the books. However, I think he significantly downplayed Eowyn's character and the real issues she was dealing with (especially in the theatrical version). Viewers get the impression that she was simply love sick--tired of being left behind at home and wanting some adventure. Aragorn was different and definitely a break from the hum-drum of her life.

2. She's a fairly minor character when compared to Gandalf, Aragorn, or Frodo. She has a huge moment, but doesn't come in until the second book, she just doesn't get as much space on the page as some of the other characters. So maybe readers just don't pay her much attention. Or they don't see some of the things about her character because it takes those around her a long time to figure it out--they chalk it up to being lovesick as well.

There's more going on there. [More going on in me.] Now, there are definitely elements of her being lovesick (but there's a cause behind the cause) and she is a minor character (which is part of why she is the way she is!). It's all very intriguing to me, and I wrote a paper on it last semester (and posted it here, I'm preparing you for something great...)... but I'm going to try to paraphrase what I'm feeling right now.

Her biggest issue is finding her place in the world--what her purpose is. Her brother and uncle get to ride off into battle and gain honor and renown--something she yearns for. She doesn't want to be forgotten. So, she's learned how to fight and defend herself. She has honed her skill because she doesn't want to be left behind; the last defense.

Eowyn wants to be remembered for doing something great. For making a difference. She wants to die with honor.

Now, maybe this is just the effects of my "Death, Dying, and Trauma" class coming out, but I want the same thing. I want to use my life for something with purpose. I want to make a difference. And when I die I want it to be with grace and dignity. (That class will make you think about death in a way you would never imagine.)

I don't think I'm the only one. Eowyn's character speaks to something so very human. Nobody wants to be forgotten and left behind. She was struggling deep within herself. Her upbringing was telling her one thing while her heart said something else. Her heart says, "you can be a hero." Her mind says, "you're only a woman."

Sometimes I take on the same mentality. I'm only one person. One young woman. What weight can I bear in this world?


I don't suffer from depression. (Not that I know of, anyway.) And so I can't claim that part of her character to be an echo of myself. She was fighting against social norms, and I do feel like I'm doing that myself, in a different way.

I found a song on iTunes really randomly one day. It's called "Eowyn's Song" and it's beautiful. It captures her character perfectly (while focusing on the Aragorn issue, which is still a big deal, don't get me wrong). Please listen to it. (LeAnn, you've already heard it, but you can always listen again.) This is the song that prompted this post, so it's kind of a big deal. Ha.

There's a line in the song, "I ride to find my own meaning," and I don't think any combination of words could described her situation (in a nutshell) any better. And that is something so deeply ingrained in me. Instead, I don't ride horses (I'll leave that you, Lisa, dear). I find my meaning in my writing (and in the Bible and Christ, but that's a Sunday School answer) because writing is the way I let go of the things that distract me. It's my way of filtering through the turmoil and the joy.

"No one will hear of this tale." This is an interesting comment on the view of history and how it is recorded and retold. (My Ling and Lang senses are tingling.)

"I go with a mind full of death." I'm not suicidal. Not even close. But there is something in this that tugs at me. Something about Eowyn's plight pulls at my heart so strongly... She has a heart of sacrifice, if that is what will get her honor and valor. "Oh, I would have followed you down to the end, my captain, my King. Oh, I would have followed you down to the Paths of the Dead."

"Fire consumes the heart that teaches captain of evil to fall. Desire, as pure as the man that reaches the humble hero in us all." This is my favorite line. Absolute favorite. Because she is the one that teaches the Witch King to fall. She did this from a pure desire. And I think "the man that reaches" is Aragorn, and he taught her to be a hero in a backwards kind of way. He was belittling her, like some might think. Indeed, he pitied her.  He was reaching the humble hero in the hearts of the Hobbits, and he did the same for her.

I'm not articulating this as well as I had hoped I would. But maybe you understand. Maybe you see yourself echoed here. Maybe you, too, worry for the way you will be remembered. The way you will leave your mark on this world.

"...the humble hero in us all."

I'm preparing you for something great...

So, I've been thinking a lot about the character Eowyn this semester... and I have a post I've been working on. But I want to "prime" you for that post because it's going to be kind of a lot if I try to prime as I write it... uh. That makes it sound really daunting. Basically, I want to share with you a paper I wrote last semester on Eowyn as a character. So that's what this is. After you've read this, the next post will make more sense because this is a character analysis--I could write a book on her, for the record, so just know that this is the reigned in version. (ha) I hope you enjoy it...I know it's long, but there are some great quotes sprinkled throughout.

A Character Expose: Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan

            Tolkien deals with several issues throughout “The Lord of the Rings,” but one that seems out of place in this trilogy about men saving the world is the role of women in society. The reader meets female characters like Goldberry, Arwen, and Galadriel—and they are beautiful and each commanding of respect—but they are all very different from Eowyn. Tolkien devotes special attention to this mortal woman that he did not necessarily pay to those that are ageless. She gets more action time than the other women. Eowyn desires honor, valor and renown mainly—and she is willing to do nearly anything to obtain them. She longs to fight in battle with the men of her household—she does not like being idle. When men come into her life that possess the things she seeks they enthrall her. 

            It is no wonder why Eowyn feels trapped by her situation—she has been living in a house that is corrupted and there is nothing she can do to change it. When we first meet her, she is almost missed in the midst of the “exorcism” of King Theoden, the uncle she has been watching after while he fell deeper and deeper into despair. She gets one paragraph devoted to her, which seems to punctuate that she is forgotten or ignored to a certain extent.

“Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in her eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.” (The King of the Golden Hall)

The first impression we get is that she is beautiful, but full of sorrow and pity. One wonders why she pities the King. There are a few possible reasons for this. Either, she pities him that he has been so disabled or she is looking at him in pity because he has lost some of his honor and dignity. I think that both of these would cause her glance to be grave and thoughtful. Aragorn notices her disposition. He sees her as fair, but cold, “like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is a young woman, and she is trapped in the winter of despair. Because of this observation, Eowyn appears to be the quintessential damsel-in-distress and Aragorn is the hero that must save her. One could argue that she notices this as well when she sees him.

“And she now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise and with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she was gone.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She has identified that he is everything that she wants to be. In real-time, this exchange would have only happened in a few seconds. There is so much energy built up in that one look, it has to be significant. And it is important, but not in the way that I had originally imagined. When I was younger, I read it as a direct sign that they would fall in love, but rather it harkens to the fact that she feels trapped and will do anything to get out of that entrapment. 

            It doesn’t take long for Aragorn to realize that he enamors her, and he is concerned by this quick turn of events, whether that is because he will not love her in return or because he sees something dark in her. Eowyn is presenting a cup of wine to him when he first seems to recognize this phenomenon.

“As she stood before Aragorn she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled; but as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and he knew that she trembled at the touch. […] his face now was troubled and he did not smile.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

Now, this could be interpreted in a couple different ways. Aragorn could be concerned that her heart will be broken when he does not love her back. Or, he could have recognized something else that dwells deep within her—he is a man of wisdom and so it is possible to think that he saw the despair and desire for honor in her. It is interesting to me that it is in the touch of a hand that he could have potentially realized so much in her and later we learn that he has the hands of a healer—perhaps he sensed that there was something that needed healing. She seems to become obsessed with him. When she is dubbed Shieldmaiden of Rohan, she says, “’A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return.’ But as she spoke her eyes went to Aragorn who stood nearby.” (The King of the Golden Hall) This is not a very subtle hint, she’s going to miss him and she doesn’t even know him. But then, she doesn’t want to be left behind, she wants to fight beside these men of renown. As the group leaves Edoras,

“Aragorn looked back as they passed towards the gate. Alone Eowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She is longing to join them, why else would she don the garments of war?  He sees her as a solitary woman, left behind as the last defense Edoras. “Far over the plain Eowyn saw the glitter of their spears, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is left to be alone and surrounded in silence. This image doesn’t seem to be too terrible at first, but then, when one looks into her future in the books, you see that this could be the start of something else—something far worse. Or maybe, it’s the first sign of life from a seed that has been lying dormant for far too long. 

            The return of Aragorn from the Battle of Helm’s Deep with the Dunedain in “The Return of the King” is the first time the reader sees Eowyn in a long time, and she is all the more eager to join the war after that victory—she wants to be able to take part in that esteem. It is written, “for no mightier men had she seen than the Dunedain and the fair sons of Elrond; but on Aragorn most of all her eyes rested.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) The time and distance did not change her attitude towards him. She absorbs everything they will tell her of the battle with great eagerness. When Aragorn tells her that they will not be staying longer than one night because their road is an urgent one, at first she believes that they came to Edoras because he wanted to see her. He has to tell her, albeit gently, that he has not come to see her, but that his road brings him her way. She is appalled that he means to take the Paths of the Dead. She says to him, “I beg you to remain and ride with my brother; for then all our hearts will be gladdened, and our hope be the brighter.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) She doesn’t seem to understand his path has been appointed, and that he must go by the Paths of the Dead to Minas Tirith. It is interesting, she is concerned that he is riding to his death, but she seems more concerned that he is not riding to an honorable death in battle. She finally lets her desire to fight come to light.

“You are a stern lord and resolute and thus do men win renown. Lord, if you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She wants to ride to battle so she can prove her worth. Aragorn reminds her that she has a duty to her people—a responsibility that must be upheld. She finally admits that she does not want to be left behind any longer, she doesn’t want to be protected from war, she grows weary of waiting for the return of the men.

“A time may come soon, when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”(Aragorn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

 He basically tells her that her place in Edoras is just as noble as one on the battlefield, because when it comes right down to it she will be the one that picks up the pieces should all the warriors fall. He wants her to realize her place in the world is important too. 

            Eowyn’s “place” in the world is her biggest fear—she is a strong woman, but there is one thing that causes her fear.

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She is not afraid to fight, she is not afraid to die. This is quite possibly the strongest voice in “The Lord of the Rings” against the oppression of women. It is interesting that it even comes up in such a “boys book.” Tolkien does seem to be saying that it is wrong to just expect women to stay home and do nothing—but he also says that there is honor in that role. Aragorn seems perplexed, or at least curious, by this and asks what she does fear. “A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)              

          This proclamation finally circles back to her disapproval of Aragorn’s quest to the Paths of the Dead. She says that she only did not wish to see “a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn tells her that he does not want to see that either, and that is why he implores her to stay. He even tells her she has no errand in the South—which, when you think about it, she really did, it just wasn’t something he could recognize or see at the time. She tells him that the others that go with him have no errand in the South either but that, “They go only because they would not be parted from thee—because they love thee.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) And then she’s gone for the night. All along it has been a combination of her wanting to earn renown and also in loving him. 

            In the morning, she begs him yet again to let her ride with him, and it is with pain that he tells her she cannot. He did not look back as he rode away, “and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn wants to let her come with him, he understands what she wants, but it is not something he can give to her. She is traumatized at this dismissal. Perhaps she thought that he would be the one to give her a chance to earn her title because he is a man of action. “When they were lost to view, she turned, stumbling as one that is blind, and went back to her lodging.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) She is devastated to be left behind again. 

            The arrival of King Theoden and Eomer shows her ready for battle again, perhaps an attempt to cover up how she is really feeling, or perhaps a statement that she will not be left behind again. When Theoden asks her how she is, she says that she is well. Merry gets a different impression though. “…yet it seemed to Merry that her voice belied her, and he would have thought that she had been weeping, if that could be believed of one so stern of face.” (The Muster of Rohan) He isn’t the only one to notice, Theoden mentions that she seems grieved at Aragorn’s passing into the Paths of the Dead. Merry has become an esquire of Rohan, and Aragorn has requested to Eowyn that he be clad for battle. She provides him with all that he will need, and tells him, “Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I.” (Eowyn, The Muster of Rohan) When Merry is told that he will be left behind he too is distraught—he and Eowyn have that in common. She approaches him in the guise of a man, and offers to take him on her horse. Together, they ride to Minas Tirith in secret. For both of them, all of their friends have gone to war and they would not be left behind. 

            Both Merry and Eowyn were doubted, but they were both destined to do something great. Merry doesn’t realize that it is Eowyn he is riding with until they come up against the Witch King. Eowyn is defending King Theoden’s fallen body—she will do anything to prevent the winged-beast from feasting on his flesh—when the Witch King tells her that no living man can hinder him.

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”(Eowyn, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

 At this speech, Merry realizes that the man he was riding with was in fact the Shieldmaiden, “But the helm of her secrecy had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek.” (The Battle of the Pelennor Fields) She is finally doing what she has always desired—to die in honor and in battle. Merry rises up to help her, for he does not think that one so beautiful should die alone or unaided. Eowyn manages to kill the winged-beast, and a blow from the Witch King breaks her arm. Merry stabs him in the back of the “leg.” In his moment of distraction, she is able to plunge her sword into what would be his head. And so, Eowyn and Merry slay the Witch King, a mighty foe that no man could kill. She lies near death on the field of battle while Merry is able to talk to Theoden before he dies as well. 

            If one had any doubt of Eomer’s love for his sister, it is put to rest swiftly when he finds her “dead.” As a reader, I felt my heart break for him in that moment. I cannot imagine what I would do if my brother was killed in battle, and I didn’t even know he was there…much stronger would that pain be, I think, for a brother who lost a sister.

“He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.”(The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

He does not take the loss lightly, and rides off into the thick of battle again, perhaps seeking his own death because of the loss of everything he loved. It is fortunate for him that another looked to his sister and saw that she was not dead, but only near death. 

            Eowyn’s wounds were far deeper than just the bodily wounds she suffered at the hand of the Witch King—there were preexisting wounds. The healers at the Houses of Healing were not able to revive her, though her physical wounds were fairly simple. Gandalf says, “For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House.” (The Houses of Healing) Even Aragorn was troubled by her illness, “Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) It is here that Aragorn tries to identify what the deep-rooted problem is with the help of Gandalf and Eomer. He begins musing over what he had already perceived from her as he spoke to her in the earlier chapters.

“When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not Eomer?”(Aragorn, The Houses of Healing)

Eomer seems to be oblivious to this winter that she was dwelling in. He tells Aragorn and Gandalf that he had not perceived any frost until she saw Aragorn—the man that she wanted to be, essentially. He says that yes, she was distressed about the state of the King, but it was nothing serious enough to cause this kind of malady. Gandalf reminds him that he had other things to do to take his mind off of his uncle,

“…you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on. […] But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?”(Gandalf, The Houses of Healing)

She did not having anything in which to channel her energy. There was nothing for her to distract herself with. Her own self-view was so low that she didn’t think she was worth more than a piece of wood…how sad is that? Gandalf suspects that she felt she was something wild that needed to be caged in, and that all the men around her were causing her to believe this. Aragorn admits to thinking it was more related to himself, “Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) He was deeply saddened that he could not give her what she sought. He tells Eomer that he pitied her, and feared for her more than anything while he traveled the Paths of the Dead.

“And yet, Eomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan. […] But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown.”(Aragorn, the Houses of Healing)

Eowyn was in love with him because of what he was and what he stood for, not because of who he was. She is finally what she has always wanted to be—remembered for some great deed. It isn’t until Eomer calls to her that she awakens. They all wait with bated breath to see what she is like now that she is no longer slumbering. Gandalf tells her, “But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you awake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!” (The Houses of Healing) Eowyn admits that she is “healthy” again, “But to hope? I do not know.” (Eowyn, The Houses of Healing)  

            It is not until she meets Faramir that she is truly healed from all her maladies. They are both being kept in the Houses of Healing until they are well, and while she thinks that she is well, she is not. Her heart still longs to be doing great deeds. Faramir remarks that they have both been under the Shadow and that the same hand, Aragorn’s, drew them from it. To which she replies, “Shadow lies on me still.” (The Steward and the King) So it seems that she did wake to despair, and waits for other healing. It becomes very obvious right away that Faramir is taken by her. He knows that she is waiting for the return of Aragorn—she has been waiting seven days.

“But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

 Eowyn is able to be completely honest with him, though she pretends to be baffled by his statement—the reader knows that he has found her and does not wish to lose her. She is able to admit, “I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.” (Eowyn, The Steward and The King) Finally the stroke falls, and it does not seem as though darkness will be able to hold much more of a grip on Middle Earth—Faramir expresses this before kissing her brow. And in that moment the Shadow departs and the Sun is able to shine again. During this time together we learn that she does seek pity, though pity is what she receives from many but not Faramir. He understands her better than she seems to understand herself.

“You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now it. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. […] Do not scorn pity that is a gift of a gentle heart, Eowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful […] And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

What a speech. Now, if Eowyn had not had a change of heart after that, I doubt she would be one of my personal favorite characters. In that moment, she throws off the Shadow that surrounded her, and she is once again in the Sun. They agree to be married, and Faramir is able to say, “Here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, and now she is healed.” (The Steward and the King) She decides to stay in the Houses of Healing for a time and help those that must still remain there, for she finally has hope again. 

            Eowyn is able to be happy, and she has found herself. Tolkien speaks to feminism in an interesting way. Really, he presents both sides. The reader is able to understand why she is the way she is—seeking for something more than to be just a woman of the house. On the other hand, I am also able to see where Aragorn is coming from. No matter what her lot in life, she is important—for all things must be done. In a way, Tolkien is also speaking to the issue of identity crisis. Eowyn didn’t really know who she was, or what she was supposed to be doing. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t see her own worth. The last thing Aragorn says to Eowyn is, “I have wished you joy ever since I first saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.” (Many Partings) And so the reader watches this transformation of a woman so utterly lost to a woman of complete bliss. She is probably my favorite character because she does overcome her own self-doubts, and in the end she is able to live in peace. 

I hope you all enjoyed it... There are enough quotes throughout, you probably don't need another one at the end of the post.

Read. Write. Love.

[I'm going to post the essay I wrote for my independent study, at the request of Lisa. It's rather long, so bear with me.]

Read. Write. Love.

I’ve often heard it said, “The more you read the better you write.” Generally, I try to avoid clichés—because they’ve been said before, over and over and over again. This particular cliché really struck home this summer. At the beginning of the summer I read a lot, and that was mostly because I was giving the directive: “Pick an author you would like to emulate.” My mind froze up. I thought: I don’t want to “emulate” anyone because I want to be original. The journey to choosing and author was nearly as beneficial as the choice itself. (I could throw in a cliché about life being about the journey, not the ending, but I think one cliché is enough for a paper, don’t you?)

There were a lot of authors leading up to my choice of James A. Owen. I read Kristin Cashore’s “Graceling” and “Fire.” While I thoroughly enjoyed the books, it wasn’t something I wanted to necessarily settle on. All I could learn from her is how to really develop the landscape of the story—and I did take some notes. I read some Allison Crogan (“The Riddle” and some of “The Crow”), and while I loved the epic scale of her story it was long, and dense—good. As I read I learned about the way characters can interact with spiritual beings, something that was beneficial to my writing. She uses a lot of magic in her writing, something I’m not terribly interested in, but it did allow me to expand my thoughts on what magic could be. I read a Star Wars novel, “Betrayal” by Aaron Allston. (He was never in the running for “author of the summer,” Star Wars novelists are too prolific.) This book was a break from the YA lit I was surrounding myself with. I allowed myself to take a break and just read. Even then, I was picking up on his strong themes of loyalty; good versus evil; and what happens when the lines are blurred to grey. He developed strong battle sequences—and even in the midst of my Science Fiction secret pleasure, I learned something for myself.

They were all fantasy writers of the young adult genre (except for the Star Wars novel). At first this annoyed me—why couldn’t I find anything in the adult fantasy world? See, this stemmed from my issue with YA lit. I generally find the genre to be weak—underdeveloped and unchallenging to young readers. You could say that I’m an advocate for the classics. This coming from the girl that spent a good chunk of Middle School reading every Star Wars novel she could get her hands on. The girl that read “The Hobbit” in fourth grade, and “The Lord of the Rings” in fifth grade. Those were challenges though. Even some of the science in the Star Wars books was difficult. The whole time I was reading this summer, before I chose Owen, I felt my heart calling to me, “Tolkien is the writer you love. The writer you respect the most.” I couldn’t choose Tolkien though—I had read the bulk of his work recently. While he is the “Father of Fantasy” I couldn’t choose him. Though my heart will always know that he is my inspiration for so many things, I needed to find someone else that I could learn from this summer.

My grandparents gave me the book “Here, There be Dragons” when it was first published. They gave it to me in hardcover. I didn’t read it. It sat on my shelf with good intentions wrapped around it, but the hardcover deterred me from every picking it up. I sold it last summer when I bought a paperback of the same book. Still, I did not read it. I was staring at my bookshelf this summer after reading all those other books—still unsure of whom my author would be—when I saw it, staring at me. (Literally, the spine of the book has a dragon’s head on it.) I picked it up, read a few pages, and decided that James A. Owen would be my author. In less than a chapter I had decided that he would be my author and I would read all of his books. What could have possibly caused me to be so rash? Why didn’t I read the entirety of the first book before deciding he was the one? I had read at least one full book of the other authors before deciding that they were not the ones for me.

Admittedly, one of the factors that drew me in was that Tolkien, or John, was the protagonist along with Lewis, or Jack, and Charles Williams (a lesser known writer more well known as an editor for the Oxford Press). You don’t actually find out for sure that it is Tolkien and Lewis until the end of the book when they sign their names.

The other factor—the more important one—is that what Owen was doing in his books was tying together all different kinds of mythology and fantasy. He created the Archipelago of Dreams, a physical place tied to the Summerland (our version of reality), that the Caretakers of the Imaginarium Geographic (a book of maps of the Archipelago). These Caretakers are the great writers of fantasy and science fiction—H.G. Wells, Jules Verne, William Shakespeare, Chaucer, Alexandre Dumas, Jacob Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and the list goes on. The most recent Caretakers are the ones we follow in these books, Tolkien, Lewis, and Williams.

The scope of what Owen has done is incredible. He has taken on the role of understanding all of these old stories—sometimes multiple versions of the same story—and splicing them together so the reader can see how they all connect. Really, what he’s done is taken every fantasy and mushed it together, which sounds incredibly unoriginal. The premise of his story is, “How did Tolkien and Lewis come to create their stories?” and he created a fictional version of how that came to pass. All throughout the books I see shadows of Aragorn, Edmund, Eowyn, Aslan, Frodo, Mr. Beaver, and the Great Ring. He has taken all of the things that I love in these stories and broken them down to their base elements. In the Author’s note at the end of “The Search for the Red Dragon” he wrote, “It was a passion of J.R.R. Tolkien’s to try to find the oldest versions of the world’s stories. So using that conceit as a template, I was able to write early versions of “Hansel and Gretel” and even wink at “Snow White” with Medea’s mirror.” (pg. 370)

Any fantasy lover should read these books. I think what ultimately drove me to choose him was that he didn’t just write a fantasy—he wrote about all fantasies. I got a little bit of everything. I didn’t have to choose my favorite work of the genre because he had already compiled it together for me. The stories that created his world may not have been original, but the way he constructed them is profoundly unique. As I was reading his books I kept thinking to myself, “This is the ultimate fanfiction.” In a way it is, but it’s also much more.

Something I appreciated is that he made allusions to King Arthur essentially being the inspiration for Tolkien’s Aragorn without coming right and saying: “Aragorn’s story is a version of King Arthur.” All of the old stories, myths, reminded me of so many things from “The Lord of the Rings” and “The Chronicles of Narnia” and even “Star Wars.” It took me a long time to come to the realization that sometimes it’s not about creating a perfectly original story—because you can’t—and that it’s sometimes better if you pull from old mythologies—because they resonate with the readers. We take comfort in the familiar, in the known worlds. I’m not saying I want to start over and copycat all other writers. I’m saying that I don’t need to be worried about certain characters having King Arthur complexes. (Not that any of mine directly have that problem.) I found a quote by C.S. Lewis recently that said, “Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.” I used to worry about “Morning Star” because it started out as being a copycat of “The Lord of the Rings” and “Star Wars.” It’s grown though, and while I can still see elements of Tolkien in my writing, it’s not Tolkien.

Owen certainly had some “power quotes” that caused me think deeper about the elements of story writing. (That’s what I look for when I’m reading, lines that strike me in a profound way.) Often times, these quotes come from older characters.

“Power is a thing earned, not something that may be passed along with the possession of objects like thrones…or rings, for that matter. Power, true power, comes from the belief in true things, and the willingness to stand behind that belief, even if the universe itself conspires to thwart your plans. Chaos may settle; flames may die; worlds may rise and fall. But true things will remain so, and will never fail to guide you to your goals.”

                                                                    (“Here, There be Dragons,” 105)

This came from the dragon Samaranth. It made me pause and think, where are my characters getting their power? Morning Star, is she powerful because she is going to be queen, because she will have the throne of Starian? It was a possibility. But as I thought about it more, I realized that that wasn’t true at all. Tonraeth believes power comes from land, that’s why he is trying to take over Starian and the other Elven realms. He believes that power comes from possession, something that the protagonists are not in agreement with. They realize that power comes from something deeper—spiritual. They understand that no matter what happens to their world, though they will die defending it, that Allamar is still in control, not Tonraeth.

“You understand that all that happens is not mere cause and effect, but that there are causes underlying causes, and it is those that truly shape the events of history.”

                                                                (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 80)

This quote comes from one of the Morgaine (straight from Avalon) and it offered up an interesting idea about history, and how history is developed. So as I started fleshing out what happened to Tonraeth and why he is so power hungry I realized it couldn’t just be something as simple as wanting his own country, there had to be something more. Why wasn’t he going to be given his own piece of land? In the same way, why is Morning Star so determined to save the family of an Elve that she just met? What is it that pushes her over the edge and causes her to leave her mother? I’m developing the answers to these questions, and others like them, but in the spirit of story telling I am not going to lay them out here.

“All things grow. All things change. And eventually, all things must pass. It is the way of life. To stay young is to remove oneself from the motion of the world. But to grow up is to take hold of that motion, and use it, and shape the world for those who come after. It is not a choice. It is a responsibility.”

                                                      (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 313-314)

This quote comes from Peter Pan, and it made me think of Katra and her situation. She had a hard childhood, and she faced a lot of persecution as she grew up. But she didn’t let that make her less of a person. She took hold of the way her world was moving by becoming a slave driver, and she did everything in her power to make that world better for those that would follow by subtly protecting her fellow slaves. She didn’t see it as just a choice, but also as a responsibility. I’m looking into how I can have other characters use the same view. Perhaps this is also evident in Morning Star—perhaps this is one of her underlying causes.

This next quote is one that I just found to be interesting. H.G. Wells (also known as Bert in these books) makes the comment about John (Tolkien), “He’s not built to write straight accounts…No, John’s an inventor, pure and simple…John has within himself entire realities that he’s going to create and share with the world. And to be honest, I think his legacy is going to eclipse us all.” (“The Search for the Red Dragon,” 357) This couldn’t be a more accurate statement. Tolkien may have used the old legends and myths to fuel his stories, but he ultimately created something that has yet to be surpassed in the fantasy world (in my opinion, some would argue that Harry Potter is greater). As a writer, I want to have “entire realities” inside of me that are just waiting to be told. I want that kind of passion for my writing, that kind of drive.

“Language gives us the ability to make metaphors, but really, that’s all myths are, whether or not they were created around real happenings.”

                                                                              (“The Indigo King,” 23-24)

 

Hugo Dyson is the “character” to have said this. Myths are metaphors. While my story may not be a myth because it is not the foundation of an actual religion on culture, it is a mythology in that it tells a story about a group of people and how they came to be. If my story is a myth, then it is also a metaphor. That raises the question: What is it a metaphor of? I’ve drawn in elements of Christianity, and other influences. I need to work on developing this idea more deeply.

“A thimble might be a kiss, a flower might be a name, and a dragon might be a ship. Sometimes things are simply what we need them to be. And sometimes things are not what we expect.”

                                                                               (“The Indigo King,” 297)

This speaks the idea of metaphor. As I write “Morning Star” I have been trying to find ways to create metaphors within the greater metaphor. For instance, Katra’s necklace that she inadvertently stole. What is that a metaphor for? I know it is something, but cannot put my finger on what it is. Perhaps that’s the beauty of story telling though, I don’t always know what will happen, but it does happen. I need the necklace to be something, but I imagine it will be something I do not expect.

“And it seems that one man, in the right place, an’ at th’ right time, can do an awful lot.”

                                                                                   (“The Indigo King,” 300)

 The idea of heroes is one that runs deep in any kind of mythology. We like to say that one person can make a difference, but when we look at ourselves we don’t think that we can do anything without the help of a group. There is something to be said here. How can my characters make an impact on one another—on their world? We’re going to see how the death of one child can change an entire group of people—the way they think, the way they act, the way they perceive each other. The voice that speaks to Morning Star said, “You did what you could with what you had at the time.” (paraphrase) She has a host of people supporting her, but this voice is telling her over and over again that she doesn’t need them; she wants them. Nobody wants to be alone. So yes, one man can make a difference, but maybe he’s more likely to act if he has support of others.

“The authority does not now and never has lain with those of royal blood. Rather, it lies within those of noble worth. And having one does not necessarily guarantee the other.”

                                                                              (“The Indigo King,” 322)

This comes from Samaranth again, a younger version of him. This is perhaps an idea that will come through more clearly in “Evening Star.” I do want to draw attention to the nobility of Morning Star and Evean (and the others) not coming from their royal blood, but rather from something else within themselves. There is more to them than just a royal lineage. This is something that will become more evident in Katra as well, as the story progresses. On the other hand, we also see Tonraeth, of high blood, not having much in way of noble worth. There is much that could come from this “simple” idea.

I could go on and on about this kind of thing—mostly because it all reminds me of linguistics, and that fascinates me. I didn’t think I would ever like the notion of emulating another writer. As I read Owen I saw many things that I loved—his character development, his world as a geographical place, his rules for time travel and magic. Mostly, I loved the way he got me thinking. There are two other books of his that, given more time and space, I would have also written about. They too had some inspiring “power lines.” 

While the journey to discover an author was also beneficial, reaching the choice was far more rewarding. In this circumstance, the end of the journey far outweighed the journey itself. (Breaking clichés one at a time.)

Heartache to heartache, we stand...

Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.

Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).

I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.

As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)

When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.

Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.

I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.

My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."

I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."

"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]

I don't want your sympathy or pity...

It's time to talk about this thing that I've been carrying around for a while. A thing that I have not addressed because it hurt. And no matter how many times I sang, Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place... I still felt the sting.

A day I will never forget. I even wrote a letter for the box I will one day give to my husband explaining what had happened. And I try not to litter that space with nonsensical things. (Though it's hard not to some days.)

November 1, 2010. I have mentioned this briefly before. It was a Monday night and I had only been on campus for about 24 hours after getting back from a weekend at home. I was working on Greek when I got the phone call from what my caller id said was Mom. Not knowing what she could have wanted after only spending an entire weekend with me, I answered a little annoyed at the disturbance. But it wasn't Mom, it was Josef. And I never heard his voice sound so soft on the phone before.

"Anna boo?"

"Yeah, what's up? Why are you on Mom's phone?"

"Mine's dead." Pause. "Mr. Cushing passed away today."

Pause. He has to be kidding. There's no way. "What?"

"Mom wants to talk to you."

I don't remember what she said. I don't remember much of anything as far as words go.

I remember disregarding my Greek flash cards. I remember laying on the floor; broken. I remember being thankful my roommate was at class. I remember finally crawling into bed and crying more.

When LeAnn returned I had to explain what was wrong. My words did not convey why I was so upset. I didn't know then why I was so upset. I'm still not entirely sure.

The emails I sent to my professors and boss were short. I wouldn't be in class on Tuesday due to the loss of a mentor.

A mentor.


He was a mentor, a man I respected as a teacher, as a scientist. I wrote him a letter explaining how thankful I was to have him as my middle school science teacher. How I couldn't think of anyone that could have made the seventh grade sex-talk less awkward. How his genuine concern that his students were actually learning deeply impacted my view on educators. How much I appreciated him using acid to unstick my glued fingertips. How he would have made an excellent school administrator. How I remember that he shared not only my dad's first name but also his middle name.

It's strange, the memories we hang on to.

I went home on Tuesday to vote, and also to be alone. The hour drive was rough. Voting was harder--it was at a school and one of the administrators was talking about, "the death of that teacher at that rural school." His name was Mr. David Lee Cushing, and he was one of the best teachers I ever had.


Really, I wanted to talk to people that knew who he was. (As much as I love and appreciate my roommate, she didn't know who I was talking about. And she doesn't know what to do with crying, she told me so. I love you, LeAnn.)  But we didn't talk about it. Not really. Mom said she thought it was a heart attack and Dad couldn't remember "what's-his-face's" name. So I went back to school after dinner not feeling any better.

I went back to classes on Wednesday. I think Blanco would have given me another day if I had asked. He made sure I was okay after class, offered some good words of encouragement and extra Greek help. Thursday was when all of my profs asked how I was doing. Numb.


When Friday rolled around I got dressed up after class and went back to Grand Island. It was the day of the visitation. I went into the church hoping, praying, for some closure once I saw the body. But there was no body. It was an unexpected death (and I think that's why I was shocked to tears) and an early burial. He was only 40.

While I was standing there alone, trying not to cry, I heard his dad speaking. They sound the same, and when I turned to see who it was I knew immediately it was his father. He was talking to someone about the cause of death--I had heard it was a heart attack (he was overweight). It turns out that he had some kind of disease that causes liquid to fill the lungs, I can't recall what it's called now. They thought he was having a hard time breathing, and so laid down on the floor to try to clear his airway. It was too late when he realized that his lungs were filling with fluid. He couldn't get up. He essentially drowned.

I almost lost it. He drowned. What a painful way to die. I had to leave. I went out to my car and tried to call Claire. I tried to call LeAnn. I knew they were all busy. Finally, I called Cole. He was playing a game with his family, but he took the time to listen to me cry for a good five minutes.

I called Dad, told him I was done at the visitation. I drove an hour just to stand in a room for ten minutes and not even see the body. We went out to eat together. We didn't talk about it over dinner. It wasn't until we were out on the sidewalk and I was getting ready to go back to Seward that we finally talked about it.

He put his arm around me and asked me how it went. I told him the whole story. Sometimes what a girl needs is to just cry into her daddy's shoulder when the world doesn't make sense. When I finally got myself under control (it took a visit to the art gallery where Mom shows her work) I was able to drive back to Seward.

Why is this coming up now? A friend's dad died this last month (July). And she seemed to be handling the death of her father much better than I handled the death of my teacher. The difference is that she had weeks of preparing for that loss and I was blindsided.

Life is a funny thing.

And all will turn to silver glass...

I took Hansi outside today so he could do his doggy duty. It was warm, but not unpleasantly hot. So, while he snooted out a spot, I took a seat on the back step. And for the first time, in a long time, I just watched the land and listened to the whistles and buzzes in the air.

Four acres of land that is ours. Four acres that I really don't take the time to examine very often. When I do spend time with the flora and fauna I'm mowing, and I have my iPod in and I don't listen to anything but the loud hum of the riding mower and the blaring ear buds.

But the earth has a music of its own.

I started thinking about what this land means to my Dad, as part of his inheritance. And I wonder what will happen to it someday. My Aunt's husband always talks about windmills, which my dad has responded to with, "Over my dead body." He doesn't want anything to happen to this place that will "mar the landscape." He cherishes this good green earth. Why don't I think about it the same way?

I haven't worked these fields like he has--I spent my time in another farmer's corn, pulling tassels. Even when I was working I was singing, trying to make myself forget the heat and the thirst that followed me.

Sometimes I wish I could know what my dad thinks when he sees the fields that his father once worked so hard to maintain. I like to think that the fields are part of Grandpa Rob that were left behind and that when Dad walks around them (while another farmer works them now) he talks to his dad about the things he didn't get to say when he was alive. About how his daughter has the same gait as he did (apparently). About the joys of being married--and the hardships. About his son that would make his grandpa so proud. About the four grandchildren he never met. About how he works with computers now, but he did cling to his art for a long time.

You see, they were both artists, just of a different nature. Grandpa was an artist of the land: year after year he would work to mold the fields and livestock into a living painting, one that changed with the seasons. Dad, well, he would paint the landscape, but he was also a sculptor, he too moved the clay into a piece of art.

I think my Oma works her gardens and the yard to so much because she wants to feel close to him, too. She protects the farm, she's wrapped her entire being around its upkeep. When she is outside in this Nebraska sun, I think she imagines my Grandpa coming home from the fields and giving her a dusty hug. I wish I could witness this love.

So tonight, I sat on the back step and breathed deep the air that my Grandpa must have loved so dearly. I wondered what it will be like someday when I bring kids back to visit my parents. And I thought of where I will be in a little over a year. Will I still be breathing in the Nebraska air, or will I be in Iowa City surrounded by suburbs?

I pray that I will never forget the whistling, buzzing, and humming of this place. That I would not forget the beauty of the grass that fights against the weeds every year. The perfect rows of the cornfields. How could this land still suffer Adam's curse? If this is the curse, this land of plenty, then I cannot imagine what it was like in the Garden.

"In a dry and thirsty land, Lord you are the rain." [Casting Crowns]

Like butter scraped over too much bread...

What am I doing tonight?

On the floor, on my stomach, typing away at Morning Star -- there's an engagement! I'm excited that such an emotional scene last night could evolve into something so expected, but not at that moment. It's all about timing. I'm sipping coffee, writing, and yes, half watching Magnum PI.

And you know what? I have a headache. Normally I'm pretty decent at multitasking, but I'm not tonight. My brain isn't keeping up with what I want to be doing. Part of that is from lack of sleep--I was up rather late last night, writing. The night is still young though, and so I'm looking for ways to keep myself awake. (Hence the decaf coffee. I know, it's decaf, but it's hot.)

I started a new workout program this week, and I'm really excited about it. But it's way more intense than what I had been doing, and so I'm a little sore in the shoulders. And I've been having chronic stomach pain every evening. (Just a general ickyness.)

Then there's the upcoming GRE. That's got me more than just a little stressed out. Last night, a friend reminded me that not all colleges care about this test. In fact, the school I'm most interested in said that it wasn't a requirement, but what recommended. Why am I taking it then? Hopefully I'll do well on it. I need to study. I mean, I really need to buckle down and study. There are so many other things that occupy my mind though... I know that while I'm testing I'll start thinking about Elves and Fantasy worlds... but I should study anyway, and put forth a strong effort.

I also didn't get a letter in the mail on time today. And that upsets me. When did I start slacking with putting letters in the mailbox? That's not even the worst of it, I have letters backed up waiting for responses from the end of June. I should do that. I really should, and I know I should. So why haven't I?

There are pictures that need to be taken. I need to get my Etsy account all squared away with product pictures. Maybe my cousin will be a bag model for me...I'll have to call her sometime soon.

And now I am indescribably thankful that I did not get a job this summer.

Nerd factor of the night: I'm drinking coffee from a Lord of the Rings mug...that I designed. It's pretty sweet, not going to lie.

"You don't even have to talk about what you're talking about. If you know what I mean." [Magnum PI]

You love me in my weakness...

So, I'm writing tonight--shoving another scene in where one didn't exist before. But the space was aching for something so of course I had to close my eyes for a bit while I was showering and think about what was needed.

What came out?

Self-doubt in my lead female.

A voice that has no body. (Two words, folks, not nobody but literally lacks a body. Or does it?)

Frustration.

The waking of a companion.

Strong arms.

Weeping.

An emotionally drained writer. But in a very good way.

You see, there was something building between these two characters--some tension that would need to be addressed at some point anyway.

Really what my lady-character is learning is that she is loved even in her weakness--even when she's a blubbering mess and doesn't have everything put together. Even when she thinks she's going crazy.

But don't we need some encouragement like that took some days?

It's been a while since I cried a good cry. Did you know that crying is healthy? It's good for your emotional state to alleviate some of that pressure. mmhmm. It's not for lack of reason that I haven't cried--it's for lack of strong arms. (Not that I don't think someone would step up if I needed....I just feel rather disconnected right now, and that's my own fault.)

Anyhow, this is basically me saying that I wish I was in my book and able to have a break down and my guy would just hold me until I stopped beating on his chest.... uh........ yeah. Don't misunderstand me, I really am content to just be single right now.

Oh boy. This is why I don't blog casually at 1:06 in the morning... Forgive me for how disjointed this is.

I was going to make an obvious connection and say that of course God is always there to hold me when I'm having a break down. But really, as I started going I realized that I just want a hug. And while God can give me metaphorical hugs, it's not quite the same as a physical friend hug. (And I think He can speak through friend-hugs.)

I should go to bed or go back to writing. Writing it is!

"I fall at Your feet and worship You with tears." [Danny Oertli]

You will find that the world has changed forever...

There is something about the way a poet speaks to another poet. Something about the way a writer can nod and hum to the other writer. There is an understanding that passes between the kindred spirit.

These are our homegrown words. We protect them--we would defend against an army of critics for them. Because they are the pieces of our souls that we don't just let any conversation see.

These are the things that world would scoff at if we said them in the day-to-day. So we hide them. Feed them, nourish them with the scraps we save back. And they grow in secret. We went to show them off because, oh, they grow up so beautifully.

So when you meet another and you can tell in the way they save back words and phrases and ideas. You can tell by the way they live their quiet existence observing, borrowing from the "real" world. But you can see it in their eyes that they aren't full-time residence of the world we call "real." No, their mind is in a world far realer, far fairer to them.

And you may say, "Hello." But what you mean is, "I have a secret, too." Sometimes the trust develops so quickly you're not sure where it began, but you know in your heart, This person understand who I am, who I want to be.


There's something in the way a poet can talk to another poet. Sometimes without words because poetry runs deeper than the words themselves. But even in the silence you understand the struggle of home-grown words.

"I don't speak often cause I don't speak well. Every song I write has a story to tell." [Ginny Owens]

Home sweet home...

Some things that I learned while house sitting:

1. Light bulbs burn out at the most unlikely time. Don't let it throw you off, even if they are unusual sizes.

2. Eventually, toilet bowl seats break. It has nothing to do with you--it just happens. And if you freak out enough and have enough nightmares you're bound to find out that the owner of said toilet broke her gramma's a week earlier. You'll feel better.

3. Cats are strange creatures. They're adorable, but they're strange. Don't let their cute appearance fool you--they play dirty. I've never had so many scratches.

4. Neighbor ladies and lovely, make a point to meet them before the last day of house sitting.

5. If you live in the country and house sit in town over the Fourth of July, don't be alarmed if it sounds like a war just erupted on the front lawn--it's apparently very normal.

6. If a cat is hungry enough in the morning and you're still sleeping he will lick and bite your elbow. And then you're arm. And he'll try to get to your face, but if you're lucky his whiskers will wake you up.

7. Some cats like helping you make the bed.

8. Some cats can open doors--beware.

9. You may think your barky dog is annoying, but you'll miss his cuddling.

10. People in town mow their lawn in columns, they don't go around in circles like you do on a four acre lot. Don't be scared of breaking your pattern.

11. People will come and pray over your house when you're not there, and they'll leave you a little flier telling you that they're praying. It's a nice gesture, but also kind of creepy.

12. The guy that checks the meter will knock on your door at an ungodly hour. He's just doing his job, be nice and try not to look like the living dead.

13. The garbage guy makes a lot of noise, and actually picks up early in the morning--it's not just a myth!

14. It's nice managing your own home. The day-to-day chores are actually enjoyable if you turn the music on loud enough. It's also easier with just one person to care for.

15. Don't forget about the plant. You will kill it in three weeks. You will turn out to be your mother's daughter. You will regret this gene.

16. Thunderstorms are scarier when you only have the cats and no weather alarms (no matter how much you loath that weather alarm, you do feel saver with it).

17. Reading seems to be more difficult to focus on while staying in another person's house...mostly because you can't figure out how to make the tea because you don't know where anything is.

18. Falling asleep on the couch with TVLand playing is incredibly easy. And waking up to "The Nanny" can be jarring.

19. It's harder living in two places in one town than two places across the state from one another.

20. Sing in the shower as loud as you want. There is no one for you to disturb.

"This is home, now I'm finally where I belong."

There's a hole in the wall...

And I'm finally able to get a glimpse of why. Things are making sense now that didn't fit before. Some of the changes that our family underwent my senior year of high school finally have a more definite purpose.

Last weekend, we found out that some of our family friends have decided to be full time missionaries in Zambia, Africa. The parents will hopefully move out there in a year. I'm fairly certain that three of them will live out there during next summer, and one will at least visit. (Of course that's a year from now, so the summer plans could change as far as logistics go.)

I'm excited for them. They went on a mission trip to Zambia this summer and it solidified this idea that they had had of becoming missionaries. They only have one kid left in high school, and he'll be graduating this year. The timing couldn't be more ideal--there won't be any kids in the house, they don't have grandkids yet. They'll be signing on for a five year contract, and then they'll see from there.

When they told us, it was all I could do to not start crying. When you're friends with an entire family it's hard to say good bye to any one, let alone two.

I'm anxious to see how God works through this, in both their lives and in their friends here.

God is working big things this week, period.

I was also asked if I would be willing to help our youth pastor put together a youth conference. This will be a glimpse of my future. I couldn't be more excited.

Starting this Sunday I will also be teaching children's church for kindergarten and first grade.

"He gives and takes away."

If a double decker bus crashes into us...

Yesterday was a day of firsts. And it is here that I want to immortalize them.

1. The Wedding

No, no, I didn't get married. My brother was hired to do the videography of a wedding at our church. He needed an assistant, and I was happy to oblige. I love weddings! Drinks all around! (And by "drinks" I mean punch of the nonalcoholic variety.) It was a good experience, if not a little strange. (We didn't know the bride, and only recognized the groom as someone I thought was already married.) The bride asked me, "So, are you teaching him?" HA! No...I'm the assistant. I'm just doing what he tells me to do. Although, I have been to a lot more weddings than he has, so it was good that I was there and knew what to expect for certain things.

2. Buying an R-rated Movie

That's right, I bought my first R-rated movie. But it wasn't for me, it was for my dad. It was a western that we had watched in a hotel room while we were on vacation a few years ago: "Open Range." It was good, and we couldn't believe that it was rated R. Walmart had it for a good deal. So, it was my first time getting carded for something other than glue at a craft store. The cashier lady wasn't going to check my ID, and then she looked at me and said, "Yeah, you look young. I'll need to see your ID. ... How old are you anyway?" 20 "Oh, sorry."

3. The Car Accident

After we went to Walmart, Josef and I went to our cousin's house to celebrate her parents' 30th wedding anniversary. It was great to sit and visit with family. We didn't leave until around 10 pm. It's a strange thing, really.

Driving along, going the speed limit (I was actively fighting my lead-foot condition), leaving the radio off to sing a cappella with my little brother, and then seeing a turn signal from my right on a one-way street. My spot in the left lane was suddenly threatened. I think I said aloud, "What are they doing? Oh, crap!" And my feet were doing their own thing, and my hands yanked the wheel left, into the parking spaces. Still, there was the impact, did I blink?

I stopped the car, turned the blinkers on--why did I think of that and not the horn when it could have really mattered? I've never been closer to swearing in my entire life, and I admit that I said the Lord's name in vain, "Oh my God, what just happened?" I could say it was a prayer, but that would be a lie.

I knew Dad was behind me in the truck, did he see what happened? Would he stop? When I opened my car door, and Josef got out of his side--the side of impact--my only thought was of my dad. I didn't walk around the car to assess the damage, maybe I didn't want to see. I didn't ask Josef if he was okay, the only think I told him was to stay by the car. (He was obviously okay; walking and talking, just as shaken as me.)

Then I was walking down the middle of the road, yelling for my dad, "Daddy! He just freakin' hit me!" Really, I was screaming, unbelieving of what just happened, needing to know it was okay. Thank God I was still wearing heals, they slowed me down, and before I could continue yelling I realized what I was doing and shut my mouth, letting the screams die in my throat and prevent further damage.

I'm not sure how, but it didn't take me long to catch up to him, and I was holding his hand, walking towards the other car; the car that I thought was going to drive away. (No fear, their bumper and license plate was in the middle of the intersection.) But they didn't. I saw the woman get out of the car, and Mom was on 911. The passenger of the other vehicle started running after we all confirmed we were unhurt. Mom told the dispatcher, they were ready to chase him down, but he was just going to get her boyfriend, whom she was going to see.

All the while, I wanted to yell at her and ask her what she was thinking; turning left from the right lane on a one way. But I didn't. I was shaking--a result of one of the biggest adrenaline rushes I have ever had. Mom asked me if I was okay once she was done on the phone. I wasn't as upset as much as I was angry. And I wanted to cry, felt like I should cry, but I didn't. She was the one to go back and confirm that Josef was okay. I was the last person to look at the damage. I saw the bumper in the road of the other vehicle, and I didn't want to face what I was sure to be a disaster.

Thankfully: Nobody was hurt except her car and Jimmy (our car). The lady was insured. She confirmed what Josef told the cop. The cop called the towing company. God gave me enough grace to shut my mouth and just be quiet after that initial outburst. Mom and Dad were driving behind us. My Daddy has strong hands, able to hold his little girl's while I faced one of the worst "firsts" of the year.

It was almost midnight by the time we got home. But sleep wouldn't find me for several hours.

"To die by your side, what a heavenly way to die." [Cover by Anberlin]