Category Archives: Musings

Time Flies…

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“Fruit flies like a…” I paused, embarrassed that I messed up the saying. “Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.” He laughed and I smiled.

Ever since I started this relationship, I’ve been thinking of time. Maybe it’s because I’m finding myself with less of it… or it’s because my boyfriend and I have been talking about it. You see, he’s made a somewhat strict schedule for himself and I definitely don’t. While I do have classes and work at specific times, the rest of my day I clean, do homework, hang out with friends, sleep, basically whenever I want to.

He says that I’m trying to catch up with time. And to a certain extent, I am. I procrastinate and am forced to do homework in a rush, I hurry to clean when company is coming over. I sometimes don’t have time because I got distracted (being a typical college student, it’s often Netflix).

I do sometimes wish that I was better at organizing. Because after all, time is one thing that we can’t get back. It keeps on going, whether we like it or not.

But to take a hopefully fresh look at the cliche, I want to be a river and I want to go where the waves take me. I live like I do because I like it. It allows me live in the tiny moments instead of worrying about the future.

Today in class, we were discussing The Ruin, an Anglo Saxon poem describing the ruins of ancient Bath. The poem is eerie and fragmented, itself in ruins. It is not only eerie because that is the nature of ruins, but also it eerie because the Anglo Saxons, whose culture, buildings, and artistry has been excavated from ruins, saw and were affected by the remnants of those who had gone before.

Time has always passed by humans. It is the nature of time and of mortality. But what we do in those small moments and those big, life-changing moments are the things in matter.

So let’s live in the small droplets on the pond. Or we can try catching life by it’s tail feathers.  Either one is a viable option.

Creative Nonfiction vs. Fiction

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Creative nonfiction deals with memories, but in an unique way. Since memory isn’t perfect, cnf allows the writer to relate a memory that they may not remember completely or not at all. It also allows the writer to bring in different point of views to make a whole memory or idea.

Sarah Dessen, in her novel Just Listen, describes this aspect through the reflection of her main character, Annabel: “So many versions of just one memory, and yet none of them were right or wrong. Instead, they were all pieces. Only when fitted together, edge to edge, could they even begin to tell the whole story.”

While the majority of creative nonfiction conveys at least one version of the truth, fiction does not. Fiction may be based on a conversation you had or heard, a dream remembered, or a person you passed on the street, but it is not the truth. And from a reader’s perspective, fiction is what you read when you want to travel the globe or even to another world.

As my readers have most likely figured out, I love creative nonfiction and I mainly write in the genre. This semester, however, I am taking an intermediate fiction class. I like writing fiction, but I don’t feel quite comfortable with it.

It’s taken me a while to realize why that is the case. I figured it out quite recently: I haven’t discovered my fiction voice even though I started writing fiction before anything else. To contrast, I easily discovered my creative nonfiction voice. Of course, I’ve been assuming that those voices are as different as the styles are.

But, what if they aren’t?

What if I applied my concise, sometimes blunt style of writing to my fictional stories? And conversely, what if I tried introducing more exposition and detail to my cnf?

What if?

I am always ready to challenge myself as a writer. This might be one of the biggest challenges that I’m going to face: figuring out my voice in each style. And it might be one keeps on pushing me.

As always, thank you for reading. Please comment your thoughts.

A Walk in the Dark

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I have been on a plethora of walks in my life. Some with loved ones, a few with near strangers. Some surrounded by wild flowers, a few surrounded by dry grass and bare trees. Some have been enjoyable, a few have been long and perhaps a little tortuous.

I am not sure exactly why I am so fond of walks/hiking. I like the exercise, yes, but I like the opportunities for sunlight, nature, and the presence of God. I don’t particularly like to hike when it’s hot (who doesn’t?), but I do love when I feel the wind.

Because as John 3: 8 (New American Bible) says, “The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” I like when I feel the wind because I am reminded that God is with me, even (or, especially) when I can’t feel him or when I don’t have hardcore evidence.

What follows is a short reflection on a recent walk taken at dusk with my roommate. During this walk I noticed the wind as well as a few other things. Not all my walks are profound experiences as this one was, but not every one can be. But it goes to show that ordinary events can often become quite extraordinary.

Enjoy.

 

The trail rose in front of us, glowing in the dark. It was our flashlight and our plan for the immediate future.

It was past sunset in that eerie, but illuminating time of day. The trees on the top of the bluff were silhouetted against one of The Painter’s favorite shades of blue. Every branch was discernible and I could imagine running my fingers across its sharp needles.

We paused at a clump of sunflowers, perfectly formed, albeit small. Their yellow petals were bright despite the absence of sun. Their scent was like the promise of rain after a long, hot Colorado week.

On our way back to the car, I felt no prickling fear at my back. When my roommate switched the flashlight on, I wiggled my fingers in the beam, knowing for certain that there were no monsters behind or before me. For I knew the Spirit, who resides in the wind, had a hand on my shoulder.

 

Of Summer

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Lately, I’ve been reading Game of Thrones, the first book in the Song of Fire and Ice series by George R.R. Martin. In the land that it is set in, summers and winters last for years. It would be beyond strange to have a summer last nine or ten years, especially since I live in Colorado, a state with definite seasons. Summer would mean something absolutely different than it does now.

Because to me, summers mean:

1. No school

2. Traveling and visiting family across the country

3. Eating Otter Pops while reading a book in the sun

4. Iced tea

5. Hiking

6. Camping

7. Going swimming outdoors

8. Kicking off my blankets at night because I’m too hot.

9. Family barbeques/picnics

10. Sleeping in.

Of course, now that I’m an adult and I have a job, summers do not quite mean all those things. I haven’t been camping in a while, I can rarely sleep in, and I can only go on one short vacation. But it is still summer. I’ve been hiking and I’ve been reading (and writing) in the sun while drinking iced tea and/or enjoying a popsicle.  And I’ve been reveling in not having to go to school (about a month and half more!).

What would summer be like if it lasted for a few years instead of a few months. It could be beautiful, I’m sure (as long as it rained). It could be amazing, but winter would be a bigger threat as summer would become almost normal. Harsh winters can be bad enough for livestock, mental health, and general livelihood.  Imagine if a winter, no matter if was harsh or not, lasted for nine years. No wonder why the Stark motto is “winter is coming.” They love the summer, but they know full well that winter is going to come again and it will seem like summer never existed.

As for me, summer is only a few months long and the rest of the seasons are tinged with varying amounts of cold and that’s the way I like it. Summer may seem fleeting, but it is constant. Winter may seem long, especially when I have to regularly drive in snowy conditions, but I know for certain that summer will be coming soon.

What’s in a Name?

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I recently read some comments on an article about the Charleston shootings that were debating on whether the event should be called a hate crime or domestic terrorism. Yesterday, I was half-watching Daniel Boone at work. I saw how one of the characters was acting and I thought, “I bet he has multiple personality disorder.”

These two incidents are extremely different from each other. Indeed, it might seem strange that they are included together. The question that pulled them together in my mind was: What is in a name? Why must human beings always have names for everything?

One answer: order.

We give our children names so we can tell them apart and to help their identity along.

We name buildings and streets so we travel easier.

I acknowledge that knowing whether something was a hate crime or domestic terrorism will be important is sentencing the perpetrator, but I feel like a heinous crime does not necessarily need a specific name. It is a heinous crime no matter what it is.

I also acknowledge that psychiatry has progressed tremendously in the past few decades. No longer are mental disorders lumped into “nervous conditions” or “insanity.” And partly because of the new names and knowledge, mental asylums are the thing of the past. But when behaviors of children are constantly analyzed and given names, it makes me wonder if we are starting to over name parts of the human condition.

Is it possible to be overly “name happy?” or is right to categorize each and everything, let alone each and every person.

 

Recently Read/Watched

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When I was in early high school, I watched a BBC miniseries called “North and South” (made in 2004). Back then, I did not completely understand what was going on.

Just a couple weeks ago, I saw it on Netflix and loved it. I realized that the reason behind why I did not grasp all the events going on is that they dealt with politics and different societal expectations in a country not my own. But since I’ve learned more about England’s history in my literature classes, I comprehended everything. Instead of being confused, I could enjoy and analyze (after all, I am an English major) the story.

To this American, the title “North and South” immediately evokes thoughts of the Civil War. The title, however, refers to the north and south of England. The protagonist, Margaret Hale, has lived in the south for her whole life (it does not give her age) and is forced to move to Milton, an industrial town in the north after her father, a pastor, removes himself from the Church of England. Throughout the story, she and her family gets involved in the lives of the cotton mill workers, Mr. Thornton, who is Marlborough Mill’s manager, and Mr. Thornton’s family.

After watching the miniseries, I learned that it is based off the novel of the same name by Elizabeth Gaskell and immediately checked it out from the library.

From the miniseries, I expected the novel to read like one of Charles Dickens (who, incidentally, published Gaskell’s works in his newspaper), but the style of writing seems a bit like Jane Austen. The subjects broached in the novel more similar to Dickens than Austen in the sense that Gaskell paid attention to the entire human experience instead of one aspect of life. For example, Gaskell writes about worker’s unions as well as Margaret and Thornton’s attraction to each other.

One thing that I noticed in both the miniseries and the book is that when Margaret is in Helstone, her home in the south, everything is idyllic. On my computer screen, the scenery at Helstone was lush and green and always tinged with a delightful yellow. On the pages, the flora and fauna are given wonderful descriptions. In both the original and adapted versions of the story, Milton is gray and unwelcoming. This is a perfect example of one movement (Romanticism) transitioning into another (Realism). I love Realism and I don’t particularly like Romanticism, so I absolutely loved when the novel became more realistic.

Enough of heavy English major talk!

I actually liked the miniseries infinitesimally more than the book. Strangely enough, it added more depth to each character than the author was able to. But for the most part, the miniseries and the novel were similar plot-wise (although the miniseries added scenes and information that wasn’t provided by the book).

I only have one complaint: I didn’t like the ending of either one. Without giving away what happens, the miniseries ending was not realistic for the Victorian era and the book ending was rather abrupt.

Despite that one misgiving, I definitely recommend both versions of “North and South.” While I may not like Elizabeth Gaskell’s writing as much as Charles Dicken’s, I do appreciate that the product of her pen and mind reveals more of what its like to be human.

A Sensory Map

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This post is inspired by Poets and Writers‘ online “The Time is Now” creative nonfiction prompt for last week:

“This week, write a map leading to where you live. Start as close or far from your home as you wish and trace the paths, obstacles, and landmarks that lead you to your door. Think about who you’re creating this map for and when they would have an occasion to use it. How would you describe the geography of your neighborhood to someone who’s never been there? Consider the elements that are special to you and make where you live feel like home.”

Instead of writing the map leading to where I live, I want to write a map of sorts from where I live.

The first step to getting out of the door is making sure that I have everything that I need. Then I say goodbye to Belle, my cat and my roommate if she’s there.

While closing the door, I am aware of the red and white “Welcome” mat often gets stuck. It doesn’t this time. Once I lock our light green door, I am in the hallway.

And in the hallway, my senses are flooded. I see how the lights make everything slightly yellow, I smell the Indian food that seems to perpetually come from my neighbors around the corner, I hear the dogs from across the way barking and their owner yelling at them, I feel my knees bending as I walk down the steps, and through my shoes, I feel when the carpet ends and turns into tile as I approach the front door with its cold, black, metal handle.

I don’t always have time to appreciate my view, but sometimes I stop to consider. Directly in front of me and to the east is another building, its yellow paint cheerily echoing the paint on my own, and two trees flanking the sidewalk that leads to the parking lot. I know that the mountains are behind me, but I don’t see them. I just have faith that they are there because I saw them when I woke up in the morning.

To the south is the path to the shopping center where I go to lunch sometimes. That path also leads into a much longer trail by a creek. This path has a good view of  various roads. The highway and the train disappear before reappearing, but the mountains and the creek are always consistent.

To the north is usually where my car is, parked wherever I could find a spot the last time I drove. I walk in the grass to get to my dark green vehicle. In the winter, it is haggard looking when it is seen. When snow is covering the ground, I delight in the crunching sound my shoes make even while I’m dreading the possibility of scraping ice off my windows. Right now, in late spring, I enjoy trudging through the green grass, which is usually wet from the rain Colorado has been getting lately or from the sprinklers.

I temporarily forget about my surroundings as I sit in the car, turn it on, and select my music. But as I reverse out of my space, I look to the north, take a breath, and feel right at home because no matter what direction I’m facing, no matter what the weather is, I know where the mountains are.

Creeds

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This is taken from a journal entry that I wrote while I was listening to Contemporary Christian music. I wish I remember what songs I was listening to in particular, but c’est la vie… Looking back through my journal, it touched me. I hope it touches you too.

I believe in God. I believe in truth. I believe in justice. I believe in life and death, but not in dying prematurely. I believe in fellowship, but not conversion. I believe in free will. I believe that we should touch souls, but not control them. I believe in the silence and the quiet noise. I believe in harmony and human beings. I believe in flowers and soot. I believe in faith in times of shaking foundations. I believe in the phoenix.

Ad majorem Dei gloriam

We dedicated all our thoughts, words, and actions to the greater glory of God.

Wordlist

majesty

praise

refuge

name

You know all of our names, the name of the stars, the name of the sheep. The name of the lost and the found. Our brain holds onto your name for a second and then it disappears. Oh that we could hold onto your name, your beautiful name. For ever.

Wordlist

whisper

you break me

speak

Who am I?

Who am I to speak? A different question than “Who am I?” How do I dare? How dare I? How do I even dare to lift my eyes to the heavens. I am a pebble compared to the glories of heaven and the grace that you repeatedly have showed me. Showed me? You have touched me. You have built and taken down icicles on balconies. I squint and I see your sunlight and I am honored beyond knowledge and speech.

I am thankful for my feet on the ground, even if they are not employed by dancing. I will forever be dancing.

See ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, then all the doors shall be opened unto you. Hallelu Hallelujah.

I believe in crying silently alone. I believe in weeping with others. I believe in letting the tears glint in the sunrise of your glory.

 

For my mother

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I almost wrote a post about my cat, but then I decided that I would rather write it on someone infinitely more special to my heart (sorry Belle, I love you too).

Some memories of my mother:

1. Sitting on her lap in the rocking chair. She sang a song of her own making to the tune of “Rainbow Connection.”

2. Tucking me into bed at night. I would “hide” under the covers so she wouldn’t find me.

3. Going home after my first year of college and sitting with her on the couch, the cats crawling all over us.

4. A sick day. We drank tea and watched “Sweet Home Alabama.”

5. Driving to dance and discussing Harry Potter.

6. Working out at the gym. We would wake ourselves up by listening to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” and “You Can’t Stop the Beat.”

7. Going on retreat. Beforehand, we ate lunch and got pedicures.

8. Laying my head on her lap, listening to her stomach gurgle and enjoying the feeling of a light hand through my hair.

9. Settling down on the couch for a nap and her wrapping a blanket around me.

10. Calling her and hearing a perky “Hello!”

I know this is rather short post, but often the smallest amount of words convey the most meaning and the most love.

I love you so much Mom! Thank you for being there!

Now I should get back to writing this paper…

The lanterns will light your way

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Above: A picture from the Lantern Fest. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a camera on me, so I had to resort to my phone.

Yesterday my roommate and I volunteered at the Lantern Fest, which was happening in a nearby town on a racetrack.

Knowing nothing about it, I pictured something like what happened in Tangled (minus the water and boats). Obviously I wasn’t the only one who thought about this because there were a few little girls dressed up as Rapunzel. However, what happened that night was more magical than I could have ever imagined.

Long before the sun went down, I started my volunteering hours by placing marshmallows in s’mores kits for all the participants. I ended up packing up these boxes for five hours with only a couple short breaks interspersed. Maybe on a different day, I would have become bored and irritated with my work, but as it was, I was enjoying the company of total strangers who had decided to come help out for various reasons.

At seven, my roommate joined me on a journey to put things in my car. We had plans to go back, but the front seats of the car were too much of a temptation for our tired legs and feet. We then watched the lanterns getting lit and then let go from a wall nearby.

I can’t describe the feeling that I got when a plethora of lanterns started rising into the sky. It was beautiful. It was awe-some. It was absolutely magical.

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Lanterns rising.

My roommate and I walked around the racetrack, watching in awe as lanterns were let go all around us.  The lanterns on the ground were like huge bishop hats, but in the sky they were stars. Our very own close constellation.

I felt euphoric, but I know not everybody was. At one point, it was announced that a six year old girl was missing and her parents were waiting for her at the stage. I felt the little girl’s terror as she was separated from her parents, having been lost in a store when I was that age. I couldn’t quite feel the terror of the parents because I haven’t been a parent yet. But I did imagine the girl finding her way into her mother’s arms, her mother bringing her back to their families’ fire, and her father lighting the lantern with a tiki torch, saying, “Everything’s fine now, sweetie.”