Currently Reading: Louisa May Alcott's Christmas Treasury and The Thinking Woman's Guide to Magic by Emily Croy Barker
The words in my head simmer and bubble and boil. I give them another quick stir and lean in to observe the ways they twist and reshape themselves. Ideas still sit on the counter, rising slowly under their tea towel. Hot with impatience, words start to jump from the pot. Why are they always ready before the ideas are?
The snow comes down and the world is white with inspiration. I stir and measure, knead and sift, filling the winter morning with carols and prayers and memories, content to be at my mind's worktable. I dip my hands in, ready to create something from nothing. As I grind and chop and peel, the pile of words grows taller and taller. Soul, mind, and hands work in happy unison. All is peace. All is joy.
Showing posts with label writing is medicine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing is medicine. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Learning
Currently Reading: Too many to count. I'm greedily reading as many books as possible before school starts again.
In the airplane, on the way back from a whirlwind Colorado weekend with my best friends, while reading Flannery O'Connor, I came upon this line: "You found out more when you left where you lived." While it only marginally lessened the ache in my stomach, I recognized its truth. In just three days, I found out many things, things I have reflected on in the days since we returned.
I discovered the power of my own body, as my knees and back and legs carried me up a mountainside, surprising me with their strength and deepening my appreciation for what is mine. I learned about the treasure of time, especially when there is so little of it, and that once in a while, time ceases to exist, and past and present loop quietly together. I learned that while things change, sometimes we do change together. And sometimes a few things stay the same. I realized that my restlessness is not just a phase, but something that is pulling me to somewhere-else, preparing me for the time when we will embark on a new, life-long adventure amid new scenery.
Mostly, I found out that I don't have to work so hard to keep my friendships, that the fear of loss and of being left behind which I carry inside of me doesn't need to be there anymore. It is enough to be myself, to let go and trust that it will hold itself up, like learning to float on the water for the first time. I am learning to trust the people I love not to leave me, but to stay and love me back, not for what I do but for who I am. It is a hard lesson, one I have struggled with most of my life. But I have started to learn how to shed that weight, recognizing the beauty of freedom from fear, like standing on the mountaintop, with everything below and everything above, just floating on the wind.
In the airplane, on the way back from a whirlwind Colorado weekend with my best friends, while reading Flannery O'Connor, I came upon this line: "You found out more when you left where you lived." While it only marginally lessened the ache in my stomach, I recognized its truth. In just three days, I found out many things, things I have reflected on in the days since we returned.
I discovered the power of my own body, as my knees and back and legs carried me up a mountainside, surprising me with their strength and deepening my appreciation for what is mine. I learned about the treasure of time, especially when there is so little of it, and that once in a while, time ceases to exist, and past and present loop quietly together. I learned that while things change, sometimes we do change together. And sometimes a few things stay the same. I realized that my restlessness is not just a phase, but something that is pulling me to somewhere-else, preparing me for the time when we will embark on a new, life-long adventure amid new scenery.
Mostly, I found out that I don't have to work so hard to keep my friendships, that the fear of loss and of being left behind which I carry inside of me doesn't need to be there anymore. It is enough to be myself, to let go and trust that it will hold itself up, like learning to float on the water for the first time. I am learning to trust the people I love not to leave me, but to stay and love me back, not for what I do but for who I am. It is a hard lesson, one I have struggled with most of my life. But I have started to learn how to shed that weight, recognizing the beauty of freedom from fear, like standing on the mountaintop, with everything below and everything above, just floating on the wind.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
The End of May
Currently Reading: The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog by Patricia Monaghan and The Obituary Writer by Ann Hood
A quick pop-in! Three things:
I encourage you to check out my new essay published on the Literary Ladies Guide website, discussing nature in Anne of Green Gables. Here's the link: http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/beyond-beauty-the-natural-world-in-anne-of-green-gables/#more-1690
I'm just starting to get into this "writing-outside-my-blog" thing and I would really love to hear some feedback, so feel free to comment!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last week, I finished Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which is probably the best novel I have read so far this year. It was mindblowing. And very difficult to describe, so I won't even attempt it. I can give you a glimpse, however, of the thoughts it raised in my mind as I read: how fragile and powerful are the trajectories of our lives; the pull and tug between free will and choice as the book dipped and flung itself into both; the ponderous, unanswerable questions of life and death and outcomes and consequences and the implications of our lives on the world, on each other, on history. How little things might lead to broader implications. How new decisions might still yield the same result. How little control we have over our destinies. How much control we have over our destinies. Life After Life was exquisite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also finished The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott. (Can you tell I'm on break from school?) The letters, like the journals, were such a pleasure because I felt fully immersed in LMA's world, her voice, her perspective. I actually enjoyed the Letters more because they were more conversational and detailed- often, I felt like Louisa was just talking to me, describing her thoughts and her doings. Like Louisa, the words were fresh and vibrant, as if they were written yesterday. I feel a deeper connection to Louisa the more I read of her, and these Letters strengthened that connection intensely. In fact, having read collections of both her Letters and Journals, I feel like I know her intimately, as a friend, as a kindred spirit. She is more real to me now than ever before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, a good May overall. June stretches before us, ripe with the promise of farmer's markets, museum visits, long walks, and a weekend vacation with friends up North. Books in the queue: In the Shadow of Blackbirds, some Ralph Waldo Emerson, Shadowfell, and Mrs. Dalloway. School starts again in two weeks, but I'm not focusing on that yet. My focus is on the good ahead.
A quick pop-in! Three things:
I encourage you to check out my new essay published on the Literary Ladies Guide website, discussing nature in Anne of Green Gables. Here's the link: http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/literary-musings/beyond-beauty-the-natural-world-in-anne-of-green-gables/#more-1690
I'm just starting to get into this "writing-outside-my-blog" thing and I would really love to hear some feedback, so feel free to comment!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last week, I finished Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which is probably the best novel I have read so far this year. It was mindblowing. And very difficult to describe, so I won't even attempt it. I can give you a glimpse, however, of the thoughts it raised in my mind as I read: how fragile and powerful are the trajectories of our lives; the pull and tug between free will and choice as the book dipped and flung itself into both; the ponderous, unanswerable questions of life and death and outcomes and consequences and the implications of our lives on the world, on each other, on history. How little things might lead to broader implications. How new decisions might still yield the same result. How little control we have over our destinies. How much control we have over our destinies. Life After Life was exquisite.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Also finished The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott. (Can you tell I'm on break from school?) The letters, like the journals, were such a pleasure because I felt fully immersed in LMA's world, her voice, her perspective. I actually enjoyed the Letters more because they were more conversational and detailed- often, I felt like Louisa was just talking to me, describing her thoughts and her doings. Like Louisa, the words were fresh and vibrant, as if they were written yesterday. I feel a deeper connection to Louisa the more I read of her, and these Letters strengthened that connection intensely. In fact, having read collections of both her Letters and Journals, I feel like I know her intimately, as a friend, as a kindred spirit. She is more real to me now than ever before.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, a good May overall. June stretches before us, ripe with the promise of farmer's markets, museum visits, long walks, and a weekend vacation with friends up North. Books in the queue: In the Shadow of Blackbirds, some Ralph Waldo Emerson, Shadowfell, and Mrs. Dalloway. School starts again in two weeks, but I'm not focusing on that yet. My focus is on the good ahead.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Journaling Ireland
Currently Reading: The Selected Letters of Louisa May Alcott, The Red-Haired Girl from the Bog by Patricia Monaghan, and Life After Life by Kate Atkinson
I kept an "Ireland journal" on our trip, spending an extra hour or so before bed writing down my thoughts and impressions of the day, preserving the memories before they got stale. Although some nights I was almost too exhausted to stay awake, I knew how essential it was to put our journeys into words. Besides my photographs, the journal is my most beloved souvenir. Some excerpts, for your enjoyment....
May 18th
".....Our next stop was Corcomroe Abbey, a Cistercian monastery from the 12th century. It was so remote and peaceful, gray stone against a green hillside. It was haunting in its loneliness but with a quiet, strong dignity, as if it knew it was no longer what it was, but it held on to the pride of what it had been."
May 20th
"What an amazing day. We walked through a sixth century monastic site, looked in tide pools, tasted the salt spray of the ocean on our lips, found seagull eggs, and sat on the cliff rocks, listening to the wind and waves, surrounded by nothing but nature and stone remnants of the island's holy past. I can't even begin to describe the magic of Inishmurray..."
May 21st
"On the way home [from our trip to the Aran Islands], Nathan treated me by stopping at a public beach along [Galway] Bay. It was entirely empty, but for us, and with my pant legs rolled up, I got to splash in Galway Bay. The sun came out, piercing the water with light and creating a scene of such beauty- sun and water, cloud and sky, mingling together to create something perfect."
May 24th
"I am not a city person. I have never been comfortable in bustling crowds, surrounded by a crush of people and traffic. Yet with that said, I have to admit that I love Dublin....I love the streets, winding and narrow, flanked by buildings that have stood here for hundreds of years. There are no ugly skyscrapers blocking the sky, no subway thundering overhead. There is room to breathe, beautiful statues and buildings, not to mention Merrion Park & St. Stephen's Green. The city breathes the history of Joyce, Wilde, Yeats; it stands still at the GPO...Walking through Temple Bar or Grafton Street, on cobblestones leading me past street musicians and shoppers, or people sitting outside enjoying the surroundings, I felt surprisingly comfortable."
May 27th
[In the Dingle Peninsula]...."Sand in my toes and fresh air in my lungs, laughing with Nathan as the Shannon River guides us home and the essence of Ireland, everything we've come to know and love- signs written in Irish, bright green farmfields, stone walls covered in ivy, baby lambs and cows in every pasture, brightly colored cottages, B&B signs- flashes past our windows. That is the epitome of a wonderful day."
May 28th
[After visiting Coole Park]..."The biggest gift Coole Park gave me today was an acceptance of having to leave and return to reality. It is as if, having seen so much loveliness these past few weeks, I am now full, with enough inside of my soul to sustain me for years to come. It gave me inspiration, to go back and accomplish something of my own. But most of all, it acted as a farewell, acknowledging my new place here and returning all the love I have for this country with some love of its own."
I kept an "Ireland journal" on our trip, spending an extra hour or so before bed writing down my thoughts and impressions of the day, preserving the memories before they got stale. Although some nights I was almost too exhausted to stay awake, I knew how essential it was to put our journeys into words. Besides my photographs, the journal is my most beloved souvenir. Some excerpts, for your enjoyment....
May 18th
".....Our next stop was Corcomroe Abbey, a Cistercian monastery from the 12th century. It was so remote and peaceful, gray stone against a green hillside. It was haunting in its loneliness but with a quiet, strong dignity, as if it knew it was no longer what it was, but it held on to the pride of what it had been."
May 20th
"What an amazing day. We walked through a sixth century monastic site, looked in tide pools, tasted the salt spray of the ocean on our lips, found seagull eggs, and sat on the cliff rocks, listening to the wind and waves, surrounded by nothing but nature and stone remnants of the island's holy past. I can't even begin to describe the magic of Inishmurray..."
May 21st
"On the way home [from our trip to the Aran Islands], Nathan treated me by stopping at a public beach along [Galway] Bay. It was entirely empty, but for us, and with my pant legs rolled up, I got to splash in Galway Bay. The sun came out, piercing the water with light and creating a scene of such beauty- sun and water, cloud and sky, mingling together to create something perfect."
May 24th
"I am not a city person. I have never been comfortable in bustling crowds, surrounded by a crush of people and traffic. Yet with that said, I have to admit that I love Dublin....I love the streets, winding and narrow, flanked by buildings that have stood here for hundreds of years. There are no ugly skyscrapers blocking the sky, no subway thundering overhead. There is room to breathe, beautiful statues and buildings, not to mention Merrion Park & St. Stephen's Green. The city breathes the history of Joyce, Wilde, Yeats; it stands still at the GPO...Walking through Temple Bar or Grafton Street, on cobblestones leading me past street musicians and shoppers, or people sitting outside enjoying the surroundings, I felt surprisingly comfortable."
May 27th
[In the Dingle Peninsula]...."Sand in my toes and fresh air in my lungs, laughing with Nathan as the Shannon River guides us home and the essence of Ireland, everything we've come to know and love- signs written in Irish, bright green farmfields, stone walls covered in ivy, baby lambs and cows in every pasture, brightly colored cottages, B&B signs- flashes past our windows. That is the epitome of a wonderful day."
May 28th
[After visiting Coole Park]..."The biggest gift Coole Park gave me today was an acceptance of having to leave and return to reality. It is as if, having seen so much loveliness these past few weeks, I am now full, with enough inside of my soul to sustain me for years to come. It gave me inspiration, to go back and accomplish something of my own. But most of all, it acted as a farewell, acknowledging my new place here and returning all the love I have for this country with some love of its own."
Friday, April 19, 2013
Climbing Mountains
After a week like this, how can one not be left feeling heavy? Heavy with the weight of sorrow and fear, heavy with the knowledge that we can try to solve it by duking it out in the political arena, but evil never hides and people can always find it and use it. Maybe we are never fully safe from each other, a thought that makes me weep. Because we need people. We need each other so desperately.
There are a million reasons to lose our faith in humanity. Look around. Boston might be the biggest indicator right now but every crime committed, every judgmental comment slung about, every voice raised in anger at another, can turn into a cacophony, reverberating through us all, trying to drown out everything else.
But.
Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it. ~Helen Keller
I found this quote tonight on Kelle Hampton's blog and it sunk into my soul, dripping into the sadness and the hurt and filling the holes. Because the truth of that one statement can be stronger than the cacophonous evil. Evil doesn't win. But that truth lies in our perspective, in the way we see the world. We could focus only on the first part, on the real-and-never-changing truth that the suffering will always be a part of our reality. And we could leave it there, losing hope. Losing faith. Never taking a step to rectify it. That's one way to see the world.
But it's not the only way. The perspective can shift, the angle can tilt. We can choose what we see, what we zoom in on, how we respond. Perspective and action. A better world might actually hinge on those two powerful things. This week, I attended an Earth Day conference with Dr. Jane Goodall as keynote speaker. Her message that night (the afternoon of the bombing in Boston, though I was not aware of it at the time) was that even though there are so many problems in our world- people hungry, forests decimated, species endangered- the story isn't over. The die has not been cast. She outlined the reasons why she still has hope, why she has not given up. Three things: human intellect, the resiliency of Nature, and the indomitable human spirit. The indomitable human spirit. Indomitable. As in: cannot be dominated. Too strong to be destroyed.
As humans, we are capable of building mountains of hate and judgment and anger... and sometimes those mountains can seem to blot out the view. But we are also capable of love and forgiveness and empathy. We have the power to seek the beautiful amid the brutal, climbing those mountains, dominating them with our indomitable spirits. Let compassion guide our eyes and our hands and our spirits, and there is nothing we cannot do.
Prayers to Boston tonight. Let's go climb some mountains.
There are a million reasons to lose our faith in humanity. Look around. Boston might be the biggest indicator right now but every crime committed, every judgmental comment slung about, every voice raised in anger at another, can turn into a cacophony, reverberating through us all, trying to drown out everything else.
But.
Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it. ~Helen Keller
I found this quote tonight on Kelle Hampton's blog and it sunk into my soul, dripping into the sadness and the hurt and filling the holes. Because the truth of that one statement can be stronger than the cacophonous evil. Evil doesn't win. But that truth lies in our perspective, in the way we see the world. We could focus only on the first part, on the real-and-never-changing truth that the suffering will always be a part of our reality. And we could leave it there, losing hope. Losing faith. Never taking a step to rectify it. That's one way to see the world.
But it's not the only way. The perspective can shift, the angle can tilt. We can choose what we see, what we zoom in on, how we respond. Perspective and action. A better world might actually hinge on those two powerful things. This week, I attended an Earth Day conference with Dr. Jane Goodall as keynote speaker. Her message that night (the afternoon of the bombing in Boston, though I was not aware of it at the time) was that even though there are so many problems in our world- people hungry, forests decimated, species endangered- the story isn't over. The die has not been cast. She outlined the reasons why she still has hope, why she has not given up. Three things: human intellect, the resiliency of Nature, and the indomitable human spirit. The indomitable human spirit. Indomitable. As in: cannot be dominated. Too strong to be destroyed.
As humans, we are capable of building mountains of hate and judgment and anger... and sometimes those mountains can seem to blot out the view. But we are also capable of love and forgiveness and empathy. We have the power to seek the beautiful amid the brutal, climbing those mountains, dominating them with our indomitable spirits. Let compassion guide our eyes and our hands and our spirits, and there is nothing we cannot do.
Prayers to Boston tonight. Let's go climb some mountains.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
My First Piece
Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott and Through a Window: My Thirty Years with the Chimpanzees of Gombe by Jane Goodall
My piece on Little Women was printed at The Literary Ladies' Guide website several days ago, so I thought I would share the link with anyone who may be interested. I would be honored if you would take a peek:
http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/essays/1312/
I know it may seem like a little thing, but it is the first time my writing has been printed outside of this blog for others to read, and I am excited to share my writing with broader audiences. I don't intend to pursue a career as a writer, but it is something that sustains and fulfills me, and I at least want to see where it leads me. This experience has only served to inspire me further and given me confidence in my writing, which I am grateful for.
As for my reading, I am slowly savoring Louisa May's journals, taking a quiet, solitary stroll through them at a leisurely pace, so that I can be fully present in her world, aware of the sights and sounds and emotions of Louisa's life. Yet I have also been spending time in the forests of Tanzania, listening to Dr. Goodall ardently describe the chimpanzees she has studied and grown to love, illustrating their behaviors and social structures and temperaments. In nine days, Jane Goodall will be at an Earth Day conference I am attending, and reading this book is both rekindling the childhood hero-worship I had for Dr. Goodall and also stoking my excitement for the 15th.
That's all, friends! Have a great weekend!
My piece on Little Women was printed at The Literary Ladies' Guide website several days ago, so I thought I would share the link with anyone who may be interested. I would be honored if you would take a peek:
http://www.literaryladiesguide.com/essays/1312/
I know it may seem like a little thing, but it is the first time my writing has been printed outside of this blog for others to read, and I am excited to share my writing with broader audiences. I don't intend to pursue a career as a writer, but it is something that sustains and fulfills me, and I at least want to see where it leads me. This experience has only served to inspire me further and given me confidence in my writing, which I am grateful for.
As for my reading, I am slowly savoring Louisa May's journals, taking a quiet, solitary stroll through them at a leisurely pace, so that I can be fully present in her world, aware of the sights and sounds and emotions of Louisa's life. Yet I have also been spending time in the forests of Tanzania, listening to Dr. Goodall ardently describe the chimpanzees she has studied and grown to love, illustrating their behaviors and social structures and temperaments. In nine days, Jane Goodall will be at an Earth Day conference I am attending, and reading this book is both rekindling the childhood hero-worship I had for Dr. Goodall and also stoking my excitement for the 15th.
 |
| I used to have a poster of this photo hanging on my bedroom wall. It's still one of my favorites. |
That's all, friends! Have a great weekend!
Monday, April 1, 2013
Bits and Pieces
Currently Reading: The Journals of Louisa May Alcott
Bits and pieces of the last two weeks:
Spring break came and went, which allowed me to find time to read and finish my third Classics Club book, Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz and my fourth Alice Hoffman, The Third Angel. Myths and Sagas took me almost two months, despite its small size. I have read much of the early Irish literature before, and each time it is hard to get through. Not because it's boring or uninteresting, but because each story is thick with detail and description. It is tempting to skim these tales, letting my eyes flick over the lines of names and places that are mostly unpronounceable. But when I take time to notice and study them, the words and names become so beautiful. I practice sounding them out, checking with the Irish pronunciation guide at the front of the book and smiling with pride when I remember some of the more difficult ones from previous readings. The tales also expand and broaden under my eyes when I savor them slowly. Descriptions of Cu Chulaind's shield or the house Bricriu builds can be tedious, but I try to read them for the history they portray, as much as for the storylines. "The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu" is still my favorite, closely followed by "The Dream of Oengus." (Both tales were the basis of some great Irish Literary Revival works too; long ago, the discovery of Yeats' poem "The Song of Wandering Aengus" began my fascination with all things Irish.) Ever since we returned from Ireland last year, I find that in each Irish book I read, I can picture what I read so much clearer. I know what the Hill of Tara looks like; I can see the deep woods and the crashing ocean foam in my mind as the words take me back to a place I fell in love with, that lives in me still.
As for The Third Angel? Alice Hoffman continues to amaze me. I don't know how much more needs to be said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Easter weekend, filled with family and prayers and gratitude to God. Good Friday was everything it should be: solemn, tear-filled, hushed, holy. With each light that is extinguished in the sanctuary, I am shocked anew by the raw and the sacred of the night. I left exhausted, utterly spent by the sheer emotion of marking a sacrifice.
But this is what our church looked like Sunday morning. (Courtesy of Pastor Robert). I would say that a balloon-filled sanctuary is the epitome of Easter celebration and joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I swept through Wanderlust by Elisabeth Eaves in only a few days, satisfying the traveling itch that has engulfed me with the first whispers of spring. At first I worried that, far from putting calamine lotion on the itch, it would only irritate it, making me long to leave and fly to new adventures. But the memoir was brutally honest, portraying the good and the bad of ceaseless travel in equal measures. Through the book, I relived the feelings I experienced in Ireland last May: the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of being a stranger among strangers; the awe of gazing upon beauty I could only have dreamed of; the self-consciousness that accompanies being dropped into a new culture; and the fulfillment of desires for adventure, culture, and knowledge. But Wanderlust did not shy away from the reality that constant movement is not always the answer; downfalls exist for those who can never find happiness in settling, who must always be moving in order to feel alive. And I was truly grateful, after reading it, that I am satisfied with the realities of schedules and routine, and that I don't have to be somewhere else to be fulfilled personally and creatively. The travel itch is still there but that calamine lotion felt good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seed planting. With great trepidation, I might add. Spinach and two types of tomatoes. Since I've never started plants from seeds before, I'm nervous that I will inadvertently do something wrong; seeds and seedlings seem so fragile and every gardening website tells you something different to do. I feel so confident in the kitchen (most of the time) but I have no confidence in my gardening ability yet. But I'm glad I've tried- we'll see what becomes of it. Hobbes enjoyed himself that morning, watching over the plants and basking in the sunshine with them.
Wait until his cat grass starts to grow. He'll be ecstatic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, some exciting news (for me) that I'm hesitant to share yet but will anyway because when something keeps you up all night with excitement, it's good to share it. I will be contributing a post from this blog on The Ladies' Literary Guide website; they contacted me yesterday about printing it on their site. (By the way, this website, which I was already familiar with, is truly fascinating for anyone interested in classic female writers. Definitely check it out.) Only in the past several months have I thought about spreading my writing beyond the borders of this blog, but it has still only been a thought in the back of my head until now. (Louisa May Alcott may have been an inspiration). I don't know what will come of it, but the excitement is there nevertheless, as well as further inspiration and desire to focus on my writing.
Happy Monday!
Bits and pieces of the last two weeks:
Spring break came and went, which allowed me to find time to read and finish my third Classics Club book, Early Irish Myths and Sagas by Jeffrey Gantz and my fourth Alice Hoffman, The Third Angel. Myths and Sagas took me almost two months, despite its small size. I have read much of the early Irish literature before, and each time it is hard to get through. Not because it's boring or uninteresting, but because each story is thick with detail and description. It is tempting to skim these tales, letting my eyes flick over the lines of names and places that are mostly unpronounceable. But when I take time to notice and study them, the words and names become so beautiful. I practice sounding them out, checking with the Irish pronunciation guide at the front of the book and smiling with pride when I remember some of the more difficult ones from previous readings. The tales also expand and broaden under my eyes when I savor them slowly. Descriptions of Cu Chulaind's shield or the house Bricriu builds can be tedious, but I try to read them for the history they portray, as much as for the storylines. "The Exile of the Sons of Uisliu" is still my favorite, closely followed by "The Dream of Oengus." (Both tales were the basis of some great Irish Literary Revival works too; long ago, the discovery of Yeats' poem "The Song of Wandering Aengus" began my fascination with all things Irish.) Ever since we returned from Ireland last year, I find that in each Irish book I read, I can picture what I read so much clearer. I know what the Hill of Tara looks like; I can see the deep woods and the crashing ocean foam in my mind as the words take me back to a place I fell in love with, that lives in me still.
As for The Third Angel? Alice Hoffman continues to amaze me. I don't know how much more needs to be said.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Easter weekend, filled with family and prayers and gratitude to God. Good Friday was everything it should be: solemn, tear-filled, hushed, holy. With each light that is extinguished in the sanctuary, I am shocked anew by the raw and the sacred of the night. I left exhausted, utterly spent by the sheer emotion of marking a sacrifice.
But this is what our church looked like Sunday morning. (Courtesy of Pastor Robert). I would say that a balloon-filled sanctuary is the epitome of Easter celebration and joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I swept through Wanderlust by Elisabeth Eaves in only a few days, satisfying the traveling itch that has engulfed me with the first whispers of spring. At first I worried that, far from putting calamine lotion on the itch, it would only irritate it, making me long to leave and fly to new adventures. But the memoir was brutally honest, portraying the good and the bad of ceaseless travel in equal measures. Through the book, I relived the feelings I experienced in Ireland last May: the exhilarating, terrifying feeling of being a stranger among strangers; the awe of gazing upon beauty I could only have dreamed of; the self-consciousness that accompanies being dropped into a new culture; and the fulfillment of desires for adventure, culture, and knowledge. But Wanderlust did not shy away from the reality that constant movement is not always the answer; downfalls exist for those who can never find happiness in settling, who must always be moving in order to feel alive. And I was truly grateful, after reading it, that I am satisfied with the realities of schedules and routine, and that I don't have to be somewhere else to be fulfilled personally and creatively. The travel itch is still there but that calamine lotion felt good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seed planting. With great trepidation, I might add. Spinach and two types of tomatoes. Since I've never started plants from seeds before, I'm nervous that I will inadvertently do something wrong; seeds and seedlings seem so fragile and every gardening website tells you something different to do. I feel so confident in the kitchen (most of the time) but I have no confidence in my gardening ability yet. But I'm glad I've tried- we'll see what becomes of it. Hobbes enjoyed himself that morning, watching over the plants and basking in the sunshine with them.
Wait until his cat grass starts to grow. He'll be ecstatic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, some exciting news (for me) that I'm hesitant to share yet but will anyway because when something keeps you up all night with excitement, it's good to share it. I will be contributing a post from this blog on The Ladies' Literary Guide website; they contacted me yesterday about printing it on their site. (By the way, this website, which I was already familiar with, is truly fascinating for anyone interested in classic female writers. Definitely check it out.) Only in the past several months have I thought about spreading my writing beyond the borders of this blog, but it has still only been a thought in the back of my head until now. (Louisa May Alcott may have been an inspiration). I don't know what will come of it, but the excitement is there nevertheless, as well as further inspiration and desire to focus on my writing.
Happy Monday!
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Standing for Something
Currently Reading: Charlotte Bronte: A Passionate Life by Lyndall Gordon and Little Women by Louisa May Alcott (My two favorite women authors at once! What is this madness?!)
A lot of deep thoughts have been swirling through my mind recently, prompted and inspired by many unrelated pieces all coming together to somehow influence each other. These pieces include, among other things, the last election cycle, Charlotte Bronte, another blog post, and a Fun song. And after much deep thinking and an inspiring email from my slightly-older-but-so-much-wiser-cousin, I'm ready to write it out.
This blog is one of many pieces in my life where I express myself creatively- my journal, my kitchen, my poetry, my job, and even my schoolwork are other areas of my life that serve as creative outlets and allow me to be true to myself through free expression. I relish these creative outlets, I demand them for my wellbeing and my sanity. Besides the blog world, social media gives us even more outlets for free expression: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Goodreads, and more abound to serve us. We are granted parts of the canvas and encouraged to sling our paint wherever we wish. They serve dual purposes: connecting us to others and giving us a means of creative expression. I am not engaged on all of these sites because I don't have the time or the interest for them all. But I add to my Goodreads shelves and I update my Facebook status and I spend much of my online time seeing what my friends and relatives are up to as well. There is so much good from all of this- seeing pictures of my growing nieces and nephews, messaging a friend to pick a time to get together, or sharing a joke with a faraway friend. All of this is necessary to sustain my relationships with others.
There's an underbelly to it all, of course. I think the last election cycle this past fall proved that social media can be dirty. Facebook became a place where political opinions were shared, misunderstandings arose, and debates ensued. In some ways, I think this is healthy. Every person not only has a valid opinion, but has the right to express that opinion. There is no limit, no hindrance to our ability to express ourselves on social media, and this is especially true when we feel strongly about certain topics. But there is something about this that scares me and it is epitomized in the comment bar. Facebook doesn't just allow us to post our own opinions, but we have the constant ability to comment on the conversations, threads, posts, and shares of others. While this seems innocuous, I actually believe it leads us to the impression that we all have the right to talk each other down without listening to what others have to say. It cuts out constructive and informative conversation, and whittles our dialogue with others down to mere sentences. Social media allows us to communicate our opinions and make our voices heard, while simultaneously drowning out our voices because of the cacophony it produces.
*Enter Charlotte Bronte* I have been reading a wonderful biography exploring Charlotte's life and its influences upon her works. I have not only learned much about Jane Eyre through discovering Charlotte's life, but I have also gained a deeper understanding and respect for women during the 19th century, and female writers in particular. While I do want to discuss her and Louisa further in a separate blog post soon, there was a portion that struck me and stuck with me. After the deaths of her siblings, Charlotte was left living in Haworth, on a lonely Yorkshire moor, taking care of her ailing father. While this did often influence Charlotte's depression, Lyndall Gordon makes it clear that her isolation and loneliness, her separation from others and especially from society, made it possible for her art and voice to develop. While she makes this point right when Charlotte is about to write Villette, it actually is true of the circumstances surrounding her earlier novels too. Her secluded life at Haworth influenced the person she was- her opinions of London, her ease in society, her view of women's roles, and her passionate expression. If Charlotte was a different man's daughter or had lived in a bustling metropolis, perhaps the world would not have been gifted with her voice. I can only imagine the silence, the seclusion, the loneliness Charlotte lived with every day, for that does not exist for us anymore, as it was for her. She created her own mental stimulation and her voice flourished in the silence. Only with her letters and her novels was she able to champion her opinions and views, and so she did so with fervor. As I have read, I couldn't help wondering whether some form of detachment is necessary to inspiration, to art, to forming one's voice. Charlotte herself wrote in a letter to Mrs. Gaskell about the "need for isolation in order to be true to herself."
*Enter Fun song* Their new song, called "Some Nights", to be exact. It is a beautiful song, a moving commentary on war, particularly the Iraq War. The lyrics are outstanding, sheer poetry. (Check out this music video- goosebumps, I tell you.) These are the songs I love, the ones that make me stop and read the lines and feel their meanings in the depths of my soul. There are two lines that have haunted me the past few days: the first says, "I found a martyr in my bed tonight/stops my bones from wondering just who I am, who I am, who I am, oh who am I?" The second: "Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for/ What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know." Powerful stuff right there. And it hits me because knowing what we stand for, what we believe in, what matters to us, is essential to our growth as individuals, to the inward development of our characters throughout our lives.
There are things I stand for, things I believe in with my whole heart and soul. But communicating those things has become the barrier that I cannot cross, the locked gate I can find no key for. Since November, and even much earlier, I have struggled with the truth that in order to avoid the negative comments of others or the debilitating, faceless debates with ones I love, I must hide who I am, that I am actually not free to express myself and therefore, am not free to be who I am. As a person who seeks expression through my writing, through my creative outlets, it frustrates me and makes me feel hindered because I am constrained by the very medium that is supposed to free us all. Another blogger, Kelle Hampton on Enjoying the Small Things actually just wrote about a similar point the other night, which was another part of the catalyst that inspired me to write this post. Her post was about the negative criticism that comes from others when we share and connect and bare our souls through social media. She wrote, "Validation is an interesting thing though, and no matter how strong or unphased by criticism we are, there is an undeniable human desire to have people like what we feel passionate about--our art, our words, our stories, our styles, our writing, our opinions. It's why we sometimes feel hesitant to publish or share. What will people think?"
Of course, I could counter all of this by asking why is it so important for me to express my opinions at all? Publicly expressing my opinions or publicly affirming what I stand for does not make them any more solid or real. So why share them at all? And in the same vein, why do I feel the need to comment on the opinions and beliefs of others? Why do I have the right to insert myself into another person's mind and life? Perhaps the real answer lies in figuring out the role that personal expression should take in the world of social media.
Am I bothered that people I love do not and probably will not ever truly know or understand me? If I was being honest with myself, the answer is yes. What I believe and what I stand for are part of who I am. I want to share that, not to make others think the way I do, but so that I too will be heard. So what to do? Do I limit my interactions on social media to avoid anything that might anger or be misunderstood? Do I step back from it all, in order to let the silence inspire my own life? Do I express my inner thoughts and share my beliefs, despite the criticism?
I want to stand up. I want to live what I believe. And I want to find my voice. The question is finding a way to do so.
A lot of deep thoughts have been swirling through my mind recently, prompted and inspired by many unrelated pieces all coming together to somehow influence each other. These pieces include, among other things, the last election cycle, Charlotte Bronte, another blog post, and a Fun song. And after much deep thinking and an inspiring email from my slightly-older-but-so-much-wiser-cousin, I'm ready to write it out.
This blog is one of many pieces in my life where I express myself creatively- my journal, my kitchen, my poetry, my job, and even my schoolwork are other areas of my life that serve as creative outlets and allow me to be true to myself through free expression. I relish these creative outlets, I demand them for my wellbeing and my sanity. Besides the blog world, social media gives us even more outlets for free expression: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Goodreads, and more abound to serve us. We are granted parts of the canvas and encouraged to sling our paint wherever we wish. They serve dual purposes: connecting us to others and giving us a means of creative expression. I am not engaged on all of these sites because I don't have the time or the interest for them all. But I add to my Goodreads shelves and I update my Facebook status and I spend much of my online time seeing what my friends and relatives are up to as well. There is so much good from all of this- seeing pictures of my growing nieces and nephews, messaging a friend to pick a time to get together, or sharing a joke with a faraway friend. All of this is necessary to sustain my relationships with others.
There's an underbelly to it all, of course. I think the last election cycle this past fall proved that social media can be dirty. Facebook became a place where political opinions were shared, misunderstandings arose, and debates ensued. In some ways, I think this is healthy. Every person not only has a valid opinion, but has the right to express that opinion. There is no limit, no hindrance to our ability to express ourselves on social media, and this is especially true when we feel strongly about certain topics. But there is something about this that scares me and it is epitomized in the comment bar. Facebook doesn't just allow us to post our own opinions, but we have the constant ability to comment on the conversations, threads, posts, and shares of others. While this seems innocuous, I actually believe it leads us to the impression that we all have the right to talk each other down without listening to what others have to say. It cuts out constructive and informative conversation, and whittles our dialogue with others down to mere sentences. Social media allows us to communicate our opinions and make our voices heard, while simultaneously drowning out our voices because of the cacophony it produces.
*Enter Charlotte Bronte* I have been reading a wonderful biography exploring Charlotte's life and its influences upon her works. I have not only learned much about Jane Eyre through discovering Charlotte's life, but I have also gained a deeper understanding and respect for women during the 19th century, and female writers in particular. While I do want to discuss her and Louisa further in a separate blog post soon, there was a portion that struck me and stuck with me. After the deaths of her siblings, Charlotte was left living in Haworth, on a lonely Yorkshire moor, taking care of her ailing father. While this did often influence Charlotte's depression, Lyndall Gordon makes it clear that her isolation and loneliness, her separation from others and especially from society, made it possible for her art and voice to develop. While she makes this point right when Charlotte is about to write Villette, it actually is true of the circumstances surrounding her earlier novels too. Her secluded life at Haworth influenced the person she was- her opinions of London, her ease in society, her view of women's roles, and her passionate expression. If Charlotte was a different man's daughter or had lived in a bustling metropolis, perhaps the world would not have been gifted with her voice. I can only imagine the silence, the seclusion, the loneliness Charlotte lived with every day, for that does not exist for us anymore, as it was for her. She created her own mental stimulation and her voice flourished in the silence. Only with her letters and her novels was she able to champion her opinions and views, and so she did so with fervor. As I have read, I couldn't help wondering whether some form of detachment is necessary to inspiration, to art, to forming one's voice. Charlotte herself wrote in a letter to Mrs. Gaskell about the "need for isolation in order to be true to herself."
*Enter Fun song* Their new song, called "Some Nights", to be exact. It is a beautiful song, a moving commentary on war, particularly the Iraq War. The lyrics are outstanding, sheer poetry. (Check out this music video- goosebumps, I tell you.) These are the songs I love, the ones that make me stop and read the lines and feel their meanings in the depths of my soul. There are two lines that have haunted me the past few days: the first says, "I found a martyr in my bed tonight/stops my bones from wondering just who I am, who I am, who I am, oh who am I?" The second: "Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for/ What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know." Powerful stuff right there. And it hits me because knowing what we stand for, what we believe in, what matters to us, is essential to our growth as individuals, to the inward development of our characters throughout our lives.
There are things I stand for, things I believe in with my whole heart and soul. But communicating those things has become the barrier that I cannot cross, the locked gate I can find no key for. Since November, and even much earlier, I have struggled with the truth that in order to avoid the negative comments of others or the debilitating, faceless debates with ones I love, I must hide who I am, that I am actually not free to express myself and therefore, am not free to be who I am. As a person who seeks expression through my writing, through my creative outlets, it frustrates me and makes me feel hindered because I am constrained by the very medium that is supposed to free us all. Another blogger, Kelle Hampton on Enjoying the Small Things actually just wrote about a similar point the other night, which was another part of the catalyst that inspired me to write this post. Her post was about the negative criticism that comes from others when we share and connect and bare our souls through social media. She wrote, "Validation is an interesting thing though, and no matter how strong or unphased by criticism we are, there is an undeniable human desire to have people like what we feel passionate about--our art, our words, our stories, our styles, our writing, our opinions. It's why we sometimes feel hesitant to publish or share. What will people think?"
Of course, I could counter all of this by asking why is it so important for me to express my opinions at all? Publicly expressing my opinions or publicly affirming what I stand for does not make them any more solid or real. So why share them at all? And in the same vein, why do I feel the need to comment on the opinions and beliefs of others? Why do I have the right to insert myself into another person's mind and life? Perhaps the real answer lies in figuring out the role that personal expression should take in the world of social media.
Am I bothered that people I love do not and probably will not ever truly know or understand me? If I was being honest with myself, the answer is yes. What I believe and what I stand for are part of who I am. I want to share that, not to make others think the way I do, but so that I too will be heard. So what to do? Do I limit my interactions on social media to avoid anything that might anger or be misunderstood? Do I step back from it all, in order to let the silence inspire my own life? Do I express my inner thoughts and share my beliefs, despite the criticism?
I want to stand up. I want to live what I believe. And I want to find my voice. The question is finding a way to do so.
Sunday, December 23, 2012
A Christmas Without Opa
Currently Reading: Charlotte Bronte: A Passionate Life by Lyndall Gordon, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, and The Yellow House by Patricia Falvey.
Today has been a Christmas baking day, one full of cinnamon smells, wiping flour on my apron, and licking dough from bowls. My back is sore but my heart is full. Everywhere I look, I feel and see Christmas- from the carols serenading us to the lights on the Christmas tree to the bags full of Christmas goodies on the counters. (Nate playing Harry Potter Lego on the Xbox isn't exactly Christmas, but I'll take it anyway.) :) This year, we used our new Advent wreath (Adventskranz for us German folk) to celebrate the Advent season. While we got a little behind on lighting the candles, we are making sure that all four will be lit tonight as Advent ends and the Christmas celebrating begins.
I am a little nervous for Christmas this year, for it will be our first one without Opa. He won't be there to put on his obviously-fake-but-terribly-cute Santa wig and beard to pass out his "special envelopes," or to sit at the head of the table during Christmas dinner. He won't be making up his own silly lyrics to a Christmas carol and making me laugh- not at the lyrics but at the silly voice he uses. I dreamt about him several weeks ago, and he was using that silly voice again, making a joke just for me. I missed it. It was good to hear it again.
Every year, my sister, Nathan, and I put up our Oma's Christmas village after Thanksgiving. It is something my sister and I have always done; Nate has now become part of the tradition. Ever since we were little, we have lugged up boxes of porcelain houses and accessories, and proceed to perfectly design a little Christmas village in the middle of Oma's living room. We have never missed a year.
While we do this, we always listen to the same CD of Christmas carols, Oma bustles in and out with extra tablecloths and some mugs of hot cocoa, and Opa would sit in his chair, watching us and giving us pointers. Two years ago, as he watched and we admired our handiwork, he said something about how someday he wouldn't be here to see us put up the Christmas village. And then he started to cry. Real tears.
The only time I have ever seen him cry was when he would tell the dog fart story that made him laugh so hard, he was sobbing. But this time was different. Suddenly, my Opa was showing us how important our little ritual was to him, and how much he would miss it when he was gone. In shock, I went to him and laid my head in his lap and cried with him for a minute or two. Then we dried our eyes, and laughed, and I fetched him cocoa. That was really the last time he was with us for the construction of the village. Last year, he still sat and watched us, but he was more listless and a bit unaware of what was going on. This year, of course, my sister and I fought back the tears as Roger Whittaker's version of "Ding Dong Merrily On High" sailed into the room and we began to lift houses out of boxes. His chair was empty. But he and I had that moment, that good-bye to our tradition together two years ago and when I look back on it, I am so glad it happened. That is one of my favorite memories of my Opa, despite the heartache of it.
Putting up the Christmas village this year was hard, but we made it. I like to think it was our precursor to what Christmas will be like this year- hard and dreadfully sad, but still bearable. Still happy. Still celebrating.
I will celebrate the family I have, here and there. I will celebrate the 24 years I had with the greatest Opa of them all, and I will celebrate that someday I will get to see him again. And I will celebrate love, and magic, and hope, which is stronger than the pain and the heartache of loss. My soul is at peace and ready for the joy that is Christmas.
I intended to discuss my journey into Louisa May Alcott's world recently, as I finished the biography Marmee and Louisa, read several of her short stories, and started reading Little Women out loud to Nathan.... but it seems like I needed to get this out today. Thank you for listening. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Today has been a Christmas baking day, one full of cinnamon smells, wiping flour on my apron, and licking dough from bowls. My back is sore but my heart is full. Everywhere I look, I feel and see Christmas- from the carols serenading us to the lights on the Christmas tree to the bags full of Christmas goodies on the counters. (Nate playing Harry Potter Lego on the Xbox isn't exactly Christmas, but I'll take it anyway.) :) This year, we used our new Advent wreath (Adventskranz for us German folk) to celebrate the Advent season. While we got a little behind on lighting the candles, we are making sure that all four will be lit tonight as Advent ends and the Christmas celebrating begins.
I am a little nervous for Christmas this year, for it will be our first one without Opa. He won't be there to put on his obviously-fake-but-terribly-cute Santa wig and beard to pass out his "special envelopes," or to sit at the head of the table during Christmas dinner. He won't be making up his own silly lyrics to a Christmas carol and making me laugh- not at the lyrics but at the silly voice he uses. I dreamt about him several weeks ago, and he was using that silly voice again, making a joke just for me. I missed it. It was good to hear it again.
Every year, my sister, Nathan, and I put up our Oma's Christmas village after Thanksgiving. It is something my sister and I have always done; Nate has now become part of the tradition. Ever since we were little, we have lugged up boxes of porcelain houses and accessories, and proceed to perfectly design a little Christmas village in the middle of Oma's living room. We have never missed a year.
While we do this, we always listen to the same CD of Christmas carols, Oma bustles in and out with extra tablecloths and some mugs of hot cocoa, and Opa would sit in his chair, watching us and giving us pointers. Two years ago, as he watched and we admired our handiwork, he said something about how someday he wouldn't be here to see us put up the Christmas village. And then he started to cry. Real tears.
The only time I have ever seen him cry was when he would tell the dog fart story that made him laugh so hard, he was sobbing. But this time was different. Suddenly, my Opa was showing us how important our little ritual was to him, and how much he would miss it when he was gone. In shock, I went to him and laid my head in his lap and cried with him for a minute or two. Then we dried our eyes, and laughed, and I fetched him cocoa. That was really the last time he was with us for the construction of the village. Last year, he still sat and watched us, but he was more listless and a bit unaware of what was going on. This year, of course, my sister and I fought back the tears as Roger Whittaker's version of "Ding Dong Merrily On High" sailed into the room and we began to lift houses out of boxes. His chair was empty. But he and I had that moment, that good-bye to our tradition together two years ago and when I look back on it, I am so glad it happened. That is one of my favorite memories of my Opa, despite the heartache of it.
Putting up the Christmas village this year was hard, but we made it. I like to think it was our precursor to what Christmas will be like this year- hard and dreadfully sad, but still bearable. Still happy. Still celebrating.
I will celebrate the family I have, here and there. I will celebrate the 24 years I had with the greatest Opa of them all, and I will celebrate that someday I will get to see him again. And I will celebrate love, and magic, and hope, which is stronger than the pain and the heartache of loss. My soul is at peace and ready for the joy that is Christmas.
I intended to discuss my journey into Louisa May Alcott's world recently, as I finished the biography Marmee and Louisa, read several of her short stories, and started reading Little Women out loud to Nathan.... but it seems like I needed to get this out today. Thank you for listening. Merry Christmas, everyone!
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Blooming Amidst the Thorns
Currently Reading: Dubliners by James Joyce
Well, today was not the day I was hoping for. I hoped I would be sitting in Panera, eating a delicious quiche, and suddenly get a phone call from my husband telling me he got the job- the teaching job he has been waiting for and worked so hard for and gone through two rounds of interviews for. And then I would scream in the middle of this crowded restaurant while everyone looked at me like I was insane but I wouldn't care because our prayers would finally be answered and my husband would finally be a teacher.
But no. I am sitting in a Panera with a caramel latte and a bagel, trying to squash the big tumor of disappointment and sadness that grew in my stomach in the two seconds it took for my husband to check his email this morning and tell me, "I didn't get it." In those two seconds, the sun got darker and the doors in our figurative hallway seemed to slam shut.
We have dealt with disappointment before. In this economy, with the teaching profession difficult to break into, we have gone through three years of applications, resumes, hoping, praying, waiting, only to end in a helpless sadness that barges in like an unwelcome houseguest. And while we trust in God's plan and always feel better in the morning, that initial disappointment never gets easier to bear.
But life goes on and we smile and pick ourselves up and remind each other of all the things we have and everything we are looking forward to: growing herbs on our balcony, going to Ireland, watching Shakespeare plays, making a summer reading list, going to Madison's Dairy Expo. You know, the things that really count.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the midst of reading Eden's Outcasts (which I finished and loved and even wept over... stay tuned for another blog post on that one... it was too good not to discuss it more), a certain book came in the mail that I had ordered several months ago: a memoir called Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected. Discussing it today is just the medicine I need right now- just another example that God truly pulls the perfect book off of the shelf right when we need it.
I have been following Kelle Hampton's blog, "Enjoying the Small Things" for almost a year now. Kelle writes honestly and openly about her life- raising two girls, discovering her purpose, enjoying life. She is a phenomenal writer, as well as an amazingly talented photographer and her passions find full release through her lovely blog. I have found inspiration, laughs, and a great read every time I visit. Two years ago, Kelle gave birth to her second daughter, a beautiful, perfect girl who happened to have Down Syndrome. This came as a blow to Kelle and her family, who had never known or expected it. Lying in her hospital bed, Kelle saw all of the plans and hopes she had envisioned for her life and her girls disappear. The next year was a whirlwind of emotions and anxieties for Kelle, but also a time of personal growth and the blossoming of a deep love affair between Kelle and her baby Nella. It was also a learning experience, as Kelle wrestled with her life's expectations and coming to terms with the changes she now had to embrace. Bloom documents this life-changing year as Kelle honestly shares her thoughts and worries, and explores how this once shocking diagnosis changed her outlook on her expectations and taught her how to bloom where you are planted. Coupled with her amazing photographs, this book really is like opening a door into her life and discovering an amazing woman, mother, wife, and friend.
Kelle's blog has always inspired me to relish the little things in my life and encouraged my "glass half full" mentality. But this book truly took me inside her struggles as a mother who only wants the best for her little girls. Her open honesty made me cry multiple times as I read, but much of her writing made me laugh out loud, for not only is she freakin' hilarious, but she writes as though she is sitting there with you, with pajamas on and tea in hand at the world's best slumber party. I may not be a mother yet, but my soul ached for her and cheered with her as she discovered the new and unexpected, but no less beautiful, life that she has been blessed with.
Today, Nella is a beautiful two-year-old, talking and walking, and cute as a button. Kelle's new life experiences has turned into a crusade for educating others on DS and raising money for the National Down Syndrome Society, in order to promote the wellbeing of all individuals with DS. Her work is inspiring and her attitude toward life even more so. I find it amazing to see how Kelle turned an unexpected twist in life into something so positive; we can all take a leaf out of her book.
Photo courtesy of Kelle HamptonNo matter where we are in life, disappointment and unplanned surprises will rock our world. Ironically enough, I am struggling with a big mug of disappointment even today. But these instances test our character and reveal who we truly are. Sure, I often get stressed over unimportant details in life. But I like to think that when my boat is rocked, I handle it with more grace than I knew I had. It is a great reassurance to hear how others handle adversity and find that no one is alone in their struggles. I truly realized, through Kelle's story, that if life is too comfortable, we tend to take it for granted. Instead, it's the struggles which make the triumphs sweeter. The perfect life does exist, but it is all in our perspective. A good reminder for me today... and every day, for that matter.
If you need an inspiring, thought-provoking, and lovely read, please buy Bloom. It is too good to pass up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's amazing how much better I feel after writing it all out. Forget therapy- this blog is the perfect therapist, complete with couch and tissues. That felt good.
Before I go, I want to give a shout-out to a new blog I have discovered that I think you all will enjoy. Jillian is my new blogger friend and name twin who shares my love of literature and writing about her reading journey. Her writing is beautiful and her posts range from funny to inspiring. Check her out!
What are some of the simple things that make life sweeter for you? I'd love to hear about it! Have a great week!
Well, today was not the day I was hoping for. I hoped I would be sitting in Panera, eating a delicious quiche, and suddenly get a phone call from my husband telling me he got the job- the teaching job he has been waiting for and worked so hard for and gone through two rounds of interviews for. And then I would scream in the middle of this crowded restaurant while everyone looked at me like I was insane but I wouldn't care because our prayers would finally be answered and my husband would finally be a teacher.
But no. I am sitting in a Panera with a caramel latte and a bagel, trying to squash the big tumor of disappointment and sadness that grew in my stomach in the two seconds it took for my husband to check his email this morning and tell me, "I didn't get it." In those two seconds, the sun got darker and the doors in our figurative hallway seemed to slam shut.
We have dealt with disappointment before. In this economy, with the teaching profession difficult to break into, we have gone through three years of applications, resumes, hoping, praying, waiting, only to end in a helpless sadness that barges in like an unwelcome houseguest. And while we trust in God's plan and always feel better in the morning, that initial disappointment never gets easier to bear.
But life goes on and we smile and pick ourselves up and remind each other of all the things we have and everything we are looking forward to: growing herbs on our balcony, going to Ireland, watching Shakespeare plays, making a summer reading list, going to Madison's Dairy Expo. You know, the things that really count.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the midst of reading Eden's Outcasts (which I finished and loved and even wept over... stay tuned for another blog post on that one... it was too good not to discuss it more), a certain book came in the mail that I had ordered several months ago: a memoir called Bloom: Finding Beauty in the Unexpected. Discussing it today is just the medicine I need right now- just another example that God truly pulls the perfect book off of the shelf right when we need it.
I have been following Kelle Hampton's blog, "Enjoying the Small Things" for almost a year now. Kelle writes honestly and openly about her life- raising two girls, discovering her purpose, enjoying life. She is a phenomenal writer, as well as an amazingly talented photographer and her passions find full release through her lovely blog. I have found inspiration, laughs, and a great read every time I visit. Two years ago, Kelle gave birth to her second daughter, a beautiful, perfect girl who happened to have Down Syndrome. This came as a blow to Kelle and her family, who had never known or expected it. Lying in her hospital bed, Kelle saw all of the plans and hopes she had envisioned for her life and her girls disappear. The next year was a whirlwind of emotions and anxieties for Kelle, but also a time of personal growth and the blossoming of a deep love affair between Kelle and her baby Nella. It was also a learning experience, as Kelle wrestled with her life's expectations and coming to terms with the changes she now had to embrace. Bloom documents this life-changing year as Kelle honestly shares her thoughts and worries, and explores how this once shocking diagnosis changed her outlook on her expectations and taught her how to bloom where you are planted. Coupled with her amazing photographs, this book really is like opening a door into her life and discovering an amazing woman, mother, wife, and friend.
Kelle's blog has always inspired me to relish the little things in my life and encouraged my "glass half full" mentality. But this book truly took me inside her struggles as a mother who only wants the best for her little girls. Her open honesty made me cry multiple times as I read, but much of her writing made me laugh out loud, for not only is she freakin' hilarious, but she writes as though she is sitting there with you, with pajamas on and tea in hand at the world's best slumber party. I may not be a mother yet, but my soul ached for her and cheered with her as she discovered the new and unexpected, but no less beautiful, life that she has been blessed with.
Today, Nella is a beautiful two-year-old, talking and walking, and cute as a button. Kelle's new life experiences has turned into a crusade for educating others on DS and raising money for the National Down Syndrome Society, in order to promote the wellbeing of all individuals with DS. Her work is inspiring and her attitude toward life even more so. I find it amazing to see how Kelle turned an unexpected twist in life into something so positive; we can all take a leaf out of her book.
Photo courtesy of Kelle HamptonNo matter where we are in life, disappointment and unplanned surprises will rock our world. Ironically enough, I am struggling with a big mug of disappointment even today. But these instances test our character and reveal who we truly are. Sure, I often get stressed over unimportant details in life. But I like to think that when my boat is rocked, I handle it with more grace than I knew I had. It is a great reassurance to hear how others handle adversity and find that no one is alone in their struggles. I truly realized, through Kelle's story, that if life is too comfortable, we tend to take it for granted. Instead, it's the struggles which make the triumphs sweeter. The perfect life does exist, but it is all in our perspective. A good reminder for me today... and every day, for that matter.
If you need an inspiring, thought-provoking, and lovely read, please buy Bloom. It is too good to pass up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's amazing how much better I feel after writing it all out. Forget therapy- this blog is the perfect therapist, complete with couch and tissues. That felt good.
Before I go, I want to give a shout-out to a new blog I have discovered that I think you all will enjoy. Jillian is my new blogger friend and name twin who shares my love of literature and writing about her reading journey. Her writing is beautiful and her posts range from funny to inspiring. Check her out!
What are some of the simple things that make life sweeter for you? I'd love to hear about it! Have a great week!
Thursday, April 5, 2012
A Smattering of Unorganized Thoughts and Impressions
Currently Reading: Eden's Outcasts: The Story of Louisa May Alcott and Her Father by John Matteson
Today is one of those days where I desperately want to write but find myself with nothing to say, or at least no way of pinning it down to paper. Impressions and thoughts continuously wing through my mind and collide with each other, while I chase them around, trying to capture them and make them behave. They won't behave today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Louisa May Alcott is looking up at me as I write this, her gaze full of determination and resolution. Her picture graces the cover of the newest book I'm reading and it is sitting on the floor beside me. She stares me down, trying to communicate with eyes that are piercing and knowing, her chin firmly set. Yet she doesn't look angry. She looks like she just finished laughing and that at any moment, the solid line of her mouth will turn upwards into a grin. I think I would have liked to know her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I visited my great-aunt at the nursing home yesterday. She is sick and weak but there is nothing wrong with her mind, her memory, or her sense of humor. She had me in stitches more than once last night. Our visit stays with me because last week I read Water for Elephants, a book that I didn't particularly love but contained several scenes that were very powerful and made quite an impression. The intermittent scenes of the narrator as a 93 year old man, stuck inside a nursing home and a wasted body, but with a mind and thoughts as fresh as ever, caused me more heartache than I can even express. Sara Gruen probably never intended her readers to contemplate growing old as a result of reading her novel, but this reader did. I realized that many of the books you find on the bookstore shelf are about the struggles and triumphs of young adulthood or middle-age. Discovering our purpose, finding ourselves, finding true love, or coming to terms with our childhood are some of the major themes of most novels. Not enough books explore how to grow old, the pain and loneliness of it, the contemplation of death, the end of a life. We spend our lives striving for more- more money, more goods, more self-awareness, more happiness. But each of us will one day have to look back, not forward, and reflect on the life we have lived, not the life we want to live. It has given me much to think about this week, especially as I spent time with my beautiful, amazing aunt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I could stay home and read all day... my whole being wants nothing more than to delve into 1830s Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Fortunately, a long weekend awaits me; I plan on taking advantage of it. Perhaps a Little Women post will be forthcoming.
Amazing to think of what came from that mind.
Until next time...
Today is one of those days where I desperately want to write but find myself with nothing to say, or at least no way of pinning it down to paper. Impressions and thoughts continuously wing through my mind and collide with each other, while I chase them around, trying to capture them and make them behave. They won't behave today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Louisa May Alcott is looking up at me as I write this, her gaze full of determination and resolution. Her picture graces the cover of the newest book I'm reading and it is sitting on the floor beside me. She stares me down, trying to communicate with eyes that are piercing and knowing, her chin firmly set. Yet she doesn't look angry. She looks like she just finished laughing and that at any moment, the solid line of her mouth will turn upwards into a grin. I think I would have liked to know her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I visited my great-aunt at the nursing home yesterday. She is sick and weak but there is nothing wrong with her mind, her memory, or her sense of humor. She had me in stitches more than once last night. Our visit stays with me because last week I read Water for Elephants, a book that I didn't particularly love but contained several scenes that were very powerful and made quite an impression. The intermittent scenes of the narrator as a 93 year old man, stuck inside a nursing home and a wasted body, but with a mind and thoughts as fresh as ever, caused me more heartache than I can even express. Sara Gruen probably never intended her readers to contemplate growing old as a result of reading her novel, but this reader did. I realized that many of the books you find on the bookstore shelf are about the struggles and triumphs of young adulthood or middle-age. Discovering our purpose, finding ourselves, finding true love, or coming to terms with our childhood are some of the major themes of most novels. Not enough books explore how to grow old, the pain and loneliness of it, the contemplation of death, the end of a life. We spend our lives striving for more- more money, more goods, more self-awareness, more happiness. But each of us will one day have to look back, not forward, and reflect on the life we have lived, not the life we want to live. It has given me much to think about this week, especially as I spent time with my beautiful, amazing aunt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wish I could stay home and read all day... my whole being wants nothing more than to delve into 1830s Massachusetts with the Alcott family. Fortunately, a long weekend awaits me; I plan on taking advantage of it. Perhaps a Little Women post will be forthcoming.
Amazing to think of what came from that mind.
Until next time...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Immortal Words
Currently Reading: Princes of Ireland by Edward Rutherford (It is heavenly to read about Ireland again.)
Whew.. it feels wonderful to be blogging again. Even though it's time consuming and sometimes I can't think of what to write, the act of sitting at my desk in my pajamas, typing on my laptop while my husband tries to get the cat to stop clawing the couch is so satisfying. I always feel scholarly when I sit down to write my blog- I imagine myself back at school, cranking out history papers. Or I let my imagination wander as I create something out of nothing- I am Hermione Granger finishing an essay in the Gryffindor common room; Emily Dickinson, pacing her room in Amherst as words drop into her mind; or a monk in a scriptorium in medieval Ireland, reverently copying Scripture verses onto vellum. Ever since language was created, man (and woman) has had the need... no, the urge... to write. Like art and music, it is a great universal constant, regardless of time and place, language and culture. We breathe words and language every day- how natural that we should want to add our own words to the mix. I find it amazing how much power words have. First of all, they are immortal- one of the only things that survives when we do not. I am reminded of this every day at work when I read articles and letters by people whose bodies now rest in the earth. As I read their words... words they created... they continue to exist for a little while. It's beautiful really... and it's part of the reason I love what I do. I can learn so much from others' perspectives- from Rilke, Barbara Kingsolver, or even a letter to the editor from 1922.
I have always found that the best writers tend to be readers. Sure, it's helpful to know the definition of an adverb. Conjugating sentences can even be kind of fun (don't judge me). But learning about plot development and sentence structure and word choice in English class does nothing to create a good writer. Reading is the best way to learn how to write, just as watching someone demonstrate a skill is the best way to learn. (Try learning how to crochet from a book. It's hard.) I could preach until dawn about how reading broadens our minds, exposes us to new things, feeds our imagination, teaches us, challenges our deepest beliefs and prejudices. But there's something else that reading does. It allows us to articulate our emotions and our deepest thoughts in writing. Not all of us can publish books. Not many of us could make writing into a career. But when we write, we feed our soul for a little while. We contribute something to the world. We prove, through our own words, that we exist and we matter and we need to be heard. Because we read, we not only know how to express ourselves, but we also have a desire to.
I've discovered in the past two weeks how desperately I love writing this blog. And I will try fervently not to go this long again without sitting down to my keyboard. I have so much to write about the books I read lately, especially Sarah's Key and Lolita, as well as thoughts on libraries and the digital age that are still brewing within me. I'll be back soon. Here are some pictures that show a little glimpse of life lately....
Hobbes helping Nathan play our new Hogwarts Lego game.
Horses watching me as I drive to work. Don't worry, I stopped the car for the shot. :)
Barns are so photogenic.
Hobbes says "Good night."
Whew.. it feels wonderful to be blogging again. Even though it's time consuming and sometimes I can't think of what to write, the act of sitting at my desk in my pajamas, typing on my laptop while my husband tries to get the cat to stop clawing the couch is so satisfying. I always feel scholarly when I sit down to write my blog- I imagine myself back at school, cranking out history papers. Or I let my imagination wander as I create something out of nothing- I am Hermione Granger finishing an essay in the Gryffindor common room; Emily Dickinson, pacing her room in Amherst as words drop into her mind; or a monk in a scriptorium in medieval Ireland, reverently copying Scripture verses onto vellum. Ever since language was created, man (and woman) has had the need... no, the urge... to write. Like art and music, it is a great universal constant, regardless of time and place, language and culture. We breathe words and language every day- how natural that we should want to add our own words to the mix. I find it amazing how much power words have. First of all, they are immortal- one of the only things that survives when we do not. I am reminded of this every day at work when I read articles and letters by people whose bodies now rest in the earth. As I read their words... words they created... they continue to exist for a little while. It's beautiful really... and it's part of the reason I love what I do. I can learn so much from others' perspectives- from Rilke, Barbara Kingsolver, or even a letter to the editor from 1922.
I have always found that the best writers tend to be readers. Sure, it's helpful to know the definition of an adverb. Conjugating sentences can even be kind of fun (don't judge me). But learning about plot development and sentence structure and word choice in English class does nothing to create a good writer. Reading is the best way to learn how to write, just as watching someone demonstrate a skill is the best way to learn. (Try learning how to crochet from a book. It's hard.) I could preach until dawn about how reading broadens our minds, exposes us to new things, feeds our imagination, teaches us, challenges our deepest beliefs and prejudices. But there's something else that reading does. It allows us to articulate our emotions and our deepest thoughts in writing. Not all of us can publish books. Not many of us could make writing into a career. But when we write, we feed our soul for a little while. We contribute something to the world. We prove, through our own words, that we exist and we matter and we need to be heard. Because we read, we not only know how to express ourselves, but we also have a desire to.
I've discovered in the past two weeks how desperately I love writing this blog. And I will try fervently not to go this long again without sitting down to my keyboard. I have so much to write about the books I read lately, especially Sarah's Key and Lolita, as well as thoughts on libraries and the digital age that are still brewing within me. I'll be back soon. Here are some pictures that show a little glimpse of life lately....
Hobbes helping Nathan play our new Hogwarts Lego game.
Horses watching me as I drive to work. Don't worry, I stopped the car for the shot. :)
Barns are so photogenic.
Hobbes says "Good night."
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Chiaroscuro and Fragile Leaves
Currently Reading: The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane by Katherine Howe (because The Witch's Daughter has still not arrived from Woodstock), and The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards
Even though it is falltime and I am completely enjoying my autumn book list because it effectively gives me chills down my spine and increases my already brewing anticipation for THE HOLIDAY (a.k.a. Halloween), I am going to take time to blog about a book I am reading as an audiobook: The Memory Keeper's Daughter. In particular, I want to explore an aspect of the book that I cannot help obsessing over because it is such an integral piece of the experiences of each main character. I won't give you the synopsis of the book, but will only set it up for you: at the beginning of the novel, one of the main characters makes a horrific choice in order to spare himself, his wife, and his son from pain and loss. Despite his attempts, his life is completely altered in ways he never could have imagined. His wife, the woman he attempted to protect, has completely changed. She becomes depressed and lost; their marriage starts to crumble. The perfect life he tried to create for them does not exist precisely because he tried to create a perfect life. I am not finished with the book so I cannot guess what will happen next, but from where I stand, it seems as if they are both on a downward spiral. The trajectory of their lives demonstrates vividly that loss can never be avoided, no matter how hard we try.
Do you know how I judge a "great" book? If it makes me pause and reflect while I'm reading it, or if I find myself obsessively analyzing it as I make the bed, clean the kitchen, and feed the cat, then in the Jillian dictionary, that book falls under the entry of "great book." I can't get this book out of my head. In particular, the idea of escaping from pain will not leave me alone. Which means that it is time to muse....
I would love to protect myself from pain and loss. Who wouldn't? The world is such a fragile place; I have only to glance out my window to see that fact reflected in the leaves breaking away from the tree branches and meeting the earth with each passing breeze. Our lives, like our world, is in a constant state of flux. The tide goes in, the tide goes out, and nothing stays the same. We think about our futures and we make our great plans, but we often forget that absolutely nothing is guaranteed. Plans will go awry, prayers will not be answered the way we wish, and people we love will no longer be with us. Although I see myself as a "glass half full" kind of girl, I can't deny that there are days where fear takes precedence over living in the moment. "What if Nathan doesn't come home tonight?" flashes through my mind as I wave him out the door. "What would it be like if I was never able to have children?" I wonder as I watch a mother read to her babies in the library. "What if my mother was sick like that?" I imagine as I help a patron whose hair has fallen out and who wears her bandana with pride. When those "What If" moments grip me, I imagine the impossible and panic takes the place of calm. "How terrible..." I think. "How awful." "What would I do?" And the answer of course is: I don't know. If I had the choice to spare myself any sadness or hardship that life may throw at me, wouldn't I take it in a heartbeat? To protect myself and my loved ones from the unknown and the unplanned sounds like a promise, a relief that life can be exactly what I dream it to be.Would it make our lives easier to live, not having to worry about the "unhappy" potentially ahead of us? Or would it make life less precious, less appreciated, less magical because it would always be the same? While I never like having my "What If" moments, I feel they are sometimes necessary for me to properly drink in the blessings God has heaped upon me, savoring the taste and texture of each smile, each "I love you", each conversation, each stroll through October leaves.
In high school Humanities class, we learned about Chiaroscuro... the contrast and blending of light and shadow within a painting. The beauty of Chiaroscuro is that the shadows work with the light to emphasize and enhance the focal point of the piece. Ultimately, the shadows give the light more luster and radiance. When both are present, the painting shines with its full beauty. Perhaps the principle of Chiaroscuro can be applied to how to live life without the fear. To accept that life has and will have its fair share of sunlight and shadow... both will always be present. But together, they create a stunning and unique piece of art... a beautiful life that is ours and ours alone. We can't escape it and we can't protect ourselves.. but if we did, our paintings wouldn't be as beautiful. That is a thought to cherish, one that helps me forget the fear and wrap my arms around the moment I'm in now. Come what may.... my painting is going to be lovely.
Have an inspiring week doing what you love... I hope you all are able to find the chiaroscuro in your own lives.
Even though it is falltime and I am completely enjoying my autumn book list because it effectively gives me chills down my spine and increases my already brewing anticipation for THE HOLIDAY (a.k.a. Halloween), I am going to take time to blog about a book I am reading as an audiobook: The Memory Keeper's Daughter. In particular, I want to explore an aspect of the book that I cannot help obsessing over because it is such an integral piece of the experiences of each main character. I won't give you the synopsis of the book, but will only set it up for you: at the beginning of the novel, one of the main characters makes a horrific choice in order to spare himself, his wife, and his son from pain and loss. Despite his attempts, his life is completely altered in ways he never could have imagined. His wife, the woman he attempted to protect, has completely changed. She becomes depressed and lost; their marriage starts to crumble. The perfect life he tried to create for them does not exist precisely because he tried to create a perfect life. I am not finished with the book so I cannot guess what will happen next, but from where I stand, it seems as if they are both on a downward spiral. The trajectory of their lives demonstrates vividly that loss can never be avoided, no matter how hard we try.
Do you know how I judge a "great" book? If it makes me pause and reflect while I'm reading it, or if I find myself obsessively analyzing it as I make the bed, clean the kitchen, and feed the cat, then in the Jillian dictionary, that book falls under the entry of "great book." I can't get this book out of my head. In particular, the idea of escaping from pain will not leave me alone. Which means that it is time to muse....
I would love to protect myself from pain and loss. Who wouldn't? The world is such a fragile place; I have only to glance out my window to see that fact reflected in the leaves breaking away from the tree branches and meeting the earth with each passing breeze. Our lives, like our world, is in a constant state of flux. The tide goes in, the tide goes out, and nothing stays the same. We think about our futures and we make our great plans, but we often forget that absolutely nothing is guaranteed. Plans will go awry, prayers will not be answered the way we wish, and people we love will no longer be with us. Although I see myself as a "glass half full" kind of girl, I can't deny that there are days where fear takes precedence over living in the moment. "What if Nathan doesn't come home tonight?" flashes through my mind as I wave him out the door. "What would it be like if I was never able to have children?" I wonder as I watch a mother read to her babies in the library. "What if my mother was sick like that?" I imagine as I help a patron whose hair has fallen out and who wears her bandana with pride. When those "What If" moments grip me, I imagine the impossible and panic takes the place of calm. "How terrible..." I think. "How awful." "What would I do?" And the answer of course is: I don't know. If I had the choice to spare myself any sadness or hardship that life may throw at me, wouldn't I take it in a heartbeat? To protect myself and my loved ones from the unknown and the unplanned sounds like a promise, a relief that life can be exactly what I dream it to be.Would it make our lives easier to live, not having to worry about the "unhappy" potentially ahead of us? Or would it make life less precious, less appreciated, less magical because it would always be the same? While I never like having my "What If" moments, I feel they are sometimes necessary for me to properly drink in the blessings God has heaped upon me, savoring the taste and texture of each smile, each "I love you", each conversation, each stroll through October leaves.
 |
| Astronomer by Candlelight, Artist: Gerrit Dou, late 1650s |
Have an inspiring week doing what you love... I hope you all are able to find the chiaroscuro in your own lives.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Biblio-itis
Currently reading: Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff; Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets by J.K. Rowling
What a perfect fall evening... the kind I dream about during the hottest days of summer. My favorite apple cider candle is pouring delicious aromas throughout our apartment, I have donned PJ pants for the first time this fall, Nathan is happily engrossed with a John Muir book, and there is a hot mug of Swiss Miss Mocha Cappuccino sitting next to me, swirling steam and chocolatey smells into my nostrils as I type this. To make things even better, I am enjoying the prospect of writing about books, one of my greatest passions, for the next half hour or so.
I must say, I am very excited about this blogging idea. Lately, I have been craving the chance to let off a little creative steam, but didn't even know it until this project popped into my head.
Disclaimer: I love books. A bit of an understatement but there you have it. I love books. I love reading books. The whole act of reading is, to me, a holy art. The ideas of Kindles and Nooks make me shudder not because I'm terribly worried about the future of the printed page (I'm not) but because by holding a square, shiny object with a computer chip to read a Shakespeare sonnet or the latest heart-pounding thriller is to lose the entire beauty and experience of reading. To me, reading is the smell of a new (or old) book, the scribbles in the margins of a well-loved novel, the signature of a previous reader scrawled inside the front cover, the crack of a new book's cover as you open it, the gentle and satisfying "fwip" of a page turn, the crinkle of pages as you readjust on the bed sixty times, so engrossed in this enlightening experience that you don't notice how awkward your position is or that your back is by now begging you to go to the chiropractor. I do not denounce those who have forgone the "old" way of reading for the new, but I do know that I will still be reading books the original, soul-satisfying way until they put me into my grave with a copy of Jane Eyre. To sum up, I am passionate about reading. It is my favorite thing to do and I have a tendency of blocking out most anything to make sure I can focus on reading alone. (Ask Nathan, my family, or my former roommate). If I have time in the morning, I grab my book off of my end table. I bring a book with me everywhere I go throughout the day, just in case. I will stay up late, even when I am bone tired, just to squeeze in five minutes of pleasurable reading time. I think it's pretty obvious that I have a love affair with books. (Don't tell Nate). :) It is definitely a sickness, one that I have named "Biblio-itis."And there is no cure, baby!
I believe that the type of books one reads perfectly reflects one's personality. You can tell a lot about a person by their reading list or bookshelf. At first glance, our bookshelves are fantastic symbols of our new life together. My books are nestled next to his, while others fight for shelf space. :) But mostly, it's a perfect balance of him and I, happily hanging out together. We have three bookshelves in our tiny apartment, which says a lot about both of us, I believe. Nate is one of the biggest readers I've ever met; I knew I was meant to marry him when our first date was... brace yourselves.... a trip to the library. I am not kidding. I swooned over him and the Ireland section of the local Winona library simultaneously.
We have a lot of books. Three bookshelves are not really enough, but it's all we can cram in our apartment at the moment. There are boxes back at both of our parents' houses. (Maybe this is where a Kindle would come in handy. Kidding.) We have many of the same book tastes (which makes sense) and we have both, over the course of our years together, introduced each other to new books and new genres. Nathan got me hooked on John Muir, just as I brought Irish history books into his life. Our bookshelves are arranged by subject, and then further organized alphabetically by author. (Can you tell I was born to work in a library?) We have a vast assortment of history books (mostly Middle Ages [Nate] and Irish history [me]), poetry, nature books (Thoreau and John Muir and such), theological books, classics, and novels. While Nathan mostly reads non-fiction, I dabble in both fiction and non. I read a variety of books, but have certain "types" that I am mostly drawn to.
I plan on doing a post of my top favorite books in a future post, but for now, I will merely sketch out the types of books I read. As a history nut, I love to read anything about a historic time period or historical persona that interests me. Mostly, my historical reading interests lean toward Irish and Celtic history, the Salem Witch Trials, and genealogy. Yet, as evidenced by one of my current books above, I will read anything that is well recommended and engrossing. I also like to read poetry, especially on cozy thunderstorm days when I have nothing to do but read and dream and bask in the luxuriant rhythm of word-music. (W.B. Yeats is my absolute favorite.) In the world of fiction, I enjoy the classics, such as Charles Dickens, Charlotte Bronte, L.M. Montgomery, Shakespeare, Kate Chopin, and more. (However, I refuse to "love" a classic just because it is considered a classic. More discussion on that in a later post, but I believe the merit of a book is a personal opinion and should not be based solely on what "they" say. End of tangent.) I also read many novels that take place in the past [The Red Tent, Galway Bay, People of the Book] and some types of fantasy and science fiction. Mostly, I enjoy novels of any genre that explore the human experience. I want my books to challenge my perspectives, inspire me, introduce me to interesting characters, and provide an exciting story. After all, isn't that ultimately why we all read?
Your turn: tell me why you read and what exactly it is about books that makes your heart skip a beat. Have a great day tomorrow!
What a perfect fall evening... the kind I dream about during the hottest days of summer. My favorite apple cider candle is pouring delicious aromas throughout our apartment, I have donned PJ pants for the first time this fall, Nathan is happily engrossed with a John Muir book, and there is a hot mug of Swiss Miss Mocha Cappuccino sitting next to me, swirling steam and chocolatey smells into my nostrils as I type this. To make things even better, I am enjoying the prospect of writing about books, one of my greatest passions, for the next half hour or so.
 |
| Oh, apple cider candle, how I love thee. |
Disclaimer: I love books. A bit of an understatement but there you have it. I love books. I love reading books. The whole act of reading is, to me, a holy art. The ideas of Kindles and Nooks make me shudder not because I'm terribly worried about the future of the printed page (I'm not) but because by holding a square, shiny object with a computer chip to read a Shakespeare sonnet or the latest heart-pounding thriller is to lose the entire beauty and experience of reading. To me, reading is the smell of a new (or old) book, the scribbles in the margins of a well-loved novel, the signature of a previous reader scrawled inside the front cover, the crack of a new book's cover as you open it, the gentle and satisfying "fwip" of a page turn, the crinkle of pages as you readjust on the bed sixty times, so engrossed in this enlightening experience that you don't notice how awkward your position is or that your back is by now begging you to go to the chiropractor. I do not denounce those who have forgone the "old" way of reading for the new, but I do know that I will still be reading books the original, soul-satisfying way until they put me into my grave with a copy of Jane Eyre. To sum up, I am passionate about reading. It is my favorite thing to do and I have a tendency of blocking out most anything to make sure I can focus on reading alone. (Ask Nathan, my family, or my former roommate). If I have time in the morning, I grab my book off of my end table. I bring a book with me everywhere I go throughout the day, just in case. I will stay up late, even when I am bone tired, just to squeeze in five minutes of pleasurable reading time. I think it's pretty obvious that I have a love affair with books. (Don't tell Nate). :) It is definitely a sickness, one that I have named "Biblio-itis."And there is no cure, baby!
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| One of our bookshelves- note the Crusader's helmet (and the decorative pumpkins!) |
We have a lot of books. Three bookshelves are not really enough, but it's all we can cram in our apartment at the moment. There are boxes back at both of our parents' houses. (Maybe this is where a Kindle would come in handy. Kidding.) We have many of the same book tastes (which makes sense) and we have both, over the course of our years together, introduced each other to new books and new genres. Nathan got me hooked on John Muir, just as I brought Irish history books into his life. Our bookshelves are arranged by subject, and then further organized alphabetically by author. (Can you tell I was born to work in a library?) We have a vast assortment of history books (mostly Middle Ages [Nate] and Irish history [me]), poetry, nature books (Thoreau and John Muir and such), theological books, classics, and novels. While Nathan mostly reads non-fiction, I dabble in both fiction and non. I read a variety of books, but have certain "types" that I am mostly drawn to.
I plan on doing a post of my top favorite books in a future post, but for now, I will merely sketch out the types of books I read. As a history nut, I love to read anything about a historic time period or historical persona that interests me. Mostly, my historical reading interests lean toward Irish and Celtic history, the Salem Witch Trials, and genealogy. Yet, as evidenced by one of my current books above, I will read anything that is well recommended and engrossing. I also like to read poetry, especially on cozy thunderstorm days when I have nothing to do but read and dream and bask in the luxuriant rhythm of word-music. (W.B. Yeats is my absolute favorite.) In the world of fiction, I enjoy the classics, such as Charles Dickens, Charlotte Bronte, L.M. Montgomery, Shakespeare, Kate Chopin, and more. (However, I refuse to "love" a classic just because it is considered a classic. More discussion on that in a later post, but I believe the merit of a book is a personal opinion and should not be based solely on what "they" say. End of tangent.) I also read many novels that take place in the past [The Red Tent, Galway Bay, People of the Book] and some types of fantasy and science fiction. Mostly, I enjoy novels of any genre that explore the human experience. I want my books to challenge my perspectives, inspire me, introduce me to interesting characters, and provide an exciting story. After all, isn't that ultimately why we all read?
Your turn: tell me why you read and what exactly it is about books that makes your heart skip a beat. Have a great day tomorrow!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Introduction
Current book: Cleopatra: A Life by Stacy Schiff
Today will only serve to be an introduction, since I am new to the blogging world and I am a bit short of time! To me, this blog will serve as an outlet for my desires to write and make sense of life; while I do keep my own private journal, I also love the idea of sharing our lives with each other through blogs. I was inspired to do this after reading the blog Enjoying the Small Things because while I am not a photographer, I can see how blogging will inspire me to pick up my pen (figuratively) a little more frequently, celebrating the simple but amazing life I lead.
While I may never have any readers or feedback, my other goal for this blog is to discuss books. I am a library clerk and genealogist at a local library and I am inspired when talking to patrons young and old about their favorite or least favorite books. It makes me marvel how everyone's tastes differs when it comes to literature, as well as how the same books or passages can strike different chords in people. In addition, I love discussing what I am passionate about and what (or who) inspires me... so you may find blogs about Jo March, my genealogy research, hot cocoa, or daisies in here too. To me, this blog will function as a worldwide book club: a place for me to swoon and gush and groan over the various books that come my way and listen to your own insights about books and the wider world. I look forward to any comments or suggestions... I also love getting new ideas for what to add to my book list!
Next chapter: A Discourse Upon My Bookshelves a.k.a. the type of books I read.
Today will only serve to be an introduction, since I am new to the blogging world and I am a bit short of time! To me, this blog will serve as an outlet for my desires to write and make sense of life; while I do keep my own private journal, I also love the idea of sharing our lives with each other through blogs. I was inspired to do this after reading the blog Enjoying the Small Things because while I am not a photographer, I can see how blogging will inspire me to pick up my pen (figuratively) a little more frequently, celebrating the simple but amazing life I lead.
Next chapter: A Discourse Upon My Bookshelves a.k.a. the type of books I read.
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