New blog location: callielarin.com 

Iris' Speech

"I've found almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said, "Journeys end in lovers meeting." What an extraordinary thought. Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that, but I am more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should. I am constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said "love is blind". Now that is something I know to be true. For some quite inexplicably, love fades; for others love is simply lost. And then, there's another kind of love: the cruelest kind. The one that almost kills its victims. Its called unrequited love. Of that I am an expert. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded. The handicapped without the advantage of a great parking space!

I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. And how it can actually ache in places you didn't know you had inside you. And it doesn't matter how many new haircuts you get, or gyms you join, or how many glasses of chardonnay you drink with your girlfriends... you still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong or how you could have misunderstood. And how in the hell for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy. And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he'll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long all that may be, you'll go somewhere new. And you'll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again. And little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted, that will eventually begin to fade."

Letter on Book-Banning by Author Pat Conroy

To the Editor of the Charleston Gazette:

I received an urgent e-mail from a high school student named Makenzie Hatfield of Charleston, West Virginia. She informed me of a group of parents who were attempting to suppress the teaching of two of my novels, The Prince of Tides and Beach Music. I heard rumors of this controversy as I was completing my latest work. These controversies are so commonplace in my life that I no longer get involved. But my knowledge of mountain lore is strong enough to know the dangers of refusing to help a Hatfield of West Virginia. I also do not mess with McCoys.

I've enjoyed a lifetime love affair with English teachers. My English teachers pushed me to be smart and inquisitive, and they taught me the great books of the world with passion and cunning and love. Like your English teachers, they didn't have any money either, but they lived in the bright fires of their imaginations, and they taught because they were born to teach the prettiest language in the world. I have yet to meet an English teacher who assigned a book to damage a kid. They take an unutterable joy in opening up the known world to their students, but they are dishonored and unpraised because of the scandalous paychecks they receive. In my travels around this country, I have discovered that America hates its teachers, and I could not tell you why. Charleston, West Virginia, is showing clear signs of really hurting theirs, and I would be cautious about the word getting out.

In 1961, I entered the classroom of the great Eugene Norris, who set about in a thousand ways to change my life. It was the year I read The Catcher in the Rye, under Gene's careful tutelage, and I adore that book to this very day. Later, a parent complained to the school board, and Gene Norris was called before the board to defend his teaching of this book. He asked me to write an essay describing the book's galvanic effect on me, which I did. But Gene's defense of The Catcher in the Ryewas so brilliant and convincing in its sheer power that it carried the day. I stayed close to Gene Norris till the day he died. I delivered a eulogy at his memorial service and was one of the executors of his will. Few in the world have ever loved English teachers as I have.

About the novels your county just censored: The Prince of Tides and Beach Music are two of my darlings which I would place before the altar of God and say, "Lord, this is how I found the world you made." They contain scenes of violence, but I was the son of a Marine Corps fighter pilot who killed hundreds of men in Korea, beat my mother and his seven kids whenever he felt like it, and fought in three wars. My youngest brother, Tom, committed suicide by jumping off a fourteen-story building; my French teacher ended her life with a pistol; my aunt was brutally raped in Atlanta; eight of my classmates at The Citadel were killed in Vietnam; and my best friend was killed in a car wreck in Mississippi last summer. Violence has always been a part of my world. I write about it in my books and make no apology to anyone. In Beach Music, I wrote about the Holocaust and lack the literary powers to make that historical event anything other than grotesque.

People cuss in my books. People cuss in my real life. I cuss, especially at Citadel basketball games. I'm perfectly sure that Steve Shamblin and other teachers prepared their students well for any encounters with violence or profanity in my books just as Gene Norris prepared me for the profane language in The Catcher in the Rye forty-eight years ago.

The world of literature has everything in it, and it refuses to leave anything out. I have read like a man on fire my whole life because the genius of English teachers touched me with the dazzling beauty of language. Because of them I rode with Don Quixote and danced with Anna Karenina at a ball in St. Petersburg and lassoed a steer inLonesome Dove and had nightmares about slavery in Beloved and walked the streets of Dublin in Ulysses and made up a hundred stories in The Arabian Nights and saw my mother killed by a baseball in A Prayer for Owen Meany. I've been in ten thousand cities and have introduced myself to a hundred thousand strangers in my exuberant reading career, all because I listened to my fabulous English teachers and soaked up every single thing those magnificent men and women had to give. I cherish and praise them and thank them for finding me when I was a boy and presenting me with the precious gift of the English language.

The school board of Charleston, West Virginia, has sullied that gift and shamed themselves and their community. You've now entered the ranks of censors, book-banners, and teacher-haters, and the word will spread. Good teachers will avoid you as though you had cholera. But here is my favorite thing: Because you banned my books, every kid in that county will read them, every single one of them. Because book-banners are invariably idiots, they don't know how the world works—but writers and English teachers do.

I salute the English teachers of Charleston, West Virginia, and send my affection to their students. West Virginians, you've just done what history warned you against—you've riled a Hatfield.

Sincerely,

Pat Conroy

From "Four Loves" by C.S. Lewis

“The event of falling in love is of such a nature that we are right to reject as intolerable the idea that it

should be transitory. In one high bound it has overleaped the massive of our selfhood; it has made appetite itself altruistic, tossed personal happiness aside as a triviality and planted the interests of another in the centre of our being. Spontaneously and without effort we have fulfilled the law (towards one person) by loving our neighbour as ourselves. It is an image, a foretaste, of what we must become to all if Love Himself rules in us without a rival. It is even (well used) a preparation for that.”

* * *
“You can’t go on “seeing through” things forever. The whole point of seeing through something is to see something through it. To “see through” all things is the same as not to see.”

* * *
"In God there is no hunger that needs to be filled, only plenteousness that desires to give.”

Norah Jones - Forever Young (live)

Loved this cover of such a good Dylan song. Makes me think of dancing with my dad in the living room, and of growing up, and of giggling with my sisters, and of sitting around a table with good food and with my family. If I get married one day, I'd like to dance with my dad to this song.

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young

Prayer of the Summer

"Lord, hear my prayer, listen to my cry for mercy; in your faithfulness and righteousness  come to my relief. Do not bring your servant into judgment, for no one living is righteous before you.The enemy pursues me, he crushes me to the ground; he makes me dwell in the darkness like those long dead. So my spirit grows faint within me; my heart within me is dismayed. I remember the days of long ago;  I meditate on all your works and consider what your hands have done. I spread out my hands to you; I thirst for you like a parched land. Answer me quickly, Lord; my spirit fails. Do not hide your face from me or I will be like those who go down to the pit. Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life. Rescue me from my enemies, Lord,  for I hide myself in you. Teach me to do your will,  for you are my God;  may your good Spirit  lead me on level ground." Psalm 143

Normalcy

Before leaving for my year in England, I thought a lot about the fact that I am getting older, and yet still don't quite know how to prepare myself for the unexpected, the unknowable. In some ways, I hold on to a childish idea of normalcy; I cling to what is comfortable. But as I continue to grow up (despite my efforts to find Neverland), I am slowly and surely realizing that there is no "normal" to return to. Life in its seasons changes everything. There is no longer a status quo. For so many years, we have set paths to follow–– you play the role of student from elementary through college. You have set notions of how to be a good daughter, sister, friend (mostly formed from watching adults and sometimes sitcoms). And you have set dreams –– the same ones you've been dreaming since childhood. For me, it's the quaint picket fence and babies and gardening on Saturday afternoons. But when you move into adulthood, there are setbacks, failures, pain and complexities. You find yourself thinking "I just want to get back to normal." But, the thing is, you're never the same once you get through that move, that fight, that difficult class, that heart break. And in many ways, you're glad you're not the same. Yes, some of the childish optimism might be gone, but in its place, perhaps you'll find strength or perspective or richer faith.  But what was "normal" previously sometimes won't fit as comfortably as it once did. And that new reality is difficult for me to come to terms with. I like my set ideas, my set dreams, my set paths. I don't enjoy being uncomfortable, and who isn't scared a little of the unknown? But because life in its seasons, in its complexities, in its failures & triumphs has changed me, I am forced to move on –– to become more and more comfortable with having no control, no set role or view of reality, and to accept a shifting definition of what is"normal."

Thank goodness for a God who is the one unchanging and constant force in life.

Being Miss Miller

I absolutely loved my summer classes. Being a teacher never ceases to catch you off guard and make you smile. Here are some of my favorite moments from this summer:

Kaitlyn (2nd grader with big, blue earnest eyes): Miss Miller, would you like to know where fairies come from? They are butterflies! Butterflies are fairies dressed up. But guess what? You can't catch them and leave them in your room overnight. That's a bad idea.
Me: Really? How come?
Kaitlyn: They will turn into trolls and make your room all messy. (She was dead serious.)

* * *

Me (directed at two boys who started wrestling on the grass at break time): Boys, that's not the best idea to be wrestling right now. Someone will get hurt.
Daevey (3rd grader): But Miss Miller, I'm teaching Diego some ninja moves. I'm going to be a ninja in a few years, but unfortunately, there is not a training facility near my house. So I haveta practice and I need to practice with Diego right now, okay? (He was dead serious.)

* * *

Nick (1st grader, during break): Would you like to eat a snack too, Miss Callie?
Me: Oh don't worry, I will eat lunch after class. Thank you, Nick.
Nick: But you might get hungry! *brings me 2 Dorito chips from his bag and lays them on my desk*
Me: Wow, thank you for sharing, that's so sweet of you!
I then proceeded to get 3 purple skittles from Corrine, a licorice piece from Ben and a handful of fishy crackers from Tanya, all spread out on my desk. Every week after that, the kids who brought snacks for break time shared bits with me. It was the cutest thing ever.

* * *
Elyse (pre-K, with delicate pink cheeks, a tiny upturned nose, and brown pixie haircut): You are my most favorite teacher ever! *threads her little arms through my legs and hugs tight.*
Granted, she was only 4 years old and had never had a real teacher,  but I still like that I get to be the favorite:)

Henry V

Earlier this summer, I drove up to Oregon for the renowned Ashland Shakespeare Festival. I went to help out at Biola's Shakespeare summer class. We stayed at an organic resort, up among trees and meadows and a river known all over the state for it's "healing powers." The couple who runs the resort are organic farmers who mill their own wood, raise their own chickens, and wear flannel with boots almost year round. This is the type of place that makes you feel one with nature, always want to recycle, sit in a pasture under effortless blue sky, eat healthy, be slow to speak, climb mountains with a walking stick, appreciate simplicities, listen for frogs, and drink lemon water all day long.

My job was to hang out with Professor Kleist's kids, who are smart and creative beyond belief. We danced in our socks in the prayer chapel, pretended we were dragons (mostly Hydras), built bridges across the river, tossed sticks for the 2 huge dogs living at the resort, explored trails, made forts in the bedroom, read books, made up stories (about dragons, of course) and popped popcorn with M&Ms every night.

And on my afternoons or nights off, I went to town for the Shakespeare plays. The town of Ashland is everything a quaint Oregon town should be. Hills of pines act as backdrop to brick buildings, vintage stores, white picket fences, and funky coffee shops. In the heart of town, there are a series of theaters where from April to November you can catch a variety of Shakespeare plays.

One night, I went with the students to the showing of Henry V. The play was in the outdoor Elizabethan theater, modeled after the original Globe theater –– a beautiful two-story stage out under the stars. (You wouldn't believe how bundled up we got. It gets cold in Oregon at night, even in June. We brought the quilts and comforters from our beds. No, I'm not kidding. It looked like we'd set up permanent camp in our row, especially considering how many packs of gummy bears we snuck in.) Now, I've never been the hugest fan of the Henry plays. Yes, it's an interesting and classic concept ––  a boy becoming a man –– but I have to say, Hal never impressed me. I thought he was a whiny, spoiled prince who got lucky when he became king and won the war against the French. Until I saw this version of Henry V.

This company of actors have been playing these characters for the last 3 years, when they started with Henry IV, Part I.  The stage design set the tone so perfectly –– mostly grays and metallics, with colors of fire (English) and ice (French) laced throughout. The overall effect was sparse, hard, with clean lines. During one scene, it actually rained on stage, drumming real water in soft patterns. The whole production was so well crafted, a full work of art. The lilt of the old English became kind of intoxicating. There was something amazing about hearing the lovely cadence of the speeches, experiencing written words coming alive, watching characters develop right in front of your eyes.

The actor who played Henry was unbelievably talented (it helped that the next day we got to sit down with him and ask questions, seeing how deeply he researched and resonated with the character). He took all the passion and impulsiveness of Prince Hal and channeled it into a strong and rugged king, a man who uses the pressure of kingship to learn honor and integrity.  Henry, a scarred man (literally and figuratively) who has lost every loved one close to him, does not think too highly of himself, but treats kingship only as humanity with ceremony. His costuming was nothing special; in fact, he looked like a common soldier. Through him, as well as through the other actors in the play, I was forced to think deeply, to explore themes found in the play that I am learning in life.

I saw the heavy responsibility of leadership –– the passion and compassion needed to lead well. I saw the strength that must be summoned, along with understanding, in order to make difficult decisions. I saw the beauty of striving to be respectful, honorable and upright –– not to prove anything, but because it's how a good man, a good king acts. I saw how kindness and compassion can be co-mingled with integrity and strength. I saw the constancy of justice, and also the effect of mercy.

I also saw God in the play. I believe you can find God in anything good. But in this story, you get to see a miracle. Before a big battle, which the English will surely lose, Henry gives a simple speech to his men, his brothers (read St. Crispin's Day speech), which manages to be simultaneously understanding and demanding. His men proceed to win a completely miraculous victory against the French (a true story, by the way). After they learn the results of the battle, Henry and his men fall to their knees in prayer. After all the confusion and the fighting and the noise, this act had stunning power (as prayer should).

And then, came my absolute favorite part of the play. Okay, wait for it.

At the Shakespeare bookshop after the play, I bought the book copy of the company's version of the play. I loved what they chose to edit, and how clean, authentic and meaningful the result was. But I mostly bought it for this one quotation, which hit me hard. When I heard Henry say it on stage, I wanted him to repeat it six more times. After a harsh play, full of fighting and pain and exhaustion and difficult decisions, peace finally comes to the characters. Though the play gives a wonderful portrayal of the "fog of war," it also manages to show the beauty to be found in our humanity. And I think this particular part sums up the full character of King Henry very well. At the end of the play, Henry has a chance to forge the two nations by marrying the French princess, Kate. Now, I'm a through-and-through romantic. But I loved this quotation for its realism just as much as its sweetness. It rings true and kind, for even though Henry is the victor and could take the princess' hand forcibly, he approaches her humbly, as both a plain soldier and an honorable king. If I wasn't already totally in love with Henry, I was after this speech. I think this is the way love should be:

"And while thou liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy, for he perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other places. For these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What, a speaker is but a prater, a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall, a straight back will stoop, a black beard will turn white, a curled pate will grow bald, a fair face will wither, full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the moon, or rather the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would take such a one, take me; and take me a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And what sayst thou then to my love?"

She says, yes, of course. There's nothing quite like a hard-earned happy ending.

Rules of Life

This year, Aubrey and I created this list, and I want to immortalize it. We had a few contributors, and each rule has a story. This list makes me laugh every time I read it.

Here are our rules of life: 

• Always have a tutu on hand
• If you have a ladder up the back of your vehicle, you don't belong in the fast lane
• Always upgrade to the better alcohol
• $.76 hot dogs are not a good idea
• Everyone has a soft spot for trashy reality TV
• Don't mess with Russians
• Ziplock bags are universally handy
• Pizookis and beach volleyball don't mix, even in small doses 
• No real business should have a sign that's held up by plastic hooks 
• Never trust a man in a wife-beater tank top
• Rite Aid surprises
• Four things that can fix any situation: duct tape, coconut oil, hydrogen peroxide, baking soda
• If I see alcohol and people shooting off firearms, I leave immediately
• Candles and flowers make everything pretty 

A Dream of Heaven

I dreamed of heaven. In this place that is always light, in this place where there are no chains, in this place of laughter and praise, I dreamed of sitting in peace. I looked down and there across my palms were stained the words "sin" and "pain." From the words scrolled tattoos of leaves and plants tangling 'round my wrists. The pain and sin of life on earth marked me, but did not scar me. I remembered it, but I did not feel it. And from the pain and sin, beauty had grown around it, from it.

To get to Paradise, Dante had to walk through the Inferno.

Before sailing to the Haven, Frodo had to climb Mt. Doom.

To be redeemed, Sydney Carton had to go to the guillotine.

For our relationship to be right with God, Jesus hung on a cross.

For us to truly understand perfection, perhaps we had to know imperfection. For us to appreciate true beauty, perhaps we had to first know suffering and ugliness.

In my dreams, I dreamed of heaven. The vines tattooed on my wrist did not bind me, but reminded me. They told the story of the depths of pain, but also the riches of forgiveness, beauty, redemption and the perfection of being made whole.

The Hollywood Hills were brown when Jordan came to stay with us. You could have fried an egg on the asphalt as my family stood at the bus stop, waiting for a brown-haired stranger. The fumes came off the Greyhound in waves, causing Cameron to hide behind us, his tiny towhead not even reaching to Dad's knees. Mom promised him ice cream when we got home, and he happily scuffed his white sneakers.

That was the summer I cut my hair short, yellow wheat bobbing just above my knobby shoulders. I wore overalls that day, and a twine friendship bracelet Mara had given me as an early birthday present. We were still young enough for that sort of thing then. Before Jordan came, I was young enough for a lot of things.

When he walked off the bus, Dad knew him right away.  Jordan wore army boots and a black backpack. Dad stuck his hand out to him, unwavering. Mom balanced Cameron on one hip and smiled a wide cherry smile while she introduced herself. That was back when my dad still looked at her like she could spin the world on one small pinkie finger. I squinted a little against the sun, then looked down again, anxious to get out of the heat.

I am a walking cliché that my first love was a summer one. But it was not the kind you see in the movies, with a salty sea breeze in my hair and long sunset kisses. We lived nowhere near the sea and there was nothing breezy about it.

Jordan was not what I expected. But then again, when a strange teenage boy comes to stay with your family, what expectations are normal? I guess I thought he would be tall with soulful eyes, broad shoulders and a scruffy chin. I guess I thought we'd flirt over the breakfast table or something. But he was quiet the whole way home, gazing out the window with a stare as wide and blank as the plains of Montana.  The air conditioning was broken in the minivan, so we drove with the windows down, ears filled with the rush of hot air instead of conversation. Mom and Dad held hands in the front seat and Cameron dozed, his cheeks flushed sweetly pink. Soon, we were home.

Looking back, I wonder what Jordan thought of our square suburban life –– our patty-cake house with the red door, complete with swing set and almond tree. Maybe it felt overwhelming, maybe it felt boring, maybe it felt safe, maybe it felt uncomfortable. Maybe it didn't feel like anything except a strange, small interlude in his life.

He settled in quietly, quickly, putting his backpack upright on the futon in his basement room, following Mom and Dad around as they gave him the tour of the house. He nodded when appropriate and said "thank you" with a kind of half smile, and then asked if he could go to bed even though it was only 6:15.

Over the next weeks, I mostly just saw Jordan at meals. He kept to his room, or to the backyard, where he sat under the oak tree and read. He read big books with bland-looking covers, and seemed to be lost into that world more than a part of ours. I was too busy to really notice, though; I had a birthday party to plan, and the cute new lifeguard down at the community pool to spy on, and soccer practice, and bi-weekly sleepovers with Mara. Even Mara stopped asking gossipy questions about our house guest after she finally grasped that he really was boring, and that he wouldn't even glance in her direction.  Cameron adored him, though. The first few nights at dinner, he would babble away in his nonsense baby voice and slam his spoon on the tray of his highchair, smiling his gappy smile at Jordan as if banging his silverware was some awesome accomplishment. He set up his Tonka trucks out by Jordan's reading tree, and anywhere Jordan was, Cameron was two steps behind. I liked watching them together –– the way Jordan would tussle Cam's blonde curls, or build dirt hills for his trucks, or teach him to turn on and off the TV, which drove Mom nuts. Overall, Jordan was so quiet and faded into the background so well that it became easier to forget we had a stranger living in our house. It never occurred to me to really press why Jordan was here, or to wonder how long he'd stay. I just assumed he'd go right along eating my favorite cereal and keeping to himself until school started in the fall. And then, someone else would take him. I knew from snippets of caught conversation that his mom, who'd been a college friend of my dad's, had died –– cancer or something –– and that his dad ran off before Jordan was born, but that my parents, and lawyers or cops too, were trying to find him. I wondered if Jordan had been close to his mom. What had she been like? Was her cooking better than my mom's? Did she do her laundry on Sundays too? I figured Jordan kept her picture in his sock drawer and cried before he went to sleep, but he never showed any signs of grief that I recognized. I hadn't had much experience with death before –– only what I'd seen in the movies, where there was lots of crying and hugging. I thought about these things only briefly, in passing, between painting my nails or running out the door to soccer camp or begging my dad to take me out in his truck to practice driving.

One night, I was lying in bed listening to my iPod in the dark. It was late, and I was close to falling asleep when I heard a thud outside my window. The thump was loud enough for me to hear over the country music I was pumping into my ears, so I yanked out my headphones and hopped out of bed. I poked my head out of my open window, looking for a fallen tree limb or a burglar or Santa. Jordan was sitting on the roof, his back pressed against the siding to the left my window.

Read the rest at: http://www.callielarin.com/stories/

“Man is more himself, man is more manlike, when joy is the fundamental thing in him, and grief the superficial. Melancholy should be an innocent interlude, a tender and fugitive frame of mind; praise should be the permanent pulsation of the soul. Pessimism is at best an emotional half-holiday; joy is the uproarious labour by which all things live.” -GK Chesterton

It's always darkest before the dawn...

Regrets collect like old friends

Here to relive your darkest moments

I can see no way, I can see no way

And all of the ghouls come out to play

And every demon wants his pound of flesh

But I like to keep some things to myself
I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

And I've been a fool and I've been blind

I can never leave the past behind

I can see no way, I can see no way

I'm always dragging that horse around

And our love is past is such a mournful sound

Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground

So I like to keep my issues drawn

But it's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off

I am done with my graceless heart

So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart

Cause I like to keep my issues drawn

It's always darkest before the dawn

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off

And given half the chance would I take any of it back

It's a fine romance but its left me so undone

It's always darkest before the dawn

And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't

So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road

And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope

It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat

Cause looking for heaven, found the devil in me

Looking for heaven, found the devil in me

Well, what the hell, I'm gonna let it happen to me

Shake it out, shake it out, shake it out, shake it out

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

So shake him off

Lately, I have been mad. Angry at life and at my own shortcomings. Irritated at how no matter how hard I try, nothing seems to go smoothly. Mainly, I've realized how much I hate my human nature. I hate that I am so prone to selfishness, pettiness, bitterness and weakness. I hate that I struggle and strive to be a woman of character, of virtue, but somehow always stumble around. I want to delight God, make Him smile, but I think I break His heart more often then not. So, I've spent some time thinking about the woman I want to be. These are the characteristics I came up with --- the ones I hold closest to my heart, the ones I see God refining in me over these last years. I wanted to write them down, to remember them, so that when I am acting out of pain or bitterness, or being selfish, or forgetful of the promised fruit of the righteous man, I can think about the fact that I am made new every day by Jesus.

And then, maybe I can be a woman who loves fiercely, who gives freely, who forgives loyally, who surrenders easily, and who trusts patiently.

With all that said, I pray that if nothing else, I'll be a woman of....

Radical compassion (When I was in Africa for that month in high school, one of my friends coined this term, and it has stuck with me all these years. Radical compassion means not just human sympathy, but a deep understanding that has the ability to change your life, as well as the life of those around you.) 

A gentle spirit (1 Peter 3:4. Like the godly women of old, may I have the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit.)

Steadfast strength (Life is really difficult. It's downright painful and confusing sometimes. But I don't want to crumble. I hope that I'll be a woman who chooses to keep going, finding a refuge under great and mighty wings, in the shadow of a rock shelter. I want to trust God's existence and his faithfulness to me, and I want to mirror His steadfast lovingkindness.) 

A tranquil heart (Proverbs 14:30. I want to be at peace with myself, with others during my whole life. A heart at peace gives life to the body. I can bask in the fact that I have a God to whom I can pour out the angst in my heart, and that He'll refill me again and again.) 

Wise discernment (I hope I'll learn from every mistake, always have a teachable attitude, never be afraid to ask forgiveness, take responsibility for my actions, and change for the better as I grow older. I hope that I'll never stop seeking wisdom and learning to hear God's voice.) 

Joyous nature (I want to always find things to be happy about. Because if I've learned anything  in the last few years, it's that true joy has to be worked for, but you can manage to find it in any circumstance. Because God is good.)

Thoughtful words (James 1:19. I want to speak kindly and honestly, with integrity and with encouragement. I want to be slow to anger, quick to listen, gracious in speech.) 

And I know that I have and will consistently fall short of these things. So why even try? I've had that thought a lot lately. I'm ridiculously human, and it makes me mad. But, I guess the fact is that while I'm here on earth, I'm going to fall short. The beauty of loving God is that He loves me regardless, so it's not about the actions. I've come to realize that the closest I get to heaven on earth is by pursuing Him, right? And He is faithful to find me, protect me, save me, guide me, change me. And that's what I want. So, by seeking God, hopefully I'll start to look more and more like Him.  Psalms says, "Even in darkness light dawns for the upright, for those who are gracious and compassionate and righteous.  Good will come to those who are generous and lend freely, who conduct their affairs with justice.  Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever. They will have no fear of bad news; their hearts are steadfast, trusting in the Lord. Their hearts are secure, they will have no fear." 

mellifluous |məˈlifloōəs|
adjective
(of a voice or words) sweet or musical; pleasant to hear: "the voice was mellifluous and smooth."
sweet-sounding, dulcet, honeyed, mellow, soft, liquid, silvery, soothing, rich, smooth, euphonious, harmonious

The beauty of a woman must be seen from in her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.
- Audrey Hepburn

Things that make me happy tonight...

Tonight I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the Les Miserables Broadway music that gets stuck in my head. I'm happy because of all the good movies coming out in December (The Hobbit, Anna Karenina, Great Gatsby, Les Mis, Ender's Game), and because I have a sister who gets just as excited to watch the trailers as I do. I'm thankful for biographies telling the true stories of those who changed the world-- like Steve Jobs with his intersection between aesthetics and technology. I'm thankful that I have happy childhood memories, and that simply watching an old Cary Grant movie brings it all back. I grateful there are so many stories from history to learn from, and new ones to tell. I'm happy that there are superhero movies, canoes and sailboats, dogs that snore, small towns, churches, and small kids who wear glasses.  I am happy because such a thing as libraries exist. I'm thankful for long conversations around the dinner table, and for friends who make me feel utterly comfortable in my own skin. I'm happy for the cool breeze on a summer evening, and having all the doors and windows open. Tonight, I'm happy for these things.

Psalm 121

"The Lord will keep you from all harm—
he will watch over your life;

the Lord will watch over your coming and going
both now and forevermore"

Ruth 3:10-11... Love Ruth

“The Lord bless you, my daughter,” he replied. “This kindness is greater than that which you showed earlier: You have not run after the younger men, whether rich or poor. And now, my daughter, don’t be afraid. I will do for you all you ask. All the people of my town know that you are a woman of noble character."

Because I think it's good to reflect on what's good...

Highlights of this year in the ever-lovely Riverside...

• Read books I should have as an English major, but never did. "Old Man in the Sea," "Catcher in the Rye," "Great Gatsby." Being the fan of American Literature that I am, I read them like candy, wondering how I'd ever gotten along without them. And I was able to read them with Aunt Margie, which made it all the better. Hearing her insights made me wish she was teaching a class I could attend.  
• I learned to crank out an awesome lesson plan in a very short amount of time. Content standard, learning objective, instructional strategy, rationale, assessment and all. Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am. 
• Bit the bullet and applied to grad schools. Not fun, but it's done. Getting that first acceptance letter was one of the best feelings ever. 
• Had a weekly "Grey's Anatomy" date with my 4th sister, who helped me miss my own sisters a lot less. 
• Enjoyed the sunshine. Put my feet in the fountains outside my apartment building (not sure if that's allowed).  I'll miss the sun next year-- how many days a year does it rain in England? 
• Made new friends. All by myself. I guess I'm a big girl now.
• One of the students from the class I TAed for told me (after I'd spent hours working with him on his papers), "I get it now. I will never love to write, and I'll never be a writer. But I can understand the enjoyment that comes from a carefully-crafted piece of work. Thank you." 
• Hanging out with 2-year-old Logan in the office, who became my friend when I gave him a yellow balloon (which matched his yellow boots) to tie around his wrist. He wore it around campus all afternoon.
• Driving back out to Biola and staying at Dr. Kleist's house until past midnight with Cami and Brenna, discussing and debating the philosophy of education in America and drinking cinnamon coffee. 
• Looking at wedding blogs with Jenn and Gail during work. I'm eternally thankful to them for introducing me to Pinterest (or really, eternally non-grateful-- I wasted so much time on it). 
• Friday afternoons at Disneyland. We were on a Storm Trooper hunt. 
• Decorating for Caleb and Ashley's surprise engagement party. You can't go wrong with flowers and candles. That's a rule of life. 
• Played "Just Dance" with Aub, which only confirmed the fact that I cannot dance. At all. But I sure try. 
• Watched way too many episodes of Bones. I think blood and guts are fascinating...what does that say about me?
• Authentic chinese food with Nate & Sam
• Wrote my first Haiku poem
• Cooked elaborate, wonderful meals, just for myself, using up almost every pan and dish and dirtying up the whole kitchen. At least it didn't smell up the hall (our hall always smells like a combination of dirty feet and greasy Korean food... won't miss that). 
• Staying way too late at Mindy and Tim's place, talking about the mysteries & intricacies of life
• Drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade with straws on a mattress on the floor in my old room at Lizzie's, which is now filled with boxes as she gets ready to be married.
• Tutored for sweet Paola. She turned 14 halfway into tutoring, and now she gets to wear make up. She chose a bright pink lip color and teal eyeliner. She loves vampires and wants to go to UCLA to be a doctor. She is going to live in New York, Paris and China. From her big dreams, you'd never know what's she's already had to overcome. We made button bracelets and played Scrabble (she trounced me) and cards. We sat in the hammock and read quietly together from our books (yes, she's a kindred spirit), and then she told me all about the story (the book she's reading is about girls switched at birth). When she gets excited, she barely takes a breath, and I completely lose track of the story she's telling me. But her brown eyes get so big and sparkly; I think she's spunky and smart and beautiful. 

The patio, strung with twinkle lights, was crowded. She wore a navy dress, with raspberry lipstick that matched the ribbon in her curls. She carried the soda bottle gingerly, the condensation dripped unevenly onto the hot pavement. She scanned across the heads of people -- the couple fighting in hushed tones by the water, the woman starting her third mojito, the chatting trios of girlfriends in clinging dresses.  The sun had not quite dipped behind the city skyline, and the evening hummed with the energy of dozens of people waiting for a table.

"Lyla, party of 2," the hostess announced from her booth, in a thin voice that could not have carried past the outdoor bar.

Another frantic glance across the patio. She squinted against the spangled reflection of the sun setting in the water, looking one last time for Sarah before heading up to claim their table. The crowd parted slightly to make way for a cocktail waiter with a tray of shrimp.

And then, there he was. Standing still against the rail, looking directly at her with that gaze that always managed to be so direct, but so veiled.

In that look was the impact of thickly layered memories. There was a tingle of arms brushing shyly, walking side-by-side down a crowded walkway. There was a sigh of relief, a tightening of muscles at her touch as she nestled her head under his chin, into the curve of his shoulder. There was the lingering intimacy of millions of shared minutes. In those lips was caught a gentle kiss, soft and sure as sunshine.

Her breath jumped in a curt, painful twist through her stomach; she blinked to see if it was really him.

Across the tangle of lights, he was gone.

Wide fields of lavender

Deep skies of gray

Soft, feather pillows

Sunshine in May

Tall cups of tea

Blue lakes of mist

Handful of tulips

Sweet, trusting kiss

Skyline of trees

Striped socks of wool

Lit-up fireplace

Sailboat in a lull

Hushed snowflakes

Laundry on a line

Light, low laughter
Hands full of mine

Slowly a journey
To feeling of worth

Being close to heaven
Here on earth

From "The Blue Castle"... Just Because

They ate out on the verandah that almost overhung the lake. Before them lay Mistawis, like a scene out of some fairy tale of old time. And Barney smiling his twisted, enigmatical smile at her across the table.
"What a view old Tom picked out when he built this shack!" Barney would say exultantly.
Supper was the meal Valancy liked best. The faint laughter of winds was always about them and the colours of Mistawis, imperial and spiritual, under the changing clouds were something that cannot be expressed in mere words. Shadows, too. Clustering in the pines until a wind shook them out and pursued them over Mistawis. They lay all day along the shores, threaded by ferns and wild blossoms. They stole around the headlands in the glow of the sunset, until twilight wove them all into one great web of dusk.
The cats, with their wise, innocent little faces, would sit on the verandah railing and eat the tidbits Barney flung them. And how good everything tasted! Valancy, amid all the romance of Mistawis, never forgot that men had stomachs. Barney paid her no end of compliments on her cooking.
"After all," he admitted, "there's something to be said for square meals. I've mostly got along by boiling two or three dozen eggs hard at once and eating a few when I got hungry, with a slice of bacon once in a while and a jorum or tea."
Valancy poured tea out of Barney's little battered old pewter teapot of incredible age. She had not even a set of dishes--only Barney's mismatched chipped bits--and a dear, big, pobby old jug of robin's-egg blue.
After the meal was over they would sit there and talk for hours--or sit and say nothing, in all the languages of the world, Barney pulling away at his pipe, Valancy dreaming idly and deliciously, gazing at the far-off hills beyond Mistawis where the spires of firs came out against the sunset. The moonlight would begin to silver the Mistawis. Bats would begin to swoop darkly against the pale, western gold. The little waterfall that came down on the high bank not far away would, by some whim of the wildwood gods, begin to look like a wonderful white woman beckoning through the spicy, fragrant evergreens. How sweet it was to sit there and do nothing in the beautiful silence, with Barney at the other side of the table, smoking.

“It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.” -Oscar Wilde.

Personality Assessment

I recently took the Myer's Briggs Personality test. My result: INFP. These letters stand for: Introverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Perceptive. This is the assessment of my personality... it was kind of scary how right on it was, so I wanted to save it:

"INFPs present a calm, pleasant face to the world. They appear to be tranquil and peaceful to others, with simple desires. The INFP internally feels his or her life intensely. In the relationship arena, this causes them to have a very deep capacity for love and caring which is not frequently found with such intensity in the other types. The INFP does not devote their intense feelings towards just anyone, and are relatively reserved about expressing their inner-most feelings. They reserve their deepest love and caring for a select few who are closest to them. INFPs are generally laid-back, supportive and nurturing in their close relationships. INFPs are usually adaptable and congenial, unless one of their ruling principles has been violated, in which case they stop adapting and become staunch defenders of their values.  With Introverted Feeling dominating their personality, they're very sensitive and in-tune with people's feelings, and feel genuine concern and caring for others. Slow to trust others and cautious in the beginning of a relationship, an INFP will be fiercely loyal once they are committed. With their strong inner core of values, they are intense individuals who value depth and authenticity in their relationships, and hold those who understand and accept their perspectives in especially high regard.

INFP Strengths:

• Warmly concerned and caring towards others
• Sensitive and perceptive about what others are feeling
• Loyal and committed - they want lifelong relationships
• Deep capacity for love and caring
• Driven to meet other's needs
• Strive for "win-win" situations
• Nurturing, supportive and encouraging
• Likely to recognize and appreciate other's need for space
• Able to express themselves well
• Flexible and diverse

INFP Weaknesses

• May tend to be shy and reserved
• Don't like to have their "space" invaded
• Extreme dislike of conflict
• Extreme dislike of criticism
• Strong need to receive praise and positive affirmation
• May react very emotionally to stressful situations
• Have difficulty leaving a bad relationship
• Have difficulty scolding or punishing others
• Tend to be reserved about expressing their feelings
• Perfectionistic tendancies may cause them to not give themselves enough credit
• Tendency to blame themselves for problems, and hold everything on their own shoulders

http://www.personalitypage.com/html/INFP_rel.html

Aub's Life Motto

“I meant what I said and I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful one-hundred percent!” -Horton Hatches the Egg

Favorite Anne Quotations

"The nicest and sweetest days are not those on which anything very splendid or wonderful or exciting happens, but just those that bring simple little pleasures, following one another softly, like pearls slipping off a string.” -Anne of Avonlea

"Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like a knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps. . . perhaps love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from the green earth. ” -Anne of the Island

The Undercurrent

I found this on a blog (http://laurenmhughes.com/) and liked it:

"Sometimes life – the situations you find yourself in, the people you find yourself around – makes it easy to forget that love is real. I think sometimes the things we forget the most easily are the things we’ve always known – the things we take for granted. Love is definitely one of those things.

Love is in the details. It’s the undercurrent to everything, sometimes it feels like it’s not there – but it is. It’s always there. Love is in forgiveness and fidelity. It’s in patience and perseverance. It’s in (constructive) criticism and compassion. It’s in honesty. It’s in the here and now. It’s certainly in the hereafter.

Love is that swelling in your chest when you walk outside and the sky is blue and the temperature is a perfect seventy-two and the wind blows across your face and your favorite song comes on your iPod and you think, YES. THIS IS IT. Love is when you wake up at seven in the morning when you don’t have to be up until ten to drive someone wherever they need to go. Love is answering a late night phone call long after you’ve gotten under the covers. Love is in the letters – the three page letters that you write because you just can’t seem to say the right things out loud. Love is in the listening – really listening - to all the stupid jokes, outrageous opinions, senseless rants, and random facts. Love is in the reading  – really reading - all the texts, emails, academic papers, and amateur book manuscripts. Love is in the talking – really talking - about ideas, opinions, wants, needs, and insecurities. Love, once it takes hold, is in the everything – the eyes, the lips, the touch – and it’s hard to disguise. It’s not easily suppressed. It doesn’t go away.

Because it is the undercurrent, love is everywhere. Even in the dark. A lot of people say that it isn’t – that love can only exist in the light – but they’re wrong. Love can be found in the darkest of places, too. You just have to look for it and, more often than not, it’s right there in front of you. Sometimes you realize it just in time, sometimes you don’t. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there all along – waiting to be acknowledged, waiting to be appreciated, waiting to be embraced. It doesn’t mean that love doesn’t exist.

Love is real. The realest thing in the entire world. In the light, in the dark. It always exists. But only when you let it – and, the thing is, you have to let it. It’s the only way to really live."

Haiku Poems

Shelby and I played a game today where we texted back and forth Haiku poems. We would take the last line of the other's poem and make it the first line of our next one. Here is what we came up with.

The first blue Iris
sprouts up on the mountain side.
rain drops fall harder.
. . .
Rain drops fall harder
on the crusted wood railing
Porch swing is empty

. . .
Porch swing is empty
as the pale clouds disband
Morning will soon break
. . .
Morning will soon break
The orange trees are in full bloom,
Blossoms fall in the dew
. . .
Blossoms fall in the dew
aglow in fractured light.
The lark sweetly sings.
. . .
The lark sweetly sings
in the dusty twilight hour.
Haze falls over hills.
. . .
Haze falls over hills
The tinge of night advances.
The screen door latches.
. . .
The screen door latches
And thunder rolls in heavy,
hot lightening splits the sky

A Good Reminder

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control."

I want a simple life. I want to appreciate the sound of rain, and eat tart apples in the fall. I want to garden on Saturdays, getting dark dirt under my fingernails and watering the lawn in long summer twilights. I want to look at stars, and I want to bundle up and go to the snow on a whim. I want to play basketball in the front yard, and draw chalk on the driveway, and take long drives down windy roads. I want to cry without fear, I want to dance to shake off a funky mood. I want to pick shapes out of clouds, lying in ticklish grass and squinting against sunshine. I want to smile a lot, looking into the interesting faces of my students, kids who have their own stories to tell. I want to hear those stories. I want a kitty who purrs on my lap, a tea kettle that whistles and a fireplace that burns bright all winter. I want to read good books, and think strange new thoughts, and journal in a comfy chair. I want to find spots along the river where I can be alone. I want to give baths to my babies, with their dimpled fingers and crooked teeth and sweet-smelling hair. I want to make pies, and make a big deal out of birthdays and Christmas. I want to drink ice tea on the porch, I want to make pillows out of lavender. I want to talk over red wine with friends on a week night. I want to take the dog on walks after dinner and I want to sing along to music in the car. I want to eat Chinese food on the floor, and I want to be sarcastic and wear my pajamas on a rainy day. I want to lug books around in my purse, and ride into cities on trains. I want to get dressed up for dinners and have candles in all the corners of my house. I want to sit on beaches and I want to chew fruity gum. I want to write stories that bring the characters in my head to life. I want to love fiercely and long.

Promises.

“Praise the Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago.”
The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces; he will remove his people’s disgrace from all the earth. The Lord has spoken. In that day they will say, “Surely this is our God; we trusted in him, and he saved us. This is the Lord, we trusted in him; let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.” -Isaiah 25

5 things

Five things I'm jonesing to do, but can't until I settle down:

1. Start taking piano lessons again

2. Start taking dance classes again (and also, I want to learn how to line dance and ballroom dance).

3. Learn how to quilt, and take up crocheting again

4. Start learning Spanish again

5. Take a gourmet cooking class

Quiet Corral

"Feeling low, feeling low

Like lead in my bones

Feeling low, feeling low

But I'll follow hope

Underneath each stream is a traveled gravel road."

-Quiet Corral

I went into downtown Hollywood to hear this band this week. This quotation is part of a song that I really loved called "The River." It was about change, and about feeling swept along, unsure of where you're going. But it also talks about how there's something hopeful in the swift current of the stream, a constant aspect to its flow. Sometimes I feel so swept up and along, but if I follow hope, I'll realize that underneath my feet I'm really on solid ground that's been traveled many times before.

I really liked this band. Extremely talented, cute boys from Kansas who don't have any notion of fame, but just love their art. They were kind and humble and happy, with an innocence that did not mar maturity. They made me appreciate the simplicity of being alive -- that we get to experience beauty and express that beauty through music... painting... writing... to give to others, for no other reason than God is good.

phosphenes (n.): "the stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes."

Letters on a Sunny Day

Dear alarm clock, I'm glad I didn't have to set you for too early this morning.

Dear new skirt, thank you for being flowy and cute.

Dear sunshine, you make my cold toes warm.

Dear Harry Potter, in just 2 days I will own all 7 of your books and my life will be complete.

Dear mochas, you are good for both sunny and cloudy days.

Dear homework, I hate you. It's the truth, I'm sorry to be harsh.

Dear Amanda, I love our Grey's Anatomy dates. I look forward to them all week.

Dear Burt's Bees chapstick, I dig you.

Dear small children, how is it possible to be that cute?

Dear Bing Crosby, I like to whistle along to your music.

Dear fridge, I'm sorry I left your door partially open all day. I was in a hurry this morning.

Dear February, why is the weather so warm? I'm not complaining, but I'm just sayin'.

Dear Auntie, I love our bookclub. Hemmingway is the shiz.

Dear new shampoo, I like the way you smell.

Dear country music, you are great for driving with the windows down.

Dear future husband, can we dance in our jammies when we're old and married? And build forts in the living room?

Dear Pinterest, thank you for getting me through tonight's class.

Dear besties, I am lucky to have you.

Dear Bones (aka Dr. Brennan), I wish I was as badass as you.

Dear Italy, I'm glad you're a place.

Dear Amazon, will you please just ship my textbook already? It's been a month.

Dear candles, you make my apartment smell delicioso.

Dear Oscars, you picked some good movies this season.

Dear mountains and pine trees, I miss you.

Dear pancakes, you've been an excellent midnight snack these past few nights.

Dear sisters, "you complete me."

Dear football, never thought I'd say this, but you're growing on me.

Dear Khloe Kardashian, I can't help it, I think you're hilarious.

Dear sweatpants, I wish I didn't ever have to take you off.

Dear Tim Riggins, I am madly in love with you.

Dear chocolate, you're a life saver. But then again, you already knew that, didn't you?

Dear bobbypins, how do you manage to get all over my apartment?

Dear complexity, you are over-rated.

Dear Beauty & the Beast, you're even better in 3D.

Dear Thursday, how do you like being the day before Friday? I think that makes you pretty cool.

Dear Sylvie the car, I promise to wash you soon. Right now you look brown and white polk-a-dotted.

"That is part of the beauty of literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely or isolated from anyone. You belong."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Micah 6:8

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.”

Changing the Educational Paradigm

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDZFcDGpL4U

Check out this animation, and the commentary on today's education. Couldn't agree more.

Wisdom from Ecclesiastes

So my heart began to despair over all my toilsome labor under the sun. For a person may labor with wisdom, knowledge and skill, and then they must leave all they own to another who has not toiled for it. This too is meaningless. What do people get for all the toil and anxious striving with which they labor under the sun? All their days their work is grief and pain; even at night their minds do not rest. This too is meaningless.
A person can do nothing better than to eat and drink and find satisfaction in their own toil. This too, I see, is from the hand of God, for without him, who can eat or find enjoyment? To the person who pleases him, God gives wisdom, knowledge and happiness, but to the sinner he gives the task of gathering and storing up wealth to hand it over to the one who pleases God.

What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God.

From Bel Canto

Excerpt from "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett. I loved the whole book, but this part particularly stood out to me. I like that it beautifully expresses the importance of art.

"Fyodorov began his story, putting himself in the mind of Russia and his childhood, the dark switchback staircase that led up to the apartment where his family lived. He bent his shoulders towards Roxane. He wondered what direction Russia was from where he sat.

'When I was a boy, the city was called Leningrad, but you know this. In those days, we all lived together, Mother and Father, my two brothers, my grandmother, who was my mother's mother. It was my grandmother who had the book of paintings. It was a massive thing.' Fyodorov held up his hands to mark the dimensions of the book in the air. If he was to be believed, it was an enormous book.

'She told us it was given to her by an admirer from Europe when she was a girl of fifteen, a man she called Julian. If that is true, I do not know. My grandmother was one for telling stories. Even more than how she came by the book, how she managed to hold onto it through the war remains a great mystery to me. That she did not try and sell it or burn it for fuel, because there was a time when people would burn anything, that it was not taken from her as it would have been a difficult thing to hide, all of these things are remarkable.

But when I was a boy, it was many years past the war and she was an old woman. We did not go to museums to look at paintings in those days. We would walk past the Winter Palace, a marvelous place, but then we did not go inside. I imagine there was not the money for such things.

But in the evenings, my grandmother brought out her book and told my brothers and me to go and wash our hands. I was not allowed to even touch the pages until I was ten, but still I washed my hands just for the privilege of looking. She kept it wrapped in a quilt under the sofa in the living room where she slept. She struggled to carry it, but would let no one help her. When she was certain the table was clean we would put the quilt with the book inside it on the table and slowly unfold the quilt. Then she would sit down. She was a small woman, and we stood beside her. She was very particular about the light over the table. It couldn't be too strong because she was afraid of fading the colors, and it couldn't be so weak that she felt the painting could not be fully comprehended. She wore white cotton gloves that were perfectly plain and saved for only this occasion and she turned the pages while we watched. Can you imagine this?

I will not say we were terribly poor because we were as rich or poor as everyone else. Our apartment was small, my brothers and I shared a bed. Our family was no different from the other families in our building except for this book. So extraordinary a thing was this book. "Masters of the Impressionist Period" it was called. No one knew we had it. We were never allowed to speak of it because my grandmother was afraid someone would try to take it away from her.

The paintings were by Pissarro, Bonnard, van Gogh, Monet, Manet, Cezanne, hundreds of paintings. The colors we saw at night while she turned the pages were miraculous. Every painting we were to study. Every one she said was something that deserved great consideration. There were nights that she only turned two pages and I'm sure it was a year before I had seen the book in its entirety. It was an extremely good book, I think, expertly done. Certainly, I have not seen the originals of all the painting, but the ones I saw years later looked very much the way I had remembered them.

My grandmother told us she spoke French in her youth and she would read to us as best she could remember the text beneath the plates. Of course she was making it up because the stories would change. Not that it mattered. They were beautiful stories. 'This is the field where van Gogh painted sunflowers,' she would say. 'All day he sat in the hot sun beneath the blue skies. When the white clouds curled past he would remember them for future paintings and here on this canvas he placed those clouds.'
This is the way she spoke to us, pretending she was reading. Sometimes she would read for twenty minutes when there was only a few lines of text. She would say that was because French was a much more complicated language than Russian and that every word contained several sentences' worth of meaning.

There were so many paintings to consider. It was many, many years before I had memorized all of them. Even now, I could tell you the number of haystacks in the field and from which direction the light is coming.' Fyodorov stopped to catch his breath. He took the opportunity to think of the people around the table: his grandmother, now dead, his mother and father, dead, his youngest brother Dimitri, drowned in a fishing accident at the age of twenty-one. There was only him and his brother Mikal left now.

'Every now and then she wouldn't bring out the book at all. She would say she was tired. She would say that so much beauty hurt her. Sometimes a week or even two would pass. No Seurat! I remember feeling almost frantic, such a dependency I had come to feel for those paintings. But it was the rest from it, the waiting that made us love the book so madly.

I could have had one life, but instead I had another because of this book my grandmother protected,' Fyodorov said, his voice quieter now. 'What a miracle is that? I was taught to love beautiful things. I had a language in which to consider beauty. Later that extended to opera, the the ballet, to architecture I saw, and even later still I came to realize that what I had seen in the paintings, I could see in the fields or a river. I could see it in people. All of that, I attribute to this book.

Towards the end of her life, she could not pick it up at all and she sent me to get it. Her hands shook so, she was afraid of tearing the paper and so she let us turn the pages. My hands were too large for her gloves by then, but she showed me how to use them between my fingers like a cloth so I could keep everything clean.' Fyodorov sighed.

'My brother has the book now. He is a doctor outside of Moscow. Every few years, we hand it off to each other. Neither of us could do without it completely. I have tried to find another copy, but I believe there is no other book like this in the world.
It was a tragedy to my grandmother that none of us showed a talent for painting. But it was not something I was capable of learning. My brothers and I were all excellent observers. Some people are born to make great art and others are born to appreciate it. Don't you think? It is a kind of talent in itself, to be an audience, whether you are the spectator in the gallery or you are listening to the voice of the world's greatest soprano. Not everyone can be the artist. There have to be those who witness the art, who love and appreciate what they have been privileged to see."

A Celebration

I'm a creature of habit. A traditionalist. I like the familiar, the comfort found in certain routines. I order the same food at restaurants, I listen to the same CD every year when I decorate the Christmas tree, I've had "creamy chicken pasta" on my birthday basically since I could chew, I've seen "You've Got Mail" more times than I can count, and my favorite books are absolutely falling apart from being read to death. I like having a knowable pattern and rhythm to my days.
However, I keep hitting these pockets of change. And I'm me, so of course, I'm always resistant to it.
But the more I think about it, I think God must purposefully weave change into our lives because it's good for us. Sometimes the change is hard, like selling the house you grew up in, or when a best friend gets married and moves to another state. This is why I'm probably wary of the unfamiliar. It always seems to hold loss.
And I'm in a state of change right now. I had a really hard time at first. But, somehow, someway, I'm finding I'm enjoying it. As I've been thrown into a new season, I'm seeing clearly for the first time just how stagnant parts of my life had become.
Familiar is still good. Nothing wrong with tradition or loyalty or even the comfort of certain routines. But in order for growth, there must be change. Super obvious, I know. I know. But for some reason, it hit home for me this last week.
There have been hard parts of the transition. Yet, the bittersweet aspect of change is just that -- both bitter and yet sweet. Sometimes I guess I need the bitter to bring out the sweet. Like the quiet kid in one of my summer classes who ran back on the last day of class to say "I will miss you, Miss Miller!" If I hadn't been moving on, he might not have said anything and I would have missed out on that lovely moment.
It's so human nature to realize exactly what you have right before you're moving on. All those memories hit me and it becomes even harder to let go. But I've been taking things for granted, and this reminds me not to. I'm also full of hope that the new, upcoming season of life will be an adventure. I'm not done growing and being stretched -- and I was not smart for thinking I was, for becoming too complacent. I need change. I need it just as much as I do the comfort of the familiar.
Think about it. God's built in change all around. The subtle shift of seasons-- the first frost or that first long day of the summer. The key change and crescendo in a song that gives chills. Graduations, marriages, deaths, births.
When you gain something new, you often lose something. But even in the loss, there is hope. For me, there's hope of a new job, a renewed friendship, a chance to explore a new place, living on my own, becoming alive again in certain areas of my life, being placed as a servant in someones life...
I'm realizing some changes are worth celebrating.

Johnny Lingo and His Eight Cow Wife

Many things can change a woman.

"When I sailed to Kiniwata, an island in the Pacific, I took along a notebook. After I got back it was filled with descriptions of flora and fauna, native customs and costume. But the only note that still interests me is the one that says: "Johnny Lingo gave eight cows to Sarita’s father." And I don’t need to have it in writing. I’m reminded of it every time I see a woman belittling her husband or a wife withering under her husband’s scorn. I want to say to them, "You should know why Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for his wife."
Johnny Lingo wasn’t exactly his name. But that’s what Shenkin, the manager of the guest house on Kiniwata, called him. Shenkin was from Chicago and had a habit of Americanizing the names of the islanders. But Johnny was mentioned by many people in many connections. If I wanted to spend a few days on the neighboring island of Nurabandi, Johnny Lingo would put me up. If I wanted to fish he could show me where the biting was best. If it was pearls I sought, he would bring the best buys. The people of Kiniwata all spoke highly of Johnny Lingo. Yet when they spoke they smiled, and the smiles were slightly mocking.
"Get Johnny Lingo to help you find what you want and let him do the bargaining," advised Shenkin. "Johnny knows how to make a deal."
"Johnny Lingo!" A boy seated nearby hooted the name and rocked with laughter.
"What goes on?" I demanded. "Everybody tells me to get in touch with Johnny Lingo and then breaks up. Let me in on the joke."
"Oh, the people like to laugh," Shenkin said, shrugging. "Johnny's the brightest, the strongest young man in the islands, and for his age, the richest."
"But if he’s all you say, what is there to laugh about?"
"Only one thing. Five months ago, at fall festival, Johnny came to Kiniwata and found himself a wife. He paid her father eight cows!
I knew enough about island customs to be impressed. Two or three cows would buy a fair-to-middling wife, four or five a highly satisfactory one. "Good Lord!" I said, "Eight cows! She must have beauty that takes your breath away."
"She’s not ugly," he conceded, and smiled a little. "But the kindest could only call Sarita plain. Sam Karoo, her father, was afraid she’d be left on his hands."
"But then he got eight cows for her? Isn’t that extraordinary?"
"Never been paid before."
"Yet you call Johnny’s wife plain?"
"I said it would be kindness to call her plain. She was skinny. She walked with her shoulders hunched and her head ducked. She was scared of her own shadow."
"Well," I said, "I guess there’s just no accounting for love."
"True enough," agreed the man. "And that’s why the villagers grin when they talk about Johnny. They get special satisfaction from the fact that the sharpest trader in the islands was bested by dull old Sam Karoo."
"But how?"
"No one knows and everyone wonders. All the cousins were urging Sam to ask for three cows and hold out for two until he was sure Johnny’d pay only one. Then Johnny came to Sam Karoo and said, ‘Father of Sarita, I offer eight cows for your daughter.’"
"Eight cows," I murmured. "I’d like to meet this Johnny Lingo."

I wanted fish and I wanted pearls, so the next afternoon I beached my boat at Nurabandi. And I noticed as I asked directions to Johnny’s house that his name brought no sly smile to the lips of his fellow Nurabandians. And when I met the slim, serious young man, when he welcomed me with grace to his home, I was glad that from his own people he had respect unmingled with mockery. We sat in his house and talked. Then he asked, "You come here from Kiniwata?"
"Yes."
"They speak of me on that island?"
"They say there’s nothing I might want that you can’t help me get."
He smiled gently. "My wife is from Kiniwata."
"Yes, I know."
"They speak of her?"
"A little."
"What do they say?"
"Why, just..." The question caught me off balance. "They told me you were married at festival time."
"Nothing more?" The curve of his eyebrows told me he knew there had to be more.
"They also say the marriage settlement was eight cows." I paused.
"They wonder why."
"They ask that?" His eyes lightened with pleasure. "Everyone in Kiniwata knows about the eight cows?"
I nodded.
"And in Nurabandi everyone knows it too." His chest expanded with satisfaction. "Always and forever, when they speak of marriage settlements, it will be remembered that Johnny Lingo paid eight cows for Sarita."
So that’s the answer, I thought: vanity.
And then I saw her. I watched her enter the room to place flowers on the table. She stood still a moment to smile at the young man beside me. Then she went swiftly out again. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. The lift of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin the sparkle of her eyes all spelled a pride to which no one could deny her the right. I turned back to Johnny Lingo and found him looking at me. "You admire her?" he murmured.
"She...she’s glorious. But she’s not Sarita from Kiniwata," I said.
"There’s only one Sarita. Perhaps she does not look the way they say she looked in Kiniwata."
"She doesn’t. I heard she was homely. They all make fun of you because you let yourself be cheated by Sam Karoo."
"You think eight cows were too many?" A smile slid over his lips.
"No. But how can she be so different?"
"Do you ever think," he asked, "what it must mean to a woman to know that her husband has settled on the lowest price for which she can be bought? And then later, when the women talk, they boast of what their husbands paid for them. One says four cows, another maybe six. How does she feel, the woman who was sold for one or two? This could not happen to my Sarita."
"Then you did this just to make your wife happy?"
"I wanted Sarita to be happy, yes. But I wanted more than that. You say she is different, this is true. Many things can change a woman. Things that happen inside, things that happen outside. But the thing that matters most is what she thinks about herself. In Kiniwata, Sarita believed she was worth nothing. Now she knows she is worth more than any other woman in the islands."
"Then you wanted--"
"I wanted to marry Sarita. I loved her and no other woman."
"But —" I was close to understanding.
"But," he finished softly, "I wanted an eight-cow wife."

In Time of Silver Rain

"In time of silver rain
The earth puts forth new life again
Green grasses grow
And flowers life their heads
And all over the plain, the wonder spreads
Of life, of life of life

In the time of silver rain
The butterflies lift silken wings
To catch a rainbow cry
And trees put forth new leaves to sing
In joy beneath the sky
As down the roadway
Passing girls and boys go singing too
In the time of silver rain
When spring and life are new"

--Langston Hughes

A Prayer: Psalm 20

May the LORD answer you when you are in distress;
May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.
May he send you help from the sanctuary
and grant you support from Zion.
May he remember all your sacrifices
and accept your burnt offerings.
May he grant you the desires of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.
May we shout for joy over your victory
and lift up our banners in the name of our God.

May the Lord grant all your requests.

Now this I know:
The Lord gives victory to his anointed.
He answers him from his heavenly sanctuary
with the victorious power of his right hand.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses,
but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
They are brought to their knees and fall,
but we rise up and stand firm.

Lord, answer us when we call!

Optimism: A Reflection on College

I've been studying Flannery O'Connor quite a lot lately for school. I taught a class on four of her short stories this last Monday. I chose her as the author for my teaching day because the first time I read her, I didn't know what to do with her. Her stories are all stunningly beautiful and interesting and –– as any writer knows –– brilliant. But they are sad and violent and strange. They made me think.

Maybe what makes them so good is that they're so . . . real. Christians don't always like to look at the ugliness of the world. We don't like to see the sin and pain or anything too jarring.
I've been like that most of my life. I would toss away any story with a slightly unhappy ending, completely frustrated by it. I would fall apart at the first sign of struggle, tension or heartbreak in my life. I was that girl that believed in prince charming and sunny days and a life that was like a movie –– a happy one with good music, of course.

But then, I got a little bit older. There were fights. There was bad heartbreak. There was rejection. There was failure. There was sickness and fear. There was disappointment. There was stress and money problems. I don't exactly think I'd been stupid before –– I just hadn't come up against it at once before. I couldn't understand why my optimistic, romantic view of life wasn't panning out. What if I let people down? What if I fail at this job? Why doesn't he love me back? What happens if I can't make my rent payment? How do I deal with missing my sisters so much that I ache? I didn't like it.

Not that my life was ever bad –– no, on the contrary it's been extraordinarily blessed. But I think I just came into a fuller realization of the pain in the world. Not just mine, but everyone's. And my little heart was heavy. I wondered if I was just getting wiser, or was I losing my optimism?

Yes, I was a die-hard romantic, but over these last few years, I found myself asking: Is it bad if I'm not anymore?

I think Flannery answered that question for me. She brought together a lot of the truths I've been learning over these years of college. Torrey's mantra is that we want to pursue the good, the true and the beautiful. And it's been hard work. These last four years haven't been a walk in the park . . . yet, in some ways they have. What I mean is: I didn't always find the good, the true or the beautiful, but the route was scenic. Maybe just the act of looking for them is optimistic -- because that means you believe the good is out there. God is out there.

As Flannery's stories showed me so poignantly, the good and beautiful in life are sometimes still painful. And the pain isn't something to shun. One of my favorite Flannery quotes is "Grace is change, and change is painful." That's hopeful, isn't it? Hard, but hopeful. Maybe the definition of optimism is seeing that pain is grace. It too can be beautiful.

I thought maybe I lost my optimism in a slew of real life -- work, tuition checks, conflict and boy drama. But then, I think of sitting in the sun on my deck, eating Panda Express with Lizzie, re-reading "Blue Castle," laughing at the antics of the two-year-olds in my Sunday School class, cooking, sleeping, chatting, giggling...
Both pain and pleasure are a part of reality. I can't ignore the good that comes along with pain. And I can see the good to be found in the pain of pursuing the good, the true, and the beautiful –– God. He's hard to find here on earth sometimes. Yet, He's magnificently everywhere.

"Grace is change, and change is pain."

Maybe I'm more of a realist now. Maybe like Flannery, I can see beauty in the jarring and the ugly in life, and I hope I won't run the other way. Knowing that grace and good are at the end –– and in between times too –– well, I think that makes me an optimist afterall.

From "Cold Tangerines"

"I have always, essentially, been waiting. Waiting to become something else, waiting to be that person I always thought I was on the verge of becoming, waiting for that life I thought I would have. In my head, I was always one step away.
And through all that waiting, here I am. My life is passing, day by day, and I am waiting for it to start. I am waiting for that time, that person, that event when my life will finally begin.
The Big Moment, unfortunately, is an urban myth. Some people have them, in a sense, when they win the Heisman or become the next American Idol. But even that football player or that singer is living a life made up of more than that one moment. Life is a collection of a million, billion moments, tiny little moments and choices, like a handful of luminous, glowing pearls. It takes so much time, and so much work, and those beads and moments are so small, and so much less fabulous and dramatic than the movies.
But this is what I’m finding, in glimpses and flashes: this is it. This is it, in the best possible way. That thing I’m waiting for, that adventure, that move-score-worthy experience unfolding gracefully. This is it. Normal, daily life ticking by on our streets and sidewalks, in our houses and apartments, in our beds and at our dinner tables, in our dreams and prayers and fights and secrets – this pedestrian life is the most precious thing any of use will ever experience.
Today is your big moment. Moments, really. The life you've been waiting for is happening all around you. The scene unfolding right outside your window is worth more than the most beautiful painting, and the crackers and peanut butter that you're having for lunch on the coffee table are as profound, in their own way, as the Last Supper. This is it. This is life in all its glory, swirling and unfolding around us, disguised as pedantic, pedestrian non-events. But pull off the mask and you will find your life, waiting to be made, chosen, woven, crafted.
I believe that this way of living, this focus on the present, the daily, the tangible, this intense concentration, not on the news headlines, but on the flowers growing in your own garden, the children growing in your own home. This way of living has the potential to open up the heavens, to yield a glittering handful of diamonds where a second ago there was coal. This way of living and noticing and building and crafting can crack through the movie sets and soundtracks that keep us waiting for our own life stories to begin, and set us free to observe the lives we have been creating all along without even realizing it."
-- Shauna Niequist

One Cold Night

The snow falls in downy flakes. She breathes in the night air, cold and sharp against her lungs. She exhales a puff of breath into the still night. From her spot on the porch step, she watches the snow slip down in a lazy pattern, listless and silent. She keeps breathing in and out.
"What are you doing out here?" His voice comes from behind her, as comfortable and warm as a taste of spicy apple cider.
"It's cold," he is saying. The screen door creaks open, bathing the porch in light. Music pulses through the open door. He closes it behind him; the night quiets again. He sits down next to her on the step, his shoulder brushing against her. She shivers a bit.
"You cold?" he asks gently, wrapping an arm around her, solid and protective. She leans into his warmth, shivering again.
"Too hectic in there for you?" he asks. "Nell's Christmas parties are always pretty high energy." He flashes a smile into the night.
"Just thinking," she answers, smiling back. Her heart pounds. She wishes it would stop.
"Bout what?" he prods, softly twirling her hair between his fingers.
She is quiet. If only he knew what she'd been thinking of. They've been friends for nine years now, but lately, she has found herself thinking of him differently. . . Thinking of the way he smiles with one side of his lips tipped higher than the other. Of his absurd love of orange soda. Of the way it might feel to kiss him. Of the way he sings too loud. Of the way he hugs everyone. Of the way he plays Suduko on his phone when he thinks no one is looking. Of the way he makes her feel-- like her insides are just a big, warm bubble, light and airy and ready to burst at any moment.
"Um, well." She starts to make up an answer, then stops. Maybe it's the shadowy romance of the twinkle lights strung around the eaves of the house. Maybe it's the crsip scent of the feathery snowflakes. Maybe it's the slow strains of "Santa Baby" leaking from the house. Or maybe, she just hopes it'll stop her heart from pounding in her ears. But suddenly, she finds herself wanting to tell him the truth.
"Well..." She says again-- her tongue feels large for her mouth. "You, actually."
She pulls herself out of his embrace. She sits up straight, focusing intently on tracing her fingers over the wooden knots patterned into the porch steps. "You should ask me out on a date," she says lightly-- much more lightly than she feels. She suddenly feels as though she's made of bricks.
"Oh." He exhales softly next to her. His shoulders stiffen.
Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight, the music croons.
The moment stretches delicately between them. She steals a glance at him. He purposefully catches her gaze, and it takes her breath away. She cannot read his expression at all. He is unreachable, unfathomable.
But then, he hesitates. His jaw clenches in a tight line and he looks away from her.
And then, the world falls dizzingly into a blur of white cold.

Isaiah 42:16

I will lead the blind by ways they have not known,
along unfamiliar paths I will guide them;
I will turn the darkness into light before them
and make the rough places smooth.
These are the things I will do;
I will not forsake them.

John 3:19-24

By this we shall know that we are of the truth and reassure our heart before him; for whenever our heart condemns us, God is greater than our heart, and he knows everything. Beloved, if our heart does not condemn us, we have confidence before God; and whatever we ask we receive from him, because we keep his commandments and do what pleases him. And this is his commandment, that we believe in the name of Son Jesus Christ and love one another, just as he commanded us. Whoever keeps his commandments abides in God, and God in him. And by this we know that he abides in us, by the Spirit whom he has given us.

Searching

Dig. Deep. Dirt.
One handful over the next
A small pile
Deep scent of earth
Overturned
Dense soil, thick and heavy
It's dark. Still
I am searching deep
In the dark dirt
I find nothing
In the depth of dark
Yet, I still dig to find
Find depth
Maybe I'll see blue sky
At the end

"Hello:" A Daydream

She has a mad crush on this guy from her English class.
He has eyes the color of a robin's egg, spackled with green.
His voice is deep and slow as a sad melody.
He looks like the sky on a day when the sun has warmed it to a light crisp.
He sits two seats away, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.
She daydreams–– sometimes, not all the time–– about how it would feel if he turned around and smiled. At her. He has a dimple in the corner of his left cheek. Perhaps it would peek out. At her.
And sometimes, but only sometimes, she thinks about what it'd be like to reach over and hand him a note that just says, "hello." Because that's all she has to say. It's not much, but it's so much, all at once.
He writes poetry on the back of his black math notebook, but no one knows. She's not some kind of stalker. She just knows because she sits two seats away from him. Which is close enough, and yet not close enough.
She doesn't daydream all the time, only sometimes.
But when she does, she imagines him in her kitchen. In the little house she'll have one day, the one with the red door.
He puts warm arms tight around her, pulling her close, safe. Her head rests heavy against his chest.
He breaths in the sweet, soapy scent of the curve of her neck, and says "hello," low in her ear.

The Mark

Angry red. Rough ridges tattooed into skin.
It left a mark, the ring I wore today.
Bit my finger, sinking in and trying to stay.
Red marks like bumps of molded cheese.
I have removed the ring, but still it won't leave.
Its mark is indented deep in skin
The ring I wore left a mark
Though it's gone, it stays.
My fourth finger bears the mark that was left on my heart.

Juxtaposition

Maybe I'll fly, she says to herself
Or maybe I'll stay right here
Maybe I'll run, maybe I'll walk
If I can just push through fear

How can the sky be so endless, she thinks
While still slowly sealing me in
Trapped to the ground that's not at all solid
I'm rolled and tossed by wind

Maybe If I stayed in a vacuum
It's still & quiet-- I have space
Yet she realizes it sucks her breath
Till she longs for a breeze on her face