Between Asleep and Awake

What happens in those moments, the moments between asleep and awake?
Those seconds when time and space are suspended in limbo, strung together only by the
last
whispers
of a dream?
Those precious few heartbeats when peace and serenity overrule stress's reign on the body--
What happens then?
Well...
I'll tell you.

It is the soul's way of reminding the consious being what bliss is;
the spirit's
dying breath
of sacred sleep;
the time when the innermost is closest to the surface,
like a fish coming to investigate a leaf that has upset the water.

These moments function onn a clock of their own.
Sometimes,
lasting for hours it seems.
Other times,
Passing like a brisk memory of the way a lover used to smile.

We live for these moments.
If not consiously, then certainly a piece of something inside us does.
I believe it's human nature to seek
sanctity
and quiet;
To know that all is well...
If only for a second.

The Rumor

Birdsong fills the air, carried aloft on the whispers of spring's first warm breezes.  A deep breath yeilds the scent of new growth--the rosemary in the garden, daffodills beneath the greening trees.  Spring has come before our eyes.  As the Beech trees struggle to hold onto their last crisp, brown leaves, new buds pursuade them to release their memory of winter, laughing as those leaf carcasses drift to the ground.  It's the buds' turn for sun now, and they want no reminder of the winter behind them.  Children lay in the fresh grass, weaving clover stems into crowns fit for kings.  People are out washing their cars while the blooming crocuses look on, whistling and occasionally spraying the neighbor's pesky cat with the hose.  The first butterflies are venturing out, eager to breathe, gasping for the spring air with every ounce of their little beings.  Summer is promised by the hope that spring has brought to us.  Her name is a rumor on the breath of every robin, each new blade of grass, and the laughter of children.  Spring has come, and it only gets better from here.

Beautiful Decay

This is an assignment I just finished for my Environmental Lit class.  I wanted to share it with all of my lovely readers because I think it's an important message (not that I'm biased or anything!)

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“Beautiful Decay”

Summary/Response Journal of Walt Whitman’s “This Compost”

Summary

“Behold this compost!  Behold it well!

Perhaps every mite has once form’d part of a sick person—yet behold!

The grass of spring covers the prairies,

The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden…

The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata of sour dead” (Whitman 63, 64).

This is the passage that defines Walt Whitman’s poem, “This Compost.”  He enlightens (and possibly disgusts) his readers with this fact: the dead bodies we bury in the ground will just rot and decompose into soil that tasty crops and beautiful trees spring from.  These gruesome corpses will yield resplendent roses. 

“O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?

How can you be alive you growths of spring?

How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?

Are they not continually putting distemper’d corpses within you?” (Whitman 63). 

Whitman is amazed at the thought that although we throw diseased corpses into the earth, the earth is able to digest them without absorbing their disease.  He marvels at the wonder of decomposition and reconstitution that the earth performs on a deceased human body. 

“That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,

Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once a catching disease” (Whitman 64).

Whitman also voices an interesting concern:

“I will run my furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through the sod and turn up underneath,

I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat” (Whitman 63). 

He is speculating at the possibility of accidentally digging up a dead body while plowing his fields; he is afraid of uncovering someone’s rotting flesh. 

Whitman continues to voice his amazement not only for the produce of the soil, but also for the wind and sea. 

“What chemistry!

That the winds are really not infectious,

That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which is so amorous after me,

That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,

That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited themselves in it,

That all is clean forever and forever” (Whitman 64).

Whitman is not only amazed, but also horrified at this process as well.  It disturbs him and he ends his essay with words of terrified wonder for this most provoking recycling system.

“Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,

It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,

…It gives divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings from them at last” (Whitman 64).

Response

                My first reaction to this piece was a feeling of disgusted belief.   I looked at the half-eaten apple in my hand, horrified because Whitman’s words are so true.  This flawless work of art resting in my hand that had sprouted from the depths of the earth may very well have originated from the remains of a human body.  Initially, I wouldn’t have chosen such a piece to analyze.  I become squeamish when thinking of death and decay, preferring to change the subject if someone begins to speak of disease.  However, this piece gripped a part of me that was most peculiar.  In such beautiful words, Whitman described a disgusting thing—the decay of a human body transforming into something that we actually consume, literally eat.  It struck me with such an appreciation of his originality, his novelty, that I felt compelled to write about it.

                Whitman’s language throughout this piece is at times bizarre, disturbing, and provocative (among many other adjectives one could think of to describe the writings of a man who goes skinny dipping in the ocean, letting his lover the sea lick his naked body) but pushing past those innuendos, I felt a connection to his message.  I feel as though Whitman is trying to tell us something deeper than just the physical process he is describing.  I believe that although he writes about the tangible cycle of the decomposition and transformation of the human body by the earth, he is hinting at something much larger and abstract—the notion that the earth is on our side, even though all we put into it sometimes is our waste, the diseased corpses of the things that have no use to us anymore. 

As rain washes through a ditch on the side of the road, bathing and dissolving the endless cigarette butts and plastic bottles with the tears of the sky, the earth does her best to recycle, even when we humans fail to.  After so long, the earth takes back into her what we have discarded.  It doesn’t seem quite fair—the soil, trying its best to produce the best crop for the humans who cultivate it, has produced a round, ripe, perfect tomato that will be harvested, shipped off to the Burger King franchise, sliced and diced and thrown carelessly onto someone’s burger; then delivered through a drive-thru window in a greasy, convenient paper bag.  After mindlessly and thanklessly consuming this gift of nature turned fat and calorie-storehouse, the person who was lucky enough to be fed by the earth will throw that greasy bag right out of his car window because it’s no longer of use to him.  Its purpose has died, just as the people did in Whitman’s poem. 

The bag is thrown violently to the ground by the rushing wind of the car speeding away, and it settles into a roadside ditch.  Since it is paper, the rain will eventually cause it to disintegrate, forcing the earth to digest its decomposing elements.  When the earth has done so, something incredible happens.  A tiny sprout forms in the soil that holds the dissolved components of an old forgotten paper bag—a sprout that will grow into something beautiful, perhaps even harvestable.  The earth has given back, even though all that was originally given by man was an old piece of trash. 

The earth is on our side, even though sometimes it seems like all we want to do is kill her.  “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends” (King James Bible John 15:13).  The earth is dying for us; we are killing it.  But somehow, it still gives us what we need.  Whitman’s last statement is so true, even today.  This divine product of the earth that I hold in my hand, this perfect little apple, is a gift to me from the earth, potentially formed from the waste of someone’s paper bag (or, horrifically, someone’s dead uncle) and not once during the bites I’ve taken so far did I ever stop to say thank you.  I took for granted that there would always be apples in the bowl downstairs without realizing what they’re coming from.  The earth has set an example for us, and we should follow it—giving back not only by our death but also in the choices we make while still alive.  I don’t want to bequeath to the earth only my corpse’s “leavings” as Whitman says.  I want to present living gifts too—I wish to give back love to the earth because it gives love to me every time I grab an apple from the bowl.

Maybe I'm Just A Sucker For A Good Love Story

What is better?  To have loved and lost, or to have never loved at all?  So is the question one faces after learning the tale of a forbidden young love such as that of Tristan and Isolde.  Many may know the story from the movie, but few know that it is actually based upon a much older tale, one sung thousands of years ago by minstrels at festivals and ladies-in-waiting.  Their story is this:

Thought to be dead by a poisoned blade, our young, valiant hero, Tristan (or, in the classic English tale, Tristram), is laid to rest on a funeral vessel and cast off the shore of England, only to be found barely alive days later on the shores of Ireland by the Irish king's beautiful daughter, Isolde.  Over a period of time, she nurses him back to health, their love for each other growing stronger with the rising ocean tides.  However, to protect her identity and the young man who hails from her father's sworn enemy, England, she chooses to tell Tristan a name different than her own.  With no knowledge of his beloved's true identity, when the the time comes for Tristan to flee Ireland, he begs Isolde to come to England with him.  Obviously, and tragically, she cannot.  Their romance ends with a most passionate kiss and farewell in the middle of the ocean. . .or so they think.
Tristan's unthinkable homecoming overjoys the father figure in his life who just so happens to be awaiting the throne.  Soon Tristan is sent away to a tournament to win for his adoptive father the Irish princess' hand in marriage, thus uniting the kingdoms.  Only, he has no knowledge that this most beautiful princess is his own love, Isolde.  When he realizes what he has done to himself, he retreats into the empty shell of a man who has lost the only thing in life worth living for and helplessly watches the man who raised him fall more and more in love with his new bride, Isolde.  Soon, Tristan and Isolde begin an affair which ultimately leads to the fall of the alliance between England and Ireland, the defeat of the Irish army, and horrifically, Tristan's own death. 
As the movie ends, and Isolde kneels before her fallen love, helplessly watching his lifeblood drain from a sword wound in his side, she remembers a time, long ago it seems, when she revived Tristan for the first time.  She recalls the words she read to him as his last labored breaths escape his dying lungs-- "My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, and true plain hearts do in the faces rest; where can we find two better hemispheres without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I love so alike that none can slacken, none can die."

Isolde lost.  She lost, and incredibly so.  But she also loved incredibly so.  The moments spent with her true love were the happiest moments of her existence, and this is evident in the way she gazed into her lovers eyes while responding to Tristans suggestion of their departure with the words "It's like asking me to stop breathing."  So what is one to do?  Loving and losing ends in heartache, but so does dying alone.  Although Isolde's unmendable heart presumably lies shredded for the rest of her life, she could survive with the memories of Tristan's love.  When the pain became too much to bear, she could always turn her thoughts to his affections.  But, there would be no pain if there had been no Tristan.  But if there were no Tristan, there would be no love, and without love, what can be said about life?  Without love, life would be but a rotting carcass of hum-drum and everyday tasks.  Without passion, beauty, and the longings of the heart, what has one to yearn for?  To strive for?  To devote a life to?  Nothing.  Without love, life is nothing.  To love and lose is superior because at the end of your life, you have something to hang your hat on.  "Yes, I loved!"  You can say.  "I loved and I loved with every ounce of passion in my soul.  I loved until my heart broke at the mere suggestion of losing the one I loved.  And losing that, losing love, was the most painful thing I've ever been through, but yet the memories of it revive me.  They hold me up and they sing me out of the darkness my loss casts me into.  I loved and I lost, but I lived.  And I lived because I loved."

Ocracoke Island

There is an island in the Atlantic, tucked far away from the unobservant eye, accessible only by ferry or plane.  A tiny little island graced by sand and by sun, by wind and by waves, by cotton ball clouds and sapphire skies.  The grasses that grow on the dunes whisper as the gentle ocean breeze upsets them.  Waves crash beyond the grassy mountains of sand, the percussion that completes the island's symphony.  Seashells can be found by the hundreds, even thousands-- their scalloped edges and whorled corners breaking through the sand just as flowers press through the soil in spring.  Occasionally, a starfish can be found clinging to the rocks, nestled among the seaweed and barnacles that have also found shelter in the boulders' cool enclave.  From far away, the stark light house can be seen, shining its centuries-old beam across the entire island. There is no need for cars here; all corners of the little haven can be reached by bicycle or by walking.  And time?  Ask the natives and they'll tell you that the only form of timekeeping here is found in the rising and setting of the fiery sun.

Fairytales

Another bit of poetry...I'm learning!

This is something I wish I could say to all the little ones out there who wish for their own Prince Charming.

She spins carefree
Through wildflowers,
Her arms outstretched
Fairytales sketched
Softly through the hours.

A baby girl
Of scarcely four
With windswept hair
Her skin so fair
Easy to adore.

She wears a crown
Of daisy-chain
Her seashell ring
A sacred thing
Tells all of her reign.

She dances with
The singing birds
Their songs of love
From high above
She hears as prince's words.

Baby girl,
Don't lose belief
Your perfect prince
He will exist
He'll steal your soul, that thief.

Beware, for there
Are charlatans
They'll lie to you
Break you in two,
They'll say they are your prince.

Sweet baby,
When you've grown enough
Don't be fooled
For not all "jewels"
Are diamonds in the rough.

But still he'll wait,
His perfect face
Hidden from sight
When time is right,
All heartache shall he chase.

Your dreams will be real,
Sweet baby girl.
Just wait, you'll see
And patiently
Watch as they unfurl.

Dream On

Last night, I had a dream.

The world was quiet, everyone was asleep, and my overactive imagination came out to play.  I dreamed that I was on a stage in a huge empty theater.  Well, empty except for one person.  The figure remained in the last row, in the shadows, for the extent of time I was performing.  The song was sad and sweet; I'd never heard it before.  But I moved across the stage as one does to a song they hold dear to them, feeling the lights on my face and the air rush over my skin as I twirled and jumped.  Never once did that person in the audience move or show an expression of gratitude or appreciation.  I was performing for an audience of one person that didn't even show signs of care.  But I cared.  I wanted to be sure that person left the theater feeling moved by my dance.  Did they?  Who knows, I woke up before the song ended.  I like to think they did though.

It's inspiring to hear that the things I do are appreciated, but it's also inspiring just to know that they might be.  Some may walk away from a situation moved to tears while others may walk away feeling just as moved, but only inwardly.  I'm inspired by these people as well.  I don't think I have a reason for why I dreamed I was onstage dancing for one person who seemed unappreciative.  Maybe it was to teach me something: not every good thing I do will be met with accolade, and I may never know the people I've touched who prefer to appreciate inwardly.  I think that sometimes it appears as though nobody cares about what you're doing, when in reality they really do and just don't know how to show it.  So, I've decided to not make assumtions about the sincerity of an emotionless person.  Life is too short to get hung up on digging good comments out of people.  Do your best, and if they outwardly appreciate it, awesome.  If they decide to remain quiet about it, all you can do is assume gratitude.  Otherwise, we'd all go crazy.

On another note, or maybe a different side of the same note, I love this song and can't get it out of my head.  Funny really, the title:

BTW, I think the person trying to communicate with "Olivia" in the beginning is hilarious.  They should definitely do this in choir.  It could be awesome.

Living In The Looking-Glass

For a writing contest, I got to compose a letter to the author of a book that inspired me recently.  I chose Lewis Carroll and his book "Through the Looking-Glass."  Here's the letter for my readers who are interested:

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Dear Mr. Carroll,

How would you describe the feeling of reading the last words of a beautiful story?  To me, finishing a good book is like saying goodbye to a best friend.  I get a bittersweet feeling after hearing the familiar sound of a back cover falling onto the last page of a finished book.  Upon a story’s end, I must take time to reflect on the message it revealed to me during the reading adventure.  This is why I never finish a book in public.  I must be in complete solitude as I inhale the parting words, the final insight, that the book gives me.  That last chapter is a farewell hug, a somber wave goodbye, a smile that I remember long after departure happens.  The words on the last page put the finishing touches on the picture that the story has been painting—finishing touches that define the entire book.  During the picture-painting, the characters take up residence in my mind, and will remain there until the story’s end.  Because the book is now living in my mind, I feel as though I’ve made a new friend.  It is for this reason that I say the feeling of finishing a good book is bittersweet.  My new friend, this book, has nothing more to tell me, but yet its message, given that it’s a good one, will live on in my mind as I ponder the meaning behind it.

One such story whose message I still ponder is “Through the Looking-Glass.”  Alice’s residency in my mind began when I first spotted the worn copy of the book perched on the bookcase in the front room of my house.  My mother has a tendency to gravitate toward old books when the family goes “antiquing.”  It must have been on one such antiquing occasion that she scavenged the copy of “Through the Looking-Glass” that I happened upon one October Saturday.  The moment I opened the cover of the book, I was met with that delightfully enchanting “old book” aroma.  The sunlight streaming through the window lit the dust that flew from its pages as I fanned them apart.  Throughout the month, “Through the Looking Glass” went everywhere with me.  Sitting on the floor in the corridor of Aberdeen Hall is how I did the majority of my reading.  Because I waited at the very end of the hallway, I saw little traffic, so it was the perfect place to immerse myself into Alice’s world.  It was mostly there that I had the chance to lose myself in the story, to forget the rest of the commotion in the real world.  I got to go through the looking-glass with Alice, and as I followed her through the land of backwards dreaming and nonsensical exchanges, I realized that the real world is far too boring.  I would much rather spend my days sharing cake with unicorns and lions than becoming caught up in the same hum-drum of daily life.  During the time I spent reading “Through the Looking-Glass,” I started to develop a unique perspective of the world.  I began to look at things as not only what they were, but also what they were not, and what they could be if they became what they were not.  Really, my imagination experienced a change during my time reading “Through the Looking-Glass.”  Much like Alice, I think of things differently after having ventured into the looking-glass.  Because of this boosted imagination I seem to have developed, I feel that I have become a better thinker.  The ideas I develop have more color.  For this, Mr. Carroll, I must thank you.

Sadly, as with all stories, “Through the Looking-Glass” had to come to an end.  I had the opportunity to finish Alice’s story on the floor of Aberdeen Hall, but I didn’t take it.  The event of finishing the book seemed much too sacred to happen in such an open place.  So, I waited until the day was over and I was in my parked car.  The lot was relatively empty, and I had always parked in the last spaces anyway, so I felt alone enough to finish the story.  So, I opened the old book to page 184 and read the last chapter.  As Alice came out of the looking-glass world and was left pondering the certain dream she’d just experienced, I felt as though I too was returning from the looking-glass world with Alice.  As I heard that bittersweet sound of cover falling onto page, I took away the realization that we all have our own looking-glass imaginations that we step into every so often, and occasionally, I find that in a reality of chaos and confusion, my imagination is sometimes the place that makes the most sense.

With praise, thanks, and regard from my own looking-glass world,

                ~Jessica Edwards-Smith

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Envelope Art I drew for the letter. . . so it can arrive in style ;)

Cheers!

Here's to a new year!  As I raised my glass and kissed my boyfriend last night at 12:00, I was reflecting on the events of 2011.  As is happens, I've done some pretty amazing things this past year.  I've grown a lot-- spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and musically (also, I grew an inch!  Does that count?)  I have also gotten the chance to see and do many amazing things (like seeing Pat Benatar and going to NYC to see Wicked!)  2011 has seen many life changes as well.  I graduated highschool, started and finished my first college semester, had the chance to act, sing, and choreograph my first musical, celebrated with my boyfriend our third Christmas together, made some new friends while growng closer to existing ones, joined a band, picked up a new instrument, and started a novel. 

Indeed, the year has been a big one.  I've never been one to make huge New Year's resolutions, but if I were to make one this year, it would be to continue playing, performing, and learning music.  I miss dancing, so maybe I will join a class again.  Maybe I will even get the chance to choreograph again!  Whatever the case, I know that music will be a big part of the coming year.  That is something I;m very much looking forward to.  I'm not seeking to become a rock star (although that would be awesome, no?)  but I would like to keep finding my voice.  Taking singing lessons with my cousin was a great part of 2011, and it helped me to explore another facet of music.  I think I made a good choice there.  I also think I made a good choice when I decided to learn the bass.  Although I haven't had much time to find my inner crazy groovy bassist, I have learned a lot about the instrument, and in 2012, I hope to get more in tune with that inner bass musician.  Who knows?  She might be pretty good.  Another thing I'd love to do is go back to New York.  That was such an amazing experience.  Wombatting down the sidewalks of NYC is something I'll never forget.   If I ever find the video of the experience, I will post it.  But for those of you who know what I'm talking about, and for those of you who were there in person, you can have a laugh too ;) 

So, my friends, here's a toast to the new year and the memories made in the last one.  Cheers!

I'll Have The Usual

Okay then . . . On to bigger, greater things.  My first college semester is over and it's life as usual again.  Wait. . . Can we define that first?  What exactly is "usual?"  Is there even such a thing as "usual?"  Sometimes, I'm not so sure.  I know there are many things that can be qualified as "UNusual" (at least in the eyes of others.)  Usual is one of those words--like "pretty" or "smart" or "funny"--that has a different meaning for everyone.  So, what's your usual? 

I can state this as a personal fact--music is my usual.  It's a familiar face in a new town, a bright beacon in the middle of a stormy sea, the guiding trail through a decieving forest.  It's a common language among nations, a lovely middle ground between new aquaintances, a healing element for broken friendships.  Can you imagine a world without music, my dear readers?  How dreadful would that be?  I'd rather hear nothing at all than everything except music.  But friends, as long as I have a voice, I'll sing.  As long as I have fingers, I'll play.  I promise.  Will you promise too?  There is something I once read, and it goes like this:  ". . . and he answering said to them, `I say to you, that, if these shall be silent, the stones will cry out!'" We are "these," my friends, and "these" are much better musicians than the rocks (yes, even singing off-pitch in the shower.)  Let's not leave the music making to the rocks.  Their usual is lying in the forest and looking pretty, not pouring forth songs from their hearts.  That usual belongs to us.  Music was made to be humanity's usual.  We are the only earthly creations capable of it.  Let's not waste that, eh?

So, maybe my question has changed from "what's your usual?" to "how usual is music to you?"  Is it a best friend, or more of the "new kid?"  Is is your favorite blanket, or an unfamiliar, itchy sheet?  Your hometown, or a foreign country?  Your forever-and-always . . . or your not-just-yet?  Wherever we stand, let's not be rocks.  If we become as rocks, then the actual rocks will be forced to take away our most sacred possession as a creation--our melody.  Know this, dear readers:  music speaks, and it will always have something to say as long as there are open ears to listen to its message and musicians to pass it along.

One.

My heart is broken for our world.  We have to see that it's about more than who's right and who's wrong.  It's about who's loved and who needs to be.  There's so many cries for help across the globe--all races, all religions, all ages, all cultures.  We are too disconnected, too many separations.  It's only one planet after all.  We all came from the same earth.  So why do we fight and kill for superiority?  Can't we see that we're killing our own?

In the end, we're all the same
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
All identities will rust
Graves will fall unnamed

In the end, you cannot tell
After all, we'll each bleed red,
Share Earth, a common bed
And show our bones as well

But in the end, we should be proud
Did we unite, did we stand?
Have we loved across all lands,
Or did we fade into the crowd?

In the end, when we look back
Did we live only by a ballot?
Will we see a color potrait,
Or is it all just gray and black?

Before the end, please hear my plea:
"We were made for more than this;
Push aside all differences
And be one humanity"

Another Appetizer

I've spent my whole day studying for this test (grr).  I'm seriously about to gouge my eyes out with a wooden spoon.  Ok, not really.  But it's frustrating.  So, what do I do when I'm frustrated?  You all know the answer to this already--I write things.  Lots of things.  Today, I bring you another appetizer.  Comment or message me if you want to vote for your favorite or just read more from one of them. 

Appetizer #3-

The sky was on fire.  Huge oranges and expansive reds sliced through the billowing clouds.  And there, in the center of it all, was the source--a molten globe of flaming yellow just totally filling the surrounding space.  I was truly breathless.  I know people always mush and gush about sunsets, but man, this was not a sunset.  This was an explosion.  Someone (I've forgotten exactly who over the years) used to tell me that the sky turned red and orange because it was absorbing all the hate and anger in the world and burning it up.  When the sky went black, it meant the fire had no more bad stuff to destroy and you could sleep peacefully, not having to worry about that hatred and anger attacking your dreams.  I wish I still believed that.

For Starters

For those of you who don't know, I am starting a novel! (eek!) Here are a few starting paragraphs to ponder.  Message me or comment if you like them or have more ideas.  I'll probably be posting a few more like them as I am struck by creativity.

Appetizer #1

The words will come.  The words always came.  He stood there for the longest time, waiting for the words to come.  They hadn't yet.  The blank page laughing at him from underneath his poised pencil was too much to bear.  But, he had to do this.  He had to apologize, set things right once and for all.  The way he'd left things two years ago had haunted him ever since he'd left.  These "hauntings" were growing more frequent now, and that's why he knew this had to be done today.  He had to make the words come, because if he didn't, he'd be facing another sleepless night of tossing and turning and playing out in his head all the "what if's" and "had I only's".  He was determined.  So, he pressed his pencil onto the snowy white, pristine page and wrote the first words that came to his mind...

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Appetizer #2

"Run!"  A voice from behind her shouted.  She turned her head just in time to see her friend finish forming the word.  Branches and leaves grabbed her as she tore through the darkening forest.  How much longer until the trees emptied onto the road?  Were they lost?  It didn't seem to take this long to get into the woods. "I knew we shouldn't have come here,"  she thought, pressing onward.  They had come on a dare, though.  And she was never one to turn down a good dare.  Suddenly, she stopped short.  There was a light in the distance...two lights...headlights.  "Look!"  She shouted behind her.  "We made it to..." She didn't need to finish the sentence--her friend was gone.

Rewriting The Dictionary

I have words.  Many, many words that are tumbling around in my brain so fast that they keep stopping up the passage that sends them to my fingers, then onto the page.  Words and words and words and no sentences.  I feel like a dictionary.  All my words have meaning but they don't form any kind of order at first glance.  I have to put them together before the people who might read those words will think they apply to them.  I just have to take my dictionary and rearrange it.  That's all.

By the way, that essay at which I was so angry last post actually turned out to be one of the best I've ever written (nevermind that I never got the chance to actually submit it).  Don't let me forget that technique.

It's Not Writer's Block, I Just Need A Flu Shot.

Today I cannot write.  I have the words inside, but they will not come out.  So, I'm attempting to fix this by... writing!  Ironic?  I think so too.  College application essays.  By the thousands.  That's what I'm trying to avoid this evening.  Actually, I'm not trying to avoid them, I'm putting them off untilI can make them better.  Isn't it funny how our performance in any given task changes when we know it will be criticized?  I know that whatever admissions officers will be reading these hateful essays are going to look for an outstanding performance.  I know I can do it, and that's just what bugs me.  I'm not doing it.  I just tried to write one, clacking away on the keyboard, thinking it was going great.  So I finish it up, read back over it and think to myself "Oh goodness this is terrible!"  I hate that.  So, I took a drive.  A very uneventful one at that.  I drove, hoping that the mundane task at hand would clear my mind so I could come back home and fix whatever atrocities lay in that essay.  It didn't.  I brewed a cup of the tea I had just bought, sat down to write and went blank... again.  It's so frustrating, knowing that I can do something, but whenever I try, I fail.  Since we were just on the topic of irony, I find it a little bit hysterical that part of the topic I'm writing about in this college essay is persistence.  Right now, I don't exactly want to persist.  All I want to do is get a refill and watch An American Haunting.  (After all, it's Halloween...)  Since driving didn't help, I'm trying a new approach.  What I have isn't writer's block (obviously, because I'm sitting here writing).  I don't know what it is, but I think I can cure it by getting my brain and fingers moving by writing something that won't be analyzed and criticized and however else they process application essays.  Maybe it works like a flu shot.  By injecting a small amount of the flu virus into your body, the doctor develops a stronger antivirus that combats those ugly little cell monsters that could possibly constitute a real flu virus.  In my mind, by writing a little harmless blog post, I can prepare myself to tackle the bigger monster that lurks in my minimized Word document.  So, readers, thanks for ignoring this and by the way, I appreciate the fact that you aren't forming an angry mob to come burn my house down since I haven't posted in over a month.  Don't worry.  I'm going to give you a real post soon.  This is just an experiment.  I'll let you know how it goes.

College, Choreography, and Psalm 98

Oh, dearest readers!  My humblest apologies.  I've been gone for far too long.  I visited the blog this morning and after dusting the cobwebs off, I discovered my last post date- August 29th! 29th!!!  So, here I am, making excuses.  I've started college.  Hold on, have to let that sink in for a second.  I've started college.  It's pretty great actually.  I've made some new friends, learned some new things, and gotten into a new schedule.  I'm actually rather enjoying it.  My professors are pretty cool (especially my English professor, but maybe that's just because we have a lot in common).  I must say, my favorite classes so far are Psych and English. 
Anyway...enough about school.  Let's talk about music.  Music... I'm choreographing again, for those of you who don't know already.  I'm acting/dancing in the Christmas musical at the church and for one of the main dance numbers, I get to choreograph!  I'm so excited because I just finished the last piece today!  I've been missing regular dance though.  So, so much I've been missing it!  My cousin and I talk about how awesome it would be to join a dance class together, but neither of us have the time.  It's so frustrating!  We could've danced in the church's group, but it met at the same time as something else I'm involved in.  Actually, this brings me to my next announcement- I've joined a band! Getting involved at church this year has meant helping to start the band (which is named by my suggetion which was pretty cool).  PS98 we call ourselves- after Psalm 98 which says this:
 
 ¹ Sing to the LORD a new song,
   for he has done marvelous things;
his right hand and his holy arm
   have worked salvation for him.
² The LORD has made his salvation known
   and revealed his righteousness to the nations.
³ He has remembered his love
   and his faithfulness to Israel;
all the ends of the earth have seen
   the salvation of our God.
 ⁴ Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth,
   burst into jubilant song with music;
⁵ make music to the LORD with the harp,
   with the harp and the sound of singing,
⁶ with trumpets and the blast of the ram’s horn—
   shout for joy before the LORD, the King.
 ⁷ Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
   the world, and all who live in it.
⁸ Let the rivers clap their hands,
   let the mountains sing together for joy;
⁹ let them sing before the LORD,
   for he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
   and the peoples with equity.

I am a singer.  In all, there are 5 (ish?) singers and 7 (ish?) instrumentalists.  And at this point, I must tell you something awesome.  It was the Wednesday before last and it was the first week of band practice.  Everyone was deciding if they wanted to go with the singers or go with the instrumentalists, and when all sides were decided, the instrumentalists left to go practice.  That left me, four girls, and my mother and her friend who have to be there for liability reasons (and to keep us all straight- they're kind of our managers, I guess you can say. Ha! Just kidding...). Anyway, so there we were, just the seven of us and a grand piano, all alone in the sanctuary.  We sat there for a while, just talking about who is a soprano, who is an alto, etc.  We soon realized we had no way of singing the songs because we had no track.  A few people who knew I could play that grand piano told me to get up there and do my thang.  I offered it to someone (anyone) else, but they insisted I do it.  (GASP! I GET TO PLAY THE STEINWAY?!)  Ok, so it's not too bad.  Fast forward a few minutes.  Everyone is gathered around the piano, I'm banging out some chords, and everyone is singing in perfect pitch, harmony, and balance with everyone else.  I mean, we really sounded GOOD.  I smile a little smile.  Occasionally we'd lose our place, or sing a wrong note, but I mean, we just went together.  Really, really well.  It was a fantastic feeling.  If that's what it feels like to sing without practicing, I can only imagine how God will use us once we have practiced!

A Musical Storm

Crash.
Rain throws itself against my window, as though trying to out-do the howling of the wind.
The trees groan in protest as the churning sky whips them to and fro.
Flicker.
Lights dim, then blacken as the electricity is lost to the darkening atmosphere.
I light a candle, it's fire illuminating my small table. I lift my pen again, just hardly set back by the loss of light.
Whimper.
The dog lays at my feet, whining with nervousness at the monster who wreaks havoc on the outside.
The sky, black and heavy with storm, pours the rain upon the fragile flowers in the garden.
"Please..."
Flowers try to gaze upward with tired eyes, but are beaten down relentlessly by the sky's burden.
The clouds above grumble with thunder and scream with lightning, each streak a reminder of how furious the storm is getting.
Goosebumps.
I watch, intrigued from the danger.
I'm tired, but won't let sleep hamper my creativity.
But the storm- it plays me. Coaxes me.
"Sleep..."
Pulling my energy like a harpist pulls her strings.
Breathe.
I resign myself to the fact that the storm is more powerful than I. Putting down my pen, I wrap myself in a blanket and curl into bed, exhausted.
Crash.
The rain still pounds.
The thunder still roars.
The candle still flickers.
And I lie there watching it, hypnotized.
Until finally, I close my eyes,
And sleep.


*Inspired by, but not directly taken from, Hurricane Irene. Praying you're all safe and will get power back soon!*

To Each His Own, To Me A Mountain

Mountains...and lots of them.  Everywhere you looked there was another monstrous hill rising in front of you.  And behind you.  Left, right, front, back, 360 degrees of rock, coal, and trees. 

Pick up a rock and it doesn't exactly invoke wonder.  But pile it together with a few billion more rocks and you start to get lightheaded just by looking up in amazement.  Mountains are probably my favorite geographical phenomenon.  Something about the humbling feeling you get as you cast your gaze upward.  And upward.  God must've been showing off when He created them.  Each one is unique, holding a story and mystery all its own.  Have you ever hiked a mountain?  What about hiking a mountain with no trail to follow?  Kinda throws you off a bit.  You hear a waterfall, and would swear that it was atop this next little hill, only to discover that the water's cascading sound was echoing from the complete opposite side of the mountain.  It's adventurous, thrilling, and a little scary knowing how easily you can get lost if you wander too far off the trail. 

And the air, so pure and untouched by human pollution.  It's enough to make you dizzy if you breathe too deeply.  You know it's a high that's good for you though.  So breathe again.  And again.  Get as much of it as possible before climbing back down to the humid, polluted reality that we constantly breathe.

*Pictures of my favorite mountains on earth- The Blue Ridge Mountains that cross Sparta, NC*

Rain

What is it about the rain that brings calm,
Yet urgency?
Hope,
Yet sadness?
Peace,
Yet disturbance?
Why do the same drops that persuade you to dance so energetically under their shower sing you into a motionless sleep at night?
It caresses,
But stings.
Whispers,
But screams.
Comforts,
But exasperates.
That's why I like it.  All emotion, all feeling, can be brought to the surface with just a short soak in the rain.  It's amazing what the sky does to a person.  The rain you just so spontaneously and happily danced in has all of a sudden turned you into a grouch who hates getting wet.  So beautiful in its contradictions.  That's why it fascinates me.  I love to hear it.  It plays with the same orchestra over and over again, but each time the melody has been re-composed.  It colors the earth the same shades, but paints with a different brush each time.  It soothes you, it angers you; it helps you sleep, it wakes you up.  It's so complex and just when you think you know how it's going to make you feel,
It changes.

Revel Grove

Ok, so.  I've made the executive decision to expand my blog's horizons.  I've got a lot of thoughts that need a place to live so they're not tumbling aimlessly through my brain.  A lot of these thoughts that may or may not be music-related.  Don't worry.  I'm still focused on music and dance.  Just a few other things as well. 

Anyway.  On to bigger, greater things.  Like the upcoming season.

Fall.  One of my favorite things in life.  Nothing invokes such calm as the changing leaves.  I drive to work every weekend and I've been seeing the leaves gradually fade from bright green to a muddier version of their summer color.  Its exciting.  It promises spiced apple cider, scarves, bonfires, Halloween, and most importantly, the Renaissance Faire.  Each October, the family (plus Amanda) makes a trip to the Faire to enjoy the merry-making and festivities.  There's jousting, costumes, theatrical performances, food-on-a-stick, and quaint little shops to visit.  The whole atmosphere is just enveloping.  Once you step through the gates you are whisked away somewhere back in time, hundreds of years ago.  The ages of knights and ladies, courtly love, quests, chivalry, castles.  And the smells.  I mean, there's nothing like it.  The scent of crisp leaves and sugared pecans dances softly through the festival, mingling beautifully with the sound of laughter and music. It's just kind of surreal and you can't help but smile and pretend it really is 1512.  Then you turn to look behind you and you see this towering, majestic figure shrouded in white.  It's wearing a porcelain mask.  Whatever it's supposed to be, it's on stilts.  And looking up, you can't stop yourself from cracking a grin as it tilts its head and dips slightly toward you in greeting.  Offering a small wave, you turn back to meander through the crowd.  You can see the elephants to your left and at the bottom of the leaf-laden hill, a woman sells roses from a hand-woven basket.  A man dressed as a pirate (and just because it's the Faire, you let yourself believe he IS a pirate) touches your shoulder and dips his tricorne hat below his eye, offering a coy smile while doing so.  "Good day sir," you say in a practiced British accent.  The scene from atop the hill hasn't changed, but a breeze is blowing now.  Chilly and laced with the mystery of the past.  Somewhere in the distance, the clash of lance and shield can be heard, followed by a tumultuous  "HUZZAH!"  A horse's neigh.  The sharp clink of tankards.  Raucous laughter from a tavern nearby.  Stand there for a minue.  Just take it all in.  You probably have the best view of the Faire from up here.  Through the amber-colored trees, you can almost see the performance happening on Fortune Stage.  Children run around chasing one another, giggling and squealing, brandishing wooden swords and shields.  Wandering down the hill, you come to a little shop.  Paintbrushes and palettes sit in the window sills and costumed figures stand over their customers, decorating them with strokes of deep purples and reds.  Works of art, really.  You sit in an empty wooden chair and a lady walks up to you.  You let her work magic, making pleasant conversation all the while.  When she's finished, you look in the mirror.  Glittering ribbons of paint cascade down your cheek, branching off in all different directions, forming a mask over your face.  Everyone turns to look as you wander along the pathways.
Soon, the chilling Autumn twilight descends upon the festival, giving it a new atmosphere, one of secrecy and enchantment.  There's not very many people out anymore.  They have all either found their way to a tavern or gone home.  A feathered costume brushes past you.  Goosebumps.  You spin quickly enough to see the hooded creature disappear into the darkness.  You smirk at the excitement of it all.  Music still plays somewhere.  The warm glow of the glassblower's fire beckons you near.  He's still hard at work, creating beautiful masterpieces by the dozen.  "Come in," he calls.  You enter.  Your eyes wander around the shop.  It's warm, comforting, crammed full of beautiful glass vases, gazing balls, and ornaments.  You find yourself standing beside the fire, watching as the old man crafts a blue globe from the top of a long tube.  You can still hear the music.  It's slower now, becoming accustomed to the approaching night.  You know you have to leave.  But what a hard thing to do.  You slowly turn from the comfort of the fire and head back into the growing darkness.  It's a hard walk, the one from the Faire to the car.  One you wish you never have to make.  Bittersweet, though.  You know you'll be back.  Next year, the leaves will change again and you'll find yourself caught up in the mystery and intrigue of the Faire once more.  And at that thought, you can't help but smile.