Category Archives: Musings

The Power of Forgiveness

by

Last Friday, I got the opportunity to see the film “The Power of Forgiveness,” which is directed by Martin Doblmeier, in my philosophy class. Afterwards, I got to sit in on a Q & A with the director himself.

In the film, Doblmeier explores the idea of forgiveness in communities that have been wronged grievously, including Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland, the Amish in Pennsylvania, the Jews, those in the Columbine shooting, and some others.

The documentary did not try to educate its audience on how to forgive. Quite the contrary, it acknowledged that everyone, every community  has a different approach to forgiveness. For the Amish, forgiveness is almost automatic, something that they are taught to do all the time. They even applied this concept to the school shooting that happened in their very own backyard, so to speak. Some members talked about how it was a little more difficult than usual, but still they forgave somewhat out of habit. That does not mean that they forgot or even became less angry. Oh no. After all, forgiving is not forgetting. It is letting go of the pain.

I am in my early twenties. I don’t think I have enough years of experience and wisdom to forgive everything and everyone.

I do forgive my roommate from my freshman year who hurt me greatly.

I do forgive mean comments that have come my way over the years.

I do not quite forgive James Holmes, the man who opened fire in a movie theater that I have grown up going to.

I do not forgive Hitler, a man who lived and died before I was even a thought, but still instills terror in me.

One of my classmates stood up at the end of the period and asked if forgiveness isn’t a little selfish because it is typically done for your own well-being and not for the good of the one who wronged you.

I can see his point, but I think the opposite of forgiveness is vengeance and letting the wrong destroy your life and is infinitely more selfish. By letting your pain consume you, you are saying that it matters more than everybody else’s pain.

And the truth is: everybody is in pain of some sort. You are not alone, even if struggles vary from person to person. And it very well may be that part of that struggle is forgiving someone. And forgiving is hard. Hard to understand and do.

But I think that forgiveness brings us together and gives us peace, which is, I believe what human beings crave. In the end.

Why I Write

by

This is from a paper that I recently wrote for a class. Therefore it is a little longer than normal.

 

I do not know why exactly I am a writer. Maybe I am one because my experiences made me one. Maybe I am one because I was born to be one. Whatever the reason, I know that my family as well as my school experiences are big part of how I am able to write.
My father has always been a huge supporter of my writing. He sometimes jokes (Or at least I think he’s joking. I am not altogether sure.) that when I get to be a famous author like J.K. Rowling, he and my mom will come and live in the mother-in-law apartment of my fancy house in the mountains. Before he started saying things like that to me, he was my first critic. He read over my academic papers for school as well as my poems and stories and taught me how to take constructive criticism well. And always, without fail, he will answer my questions about something out of the blue that I decided that I wanted to write about. In fact, he has come to learn that when I say, “I have a random question…” it means that I am writing something new.
I have always done well in English and it has always been my favorite subject, which is part of the reason why I’m an English major. It is also part of the reason why I am a writer, although I know that not all writers are English majors and not all English majors are writers…

In a way, I have always been writing. My sister tells me that I started when I was second grade. But of course, I started out as a reader. Or rather, a listener. I listened to Is Your Mama a Llama and Green Eggs and Ham and The Horse and His Boy. I listened and I imitated. I imitated my sibling’s ability to read, much like I imitate cursive before I learned it in school. My parents have a picture of me sitting next to my oldest brother in the living room, him in the rocking chair and me on the couch, both of us perusing magazines. His is a Nathional Geographic and mine looks like it’s about Astronomy. It looks like a snapshot of a teenager and a toddler fairly advanced for her age, until you peer closer and notice that my magazine is upside down.
As soon as I did start reading, I did it everywhere and any time I could. I read secretly after my lights were supposed to be turned out. I read on my way to church when I was supposed to be cleaning my room. And several times in school, I would become so engrossed in my current book that I would have to be reminded that class was starting. I read to draw closer to my family and friends and I would read to escape.
My sister recently told me that “when you like something, you really like it.” That is especially true with books. I read The Boxcar Children over and over until the first book of the series literally split in two. I read A Little Princess and The Secret Garden until I could have recited them verbatim.
It was The Secret Garden that really started me writing, I think. I copied each chapter into notebooks and when I got tired of that, I made up my own endings for Mary, Colin, and Dicken. Or maybe my writing started even before that. Perhaps it started in preschool when I would dictate stories to my dad and I would illustrate the little booklets he made with my scribbles when my neighbor, MaLia, and I created an invisible spy who had adventures in my backyard.
I might have always been a writer in some fashion, but I did not actually start considering myself one until I was in middle school, maybe even in high school. It started with poetry. I have to admit that they were not all that good, but I wrote them anyway. I pasted them on homemade candles and gave them as gifts for Christmas and showed them to my dance teacher. I once showed a poem to my sixth grade English teacher and he said, “Ooh! Someone’s in love!” I was so incredibly angry at what he said that I did not show anything to anyone for quite a while… But I got over it when I was entered into an advanced English class in eighth grade, which seemed more like a Creative Writing class than any English class I had ever taken before. In it, we were required to participate in NanoWriMo (National Writing Month) and write a good portion of a novel as well as the script part of a graphic novel. Then, I tried my hand at fiction, even though I still preferred poetry at that time.
At the beginning of eighth grade, I entertained the idea of applying for Denver School of the Arts for dance. I told my dance teacher this and she told me that I should also consider their Creative Writing program because I had a real talent for writing. I did not listen her because my heart was so set on dancing and I did not believe I was good enough at writing. I ended up attending a different high school as I figured out that dance would not make me happy in the end.
My freshman year, I discovered darkness and my writing became more meaningful and much better, in my eyes, as I had something hard and deep and dark to convey. I also started journaling. My first journal was very succinct, but my next couple became more involved and much longer. I had to ask for a new journal every year for my birthday because I filled them out so fast. The act of journaling introduced me to the genre of Creative Nonfiction, even though I did not realize that the genre had a name at that time.
During my freshman year of college, I took a Creative Writing class and the teacher talked about this relatively new genre called Creative Nonfiction. I immediately fell in love with it and found that I was more at ease with it than fiction or poetry. And in my first two years of college, I manage to get two pieces published in riverrun. I hoping to get published in national magazines, starting with the ones that are specifically geared for emerging writers.
The idea of getting published is a scary thing. Exciting, but scary. It means that I might be able to join the likes of Sylvia Plath and Joan Didion. Or I might not. But whether or not I get short pieces entered into recognized journals or get my novel which currently has only two chapters written, I will be a writer.

There are many reasons why I am a writer. Maybe it is because of my experiences. Maybe it is because I was born to be one.
Or, maybe I am a writer simply because I write.

 

2 Minute Personality Test

by

My friend and I recently went to Chipotle for dinner. Chipotle lately has been printing short short stories on their cups. This time, my cup held the 2 Minute Personality Test by Jonathan Safran Foer, which is a series of questions that I found interesting.

Here are my answers:

1.What was the kindest thing you almost did?

I saw a shopping cart in the exact middle of the parking lot. I intended to put it away so the employees didn’t have to. However, by the time I had parked, I had completely forgot about it. Until now, obviously.

2. Is your fear of Insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you?

No. But I have been afraid to sleep because of nightmares.

3. Are bonsai cruel?

We are talking about the tree, right? No, I do not think they’re cruel. I think they are amazing.

4. Do you love what you love, or just the feeling?

Both, I guess. For example, I love writing for writing’s sake and for the euphoria I get when I write.

5. Your earliest memories: do you look through your young eyes or look at your young self?

I look at my memories with my young eyes. And for some reason, these memories are all sort of yellowish.

6. Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent or there are people with more talent?

The first, most definitely.

7. Do you walk on moving walkways?

I think I’m rare in the fact that I prefer to actually stay still. It’s slower, but more peaceful. But that doesn’t mean that I haven’t walked on them.

8. Should it make  any difference that you knew it was wrong as you did it?

Yes.

9. Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter?

Most definitely not. Since I wore glasses in middle school, I got so tired of people assuming that I was smarter than I felt I was.

10. Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone.

It is when they’re texting in the company of someone else that I get bothered. When they’re having a conversation on the phone, most of the time I’m too focused on eavesdropping to be bothered by it.

11. How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month in your life?

None. I want to live every year of my life and remember it, no matter how bad, good, or disappointing they are.

12. What would you tell your father, if it were possible.

Sometimes it feels like I don’t appreciate you enough, but I completely, utterly love you.

13. Which is changing faster: your body or your mind?

My mind, hopefully.

14. It is cruel to tell an old person his/her prognosis?

No. I think its cruel to not tell them.

15. Are you in any way angry at your phone?

Not directly. I’m more annoyed at how reliant I am on it.

16. When you pass a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, your reflection, or neither?

What’s inside.

17. Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it?

The earth, maybe? I would sooner die for a person or persons than a thing.

18. If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make you any small bit happier, would you still want more money?

I just want enough money so I can support myself and my family in the future.

19. What has irrevocably been spoiled for you?

Coconut. I choked on it when I was little and I haven’t like it since.

20. If your deepest secret became public, would you be forgiven?

I’m not even sure what my deepest secret is, but I hope it would.

21. Is your best friend your kindest friend?

No, but she is one of the kindest I know.

22. Is it in any way cruel to give a dog a name?

I don’t think so, but then again that hadn’t even occurred to me.

23. Is there anything you need to confess?

I’m a little nuts. And so are my friends and some members of my family. That’s why I picked them. Or they picked me. Either one.

24. You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again?

No idea. But I can’t help thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “The Raven.”

25. What is it about death that you are afraid of?

The same reason why I’m afraid of darkness: the unknown.

26. How does it make you feel to know that it is an “unkindness of ravens?”

Unperturbed, but gradually getting curious about the phrase.

 

 

Things I Know about Dementia

by

Last night my brain was keeping me awake by thinking, so I wrote this, titled Things I Know about Dementia:

1. It creeps on you slowly. Your loved one is tucking you in at night and then she’s wandering down her street trying to catch a bus home.

2. You visit her in the nursing home and she’s aware enough to follow you to the door begging you to take her home.

3. You can’t take her anywhere anymore, even to Thanksgiving dinner with family, because she became so agitated after last time that she broke a window.

4. You are told that she is losing a lot of wight and she probably won’t last a year.

5. Your sister cries, but you never do. You write instead.

6. Your dad tells the nursing home staff how much she likes dessert. She instantly gains weight.

7. You hear that a resident punched her after she took their food an you laugh. It is the only way to cope.

8. She doesn’t ask to go home anymore. She can’t say a full coherent sentence.

9. She hasn’t recognized you for a long time.

10. You go off to college. The next time you see her, you are shocked by the changes. She is now so frail that she cannot walk. She’s in a wheelchair and uses her feet and the walls to push herself.

11. You visit her whenever you come home from college, scared that you won’t be able to say goodbye.

12. You pass a lady who is screaming because she couldn’t get out of the nursing home. You can’t help feeling glad that your loved one never did that.

13. You hold her hand while your dad pushes her. She drops your hand for a second, but grabs it suddenly like she was afraid you are the one leaving her.

14. You study her face and try to remember what she used to look like.

 

“Real” books

by

Sorry its been a fairly long time since I’ve posted. Its been a crazy two weeks finishing up my summer class.

Recently I saw this quote by Laurie Halse Anderson, the author of Speak:

“You can tell a book is real when it makes your heart beat faster. Real books make you sweat. Cry, if no one is looking. Real books help you make sense of your crazy life. Real books tell it true, don’t hold back, and make you stronger. But most of all, real books give you hope. Because it’s not always going to be like this and books – the good ones, the real ones – show you how to make it better. Now.”

This got me thinking about books that I’ve read that have done these things for me. In a way, all books have done this for me, but some have been forgettable while some have stood out in my memory for a variety of reasons. And then some of them have changed my life or at least my way of thinking.

10 “real” books that I’ve discovered:

1. Just Listen by Sarah Dessen

2. The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

3. The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

4.The Storyteller’s Daughter by Cameron Dokey

5.Send by Patty Blount

6. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

7.Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke

8.Darkness Visible by William Styron

9. Green Angel by Alice Hoffman

10. Thirteen Reasons Why by Jay Asher

There are so many “real” books that have devoured me. These are just the ones (excepting The Bell Jar) that I have on my bookshelf.

What “real” books have you read?

In memory of 7/20/12

by

Some of you may not be aware that yesterday marked the 2nd anniversary of the Colorado theater shooting which took 12 lives and injured 70 more.

I remember quite distinctly that I was out of state visiting family when I heard, or rather saw, the news on our hotel’s TV in the breakfast room. I watched the story, which was played over and over, trying to figure out what building the reporter was standing outside of. Having grown up in the area and having gone to the theater too many times to count, I knew every building in the surrounding area.

The rest of the day was quiet as my family digested the news and hoped fervently that no one we knew was seeing the movie that night. As it turns out, one of the girls that I graduated with just a few months before was in the theater. She wasn’t hurt, thankfully, but I will never forget the way my heart stopped for a few seconds before I found out that she was okay. I cannot possibly imagine hearing the news that your loved one was shot while enjoying the midnight premiere of a movie about a hero or being the one who saw their loved one shot as you survived. I will only say that I am sorry that your loved one was so cruelly taken from you. It is the truest thing I can say.

The first college class that I attended after that summer was a Philosophy class. We went through introductions and when I said where I was from, the professor asked, “That’s where that movie shooting was, right?” He immediately realized that his tone wasn’t quite as respectful as it should have been and apologized, but I was used to the questions and said it was fine.

The first few months after the shooting, there was a petition for keeping the theater open despite some calling for its closing. I signed that petition because it showed that my community was strong despite the actions of one mentally ill person, whose name is not important right now.

The names that are important are the names of the ones who lost their lives.

Violins, waking up slowly, and hands/planets

by

I recently observed a workshop in which the presenters gave an unique approach to writing. I think this technique could be most useful for creative writing, but also could be helpful for anyone in academia who has writer’s block and is struggling to put forth words on the page.

Many creative writers, including myself, have expressed the need to have music in the background while they write. I had never thought of music, especially music without words, as an inspiration for a story or even an academic paper, but the presenters changed my mind entirely.

The presenters played a couple music clips and told us to free write while listening about what we felt about the music. After each piece was played, some people shared what they wrote. Some wrote about the instruments that were being played. Some created stories. I wrote a poem for one of the songs.

For this blog entry, I listened to three songs via Pandora’s “Electronic for Studying” station and wrote about what it sounded like to me. I tried to use as many original phrases as possible.

1.Neptune by Ronald Jenkees http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oG6FQnbXI0s

Deep red electronic violin pulling and pushing lightly. Summer breeze plays with the hair that refused to stay this morning. Things are slowing down at the end of the day. Wondering what tomorrow will bring. Pushing orchestrations pull my heart and little steps leading to garden of blue redness.

2.Moon by Little People http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IK5I4cTkL-E&feature=kp

Waking up slowly, sleepily. Day starts without me willing it to. Day ends with a violet shade of relief. Stuck in one place, fast paced but not really moving. Voices speak to me. Don’t know what they’re saying, but it sounds like “rise.” It gets rough but my shoulders can bear the burden as long as I have this pen, I think. Pause. Break. Rise again please. I want you to be awake when I see you.

3. Hands of Love by Deuter http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnPhtFzXlHc

Hands-planets-stars, surround me. Sweet, res-o-nating flute music trills and climbs the side of my leg. Echoes. Can anybody hear me? We are alone on this planet, but not lonely because hands around surround me as gentle as… a candle lit in the autumn evening. A vanilla candle, not too cloying, but peaceful. Wavering, but always there. Now the flame-the hands-are double. Little? Big? Big enough.

I would love it if my readers would follow the YouTube links and listen to the songs I wrote to. And if you feel so inclined, do some music inspired free writes of your own.

 

 

To the Squirrel Who Died in the Middle of the Road

by

The first time I drove over you, I felt sad. By the time I came to the next intersection, I had started to feel slightly sick. But by the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I had already forgotten about you. Its funny how fast human beings forget things when they are in a hurry.

The next day was hot and I was glad that the car windows were  rolled up as I passed over you. My passing probably was as quick as the original hit that took your life, if not quicker. I can only hope that the owner of that car at least felt the bump you made and had a sudden twinge of guilt hit their stomach for a minute or two about taking a little four legged creature from its family and the nest it would have tried to invade the next day.

On the third day, I tried to avoid looking at you, but there’s something about roadkill and accidents on the road that draws your eye, even though your brain tries to resist it. You no longer look like a squirrel, but rather like spilled yellow take-out food.

On the fourth day, I pointed you out to a friend. We were in the other lane, so we couldn’t see you clearly, but I could have sworn that only half of you were there. I wondered if you were just being grounded into a smaller pulp or if half of your tiny body was caught up in a car’s underside.

I actually looked for you on the fifth day. But you were gone. All was left was a black smear on the pavement. It looked like an oil spill.

Its too bad that I didn’t get to see you while you were living, but I wouldn’t have been able to pick you out from all the other squirrels. Instead I got to see you in your smelly, squashed, dead glory.

Unfortunately I can’t say that you have changed my life for better or for worse, but I am sorry for you. I am sorry for the wife and children that I have imagined for you. I am sorry that you weren’t administered your last squirrel rites or had a proper squirrel funeral.

I will say this: RIP squirrel who died in the middle of the road. May squirrel heaven be filled with nuts.

 

In honor of Father’s Day

by

I used to know what to give my dad for father’s day: a new hammock for the backyard. The squirrels would chew through the ropes of all the previous hammocks and tons of children and adults would play, read, and fall asleep in them, leading to their eventual deterioration in just a summer. But then, a few years ago, we found a hammock that has miraculously stayed alive.

As a result, I don’t really have a concrete idea what to give him.

So I’m giving him this blog post. And a list of my favorite memories with him. Because, after all, memories are worth a whole lot more than something that money can buy.

1. Making bubbles from scratch for a birthday party.

2. When I was in preschool, standing in my dad’s shoes and him standing “in” (more like on) my itty bitty ones.

3. Reading The Chronicles of Narnia together before school each morning.

4.Carpooling to and from my high school each day. Mornings would be sleepy and quiet. Afternoons could be loud and somewhat crazy.

5. Getting The Poems of Emily Dickinson for Christmas and examining them together.

6. Going on a hike and riding on his shoulders.

7. Falling asleep on the couch and getting carried to my room.

8.  Drawing at the duck pond and getting sprayed on by the sprinklers.

9. Him teasing me about living in my spare room when I’m a famous author.

10. Setting up this blog.

I love you so much, Dad!

And as a very cute kid at the park told his dad as I passed them, happy daddy’s day to you!

Happy daddy’s day to all the father’s out there.

 

Smell/Taste/See

by

In honor of finals almost being done, I want to do a writing exercise.

Prompt: Make a list of objects. Pick one that you can smell, one you can taste, and one you can see and write on each object for three minutes.

1. the smell of leftovers

The split pea soup was from two days ago. It smelled cold and moist, like it was slowly dying to climb into my stomach or into the trash can. The contents sizzled in the microwave and when I pulled it out, it enveloped me in green haze of cooked pea smell and rain in the evening and flowers poking out of the snow and getting called to dinner and my stomach rumbling in anticipation of the next meal it would digest.

2. the taste of lipstick

I bite into my sandwich, forgetting momentarily that I still had my deep red lipstick on. My stomach churns at the sight of the red half circle now implanted on my lunch, but I’m hungry and I have to be back in my costume in 20 minutes. Closing my eyes, I feel the taste of my ham tinged with metal invade my mouth and creep its way down my throat. The taste of tears, sweat, iron, and sickeningly fake redness cling onto my taste buds for the Waltz of the Snowflakes.

3. the sight of orange spray paint

Orange against black in a dark tunnel. It gleams bright under superficial light. It is a gang sign with a meaning I don’t know. The orange screams Caution! I’m dangerous! and Caution! We don’t want you here! It screams of innocence lost and youth trying to find themselves, but failing.