I should be more prolific.
Somedays I am overwhelmed with creativity.
I sit and sew and sew until my fingers are dry from the textiles and burned from the iron. If I didn't have a job that required me to go to school with the little ones at 7:45 in the morning, I would sew until the hours of the morning when everyone else in the house is sleeping soundly and unaware of the humming of the small machine that has stitched together the pieces of quilts and purses and clothing and pillowcases. And it feels like I just keep the thread running, much like the sentence before that describes it, while my eyes watch the magic of the machine shape usable things.
Or, maybe I'll sit and knit and knit until my thumb is bruised for pushing the needles back and my wrist hurts from the twisting. But I can see the single strand become something strong and useful--something important for the winter chill that is sure to come. Just yesterday, I made two hats that will be gifts on Christmas morning, and I began work on a scarf.
I don't always sit, sometimes I stand and bake until my feet hurt and the house smells like cupcakes or brownies or cookies. These things take little time, and I can watch them rise in the oven. Others may smile as they bite into one even as they reach for another.
These things are my therapy. If I really want to feel better about whatever might be dragging me down, I need to set creation-idle hands to work on a new project. These things I can watch form and see to completion.
I'm still not writing the way I should be. I'm not always making myself present. Because, honestly, most days I get home from the school with the little ones and I just want to sleep or do nothing. I find myself drained of creativity...and I'm not moving forward like I want to be. I can't see the pieces of my own quilt coming together, or all the stitches in my scarf, or the ingredients in my cake to see what flavor I will be. My life feels like it's standing still.
As my life is still, so is my writing. When I create the words come easily, something about the workings of my hands activating the workings of my mind. And then I run into the issue of time.
I should be more prolific.
I say this despite the two unfinished quilts strewn about the living room and the unfinished scarf in my bedroom...and the several unfinished stories on my hard drive.
I should be more prolific and finish these things to make room for new things.
Showing posts with label growing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing. Show all posts
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
You never stop learning the important lessons....
I've been learning a lot about myself lately. Working in an elementary school has certainly lent to this "growth spurt."
For example, I've been learning about the kind of parent I'll be. I mean, we all hope to be the stellar parents that the Hallmark movies show us, but when it comes right down to it we're human and we're bound to make mistakes. That doesn't mean I can't learn from the parents at my school--the good and the bad.
Some parents make a point of coming to eat lunch with their kids once a week--I think this is a neat idea, though maybe a bit unrealistic depending on the work situation. I do think I'll try to make it at least once a month though...just so I can see how the kids all interact together.
If a teacher tells me my child may have a learning disability, I will be the first one to sign off on the paperwork--I'd rather know the name of the beast and face it head on then let it terrorize my child out of fear that it may be difficult to tame.
Medical issues. We'll get them taken care of.
We're going to read. I'll read them bedtime stories and then I'll work on their reading with them--like my parents did for me.
If the teacher or administration says my kid has a behavior issue in school I will believe them. Kids aren't always perfect angels.
And I think I'll figure out some way to make sure the teachers knows he/she is appreciated. (We have parents that bring their teachers things to keep them motivated and inspired--calendars and sticknote pads with quotes, etc.)
Most profoundly though, I've learned that I have a love for broken things.
Some of the kids I love the most--care about and worry about the most--are the ones that have behavior issues and struggle with reading and math. Now, this comes mostly from working with them the most. I can't tell you how sick I feel though when a little girl is so lonely at home that she can hardly bear the thought of going into a crowded classroom where she has no friends--and she's clutching at my fingers, hoping that I will just listen to her. So I get hugs from the kids that need the most love...and I can't say that I mind.
It's funny, these same kids that are stealing my heart now are the kids that drove me nuts when I was in their classes with them. I always hated how the troublemakers got the most attention... but when I look back on it, they probably needed it more than I did. I didn't go home to a mom that was so preoccupied she couldn't read me a story. I didn't go home to a sister that told me she hated. I didn't go home to find out that my dad was going to jail. My home was always filled with love and support.
I didn't understand that then. I'm glad I'm still learning now.
For example, I've been learning about the kind of parent I'll be. I mean, we all hope to be the stellar parents that the Hallmark movies show us, but when it comes right down to it we're human and we're bound to make mistakes. That doesn't mean I can't learn from the parents at my school--the good and the bad.
Some parents make a point of coming to eat lunch with their kids once a week--I think this is a neat idea, though maybe a bit unrealistic depending on the work situation. I do think I'll try to make it at least once a month though...just so I can see how the kids all interact together.
If a teacher tells me my child may have a learning disability, I will be the first one to sign off on the paperwork--I'd rather know the name of the beast and face it head on then let it terrorize my child out of fear that it may be difficult to tame.
Medical issues. We'll get them taken care of.
We're going to read. I'll read them bedtime stories and then I'll work on their reading with them--like my parents did for me.
If the teacher or administration says my kid has a behavior issue in school I will believe them. Kids aren't always perfect angels.
And I think I'll figure out some way to make sure the teachers knows he/she is appreciated. (We have parents that bring their teachers things to keep them motivated and inspired--calendars and sticknote pads with quotes, etc.)
Most profoundly though, I've learned that I have a love for broken things.
Some of the kids I love the most--care about and worry about the most--are the ones that have behavior issues and struggle with reading and math. Now, this comes mostly from working with them the most. I can't tell you how sick I feel though when a little girl is so lonely at home that she can hardly bear the thought of going into a crowded classroom where she has no friends--and she's clutching at my fingers, hoping that I will just listen to her. So I get hugs from the kids that need the most love...and I can't say that I mind.
It's funny, these same kids that are stealing my heart now are the kids that drove me nuts when I was in their classes with them. I always hated how the troublemakers got the most attention... but when I look back on it, they probably needed it more than I did. I didn't go home to a mom that was so preoccupied she couldn't read me a story. I didn't go home to a sister that told me she hated. I didn't go home to find out that my dad was going to jail. My home was always filled with love and support.
I didn't understand that then. I'm glad I'm still learning now.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
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]
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]
Monday, July 18, 2011
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]
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]
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
God, I want to dream again, take me where I've never been...
I may not have a job yet, hopefully that will come soon, but I've still been keeping busy. In a sense.
I've done a fair amount of reading--surprisingly enough it's all been young adult fiction, a genre I don't generally enjoy. It's not so much that I dislike it... I dislike what it's doing to young readers... but that's a post for another day. (And I know I'll get a lot of grief for it, so it can wait.) What I want to talk about is my independent study, actually.
I can't remember if I have posted about this directly yet or not... I've certainly thought about it a lot. In this independent study I'm required to write an hour a day (at least) and pick an author I would like to emulate. Which is a word I don't particularly like, I've decided. I don't want to be another author, but I do want to learn from them. Ideally, this would be an author that writes a similar genre to what I'm interested in, but do it differently than I do, or better than I do.
So I've been reading Fantasy. The problem with finding a fantasy writer of whom I am going to read all of their works is that they write a lot. Now, naturally the first author that came to mind was Tolkien. (How did you guess? You know me so well.) However, even he was a prolific writer in that he wrote the entire history of Middle Earth. I'm not ready to tackle all of that in a summer. And besides, I just did a study on him, and if I'm going to learn more then I need to pick someone new.
What have I been reading?
Well, I'm just about to finish reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. And let me tell you, for this being her debut novel, I'm impressed. She has created this fantasy world with skill, and I can tell she has put a lot of thought into it. I feel bad choosing her though because she's only written one book. But it's a good one. I'm excited to see how it ends.
I've also been reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I just need to read Mockingjay. I'm anxious to see how Suzanne Collins is going to wrap this all up--there are so many questions swirling around in my head. I don't think that I would classify these as strictly fantasy, but more as a fantastical dystopia.
In addition to these books (which mostly only take me a day to read) I've been reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Crogan. (I think that's how you spell her name.) These are intense. I first read The Naming my summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. And I had started The Riddle shortly after. It's been a book I return to off and on. I was determined to finish it this summer, and the rest of the four book series. These books make me happy, and not because they're particularly joyful--they're not. No, it's something else--they're challenging. Even for me, a senior in college. Yet, they're considered to be YA books because the protagonist is a young adult. But the reading is dense, full of detail and creative devices. And intrigue! I'm being surprised all the time, and I love that I can't necessarily predict it! I love that there are young adults out there reading these books and being actively challenged. I'll have to do some research and see if she's written anything else. I also love her mastery of scenery, something I desperately lack.
Most of all, while I'm writing, I'm beginning to realize that I'm afraid of what this could turn into. My instinct is to just pump the story out--finally finish Morning Star so she won't be a burden anymore. But I've wrapped my identity around this book--what if people don't like her? Each of those characters carries a piece of who I am, or who I want to be. Do I really want to release them out to a world that they may be ridiculed? Am I strong enough to handle that possibility?
And then there's the issue of names. The protagonist of Graceling: Katsa. The protagonist of The Hunger Games: Katniss. Thank goodness that The Books of Pellinor don't have a protagonist who's name starts with 'K.' And then there's Morning Star, who contains a character, one who will be fairly influential even if she doesn't get the book title: Katra. It makes me angry that these other books have come out before I could finish mine... mine that has been in the works for at least seven years. I don't want to be just another female writer with a female character who's name starts with a 'K.'
And am I writing for a young adult audience? That would be ironic, after all. Or am I more like Markus Zusak? Not writing for any particular audience, but telling a story I feel must be told. (Granted, my story doesn't carry as much weight as one about Nazis.) More on this when I talk about Young Adult literature I think.
Do you have any author suggestions?
"Forget the fear, it's just a crutch that tries to hold you back and turn your dreams to dust. All you need to do is just dream." [Fireflight]
I've done a fair amount of reading--surprisingly enough it's all been young adult fiction, a genre I don't generally enjoy. It's not so much that I dislike it... I dislike what it's doing to young readers... but that's a post for another day. (And I know I'll get a lot of grief for it, so it can wait.) What I want to talk about is my independent study, actually.
I can't remember if I have posted about this directly yet or not... I've certainly thought about it a lot. In this independent study I'm required to write an hour a day (at least) and pick an author I would like to emulate. Which is a word I don't particularly like, I've decided. I don't want to be another author, but I do want to learn from them. Ideally, this would be an author that writes a similar genre to what I'm interested in, but do it differently than I do, or better than I do.
So I've been reading Fantasy. The problem with finding a fantasy writer of whom I am going to read all of their works is that they write a lot. Now, naturally the first author that came to mind was Tolkien. (How did you guess? You know me so well.) However, even he was a prolific writer in that he wrote the entire history of Middle Earth. I'm not ready to tackle all of that in a summer. And besides, I just did a study on him, and if I'm going to learn more then I need to pick someone new.
What have I been reading?
Well, I'm just about to finish reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. And let me tell you, for this being her debut novel, I'm impressed. She has created this fantasy world with skill, and I can tell she has put a lot of thought into it. I feel bad choosing her though because she's only written one book. But it's a good one. I'm excited to see how it ends.
I've also been reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I just need to read Mockingjay. I'm anxious to see how Suzanne Collins is going to wrap this all up--there are so many questions swirling around in my head. I don't think that I would classify these as strictly fantasy, but more as a fantastical dystopia.
In addition to these books (which mostly only take me a day to read) I've been reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Crogan. (I think that's how you spell her name.) These are intense. I first read The Naming my summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. And I had started The Riddle shortly after. It's been a book I return to off and on. I was determined to finish it this summer, and the rest of the four book series. These books make me happy, and not because they're particularly joyful--they're not. No, it's something else--they're challenging. Even for me, a senior in college. Yet, they're considered to be YA books because the protagonist is a young adult. But the reading is dense, full of detail and creative devices. And intrigue! I'm being surprised all the time, and I love that I can't necessarily predict it! I love that there are young adults out there reading these books and being actively challenged. I'll have to do some research and see if she's written anything else. I also love her mastery of scenery, something I desperately lack.
Most of all, while I'm writing, I'm beginning to realize that I'm afraid of what this could turn into. My instinct is to just pump the story out--finally finish Morning Star so she won't be a burden anymore. But I've wrapped my identity around this book--what if people don't like her? Each of those characters carries a piece of who I am, or who I want to be. Do I really want to release them out to a world that they may be ridiculed? Am I strong enough to handle that possibility?
And then there's the issue of names. The protagonist of Graceling: Katsa. The protagonist of The Hunger Games: Katniss. Thank goodness that The Books of Pellinor don't have a protagonist who's name starts with 'K.' And then there's Morning Star, who contains a character, one who will be fairly influential even if she doesn't get the book title: Katra. It makes me angry that these other books have come out before I could finish mine... mine that has been in the works for at least seven years. I don't want to be just another female writer with a female character who's name starts with a 'K.'
And am I writing for a young adult audience? That would be ironic, after all. Or am I more like Markus Zusak? Not writing for any particular audience, but telling a story I feel must be told. (Granted, my story doesn't carry as much weight as one about Nazis.) More on this when I talk about Young Adult literature I think.
Do you have any author suggestions?
"Forget the fear, it's just a crutch that tries to hold you back and turn your dreams to dust. All you need to do is just dream." [Fireflight]
Monday, April 18, 2011
If my heart says I'm sorry, can we leave it at that?
So... I called to talk to my mom today. It wasn't anything big. I just wanted to run some plans by her for next Monday.
The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.
I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You sound angry."
Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....
"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"
Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.
She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.
And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.
I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.
I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.
I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?
"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]
The next thing I know, she's defensive and crying. Now, I can be snarky sometimes when talking to my mom, but I wasn't this time. I was very calm and explained it all to the best of my ability. I was completely reasonable.
I finally told her, "Mom, you have to tell me what you're thinking. I don't understand why you're upset. Or why you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You sound angry."
Then there was more blubbering. Something about a bad day and not understanding why I would want to carry through on these plans....
"Mom, can I please talk to Dad?"
Now, Dads are generally more reasonable than Moms, at least in my experience. He asked me to explain what was going on, so I did, this time I was on the brink of tears because I didn't understand what the big deal was. I don't think Dad did either. He talked me through it and then explained what was going on with Mom.
She did have a bad day. Her medical mystery is still a mystery, she had physical therapy this morning, and her first day back to work in a month was today. Yes. She had a bad day.
And I'm sorry that I made her cry, even if I don't understand. I'm sorry that our communication is so strained sometimes. I pray we "grow" out of this phase sooner than later.
I was able to have a good conversation with my Dad about the theology conference. I love talking to my daddy about God and where I'm at with my literary analysis of "The Lord of the Rings." He is the one person that I know will understand what I'm trying to say and will push me to develop it further. Now, professors do that too, of course, and so do my friends, but there's something about Dad...it's a part of home. He calls them my "Anna rants" and whenever I'm home he asks me what's new, and I know that he's looking for a "rant." Normally, I can lay one out pretty good. I think he just likes to know how I'm growing. I always know what Dad wants to hear about.
I don't know what Mom wants to know about. She's not on the same page as me as far as world view. She's far more... feminine than I am, in a sense. She's more apt to cry than I am. I always feel like she's one step behind me, like she's settled. And there is nothing wrong with that. I'm just learning that Dad is willing to grow with me.
I think my experience on campus as one of the few that aren't Lutheran has been a cause for him to grow as much as it has been for me. I used to call home all the time and say things like: Daddy, they think I'm less Christian...we need to make sure we don't do this to them, it hurts. Daddy, why can't we all just say that Jesus is all that matters and forget about our denominations? Daddy, why does the body fight so violently against itself? Daddy...why, Daddy?
"Mommy paints the sky." [Danny Oertli]
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...
The line that titles this blog is part of a sentence from the paper I presented on Friday at about 2:50.
I have a lot of thoughts jostling around inside my head right now. I wish I could put them all into an order...I know that they are connected, I'm just not entirely sure how right now. Maybe I'll make a list... hm. It's worth a shot.
1. All you have to do is breathe. So keep breathing. Go on breathing. Keep on breathing. (Superchick) This was the motto of my day on Friday. Leading up to my presentation I was getting more and more anxious... until the girl before started talking about Buddhism and how it should be applied to Christianity... then I started squirming my chair... (There's something unsettling about listening to someone explain how they're being sucked away from the Gospel. Sorry, but there really is something absolute about the Gospel, I know our culture likes to shy away from that right now.) and I realized that at least the things I was going to say weren't blasphemous... or heretical. And once I was on the stage, and started reading, it was fine. This is something I am passionate about. I have a firm grasp on this. I can do this. I am doing this.
2. Oh, I feel so tired. I cannot hardly keep open my eyes. (Plumb) Sitting in a van for hours with two professors... I was beyond exhausted. I hadn't slept much all week, and once I was done presenting it just washed over me, this weariness was a tsunami to my thirsty soul. Over dinner, Prof. Reek told me I looked tired... and when I told him it had been a long week of late nights he told me he understood... I don't think he could have. And so, I went to bed early last night, and woke up late this morning. And I took a nap today. And it was good.
3. Why does our brokenness keep whispering? It's telling us we're not anything. (Remedy Drive) Over the course of this semester I have had to deal with self-confidence issues. And presenting a million times had made me think that I wasn't any good at what I love... and I was beginning to doubt why I'm studying English with the intent of being a professor... and every once in a while God drops something my lap--a reminder that I am making the right choices for right now. Things like talking to Dr. Thurber. And things like this presentation and having a girl tell me in the bathroom afterwards that I did a very nice job. I can't let the failures guide my life, rather I must let the success stories speak for me. Speak for me.
4. What you say and what you do are different things. (TobyMac) My cousin didn't call me on my birthday. He didn't even write on my Facebook wall. He used to call me every year--and I always cherished hearing his voice. I used to think that he and I had a special bond because we both wore back braces. He's married now. And he lives far away. I just pray when I get married some day that I won't become as distant from my family as he has. I miss him very much. Yesterday was his birthday. I didn't call him. I thought about it. But I settled on writing on his Facebook wall. Maybe I'll send him a card. Yeah. I think I'll do that.
5. A whole new world... (Aladdin) If you ever have the chance to ride in a car with two professors... do it. And do it as often as you can. You will learn more in that time about their area of interest than any other time in your life. (maybe) And you'll also learn how deeply they care about their students (at least on a smaller campus). I was so anxious to be done with my undergrad...but I'm sad now to be leaving these professors because I know how much they care about every single one of their students. I pray that someday I will care as deeply for my students while they discover what it means to be an adult. I caught a glimpse of what my future could be, and it could be beautiful.
6. We all long to belong. We all need to be needed. (Krystal Meyers) It is said that chivalry is dead. Wrong. As long as Prof. Reek lives there will still be chivalry in this world. He tried to help me into the van (fail). I tried to take my hand back, but he REALLY wanted to help me into that van. He did help me out of the van, which was better. Every door was opened by him, or someone else, and held until I had passed through. And when he was unable to help me with my coat it was, "One of you young men help Anna with her coat, please." I didn't think they would actually do it... but Grant informed me I had been "gentlemanized." It was nice...why did women ever fight against this? Were they nut jobs? (ha.)
7. People not only can surprise you, but they will. Nuns can be feminists.... I was not expecting that one.
8. Faith is never taught, it's just something they catch from watching you along the way. (Mark Schultz) Dr. Thurber casts a long shadow... and he is not the end-all-be-all power that I imagined him to be. I am sad that he will not be the Dean anymore... but I am ecstatic that he will be teaching more classes.
9. Don't waste, one day is all that we've got to give and take. (Adie) I was asked if I felt like I got a good education from my public schooling. Yes. But I was also in the AP classes getting college credit. School is really what you make it to be. If you're there to learn, then you will. If you're there to screw around, then maybe you won't. The success or failure of a school does not rest solely on the teachers, it also rests on the students. I was told that my parents probably did a lot to motivate me. And then Dr. Holtorf said, "I think she's self-motivated too. I think so anyway."
10. We want to feel Your wind in our lungs. There's a little girl at church. Every Sunday her daddy holds her during worship. And every Sunday, while we're singing she puts her little hands up in the air and she opens her mouth as wide as it will go. She can't be over 3 years old... and I don't know if she's actually making any noise when she opens her mouth and bobs her head along to the music. But whenever I see her I pray. Papa God, don't let her spirit for You fade away, make it grow stronger day by day. Raise her up to see Your face, and teach those around her to see Your grace. Teach my heart give all things up, like her little arms reach to something she can't see to touch. One day, when I have children, help me to be an example that allows for such reckless abandon.
11. She was watching as they were dancing and thought "Someday I wanna be like that." She was watching her momma singing as they were dancing hand in hand. And though she can't recall the song, she was watching. (Mark Schultz) During the return journey on Friday, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel. I went in to use the restroom before we took off for the last leg of our journey. While I was drying my hands, a little girl and her mom were in a stall. I can only assume the little girl was finished and waiting for her mom. I heard a, "Wait, stay here please. Can Mommy go potty too, please? Please don't open the door." That could be me someday... and I smiled to myself as I left the restroom.
12. In Christ alone, my hope is found. Hope is a constant in a world full of morphing despair. I am ruminating over my paper, replaying the themes and the quotes. Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...but maybe they don't need to be. Maybe the greatest part of our story has already been told. And truly, it has.
13. The sweet by and by. There is a song that talks about the singers grandma singing "The Sweet by and by" all the time... and when I'm old, I want my sweet by and by to be "Be Thou my Vision." yeah.
This list could go on... but I do believe I will spare you. (At least for a little while.)
"Be Thou my vision, Oh Lord of my heart, naught be all else to me, save that Thou art! Thou my best thought, by day or by night, waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
I have a lot of thoughts jostling around inside my head right now. I wish I could put them all into an order...I know that they are connected, I'm just not entirely sure how right now. Maybe I'll make a list... hm. It's worth a shot.
1. All you have to do is breathe. So keep breathing. Go on breathing. Keep on breathing. (Superchick) This was the motto of my day on Friday. Leading up to my presentation I was getting more and more anxious... until the girl before started talking about Buddhism and how it should be applied to Christianity... then I started squirming my chair... (There's something unsettling about listening to someone explain how they're being sucked away from the Gospel. Sorry, but there really is something absolute about the Gospel, I know our culture likes to shy away from that right now.) and I realized that at least the things I was going to say weren't blasphemous... or heretical. And once I was on the stage, and started reading, it was fine. This is something I am passionate about. I have a firm grasp on this. I can do this. I am doing this.
2. Oh, I feel so tired. I cannot hardly keep open my eyes. (Plumb) Sitting in a van for hours with two professors... I was beyond exhausted. I hadn't slept much all week, and once I was done presenting it just washed over me, this weariness was a tsunami to my thirsty soul. Over dinner, Prof. Reek told me I looked tired... and when I told him it had been a long week of late nights he told me he understood... I don't think he could have. And so, I went to bed early last night, and woke up late this morning. And I took a nap today. And it was good.
3. Why does our brokenness keep whispering? It's telling us we're not anything. (Remedy Drive) Over the course of this semester I have had to deal with self-confidence issues. And presenting a million times had made me think that I wasn't any good at what I love... and I was beginning to doubt why I'm studying English with the intent of being a professor... and every once in a while God drops something my lap--a reminder that I am making the right choices for right now. Things like talking to Dr. Thurber. And things like this presentation and having a girl tell me in the bathroom afterwards that I did a very nice job. I can't let the failures guide my life, rather I must let the success stories speak for me. Speak for me.
4. What you say and what you do are different things. (TobyMac) My cousin didn't call me on my birthday. He didn't even write on my Facebook wall. He used to call me every year--and I always cherished hearing his voice. I used to think that he and I had a special bond because we both wore back braces. He's married now. And he lives far away. I just pray when I get married some day that I won't become as distant from my family as he has. I miss him very much. Yesterday was his birthday. I didn't call him. I thought about it. But I settled on writing on his Facebook wall. Maybe I'll send him a card. Yeah. I think I'll do that.
5. A whole new world... (Aladdin) If you ever have the chance to ride in a car with two professors... do it. And do it as often as you can. You will learn more in that time about their area of interest than any other time in your life. (maybe) And you'll also learn how deeply they care about their students (at least on a smaller campus). I was so anxious to be done with my undergrad...but I'm sad now to be leaving these professors because I know how much they care about every single one of their students. I pray that someday I will care as deeply for my students while they discover what it means to be an adult. I caught a glimpse of what my future could be, and it could be beautiful.
6. We all long to belong. We all need to be needed. (Krystal Meyers) It is said that chivalry is dead. Wrong. As long as Prof. Reek lives there will still be chivalry in this world. He tried to help me into the van (fail). I tried to take my hand back, but he REALLY wanted to help me into that van. He did help me out of the van, which was better. Every door was opened by him, or someone else, and held until I had passed through. And when he was unable to help me with my coat it was, "One of you young men help Anna with her coat, please." I didn't think they would actually do it... but Grant informed me I had been "gentlemanized." It was nice...why did women ever fight against this? Were they nut jobs? (ha.)
7. People not only can surprise you, but they will. Nuns can be feminists.... I was not expecting that one.
8. Faith is never taught, it's just something they catch from watching you along the way. (Mark Schultz) Dr. Thurber casts a long shadow... and he is not the end-all-be-all power that I imagined him to be. I am sad that he will not be the Dean anymore... but I am ecstatic that he will be teaching more classes.
9. Don't waste, one day is all that we've got to give and take. (Adie) I was asked if I felt like I got a good education from my public schooling. Yes. But I was also in the AP classes getting college credit. School is really what you make it to be. If you're there to learn, then you will. If you're there to screw around, then maybe you won't. The success or failure of a school does not rest solely on the teachers, it also rests on the students. I was told that my parents probably did a lot to motivate me. And then Dr. Holtorf said, "I think she's self-motivated too. I think so anyway."
10. We want to feel Your wind in our lungs. There's a little girl at church. Every Sunday her daddy holds her during worship. And every Sunday, while we're singing she puts her little hands up in the air and she opens her mouth as wide as it will go. She can't be over 3 years old... and I don't know if she's actually making any noise when she opens her mouth and bobs her head along to the music. But whenever I see her I pray. Papa God, don't let her spirit for You fade away, make it grow stronger day by day. Raise her up to see Your face, and teach those around her to see Your grace. Teach my heart give all things up, like her little arms reach to something she can't see to touch. One day, when I have children, help me to be an example that allows for such reckless abandon.
11. She was watching as they were dancing and thought "Someday I wanna be like that." She was watching her momma singing as they were dancing hand in hand. And though she can't recall the song, she was watching. (Mark Schultz) During the return journey on Friday, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel. I went in to use the restroom before we took off for the last leg of our journey. While I was drying my hands, a little girl and her mom were in a stall. I can only assume the little girl was finished and waiting for her mom. I heard a, "Wait, stay here please. Can Mommy go potty too, please? Please don't open the door." That could be me someday... and I smiled to myself as I left the restroom.
12. In Christ alone, my hope is found. Hope is a constant in a world full of morphing despair. I am ruminating over my paper, replaying the themes and the quotes. Maybe our stories won't be told by firesides...but maybe they don't need to be. Maybe the greatest part of our story has already been told. And truly, it has.
13. The sweet by and by. There is a song that talks about the singers grandma singing "The Sweet by and by" all the time... and when I'm old, I want my sweet by and by to be "Be Thou my Vision." yeah.
This list could go on... but I do believe I will spare you. (At least for a little while.)
"Be Thou my vision, Oh Lord of my heart, naught be all else to me, save that Thou art! Thou my best thought, by day or by night, waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
I know your face...
I'm having a flash back of when I was a little girl. I may have been three years old, or maybe four. Definitely under six, and the only reason I know that is because I remember the house it happened in.
The house in town, on Fourth St. The house with an epic porch. The house with pillars in the living room. The house with a half bathroom by the kitchen. The house with two stories and basement, and that means four flights of stairs. The house with a fenced in backyard. The house with no air conditioning.
I've lived in each house for six years. The Fourth St house had the honor of years 1-6. I remember much from that house, and sometimes I still dream about it. I loved that house. I loved it despite some of the memories being painful.
I remember falling asleep, crying, in my parents bed. I remember screaming and Mom and Dad rubbing my legs, trying to help me while all I could do was kick and squirm. "It hurts so bad!" I sobbed. What was happening to me? I think they probably cried, too. Daddy knew what was wrong, all too well. Leg cramps. Something I would learn to deal with on a regular basis. Growing quickly and being tall means that stretching feeling, the feeling of your bones being pulled, you muscles stretched. Growing.
I can recall them telling me what was happening, but my tears drowned them out.
When I woke up, I was in my own bed.
The reason this is coming up tonight? Anytime I get any kind of leg cramp, I think of that first time. I just hope I'm not growing tonight.
"Wisdom is nothing more than healed pain." [Robert Gary Lee]
The house in town, on Fourth St. The house with an epic porch. The house with pillars in the living room. The house with a half bathroom by the kitchen. The house with two stories and basement, and that means four flights of stairs. The house with a fenced in backyard. The house with no air conditioning.
I've lived in each house for six years. The Fourth St house had the honor of years 1-6. I remember much from that house, and sometimes I still dream about it. I loved that house. I loved it despite some of the memories being painful.
I remember falling asleep, crying, in my parents bed. I remember screaming and Mom and Dad rubbing my legs, trying to help me while all I could do was kick and squirm. "It hurts so bad!" I sobbed. What was happening to me? I think they probably cried, too. Daddy knew what was wrong, all too well. Leg cramps. Something I would learn to deal with on a regular basis. Growing quickly and being tall means that stretching feeling, the feeling of your bones being pulled, you muscles stretched. Growing.
I can recall them telling me what was happening, but my tears drowned them out.
When I woke up, I was in my own bed.
The reason this is coming up tonight? Anytime I get any kind of leg cramp, I think of that first time. I just hope I'm not growing tonight.
"Wisdom is nothing more than healed pain." [Robert Gary Lee]
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