Category Archives: Musings

Music is Magic

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“Ah, music: a magic beyond all we do here!” -Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

On my first day of band in 6th grade, my teacher wrote the above quote on the board and told us that the first person to guess where it was from and who said it would get a prize. I knew the answer, but I wasn’t the first to shout it out, so the prize (a metronome) went to a saxophone player.

Music is certainly magic. Sometimes it inspires you. Sometimes it keeps you awake on long drives. Sometimes it helps you fall asleep. And sometimes it tells you the truth you need to hear.

A few of the songs that have fulfilled the last quality:

Life is Beautiful by Vega4

When You Come Back Down by Nickel Creek

Save by The Rocket Summer

Brave by Josh Groban

Your Hands by JJ Heller

For Good from “Wicked”

Free to be Me by Francesca Battistelli

Word of God Speak by Mercyme

Hold Me Jesus by Rich Mullins

But music can be a distraction. It can cloud what you need to see about yourself and/or certain situations. Silence can be overwhelming, but sometimes it shows you who you really are.

I was taking a short hike this morning in a local park and I passed two girls who were playing music on their phones that was loud enough for everybody else to hear. I get the need to have music as a constant presence because I tend to surround myself with it, but I believe hiking or enjoying the outdoors should include only those of nature.

Those who believe that immersing themselves in nature means only encountering silence haven’t really listened. There are a plethora of sounds to be heard: birdsong, the wind, leaves rustling, grass, or perhaps tall flowers, whispering, water trickling. Even the noise of your feet hitting the ground or making a rock skip can be music.

So… something to pay attention to the next time you go out of your door, take a walk, or a bike ride: the noise… or rather, the music. Because music isn’t only created by cords, notes, or voices. Because music is powerful magic.

Home Is…

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I was recently visiting one of my friends from high school. While we were talking, I noticed that I had to clarify which home I was talking about because I currently have two places that I call home: my parent’s house and my own apartment. I’ve thought about this many times before, but for some reason it really struck me this time.

The connotations of “home” are different to everyone.

To me, home is:

A place you have a key to, but you don’t have to use it because the door is opened by a loved one before you get to it.

Where sympathy and cough syrup that tastes like liquified cherry candy is readily available when you’re sick.

Where people who love you and who you love are.

Where people listen to you and sometimes gently tell you that you are wrong.

Where you can wake up in the morning and feel safe.

Where you can get up in the middle of the night and find your way to the bathroom without opening your eyes.

Where you can feel content while being confined indoors because of weather.

Where you keep your most powerful memories.

The definition of “home” from Oxford Dictionaries is cold and does not necessarily fit in with the connotations of the word. It says that home is “the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.” I haven’t been living at my apartment for very long and it already feels  like home.

One definition that I like uses it as a verb: return by instinct to its territory after leaving it. This “home” obvious refers to animals, like geese that return to a certain place for the summer. But I think it could be applied to humans because after all….

Home is a place that we return to.

I am…

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“Astronaut John Glenn says a standard test for astronaut candidates was to have them give twenty answers to the question ‘Who am I?’ ‘The first few answers,’ he said, ‘were easy. After that, it got harder.'”- from Challenge: A Daily Meditation Program Based on ‘The Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius by Mark Link, S.J.

This is same question that I was given as my first creative nonfiction prompt. I think it is, in essence, what the genre is all about: self-identity. Also, it explores how humans can turn into monsters and just generally what it means to be human. But before I get off topic…

John Glenn is right. It does get harder after the first few. Believe me, I tried. After the first five, I started to struggle with how else to describe myself. Somehow, it would be much easier if I used metaphorical language. For example: I am purple (it is not only my favorite color, but has always meant ‘passion for survival). But in plain speak, in regular old English, it is much harder.

Here are a few that I came up with:

I am a human

I am a human with strengths and weakness.

I am an observer.

I am an eavesdropper.

I am the daughter of two amazing parents.

I could have added that I am a child of God and a player of Bananagrams and a night owl, but I didn’t think of those options this time. But that’s the beauty of this prompt: It is always changing. If I sat down and did it tomorrow, it might be different. I’m excited to do it in a year or two and see how differently I see myself.

I ended this list with “I am a complicated person,” mostly because I couldn’t think of anything else to write, but also because it is very true. I don’t like the fact that I’m complicated, but it reassures me to think that other people are as complicated as me.

All of descriptions on my list are from myself. They are about how I see me as a person. However, I know that my list might be altered either dramatically or subtly if it was made by my family and friends.

A related quote that I would like to leave you with is: “If I saw myself as my friends and other people see me, I would need an introduction.

Currently reading/openings

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This weekend, I opened up one of my used books for American Lit to start reading it. The person who owned or rented it before me had written all over it. I usually find marks in books annoying, especially since I can’t stand writing in them myself. But her notes are amusing and sometimes even spot on. The remark that first caught my attention was on the page opposite the first page of prose. It says,” Why does he open with this?”

In all of my high school English classes (not so much my college ones), the teacher often started with a variant of this question when beginning a novel or short story. With The Raisin in the Sun, we discussed why Lorraine Hansberry took the title from Langston Hughe’s poem, “Harlem.” And with Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, we talked about the nature filled opening. It is a common question for an English major to ask to themselves or out loud. But I think it is also a common question for humans to ask.

Sometimes it comes in different forms. “Why do we do this?” “Why do we do that?” Why when we greet each other do we say “Hello” or “Good morning/afternoon/evening?” Why do we not say “Eat well today!” or “Sleep well tonight!” Well, the answer is: because our normal greetings make sense and are expected.

But let’s return to the original question: “Why does (do) he (we) open with this?” We do not have a choice about how we start in this world, but we do have many other choices after that. That is one thing that I have learned: we have choices that we make every day, whether it be the clothes that we wear or the food we eat. Our beginning does matter, but our middle matters more. The end is simply a denouement, a resolution.

In case you are wondering, the book that I found this thought provoking remark in is Cane by Jean Toomer. Published in 1923, it is a collection of short stories, poems, and drama, all on the subject of black life in the South. It is not autobiographical, but quite a bit of it is informed by Toomer’s biracial identity and his brief stay in Georgia.

I will not say much about the book, except that it is not the easiest book to read and it is quite brilliant. One thing that I would recommend if you wanted to read it would be to research the Harlem Renaissance and Jean Toomer. It is not necessary, but I think it is nice to know the background of literature that is so tied to history.

That flighty temptress, adventure

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“And now, Harry, let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.” -Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Once again, I find myself preparing for another semester of college. Although I have become accustomed to life at a university, it is always challenging to go back and deal with the swells of homework.

I like new things. I like new books. I love new ideas, such as my idea for A Little Mermaid adaptation. I like my new apartment with a walking trail in my backyard.

But I like old things too. I don’t cling onto them like Gatsby clings onto Daisy in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s novel, but I do like looking at birthday cards from the past, letters from friends and family, books that have tape on the bindings and that distinct old paper smell.

As far as adventures go, I’m not exactly the one for them. Like Bilbo Baggins, in a way. I have been on a sailboat once before and my stomach told me that it wasn’t for me, but I love rafting, especially when there are rapids involved. And the one time I was on a cruise, I preferred going on the excursions rather than staying on the ship. And when I tell people that I don’t ski, even though I’m a native Coloradoan,  they are shocked. But I tell them that it’s way too expensive. And also it doesn’t really appeal to me. Give me a sled or hiking shoes or  a tent and I’m happy as a bear eating blackberries.

But adventures don’t have to be big. Actually I think the best of them are small and not monumental. I would count driving around just for the fun of it under this category, as well as going to restaurant with kinds of foods that you’ve never even thought of trying before (For example, I once had a carrot shake with ginger. It was delicious).

School is an adventure for me, even though I’ve been going to school for most of my life. Every day can be an adventure. And if every day is an adventure, can you ever really get bored?

 

An Act of Caring

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“Never doubt the power of a smile, a touch, a kind word, or any act of caring. All have the potential to turn a life around.” – unknown

Last year I was walking to my on-campus apartment when a small, silver car pulled up beside me and a girl jumped out. She was holding a red rose, which she gave to me with a smile. She didn’t say anything to me, just hopped back into the passenger’s seat. I waved at her and the driver and they drove away.

The rose was attached to a poem that I honestly can’t remember right now. I do remember that it was printed on a slip of paper with railroad tracks. I thought it was somewhat sappy, but also meaningful to have a picture of railroad tracks tied to a rose.

Because life is a journey. And every once in a while, we need kindness from strangers.

I was not having a bad day, but when I became stressed later that week, I just looked at the tiny rose that I was drying in my window and felt a little better.

I told my roommate about the random act of kindness that was given to me. She suggested that I should give the note along with chocolate or some small gift to someone on campus the next day.

I went to an all-girls high school and I loved it, mostly because it wasn’t unusual for a girl you had never seen before to stop you in the hallway to say hi or leave a note on your locker. It was a loving environment. Turns out that it is harder to give something to a complete stranger on a co-ed campus.

I managed to give a girl who looked just a little stressed a small bag of gummy bears attached to the poem that the girls had given me. On the back of the poem, I briefly explained how the railroad tracks had gotten to me and explained that by giving this present, I wanted to start a chain reaction of sorts. A chain of kindness.

I don’t know if she passed it on like I suggested or if she even saw the note. I would get it if she threw it away because strangers are scary. We have been taught to not to talk to strangers. And for a good reason. Not all strangers are kind.

But some strangers are the nicest, gentlest, most humble people you will ever meet. Like the guy that called security when I broke my leg and then stayed around until the paramedics came, the paramedics themselves, a man at the grocery store who picked up dropped cream cheese when my hands were too full, and the tow truck guy who let me sit in his truck to get warm and helped me find a tire company on New Year’s Day.

Actions don’t have to be big to mean a lot. They don’t always come with a new TV or a refurbished house. Meaningful actions can be as small as smiles, holding open doors, or pressing the button for your floor on the elevator. I don’t want to be sappy, but please be kind.

 

 

The Taste of Reading

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Sorry for the delay in posting. The last two weeks have been more than hectic with the end of the semester. My last thing isn’t due until tomorrow, but I saw a news report about the Taliban attack on a school and I decided publish something more uplifting. Something that is proof that the world is not just full of darkness.

My sister and I walk to the library. It is a nice day with a blue sky and sunshine.
At one point, we cross a driveway. We think the car is going to stop for us, but it jerks forward at the same time that we start walking. “Always try to make eye contact,” my sister tells me as she grabs my arm.
She heads right for the reserved shelf. I want to peruse the young adults section, but I already have a few books from the last time we were here in my room. She finds the bright green paper that proclaims our last name in black permanent marker and pulls the book that we had chosen together off the shelf. It’s Pride and Prejudice.
It starts to rain while we are checking out using the new “do it yourself” system. We walk quickly out of the library and down the hill. My sister tucks the book under her coat to keep it safe. No cars bother us.
We are both cold and fairly wet when we duck into a restaurant. We are eating later, so we just order two hot chocolates and sit in the slightly comfortable chairs in the corner next to the fireplace, which is thankfully turned on.
My sister suggests starting the book and I lean over as she reads the famous first sentence: “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”
Always mindful of the time, I allow her to finish the first two chapters before I say that we should be going; we have a movie to catch.
It is yet again sunny and bright outside as we walk over the highway to the dine-in movie theater that is a few blocks away from my house.
One half of the theater is dimmed and the other still has its lights on full power. My sister and I sit in the lighted side and order one Mushroom and Swiss Burger each. While we wait for the food to come and the movie to start, she pulls out Jane’s Austen’s work. She gets through half a chapter before the lights start to dim.
“I guess they don’t want me reading out loud,” she says as she closes the book

Pride and Prejudice wasn’t the first or the last book we read together. First, we read The Hobbit. Some of the reading took place on the hammock in our backyard. One chapter was read in the dark with a flashlight. And in middle school, she would pick me up after school and we would walk home where sardines and crackers would wait with our latest book. We read A Great and Terrible Beauty and Timothy Zahn’s Dragonback series.

While my sister was reading, I would sink into her voice and all thought would be suspended temporarily as I crawled into the minds of the characters. And throughout all these experiences, I would be happy. Because you see, books are love.

I Hope You Dance

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This weekend, I saw a little boy, maybe about three or four, stand up on his pew and dance. Maybe he shouldn’t have been standing up on it, especially during church, but I couldn’t help think that we should all be dancing like that kid without any idea of what we look like or if it’s wrong.

Dancing seems to be reserved for those special occasions such as weddings and proms or reserved for dance studios or shows like “So You Think You Can Dance” and “Dancing with the Stars.” But really, we should dance whenever we get a good grade, when we’ve accomplished something difficult, when we’ve secured a job, when we feel happy. We should dance like the hard-working moms and grandmas in Mamma Mia who leave their tasks and skip down the path just because they want to.

And in honor of Thanksgiving coming up, we should dance for what we are thankful for. We should dance for the food in our belly. We should dance in remembrance of people and times gone and we should dance for forgiveness. We should dance for love. We should dance.

When I was little, the priest in my church always invited the kids to dance down the aisle with him. I didn’t always join the group, but when I did, I felt my heart lift a little bit for a least a small amount of time. Back then, I danced because I loved it. When I was part of a dance studio, I danced for an audience as well as myself.

But now, I dance for myself in the living room and the kitchen. I dance for joy when something good happens. I dance to make me feel better. When I dance, I try to suspend that moment and try not to think about the homework or the work that I have to do. I try to dance like that kid on the pew.

I hope you dance. Because “Life is not waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

Unhomeliness

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“Unhomeliness” is usually used to refer to the odd feeling of being part of two cultures, but not really feeling comfortable in either. According to one of my Literature classes, it is a state of in between.

Earlier this week I saw someone who looked quite familiar with “unhomeliness.” He was sitting on the corner in a light grey jacket and a red and white blanket. His face was completely covered and he had black gloves. It was 18 degrees outside and snowing and the cars were passing him like he was just another blade of glass under the snow.

That man suffers from “unhomeliness.” He is part of the world, which houses millions of people, but his world kicked him out of the house he had onto the streets. He doesn’t quite belong anywhere. He could also be called homeless.

I looked for something to give him, but I didn’t have food or even cash in my car. Instead, all I could do was offer up a prayer. I’ve volunteered at a homeless shelter before, but that was in another city that I knew better. I couldn’t even direct him to one. Instead, I had to drive past like I didn’t care.

Last year, there were about 1500 people who are homeless in my city and the surrounding areas. Some of them have gotten help and sought shelter and food and in some cases, employment, but many of them are still in that state of in between.

I know it is difficult to give things away to people you see on the street. If you give them money, they might buy alcohol, but at least they will be in a warmer place for a few minutes. You’re not brave enough to slide your car window down or to walk over to them, but when you do gather your courage, you will not only feel better but you will have helped another human being. And there’s legitimate excuses like not having anything at all to give (even if they are not the best excuses).

But remember, even the smallest thing helps.

I believe…

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I believe in words. I believe in those times when you are forced to talk and also those times when you should be silent. I believe in their restorative power as well as how well they destroy. I believe in words. I believe in “the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” I believe in comparisons to summer days. I believe in the road less traveled. I believe in the stolen plums from the ice box and the white chickens. I believe in voltas. And speaking of change, I believe that “thee” and “thy” have morphed into “you” and “your.” I know and believe that slang has become modern and then outdated as culture moves on.

I believe…

I believe in light. I believe that it dispels the dark and the dark is afraid of it. I believe that when the sun creeps into your bedroom in the morning, it is saying good morning and get up because I want to see what you are going to do today. I believe that electricity can be expensive, but brightens your day. I believe in light. I believe that light bathes you. I believe that it can take your breath away. I believe in the yellow light and I believe in the pink. I believe in the hazy light at dusk and the brightness of midday.

I believe…

I believe in breathing. I believe that it is vital, but somehow unnoticeable.  I believe in friendship. I believe it brings a voice to the heart and wings to the soul. I believe in family. I believe in water. I believe in peace. I believe in the sky. I believe in words, light, breathing…