Summer Solstice

It has been a busy week or so with some big events--life events for some of my friends.

My mind has been reeling with so many different thoughts and feelings. There are things that have a hard time taking shape in my mind and so I have a hard time even beginning to express them. It seemed appropriate that on this day, the longest day of the year and first official day of summer, that I try to sort through some of these things.

This past weekend I went to Wisconsin for the wedding of two good friends. The entire trip felt surreal. I now know people who are going to be living in Wisconsin. I know people living in Illinois and I know people all over the place now--even as far as China. At one point during the reception, I was standing towards the back of the tent, watching the dance floor, with a glass (mason jar) of wine in one hand and the other hand firmly planted on my hip in the traditional Schuett stance. It was like I was watching myself, and saw more than felt myself sway a little. I was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. This would be the last time I would see some of these people for a very long time, and all I could find myself dwelling on was how I wished a certain boy was there with me. So I was having a moment with myself, reflecting on the places life takes us and the turns we don't expect, when a friend caught me--and I'm sure it looked like I was having a moment with the wine...but it was really just a moment of introspection. The spell broke and I was left giggling, despite the serious overtures of my heart moments before.

This boy I was wishing had been there, he's probably the one you were expecting, the one who writes me letter, wasn't the one I was expecting to miss. This last year has been interesting to say the least, and while a part of me still clings to hope that we, the letter writers, will find a way to be near one another, there is still enormous room for doubt. It would be a lie to say there was no one else this year that interested me. I wish I knew the reason behind the unsent letter in my notebook...the one dated June 1, 2013. I wish I knew why it was still there, why I haven't sent it. It's not like it's full of embarrassing things, honestly it's quite hum-drum. But maybe that's why. Because I feel like I'm telling half-truths.

But then I also feel like I'm telling myself half-truths. A friend asked me this week if I was finding a way to be spiritually fed--despite my ever-present loneliness. I told her yes. A half-truth. Some days I do feel incredibly blessed and like I can feel the Hand of God in my life. But most days I feel aimless. It's almost like I'm the small child who desperately wants to be tickled, but doesn't want to be too obvious about that desire. I want that connection, that passion, that drive to learn more, but I don't want to be obvious about the search...and I have a hard time asking for help because I feel like I should be strong enough to push myself. [Lord, give me the grace to realize I am in need of shepherding.]

A couple weekends ago, one of the older gentlemen I work with at the dealership approached my desk. This particular salesman is one of my favorites, he's funny and smart and incredibly nerdy. We have a lot of common interests, and he listens to me babble on about (girly) things. He even asks me questions about how my love-life is going. In fact, he's known all along about the boy who writes me letters...and he knows about the boy I work with. Anyhow, he approached my desk and instead of asking the usual question of who things were going with the young men in my life, he blatantly asked, "Anna, what is wrong with all the men in your life? Are they all idiots that not one of them would be dating you?" I was shocked. I didn't know how to respond...so I laughed and said that I doubted that was the case. I'm still in shock over that situation...and I still don't know how to respond. It's still taking form and shape.

I've also realized that it has been nearly a year since I wrote any poetry. Why is that? Poetry has always been my form of non-fiction, of autobiography. Why am I letting this portion of my life go unmapped? This is a time of discovery, of hope, of new ground. Why am I letting it slip away?

We had writing workshop this week, and it went well. We spent quite a bit of time on my piece, but we had a lot of ground to cover there. I am excited about the story, about the things that are developing and the way characters are revealing themselves to me while I am doing mundane chores (like dishes and laundry and showering and walking the dog).

When did I become a reluctant reader? I have so many books that I want to be reading, but I'm not...I look at them and wonder what they're about, but I'm not actually reading them. I need to be in the structured setting of school again--good thing grad school is just around the corner!

That's all for tonight...there are still uncertainties, and I don't feel like I've answered any questions or resolved any inner turmoil, but at least I've laid them out.



My chest hurts when I breathe tonight...it's wasting me away...wasting me away. [Anberlin, Symphony of Blase]

Man is a giddy thing...

It's been a good week.

I've had to laugh at myself a couple of times. Let's make a list, shall we?

1. I did the dishes--all of them. Now, I know this seems like a menial task, and it is. There's something about it though. The idea of washing dishes really makes me dread going into the kitchen, but once I start and I put the first clean pot on the towel to dry it just feels so purifying. It gives me time to stop thinking about all of the other things that are distracting me and allows me to get right to the heart of me. That personal reflection time is good for my introverted self.

2. On Tuesday, I just couldn't get away from all of the distractions--the tangible ones like the TV and my computer. Do you ever feel that way? Like technology is strapping you down and making you waste time and sucking away your productivity? I do. And it's everywhere. I needed to get some writing, and I wanted to--I needed to unplug and just be with the pen and paper for a while. So...I decided that I was going to soak my feet in the tub. I basically moved my "office" (I don't have an office, who am I kidding?) into the bathroom. For obvious reasons, my computer can't sit with me on the edge of the tub. My iPod did come with me though so I could play some music with its small speaker and cut the silence. It was a strange thing, going to the bathroom to get away from all of the distractions. I just wish it was more comfortable to sit on the edge of the tub....

3. We're having a garage sale! I have a lot of stuff (and a good part of it can just go away). About every summer I try to do a deep clean of my room...Last summer I got about half way done and gave up. So, now with a garage sale date in mind, I've been begun the purge again. I went through my dresser yesterday...and I threw away a multitude of old socks and underpants. Seriously, why do we (maybe it's just me, but I doubt it) horde old socks? It's not like we wear them...they just take up space while the elastic really gets bad. The same with old underpants. Seriously, what do we think is going to happen to them? There isn't a fairy that comes and takes those things away like the tooth fairy...they just sit in the drawers. And most of them don't have pairs anymore either. That's just sad, put them out of their misery.

4. Last night, Daddy came into my room to see the progress...and his one comment was, "You have a lot of stuff...and you've hit your limit for bookshelves in this space." How very true. Three large bookshelves take up a lot of room. My response was, "I have enough stuff for an apartment." I really do...and the idea that "a place of my own" might be in the cards in the next year or so is really exciting. I mean, words cannot describe how fantastic that would be. Granted, I would miss eating with the folks because they do food really well...but I would really like not having to retreat to the bathroom to get some alone time to write.

5. Writing Workshop on Wednesday was wonderful. (Do you like all those w's? I do.) I knew this was going to be different then any writing experience I have had. How did I know this? Because my cousin is part of the group, and I knew she would be asking hard questions about my story. Questions with answers I had never articulated to another person. I also knew that she was going to make me really get into the grit of it--she's a teacher after all. She's used to pushing people to get good stories. This week was no exception. There were a lot of questions, and that is partly because we're getting to the meat of this story. These young women that I'm working with are truly inspirational. I love reading what they've done and sharing with them what I have. Rachel and Kaitlin have been a blessing to me this summer, more than I had anticipated...and I hope that this writing relationship will continue.

6. Rachel asked me how much I thought I would post here...I told her I was hoping for twice a week. Ha. We'll see. So far I'm not doing so hot, but I'll get there. I'm just warming up.

7. I marked all the wedding dates in my calendar, the ones that I have so far. Holy weddings, yo. Every day I get more and more behind my peers in the relationship/wedding/baby scene.... But mostly I'm okay with this. I'm not ready for all of that just yet. There are a lot of things I need to get done independently before all of that happens. Funny how our perceptions of ourselves change.

"The one who's always, and never, alone...does she even know she's the girl with the red balloon?" [The Civil Wars]

Stretching out the fingers...

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.

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.

This dusty barren land had given all it could yield...

It was recently pointed out to me *cough*LeAnn*cough* that I haven't blogged in a while. I knew this was true, and I had been meaning too, honestly. My new job has left me exhausted once 3:30 hits, and I've fallen into my old napping pattern... But I keep hoping that my body will adjust to the schedule and that I'll be able to get to bed a little earlier so I can stop napping in the afternoons.

Over the last few months I've noticed that I thrive on hope. I'm sure that most of you already knew this, and it was probably something I knew for a long time but hadn't yet come to realize the entirety of its scope.

This morning it really struck me how deeply this hope runs.
I've been hoping for rain--desperately.
I've been hoping that my cousin would recover from her botched surgery well.
I've been hoping that my other cousin would pull herself together and just be okay.
I've been hoping that this "maybe someday it'll work out" would just work out.
I've been hoping that our little first grader with behavior issues would get the attention she deserves at home so she can grow into the creative girl I see lurking behind the tangled hair and eyes that haven't learned to read yet.
I've been hoping that the writing bug would just take hold of me again and never let me go.
I've been hoping.
Hoping.
Hoping.

I even surround myself with literature that emphasizes the idea of hope and I wrap it around me like a warm security blanket. And I even hope that someday my life would echo those virtues that fictional characters so easily embody: strength, loyalty, nobility, honor, courage and faith.

So it's no surprise when I see small glimmers of these things in real life that I get excited and want to capture the moments. 

I have all of this hope, all of this want, but I'm still content.

Even if the rain comes just as harvest season is about to begin, at least there is moisture.
Even if my cousin had 20 units of blood transfused and got E. coli in a hospital, at least she is alive.
Even if my cousin moved back to the wretched situation that keeps throwing her to the wolves, at least she is talking to me about it and being open about the hardships.
Even if "maybe someday" isn't today, at least I have letter writing to pass the time.
Even if our little first grader was in the office again because of a tantrum, at least she is reaching out and she hugged me later and didn't want me to leave her.
Even if I'm not writing as much as I want, at least I know the story is still alive in me and it's just setting its roots a little deeper.

"Oh, Dear I never saw you coming. Oh my, look what you have done. You're my favorite song, always on the tip of my tongue." [Civil Wars, Tip of my Tongue]

You saw me mourning my love for you...

I've had a lot of thoughts tumbling around in my head these last few weeks, and they haven't settled into any kind of order. Normally I wait for something to settle into place before picking it up and putting out there for people (you people) to read, but this is just getting ridiculous. I promised to post more, and if I wait around for something to finally come together than this blog will die (a second death, I suppose). I don't really want that to happen, so I'm just going to start writing regardless of the confusing thoughts rolling around inside this fragile mind.

My family and I went to Colorado last weekend, and it was great to see the school my brother plans to attend and the apartment he may live in. The mountains left me in awe and slack-jawed. I've seen them before but I hadn't necessarily noticed the way the sky swooped low to kiss the frosty tips.

We spent some time walking around an outdoor mall/shopping area in Loveland one evening. I spent all too much time in the Barnes and Noble--the largest I had ever seen. It was like a piece of heaven for this new graduate, and proud holder of a B.A. in English. Drifting through the aisles filled with story after story of hope and loss and pain and love and want and anything you want, I felt the overwhelming feeling to just sit down and absorb the words. Stories have always held my love and my profound need for returned love--unfortunately books are incapable of reciprocating the feeling.

One of the courtyards of this shopping area housed sculptures of animals for children to play on. The statue that stood out to me was the frog. I've known the story of the princess and the frog for as long as I can remember.

Josef snapped a picture of my sitting on the broad-back of the frog, smiling. It's a running joke in the family, and this is not the first picture I have with a stone frog.

My first summer in my newly finished basement room was riddled with nights of little sleep. It took me a while to discover that the noise that was keeping me up was the sound of frogs trying, desperately, to batter their way into my room. Soft white breasts would beat against the glass, searching for the light that came from my demonic lamp. (It's touch sensitive, and turns itself on or off whenever it chooses.) It didn't take long for my dad and brother to nickname the frogs my boyfriends. We laugh that all I have to do is kiss one and I will magically have a boyfriend.

This notion prompts these pictures with stone frogs.

A stone frog seems to have a special kind of curse, don't you think? It must be a truly powerful magic or love to break that spell--to turn a stone frog into a living, breathing prince. And this is when I wish I lived in those places of fantasy and fairytale, because love is enough to wake the sleeper from the Sleep, and the breath of a Lion can bring the stone to life.

A jolt of realization reminds me that a perfect Love has woken the sleeping soul in me, and that the Lion that breathed the stone to life in Narnia is not so unlike the breath of God breathing life into the dust that became Adam. The Love and Breath that saved and created me exists in a world where frogs don't magically become princes...but the sinners become saints, and the wicked are made new.

"This is not a dream that I'm living, this is just a world of Your own." [Rebecca St. James, Lion]

Hope's not giving up....

This is the story of a girl with a large heart. She filled her head with dreams of fairytales--knights in shining armor, rugged heroes, ladies of high esteem. A place where anything you dreamed could be attained if you worked hard enough. 

She put off one dream (the dream of her heart) to pursue her mind's dream. Instead of being content in her place she went to further her knowledge of the fairytale. The time she spent reading and learning was well spent, but occasionally she would get a glimpse of the other dream. It didn't take much--a weekend or a break from her scholastics spent at home was all she needed to awaken the old dream. 

Her arms elbow-deep in hot water, eyes looking out over the harvested fields, she wonders why she ever wanted more. A breeze pushes through the screen of the window as she dries her hands on the white tea-towel and suddenly she's somewhere else. 

She's a pioneer out on the frontier, or a simple maid in a medieval town. And she is not alone. Instead of preparing for her brother's birthday, she's baking for a child's name day and a husband that's been working hard under the sun. Whomever she prepares the table for, it matters little. The table is prepared--the food a blessing. And that is enough. God is good.

Where did this hope come from? This is the story of a girl that had clung so desperately to hope that she didn't realize when she had let it slip through her fingers for her eyes were squeezed tight--scared to face the truth. She knew the words--God provides--but somewhere along the way she let them grow hollow. Trudging on, day after day, she forgot to offer thanks for the blessings. And the trials. And the rejections, though three there be. 

The radio was turned up, louder than it should have been, and the windows rolled down. A song began to play that she had heard a million times--and she loved it all along. Something was different this time around, and words of one of her professors came echoing back, "Read it again, the words won't have changed. But my, you have." How she'd changed, and she didn't even realize it was happening. The song was poignant. Her finger pushed the back button again and again--letting the lyrics be a heavy hammer through the dimness she had been facing. And tears press against her eyes because it's been so long since she's felt anything.

Daylight proved to chase away the darkness and contentment settled in. Peace came over her mind and settled in her heart. Though the days she will face may be difficult, she will not be alone. This is the story of a girl alive with hope. 

"Hope, sweet Hope, how much more can she take being our strength when our hearts run out of faith?... Hope is with me in my time of trouble, when it all comes crashing down she will stay by my side digging through the rubble. She's not giving up, not giving up, not giving up..." [Hope, Remedy Drive]

There's still good in this world, and it's worth fighting for...

Well. You've all noticed this already, I'm sure, but I kind of fell off the blogsphere... and after a weekend of feeling wretched (for several reasons, but partially because I wasn't writing--and when I tried it flopped) I decided I needed to pick myself up and get with it. I found a partially started entry that I think I should still share with you...and then finish the thought. 

What was already said:

Oh, where to begin...as I have mentioned before, this semester has been crazy busy. It's been a good and bad kind of busy (I'm getting a lot done, and I don't feel like I'm drowning, but I'm also super behind on letter writing, sorry Danielle). It's been a challenge, that is for sure.

One of the largest challenges I've faced is filling out graduate school applications. Now, because I'm going into writing I have to send in a writing sample. Initially I didn't think this would be an issue at all. I've been working on this story (Morning Star) and feel pretty confident about the first couple chapters. A professor (my boss at the Writing Center) looked over what I thought I would be submitting and told me that grad schools may not even consider an applicant who submits genre fiction. (This is where things got hectic.) After emailing the school I'm looking at, this fear was confirmed. So I frantically found something "literary fiction" that I can submit, but it needs revisions.

While talking to my professor about what the writing workshop world is like, I realized that I was entering in to one of the hardest fights of my life--my academic life. I'm going to have to fight for "my thing." Honestly, the mere idea of this kind of potential confrontation has me shaking with nerves.

And the rest:

This isn't as much of an issue anymore because my applications are all in and I'm just waiting. Waiting, hopefully with some patience, for the word. I'm still nervous, sure. Maybe even a little scared about what the future may hold. But isn't that always the way when turning to a new chapter?

I did something unexpected in the middle of the application process. It didn't occur to me until one night when I was sipping at coffee with Lisa, she asked if I had thought about applying to any literature programs. I hadn't, not really. And then I just did it. I applied for a program that I hadn't really even thought about.

Creative Writing has always been my thing, just as genre fiction has always been my thing. But I can still write (genre fiction) without a Master's degree in it... and if I enter into the literary world maybe I'll be better equipped to fight for it. I only applied to the one literature program. One chance.

So don't think I'm going to stop fighting. I'm not. But I'm maybe going to take the Hobbit position for a while and just see how it all pans out. Then I'll walk to Mordor. And fly back with the Eagles.

Love you all, and I promise I'll post more frequently. :)

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.

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."

And I know You are everything to me...

So many things I could write about, and yet nothing.

This heart is bursting at the seams with all manners of stories.

It hears those written by others--I do so enjoy reading for pleasure and not having to analyze every detail, but instead allowing the pieces to slip together. These very pieces slip into my dreams.

It hears the story I write, anxious for me to put the pen to the page. There are voices of character so loud, Why do you fight a war that isn't your own! And then there are those that whisper, and pray that I will hear, I just want someone to share this burden with me... So I try to figure out how the pieces go together, unable to simply be passive and let it happen. I must actively pursue the thoughts so they can take form. And yet I cannot shape them into something they are not. These shadows of forms-to-be also permeate my sleep.

It hears also my story, the one I live day to day. The one that makes less sense than anything else in the world. There are many questions that I may never know the answers to. But those silences allow me to let my faith grow. Indeed, I must as actively pursue that growth as any other thing. There are things that take my attention, but nothing should utterly distract me to kill this thing that is trying to grow wings.

And I hear my own voice echo my characters, Have I lost my own voice? I don't even know my own voice anymore. It is a strange thing, to imagine a character that hears voices in her head, because then you must also, and you already have her voice in your mind, and all of her real friends too. But I have not lost myself because I have not lost the most important voice of all.

So many voices. And still, I hear one that cries out in my noise. It cries in a whisper. A still, small Voice. All these stories, and I can still keep my eyes fixed on the One story that means the world--it means everything.

"So many voices in my head. I need You, oh I need You. I'm not going to walk away. You've got to take my hand today. Would You open my eyes. Would You take me by the hand. When I'm running through the storm, I will trust in You." [Inhabited]

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]

This was over before it ever began...

This year has just flown by. I can hardly believe that I'm home for the summer. The general theme seems to be: "I'm going to miss everybody, what am I going to do without all of my friend? We've made it so far!"

Now. I am going to miss my friends. And I truly can't believe I only have a year of undergrad work left. It's a big deal. And honestly, it probably deserves a blog post--but I'm not going to give it one. Nor am I going to give my pining for my friends a post--I'll see them again, before we know it summer will be over. (I do miss you all, really I do.)

The bigger issue of being done with the semester--packing and unpacking.

It took me a day to get all of my stuff loaded into the pack of the truck with the help of some friends (thanks Andrew, Heather and Heidi). Before I left campus, I looked at the truck and said, "Woah. My whole life fits into the back of a truck." This may be an over generalization, but it's kind of true, when you think about it. Everything I need to "survive" was in the back of a truck. Crazy.

When I got home I had to unload it all into the garage and living room--my room in the basement wasn't ready to handle all of the boxes yet. How is it that a room couldn't hold what a truck could? Because it was full of a crap from the previous chapters of my life--middle school and high school.

So, I spent the first day on break ignoring the impending project and read a book, a whole book. For fun. It was lovely. Today though, the second day of break, I had to venture down to my bedroom... and started pulling things apart so I could put them back together in a more efficient way.

What has happened?

Well, I stripped my bed to wash the sheets and stuff, and then I started going through some of the older boxes that held stuff I had forgotten existed. I threw a lot of stuff away. I figured that if I didn't remember it I probably didn't need it. That said, I still have a huge pile of crap on my naked bed. Stuff that I don't know what to do with.

I went through the old Graduation Cards...that was a nice trip down memory lane.

I found millions of old notebooks with started stories...I'm excited to see what I may be able to do with some of them.

I checked hundreds of pens to see if they still worked...I love the cheap pens that never seem to die.

I have apparently been hoarding music from high school...All State Music...that made me smile, I hadn't realized I had stolen from the school.

I went through a very angsty period in my life...there are many pieces of paper with poems to prove that which I don't really remember.

I. Am. A. Pack. Rat.
(But if I'm throwing most of it away now, does that redeem that quality?)

Here's to big projects. And the start of summer. And books yet to be read. And stories waiting to be told and written down.

"It's hectic in my mind, but I'm gonna leave it behind. I'm ready to let go." [Natalie Grant]