Bluer Grass

There are moments in life whose sheer essence speak a sort of inspiration unlike any word, picture, or cinematic achievement ever could.  And in Sparta, North Carolina, those moments abound.  You can find them on the peaks of every mountain, hiding in the far corners of dusty antique shops, flowing through the steadfast continuity of the rivers, but especially pickin' and grinnin' among the tightly knit community of musicians that hug the area like a faithful friend.  On every sidewalk, in each music store, behind every guitar, banjo, upright bass, and mandolin, there exists a family stitched together by a common bond--the love of music.  Especially bluegrass. 

In Sparta, there is a place called the Crouse House.  If you are a music lover, it's the place where you spend most evenings.  On one particular evening, I sat rather precariously balancing in my rickety folding chair and I watched as my grandfather and his group of friends sat in a circle and serenaded the setting sun with an unscripted repetoire of good, old-fashioned, down home bluegrass.  If you were looking for some honest-to-goodness pickin' and grinnin', you'd have found it that night.  All it took was a chord from one of the expertly strung instruments, and all the others would instantly melt together into melodies and harmonies that put the symphony of chirping crickets to shame.  I remember leaning over to my cousin and whispering, "Isn't amazing how it only takes one note and they all instantly know what to play?"  I don't remember if she was too entranced to answer me or not, but if she wasn't, I was obviously too far gone to retain any response she'd given me.  It's spellbinding really, to watch bluegrass musicians do what they do.  I feel honored to have that in my blood, even if I can't really play along.  So, we watched, thinking these things.  Proud of our grandfather, amazed by the way we couldn't tell when the sound of one instrument ended and the next began, wishful...so wishful...that we could do it too.

Then, something unthinkable happened.  "You girls gonna do a song?"  I looked at my cousin, then back toward the circle of musicians.  I squinted in the darkening evening.  Yes, they were looking at us.  And yes, my grandfather had just volunteered us to play.  Silence ensued.  Followed by the awkward protests of my cousin and I.  We were SO not worthy to play here!  After...this was the CROUSE HOUSE.  It was only for real musicians.  My grandfather handed my cousin his guitar (one he'd made from scratch).  She sheepishly strummed a few chords.  We were beckoned into the circle.  "Come on let's just do it," I'd said.  "It'll be a story to tell!"  Finally, after some coaxing, we were convinced to enter the Realm of the Bluegrass Masters.  Admittedly, with our heads down and tails between our legs.  We sat on the opposite side, as far away and unnoticeable as we could be.  Everyone waited in silence, waiting to see if these two young whippersnappers were actually going to open up and sing or just sit there like fools.  But as good as we are of making fools of ourselves, we did not have to add the events of July 5th to our list of reasons why we can never again show our faces in public.  And we knew we'd already gotten ourselves in too far to turn around, so I looked at my cousin and my cousin looked at me.  We smiled a nervous little smile, and then finally the silent crowd was rewarded with the chord they'd been waiting for. 

I must say, there is a chord that exists that is unlike any other chord that can be played.  The opening strum.  As soon as my cousin's fingers hit those strings and made that chord, I knew there was no way to undo anything that would ensue.  But let me tell you, my dear readers, the anything that ensued was anything but something I would ever want to undo.  I don't believe there exists a word that describes what happened there, in the Realm of the Bluegrass Masters.  It was as if there was no such thing as "nervous."  No such thing as "skill level."  No such thing as "judgement" or "better than."  there was only the song, my cousin and I, and my grandfather's guitar.  You know, they say the grass is always bluer in the mountains.  That's definitely true for Sparta.  And the essence of that moment there in Sparta, at the Crouse House, was something I can only really describe as "bluer grass."

The Skinny Girl's Rant

Just to warn you, I'm about to yell, rant, and step on toes, so if you like keeping an image of me in your head as a nice person who never gets angry at anyone, you should skip this post.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Observe a few comments from an article I recently read on Yahoo!:

"Super-skinny is not pretty! I'd rather see a REAL woman than a fake size 0 model!"

"I don't know what it is about so many young "stars" who feel that they must be an unrealistic size 0. No one over 10 years old looks good as a size 0."

"I look at those women skinny as rails, they look like clothes hangers, not humans."

"A woman without curves is just purely boring, unexciting and can't keep you warm on a cold night"

"Super skinny is so gross looking"

"Women with meat on them are always more attractive than a skin and bones one that looks like a starving horse that needs to be shot and put out of its misery."

"Kelly Clarkson has things the "super skinny" types don't have...an abundance of talent and a great attitude and personality"

"Super skinny like Angelina Jolie is grotesque and vain"

Wow. . .Ouch. I happen to wear a size 0. I'm not a model. But I am real. I really hate when people say that "REAL women are curvy" as if the rest of the non-curvy women are not real, or as if they are somehow less valuable as a person because they are skinny. I'm so sick of people talking about how "normal" is better than "skinny." Size 2 is just as normal as size 4 or 12 or 18! You wouldn't walk up to a larger person and tell them they look obese, so why would you walk up to a skinny person and tell them they look anorexic? I'm so tired of being called a twig. It's like telling a large person they need to lose weight. Just rude. Also, people telling skinny girls to "go eat a hamburger" is like telling a large girl to lay off the cake. It's just as rude, and yet some people seem to think that just because girls are skinny their self-esteem is through the roof and that comments like "go eat a burger" or "oh my gosh you're a twig" or "you're so skinny you look anorexic!" won't actually hurt. People seem to think that only bigger people's self-image should be protected and the skinny ones can be cut down for being skinny, and no guilt will be necessary because after all, it's impossible to hurt a skinny girl's self image. I'm just a little mad that in the eyes of society, I'm not as "real" as a size 16 woman just because I wear a smaller size skirt. Ladies, we're all real here, can't we just stop cutting each other down?

I'm glad when a girl is confident, no matter what her clothing size. I know that beauty is more than skin deep, and a girl that can be comfortable with who she is inside is prettier than any model. The computer generated models that have been airbrushed and photoshopped bother me. Although I realize that they are the source of strife for curvier girls, it also gives the wrong impression of the thinner ones and can end up making people feel like they have the "right" or the "duty" to make up for the curvier girs' hurt feelings by bringing the skinny ones down and making them feel inferior. You wouldn't make a large person feel bad for being large, so why make a skinny person feel guilty about being skinny?

By society's standards, I am "too skinny." By the creators of the comments above, I am fake, unrealistic, ugly, inhuman, boring, unexciting, gross looking, talentless, grotesque, vain, have no personality, a bad attitude, and am comparable to a starving horse that doesn't deserve to live. Will someone please tell me why people feel no guilt or shame posting these things about thin girls? Will someone please explain to me why backhanding the self-image of skinny girls makes the curvy girls feel so good inside? Please, somebody tell me why it's okay to strip every bit of self-esteem from a skinny girl's image but mentioning the word "weight" around a larger person is like blasphemy.

I mean no offense to any girl of any size. I just simply want the support to go both ways here. Isn't there any other way we can support the confidence of one body type without destroying the confidence of the other?




Now here's a puppy picture just 'cuz.

Of a Dream

Twilight.  The last whispers of sunlight mingle gently with the first kisses of evening as the love-struck sun and moon explore the garden together.  Fireflies illuminate the lovers' path with tiny glowing embers of iridescent yellow.  The roses glimmer in that mystical shade of silver that is cast from the dusky sky, sighing as a soft breeze rustles their petals.  Behind them, deep orange tiger lilies bow their heads as the approaching night lulls them to sleep.  In the cloudless sky, jet black bats dart to and fro, looking for insects or fruit to munch on for supper.  Down below them, green and blue mosaic stepping stones lead the way to a giggling fountain in which two small birds are indulging in an evening bath.  The increasing moonlight casts a glassy illusion over the surface of the water, giving the impression that as the birds dip below the sheet of liquid glass, they are in fact entering another world--a place known only by them, where everything is at peace, mimicking the stillness of the water.  And as the moon finally sings the sun to sleep, the birds take flight, leaving a trail of glittering droplets behind them.

Inspiration

Give me a word,
A thought,
Or a smile.
Tell me a story,
Play a song,
Stay a while.
Give me a poem,
Or whisper
Like this.
Show me
Some something,
A thing I can't miss.

Remind me to fight
When all I want
Is to crumble.
Give me a hope--
A light
Through the tunnel.
Show me the way
When life's blindfold
I wear.
Make me a promise.
Tell me
You swear.

Please keep me smiling--
Happy,
At peace.
Lend your warm shoulder
When I can't go
To sleep.
Calm my frail nerves
When life
Lays me out.
Sing through my nightmares,
Quench all
My doubts.

Take hold of my hand,
Pull me up
When I fall.
Say it's alright
If I run into
Brick walls.
Open the windows
When the doors
Are all closed
Be my warm blanket
When stormy
Winds blow.

All this I hope for
Humble,
And meek.
Could you possibly be
These things
That I seek?
But one small request
Trancends all
Of these.
Two tiny words:

Inspire me.

A Favorite Song

"Like when I hear it or play it, I just feel such raw emotion....like the emotion you feel before it turns into something specific. It just releases this feeling inside of me that makes me crumble into the most inner place of myself--a place I always forget I have. When I hear it, I just want to withdraw into the rhythm, get absorbed by the melody, and just feel the rest of the world fall away.

I guess that's the simplest way I can put it."

(I dug this out of my drafts folder today, and cannot, for the life of me, remember who I said it to. I'd love to figure it out, so if this sounds like something you remember me saying to you, please tell me!)

Cookouts

Can you hear them? The plea crying out from every stark white, oval-topped gravestone in Arlington Cemetery? They all say the same thing: "remember me." Can you hear them above the sounds of steaks sizzling on the grill? Can you see them amidst the fireworks? Do your children know that today means more than a cookout at the neighbors' and red, white, and blue sparklers? Today isn't just another day off, just another paid holiday, just another excuse to gorge on potato salad and hot dogs. As we sit around this evening drinking coffee with relatives and complaining about the government, let's remember how we got the freedom to do that. And let our laughter be filled with appreciation that we have wonderful things to laugh about. We're so blessed, and it's only by the grace of God and the bravery of our soldiers that we're able to do, say, go, and think about whatever we want to. Please, let's not forget that. Not today. Not any other day.

Enchantment

Pink champagne flowed freely from the crystal cruets that graced every tuxedoed waiter’s silver tray.  Strains of laughter mingled with whispered lines of romantic poetry as masked lovers exchanged sultry glances.  The thickening twilight danced outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the great hall, echoing the enchantment that enveloped the scene on the other side of them.  And there he stood in the midst of it all, feasting his senses on every ounce of it—a boy, not quite an adult, but far from a child.  His lanky form swam in the tuxedo that was too big for him.  A dark mask concealed his face, wrapping elegantly across his hollow cheekbones, the black swirls beautifully contrasting his pale complexion.  Across the expansive dance floor he watched as beautiful women twirled, their skirts billowing across the golden marble.  Greens, blues, scarlets, and deep purples painted a rainbow that pulsed throughout the ballroom. 

The boy looked above him.  Chandeliers the size of small rooms were suspended above the scene, dimly watching the party-goers from their vantage point high in the ballroom.  The boy could not count how many there were exactly, for they seemed to stretch endlessly on into a world behind the mirrors that graced the ceiling and far walls.  As the boy staggered around the hall, he noticed paintings between the mirrored sections of wall and ceiling.  Above him, the crystal chandeliers illuminated depictions of God and angels and replicas of the artwork of the Sistine Chapel.  The cherubs and seraphim gazed down upon the revelling party guests, laughing along with their cacophony of merriment. 

The orchestra that played reminded the boy of heaven itself.  Deep cellos complimented the harpist and violinists as dancers swayed and twirled to the ¾ waltz that was piping throughout the ballroom.  The boy’s eyes fleetingly met with those of a dancer—a slender blonde woman draped in a copper gown, her ringlets swept gracefully into an effortless arrangement on top of her head.  Her face shimmered with a faint sheen of glitter, and a mask of crimson ribbon and golden feathers hid the rest of her beautiful face from sight.  But her fiery green eyes pierced through the mask and met the boy’s own dark ones for a split second.  That second was all it took for him to see, in those glowing pools of emerald, things he’d never seen in the world before—beauty, enchantment, and forbidden things.  Then, just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone again, twirling into another man's arms.

Russian Caravan

Rolls of thunder
Match brazen plunders
As hands exchange coins of gold.
Stolen no doubt
By a knife or a pout
From the girl whose eyes burn bold.

The fires roar
As tales of yore
Are whispered around the flames.
The gypsies dance
To songs of romance
Beneath a moon in wane.

And there she stands
With a globe in her hands
Will your fate be good or bad?
Ask if you dare
And see how you'll fare
If you don't, you may go mad.

The fortune sings
Tells all of the things
Within your future she sees
And all this I find
As I take my good time
Drinking this first sip of tea.

Howl's Moving Castle

I listened, then listened again.  The melody was so haunting, so...iridescent.  It teased a part of my memory that I couldn't quite recall.  A childhood encounter long since tucked away in the corners of my dusty mind.  And it lingered gently, like the last flutters of butterfly-wing dreams.  It played in my brain, floating about my mind, peeking shyly behind cracked doors, ducking quickly into darkened corridors, and I could hear the memory it almost evoked laughing through a dimly lit hallway.  I could just...reach out...and grab it.  But not quite.  So I'll listen again and maybe this time, I'll be able to illuminate the memory that it so coyly teases me with from behind my mind's half-blind eye. 

And then..."The song is almost like a dance."  Yes it is.  That's exactly right.  A dance I remember from so long ago.  Balance, Soutenu, Echappe, Piroutte.  I remember now.  I remember being a small child just learning the steps and the song I had forever replayed in my mind to remind me how to perform them.  Balance, Soutenu, Echappe, Piroutte.  Even now I sing the steps in my head to the tune of this shy melody, or something similar to it, and I am reminded of the way those notes carried my tiny ballet shoes across the studio floor.

Black Feathers

On whispered breeze there flies a crow,
Not knowing what he seeks
Aimless wander, screech of woe
Hated, banished thief

With chill of Fall beneath his wings,
He shudders from the cold
Not welcomed into anything,
Just chased by scare or scold

His blackened stare rests on me,
I grieve his pain-filled eyes
I call out out to him gently,
But he will not leave the skies

Forced to fear all good intent,
He wistfully flies alone
This battered soul in slow descent,
Starved to skin and bone

On whispered breeze he drifts away,
Black feathers bent in flight
Perhaps I'll gain his trust some day,
One chilly Autumn night

Wisteria

Milky purple in the springtime sun, misty silver in the light of the moon.  Suspended by twisting vines like little bunches of grapes, ripe and begging to be harvested.  Housing bees and sheltering butterflies amid swaying stems.  Simply beautiful at this peak season.  Such peace.  The picture of carefree serenity.  Then, the storms come.  Screaming through the trees and ravaging the wispy blossoms that hang from those twisting vines.  Giving way to solid green leaves and, in the blooms that remain, a faded, tired, lavender.  Petals litter the walk.  The boiling sun dries them, shrivels them, burns them away.  Gone are the days of blissful breezes and even warmth.  Unrelenting humidity penetrates the desire to bloom, drying up whatever hopes of a recurring spring there may be. 
Then, chill.  The air turns cool again but this time with the faint promise of bitter cold to come, light in the suggestion, like a kitten padding through grass.  The canopy of leaves belonging to the tree above the twisting vines turns dark, recoiling inward on itself as if to say "please winter, not yet!"  The vines beneath wave goodbye to the last traces of prosperity they had posessed in the preceding months.  Now, standing bare, the vines appear violently bent and twisted, bearing no sign that beauty ever once dwelled there.  A lone blackbird alights on a flimsy twist, unpleasantly surprised at the vine's willingness to break under his weight.  "Go away," says the vine, with a dying breath.  "This place is saved for a season far from now.  I'll be beautiful again and your ugliness will not be welcomed among these vines."  So, the bird lifts off, disappearing as a shadow into the light snow that has begun to fall.  And the twisting vines watch, glaring after it. 
The snow commences, torturing the wispy vines; the bone-chilling wind digs her talons into the very depths of the creature's last storehouses of xylem and phloem.  The vines cling to its tree, trying desperately to plead for a portion of warmth.  Oh how it longs for the sun again.  But still the snow beats down, coating the naked vine with a wedding gown stitched from snowflakes.  It is impossible to distinguish the vines' true gnarled, twisting shape among the heavy skirts it wears. 
Then, there is an awakening.  The vines feel a shift in their bones.  Their lifeblood is thawed and they are renewed.  The sun has returned, replacing the cumbersome white gown with a sundress of green and purple.  And once again, the honey scent of Wisteria flutters through the air.

Life In Full

Laces tied.
Hair pulled back.
Music starts.
The only thing I feel
Is the pull of the rhythm
And the creaking of hardwood under my shoes. 
This is what I'm meant to do. 
My bones tell me to move. 
My heart tells me to jump. 
My spirit aches for the light of the stage
And the feel of the floor under my moving feet. 
I was born for this
And going back is like coming home.

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!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“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:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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