Category Archives: Writing

Currently Reading

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It is Spring Break a.k.a. reading for fun time (as well as supposedly getting ahead on homework). The book that I have been recently devouring is A Book of Silence by Sara Maitland. It is listed under philosophy/spirituality, but I was drawn towards it simply because it is creative nonfiction.

As the title suggests, Maitland discusses silence. She brings the reader through her experience of silence in first the Isle of Skye and then the Scottish hills and the Sinai desert. Her book is exactly the kind of creative nonfiction that I want to write: one that relates personal experience while simultaneously drawing from history, literature, and philosophy.

Her discovery of silence, especially when she is on Skye, is beautifully relayed and all encompassing. That is, she described the good as well as bad (in fact, there is a whole chapter entitled “The Dark Side”). In all honesty, I felt a bit jealous of her. I have become extremely aware of all the chatter and noise around me, so much so that I’ve become irrationally irritated at those who are contributing to the noise.

As she pointed out, there is no such thing as complete silence. I am not currently listening to music and my roommate in the apartment is keeping to herself right now, but even so, I can hear the fridge, the tapping of my fingers on the keyboard, and every once in a while my feet or my bones somewhere else in my body make a noise as I fidget. It’s funny that I call that silence.

I know full well that since I am a student and I have definite plans for a least my near future, I cannot suddenly become a hermit. Instead, I can make room for silence. I have already made two moves toward doing so: I uninstalled Facebook on my phone and I removed Pandora. And when I drive to church for the Maundy Thursday service this evening, the radio will not be turned on. It will not be the kind of silence that will drive me crazy (which has happened), but it will be the silence that keeps me whole and hopefully sane.

Poetry Perusing

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A while ago, I was given an anthology of poetry entitled “I Feel a Little Jumpy Around You,” edited by Naomi Shihab Nye and Paul B. Janeczko. I remember flipping through it briefly and then placing it on my shelf, where it sat for quite a few years (sorry to whoever gave it to me). Because of the cover, which has a drawing of two newlyweds dancing off a tiered cake, I thought it was a volume of love poetry… and I wasn’t particularly interested in reading love poetry at that moment in my life.

Picking it up today, I was pleasantly surprised by the little bit that I have managed to consume. “A Little Jumpy” is an intriguing volume in which the editors  grouped poems into pairs to illustrate the similar as well as dissimilar ways that men and woman view the same topics.  The title seems to suggest that the topic is mostly romantic love, but that is not the case. The first section, “Heads on Fire” contains poems about family relationships. The second, “Foreign Exchange,” is about the beginnings of adolescence and figuring our romantic relationships. The third, “The Real Names of Everything” seems to be poems discussing the everyday life of adults who have found more settled, solid lives. And lastly, “Separate Longings”is about, well, longings.

In other words, the anthology is about life.

Poetry is difficult. Quite a few people don’t like it. Quite a few people don’t understand it. I stand in an in between place. I don’t hate it… but it is certainly not my favorite. In middle school, I wrote quite a lot of poetry. And then I realized that prose fits me better.

Flash forward to college and adulthood, where I’m starting to encounter events and issues that I  have not dealt with before. I am still attached to prose, but I have found myself writing poetry in my journal or sometimes in class. These poems are different than the ones from my past. Not only are they usually better (in my estimation), but they are written about my hardest issues. Therefore, they are extremely private. I have no trouble sharing most of my prose, but no one has seen any of these intensely personal poems.

I imagine that the poems included in the anthology are as personal for the author’s as mine are for me. It is amazing that they were able to share them with the public. Maybe I’ll be able to do that one day.

I’ll end with sharing one of my favorite poems of the collection:

“Travelling Together” by W.S. Merwin

If we are separated I will

try to wait for you

on your side of things

 

your side of the wall and the water

and of the light moving at its own speed

even on leaves that we have seen

I will wait on one side

 

while a side is there.

Advent: Light Amongst Dark

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For those unfamiliar with the season of Advent, it is the four weeks before Christmas.

Growing up, Advent was always about decorating our outside Advent wreath, pulling out Christmas books, and singing “O come, O Come Emmanuel” at night around our small Advent wreath on the dining room table. The last few years, Advent has been different. At first, I tried to make it as familiar and traditional as possible.  I got a makeshift wreath from my church, complete with tapers, and listened to variations of “O Come.” But this year, Advent has changed for me. Admittedly much of it is because I barely have time for myself as my semester wraps up. But also, I want to make it new. Lately, the repetitiousness of liturgy at church has started to bore me. It has started to become meaningless.  So I find myself closing my eyes during confession and other prayers and making them my own in my head. I did not want Advent to be boring or meaningless either. So I decided to dedicate my journal to Advent.

Here are some of the entries I penned:

Advent is about preparation. To be prepare is to be read for what happens. It is to be ready for a test, an event, the day ahead. During Advent, we prepare ourselves for the birth of Christ. We celebrate this every single year, so there can’t be much to prepare for or much that can take us by surprise, right? Contrarily, that is not the case. At every Christmas, we are different. We are a year older, our desires have changed us for better or for worse. This happens gradually, but faster than we think or wish. And so as we grow and change, our ways of preparing change. For Advent, we may cling to traditions like Christmas trees, eggnog, Christmas, music, etc, but out hearts are different. Christ is the same, but the way we look at him, think of him is completely different. It is up to us to continue letting him  in and to find the courage to keep him in your hear, soul, and mind.

Advent is about providing light in the dark. It is not necessarily a time for preparing for a light, but looking for it. Not only has there been less light per day, but the world has been darker lately, especially with ISIS and with the recent shootings in Colorado Springs and California. To dispel this darkness, we can look at the stars. We can light candles or even electrical lights. Most importantly, we can be lights to each other. In a climate of hate, terror, and chaos, we can love and affirm each other. We can pick each other up. We can hope. Because, ultimately, what is Advent? It is hope.

 

 

Recently Read

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The minute that I stepped into the dining room on my first day of Thanksgiving break, my eye fell on a paperback with a yellow cover. “Who’s reading this?” I asked my dad. He replied that, at the moment, no one was. And with that information, I snatched up the book and proceeded to gobble up the first few pages. I, unfortunately, had to eat and then sleep, but as soon as I could the next day, I continued with my latest adventure… and I finished it that same day.

This book that caught my attention so immediately was Still Alice by Lisa Genova. Some may recognize this title from the recent film adaptation starring Julianne Moore. I have not seen the movie, but I have been long curious about both the novel and the movie, especially since the main character has Alzheimer’s, a disease that I have watched my grandmother go through for many years.

The difference about the protagonist, Alice, is that she has Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease (sometimes referred to as EOAD in the novel). The book begins right before her fiftieth birthday when she starts noticing strange memory lapses. At first, she thinks that it is menopause because of her age, but after visiting a neurologist, she discovers the unexpected and beyond life-changing diagnosis. The rest of the novel spans the next two years during which she becomes more and more lost to dementia.

When I first picked it up, I didn’t have high hopes for the quality of the writing because I expected it to be a typical illness story, like ones that I have read about cancer. But I was very wrong. My breath was almost taken away by the beauty and simplicity of the first scene in which Alice’s husband is looking for something and she notices how all the clocks in the house do not tell the right time. Not only is it written well, but it is magnificent symbolism and foreshadowing.

I do not know how well Genova portrays Early Onset Alzheimer’s, but I do know how familiar the symptoms that are described sound like from watching my grandmother, especially the wandering, the asking to go home, and the eventual forgetting of who her loved ones are.

Please read this book. It will ruin you (in a good way, I promise).

Humanity

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I’m sorry I have been absent from this blog for a while. Life got hectic.

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” -Mahatma Gandhi

Last Friday when I heard about the Paris attacks and the day afterwards when I read some of the negative reactions, I had a hard time believing in humanity and my heavenly father. It seemed like there wasn’t much proof of his existence. But two things happened that made me realize that our creator is there after all.

The first happened on Sunday when my car broke down at an intersection of a busy street. This event was nerve racking and did not help my present insecurity. However, my faith in the human race and God as well returned when a couple with two kids towed my little car to safety at a gas station before AAA came. One of the kids, a tween girl, showered me with compliments such as “I like your wallet” and “I like your shoes.” Usually I do not like compliments, but she cheered me up excessively.

Humanity seems quite ugly sometimes. And often social media and news stations emphasize that. But it is important to remember that humans can be beautiful to. The family that helped me in that stressful situation was beautiful as well as my friend who drove to the gas station to rescue me and the various people who drove me to and from work this week. And just like not all humans are bad, not all Muslims, Christians, or anyone religious are bad.

I said that two things happened. The second thing appeared in something that I wrote in my journal last month when I felt like I was drowning in stress.

wordlist

Darkness

no one like you

healer

with

There is no one like you in the darkness. I, a river, try to flow for you, but I stumble over broken rocks. With you, I am stronger. With you, my healer, I am reminded that rocks cause a waterfall glorious in beauty.

wordlist

strength

ache

silver

falling

brand new

see

unmovable

The unmovable silver ache falls like a leaf burdened with what it’s seen. It lies limply on the ground, but it finds, somehow, the strength – and the faith – to look at the brand new mountains.

 

Recently Read: Books that Wrecked Me

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My fiction professor asked us last week if we have read any books that wrecked us. Everybody raised their hands. The first two books that came to mind were The Book Thief and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Now I can add two others to those books: All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr and The Book of Secrets by Elizabeth Joy Arnold.

Of course, I don’t mean that they completely destroyed me. What I, and my professor, mean is that I felt sad, moved, and most of all, changed in some little way.

All the Light We Cannot See follows Marie-Laure, a French blind girl, and Werner, a German orphan, before and after WWII. It often seems like there are too many WWII/Holocaust books. And to be honest, when I first picked it up, I thought it was going to be yet another casting of that horrible time period.

But it isn’t. It isn’t a typical war book because it actually follows the life of one who became a Nazi because he didn’t have much choice and also because it speaks at length about what happened afterwards to each character and how the war affected them.

It wrecked me because: Its brutal honesty. Its realism. Its simple and beautiful language. And because it showed how much human beings impact each other for better and worse.

The Book of Secrets begins when Chloe Sinclair, after twenty years of marriage, comes home to find that her husband, Nate, is gone. As Chloe tries to figure out what has happened and what is troubling her husband, she revisits her memories of meeting and growing up with her husband and his family.

Throughout the book, Arnold alludes to a plethora of books in telling how Chloe and the Sinclairs grew up and coped with the difficulties of life and each section is named after a book, not necessarily because that particular book is featured in that section, but because of themes and ideas that they share with each section.

It is difficult to say what wrecked me without giving up any specific plot details. It wasn’t the language because while it flowed and was beautiful, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Instead, it was the realistic, albeit tragic events that were relayed. It was the feeling that everything could have happened in reality.

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.

 

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.