I Love Christmas Lights

He says "Daddy loves you, even if you did grow up on me." He says I promised not to.

I wonder if he knows it's hard to grow up.

I wonder if he knows I promised because I never wanted to.

I wonder if he knows I still don't want to.

I wonder if he knows that it happens no matter what, and what you grow up into is just a matter of how you take it.

Everyone grows up, like it or not. Some people just turn into big children. Or maybe we're all always big children. I don't know.

I never say anything when he says that. I usually sulk, but so far I've done a good job of not sulking.

I told my mom that some people have fun putting up their Christmas trees.

When my dad walked in and said "What the hell are you doing?" I answered, as calmly as you please, "Putting up the tree," and on impulse "Do you want to help?"

"No."

That didn't bother me, though. It's funny, really.

Sometimes I wonder if anything is really happening at all, or if every day is actually a strange variation of a single day, repeated over and over and over...


This is from Tony Kushner's afterword to "Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde" If I read it correctly, this is from a prose poem of Wilde's (decribed by Kushner):

"Lazarus, whom Christ meets weeping by the roadside, answers, when his Savior asks him why he's lamenting: "Lord, I was dead and you raised me into life, what else can I do but weep?"

Kushner responds:
"...there is much to do, after being raised from the dead, besides weeping."

Plans

Blue sky December fades to cloudy grey. Flat empty land rises into gentle hills, fills with skeletal trees and gas station islands lead to clusters of rundown houses. The smooth pavement submits to potholes and loose gravel. There, "Welcome to Cooper," the old sign quietly reminds us where we are. As we fly down familiar streets, my eyes pick out scattered subtle changes, strange and familiar faces walking down the cracked sidewalks. Finally, pulling into that driveway, there it is, the old white house. Faded wood, scraggly weeds and trees, a gun by the door. Home.

I'm taking it much better this time. When we came back over Thanksgiving, the feelings that rushed over me were crippling, physically nauseating. That sense of both being a stranger and coming home tangled in thorny knots in my stomach... but this time I'm fine.

Medicine or attitude? Both. I found out something interesting: you can still get depressed while taking medicine for it. Healing is a combination. If you try to heal with just thoughts, it's a terrible battle. If you try to heal with just medicine, it's a terrible battle. A battle is a battle no matter what, but doing both things definitely makes it less terrible.

So I'm doing my best, and it's going really well. I feel good. Last time, I couldn't write. Not writing is one thing, but not being able to write is another. It's a horrible feeling. But look, here I am, writing. Here I am, experiencing the world, contemplating the world, and sharing the insights I find from it.


I love the clouds. I love the skeletal trees. It's truly beautiful here.

Glen said "You always have music." I thought about that as I sat in my unchanged room and played Ukuhaley for a while. I sang and smiled at all the books in my room.

So I have plans. You know how plans are, but we'll see how they go. Get a driver's license, clean the house, play my song for my mom...

I had an exciting thought on the drive down here. Pen names. Writers use those. I spent a few moments in happy relief before I realized a pen name wouldn't be my panacea. Whether anyone knows who's telling the story or not, it isn't fair to reveal it to the rest of the world without revealing it to the people involved. Curséd non-fiction.

That's okay, though. Hard roads and difficult tasks are good things. They make for good stories and eventually some wisdom, or at least some experience.

So. Show as much kindness to my parents as I can possibly muster over the next couple of weeks. Start writing letters, very regularly. Salvage relationships. Send them the essay. Try to publish it with their blessing.

It sounds silly, of course. I can imagine eventually sending it to my mother. But my father? What would it be like to read your daughter's essay and discover you're the monster in the story?

Too bad it's a short essay. It isn't supposed to be the whole story. It's just one tiny frame... it's the response of a troubled college freshman to the question "What is home?"

It is not the complete chronicle of her childhood and interaction with her parents. It is not the summation of all her thoughts, emotions, and memories. It is a not a verdict.

But that's what they would think it is...

and so I've just told myself what I have to do. With the letters, I first have to establish a safe form of communication. Then I have to tell my story. I have to learn to trust them and teach them to trust me. I have to get them to believe that I am not a judge, my words are not a jury, and paper is not a courtroom.

Tall orders, tall orders...

I'm fighting a man. He's a giant who lifts more than Tom, has no ears, and his lips are stitched shut. He's tradition, he's a cycle, he's as old as the earliest families. He's angry, and he never sleeps. He is pain, and he is full of pain.

But I don't have to be stronger. I just have to be smarter.

Trust the floor.

Harden not your hearts.


I wish you the greatest strength of heart in your battles. That's all you need. Don't give up. I love you. <3

Kent, the Gentleman

I know I've been updating a lot lately, but all these interesting things keep happening. Physics is waiting, but... I just have to write this.

I just got back from a little adventure to Sam's at Sneed, a quest for apple juice and tea. After all the biking, aikido, and dancing, I was so thirsty.

As I left, a guy who was also leaving said "Oh, after you ma'am," and held the door for me. I thanked him and he said "Anything for a lady."

That was so surprising. I've heard strangers say some amazing things, such as "Mija," and "Have a beautiful day," but nothing like this. So I thanked him again.

Coincidentally, we walked the same pace, so he struck up a conversation. "Out for a bite to eat?"

"To drink, actually," I said. I might have left it at that, said an awkward goodbye, and come back to my room, but on a whim, I added "I just got done with a rehearsal, so I'm really thirsty." I had also just finished an incredible series of conversations with Laura, so I was feeling very happy and friendly.

"Rehearsal?" He asked with the most smoothly executed arched eyebrow I've ever seen.

So, since I already started, I told him it was a Celtic Ensemble rehearsal--both eyebrows arched--and tonight's was mostly fast dancing. I felt girly saying I was thirsty from dancing, a stereotype on my part, I suppose, so I added that I'd gone to aikido--confused expression--sorry, it's a martial art--before that.

He quite obviously lived in Bledsoe, and I in Gordon, so at that point we reached a separating point. "Well," he said, standing tall and composed. "I know you're tired, so please have a wonderful evening."

I thanked him and said it was nice to meet him because I felt like I'd met him. "Well... we didn't really meet exactly. Just talked a little," he said.

"Well... would you like to officially meet before we go?" I asked, again on a whim.

He smiled. "Sure."

So we each halved the distance and he said "I'm Kent," half extending his hand. "Tracey," I said, reaching in return. I expected a typical American male handshake, but instead... I'm not even sure how to describe it. It was a gentle handshake, and it was sort of sideways--exactly like holding hands for a waltz, but with added motion. And, of course, much more brief.

"You're very warm for a cold night," he said. That was odd. My hands are usually always cold.

"I've done lots of running around," I said. Aikido + dancing + biking = warm hands.

"You must be very tired. Well..." he said, as we both began to back away. "Do have a wonderful evening, Miss Tracey. I'll see you around?"

"Sure," I said, smiling. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

And then I continued on, back to Gordon, thinking in my head how to describe everything that just happened.

I found just the right way: He was all British gentleman without the accent.

What an incredibly interesting character.

As I left, I was mostly thinking about it from a writing perspective, as I usually do, but then I considered it as a reality. Things like that don't really happen. That's out of a book. A perfectly in character British gentleman without the accent, a chance meeting and none of the mystery solved? Straight out of a book.

But we're not in a book. So how do I interpret this?

I don't really know. I think it must simply be his personality, because nothing about my appearance should have prompted him to call me "ma'am" and "lady." I was wearing layers of baggy clothes because it's cold, was recently sweaty, and my hair was in a messy ponytail. Nothing about me was lady-like. Yet after I left, I had a vague sensation that I might have been hit on, but the idea seemed ridiculous because... When I think the phrase "hit on" it goes with a typical American handshake and doesn't involve the word "lady" unless it's preceded by another word edging toward offensive.

I'm not worried about it at all. My ultimate conclusion is that it's his personality, and I'm unlikely to really see him again, which is just fine. I just think it was an extremely interesting scene, especially because it quite seriously happened, and I felt the need to write it.

SHAKABUNDE!

December 1st has been looming on my calendar for the last couple of weeks. The Monday before, I had to be ready to play my song, and on ominous Tuesday, December 1st I had to turn in my 3rd essay, a set of 3 poems and a journal, be prepared to perform in physics class and take a quiz, and later turn in a lab.

For whatever reasons, I had done little of any of those things until Sunday.

So. The 3 poems involved some adventures in the building, trading with people, getting and giving critiques. I finally returned everyone's poem and got mine back, too.

That essay was so hard to write, and I don't know why. I think I'm just tired. But I finally finished it.

I was up until 4:30 this morning, manipulating my way to a final draft of that essay, finding all the scattered pieces of my poems, and writing in that journal. I don't think any of it is really amazing, but it was all finished. Well... the journal wasn't really finished at all, but I had done at least one thing in each section, so that should be okay. Sadly, my physics wasn't even started. I just couldn't do it at that point. I'd spent all day focusing on something, so I had to let one of them go.

And I still needed to print.

I no longer have the ability to stay up all night. I exhausted it in the last year, so now staying up late is actually painful. When I got in bed at 4:30, I was terrified I wouldn't be able to get up in time to go print everything and make it to Spanish. In just a couple of hours, I could fail so many things, and the painful early hours would be for nothing.

But I did wake up. I was out of bed at 7:45. I put on layers and layers of clothing, and walked out the door to discover snow. Even tired, worried, and in a hurry, it was breathtakingly beautiful.

When I left, it hadn't begun to stick to the ground yet. It was light and slow, but it quickly sped up. By the time I was riding Schwinny past Holden Hall, it was falling so fast I had to wipe ice off of my glasses every few seconds.

I was so cold, and when I got to the library, I was coated in snow. I dusted it off before I came in, but I was still dripping my way to a printer.

The snow, falling fast and thick, looked overwhelmingly vast through the large library windows. I walked back into it and got coated again. Schwinny had a nice one-inch tall pile of snow on her seat and handle bars. I wiped it off at first, but it collected again in seconds, so I just hopped on and rushed to Spanish.

Somehow, I made it on time. I'm almost never on time Tuesdays and Thursdays. 8:30? Insanity.

I melted when I went inside. There was a nice puddle in my chair, and somehow, the idea of snow-covered people melting was extremely poetic to me.

On to Writing in the Outdoors. And we were, indeed, outdoors in all that snow. Today was the first day of presentations, so we walked around campus to people's various places. I was wearing tennis shoes, so I soon had soggy socks and freezing toes. But a classmate was kind enough to bring handwarmers for everyone. Mine didn't start working until after physics class, but it was incredibly nice of him anyway.

So. I turned everything in and had until 5 to finish the journal. On to physics, where I performed without incident and happily discovered the quiz is Thursday, not today. And there's a lovely Wednesday in between.

So I came back to Gordon, ate some soup, completed the physics lab, and wrote as much as I could in the journal. When I went to deliver it, I saw Caswell himself at work in his office. Oh my gosh. From there I went to the lab without incident.

Yes! Finished! Finally! 

I made it. Glorious.

I don't feel like I wrote this very well. Everything was so much more difficult, easy, daunting, encouraging, and beautiful than I can find words for right now. The point is that I'm amazed and extremely thankful.

The point is, I wanted to thank you and God.

I just really felt a thank you note was in order. I feel so good, even though I'm a little behind on sleep and might have lost a little weight. I've been so happy today, since I watched all these stressful things become okay, and I felt so amazing.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Monsters Need Beds

So many things to do, but I need to write this. It's really important, and I want to remember it later.


I think my specialty is telling small crowds really revealing, personal things about myself. I seem to do that really often. In a strange, nerve-wracking sort of way, I'm kind of getting used to it, and I think I like it.

I waited for a few other people to go first before I told myself to get it over with. I was slightly less nervous than I might have been because I played it for Jacob before I left, but I was still shaking a little. When I walked to the front of the room, sat in that lonely chair, looked up at the musicians sitting before me, and felt Andy Wilkinson's presence to my left, it got really bad. A few notches short of a heart attack.

Stage fright is one of the few frights I don't have. I swear, audiences don't make me especially nervous; a small amount of nervousness is ingrained in my personality, and the fact that I've never played and sung a song in front of a group of people made this a higher scale of nervousness. But the scariest thing was the song. Describing the song. Singing the song.

"My song is called "Monsters Need Beds"," I said as I sat down. A few people laughed, and I wanted to hug them. I went on and talked about The Process, how this song started as a bunch of nothing, just several pages of rambly phrases that didn't connect, until I met with Mr. Wilkinson. He looked through it and we found a little passage of something that was the most "song-like" out of all of it. I didn't tell them or him that the little passage was a poem I started writing because I was tired of failing at writing the song.

"This song is about monsters in our lives and what to do with them, but for me specifically, it's about depression," so I say holding my ukulele. "Um... there's a line in the second verse that says "Try the medicine." For me, that means depression medicine, but it also means other things... the things we do to heal ourselves. Um... in the third stanza--sorry, verse--there's a line that says "I'd rather fight a man," and that's a reference to aikido... because... I took an aikido class this year, and it's really helped me... I don't know... Um..."

I was so nervous. Just then, the door opened, and the only person in this class who really reached out to me walked in.

"I guess I'll just sing it."

I glanced at Andy Wilkinson. He nodded. The silence was a glass window waiting to be smashed. My fingers were shaking. I started playing.

I'm not going to lie. I wasn't counting while I played. I just played each set of triplets until I could remember how the next piece of the melody went. My eyes stayed on the strings, and I probably made silly faces while I was singing, but I got through it without any huge mistakes.

Everyone applauded, as we always do. I sighed.

The comments were all kind and complimentary. All I need to do is chart it.

Andy said that Willie Nelson would be proud; everything was balanced well. The ukulele was fast and complicated, the melody slow and simple. It sounds sort of like a lullaby, and goes really high on the neck, but is about depression. He cautioned me when I first told him I wanted to write a song about this on ukulele, but in the end it worked.

In a moment of silence, my songwriting friend (okay... I've only talked to him once... but he lives on my floor, and told me to come by if I wanted help with my song. I just never did because by the time I had anything to show him, I had figured out what to do. I think it still counts.) spoke up for me.

In the next pause, Andy asked "Was this scary to write?"

"Yes," I said immediately. It was scary to write and terrifying to sing.

"You know you've got a good song when it's hard to write. If you're scared shitless to play it for people, you've done something good."

Someone else commented that she was really glad I chose to sing this and share it with everyone. Every time I've done this someone has said something like that. So I believe it's worth it to bare your soul sometimes.

We were allowed to leave early this time, if we didn't have anything else we needed to play. I took him up on it because of the essay, journal, poems, and physics homework I need to do (and this is still productive because I'm going to put this in my Caswell journal). I was sad that I would miss my friend's song, though...

At the very least I could catch his eye as I left and say goodbye. So I did. He gave me the kindest smile and said goodbye back. Then, as an after thought...

"Good job! Very... reflective. I really liked it. Really nice." I said thank you about three times, glanced from his eyes to the floor about five times, and then finally stepped out the door. Just one more glance back, and I saw him do the same. Leftover jitters.

Austin, you'll never know, but I absolutely love you.

Well, you can infer. After next Monday, when class is over, I think I'm going to write him a short note and tape it to his door. Just to give him a proper thank you. People really ought to know how amazing they are.

All of you are changing my life for the better, and for that I thank you so much.

I absolutely love you.

Sunday Phone Call

"RAWR! I love you!"

I love you, too, Jacob.

All my laundry is clean and put away right and proper. My bed is clean and made, the sheets tucked in and everything. I put signs, notes, forks, and a dream catcher on my walls. I washed my dishes.

Just about everything is due Tuesday and finals are coming up. Will I make it? I don't know. But I'll give it a shot.

My song is ready to perform.

I taped poems to two people's doors.

I don't know if I'll make it, but I feel so good.

Thank you, I love you, and Good Luck. <3

What if we Knew our Neighbors?

Israel, Terri, Laura, thanks for taking me to the reading last night. I loved it.

I wish I had been more awake... All night I felt I couldn't quite react to things as I felt them. My face was slow to respond...

The truth is, all day Friday I was really struggling with the medicine.

I don't want to dwell on this, because I really want to avoid sounding as if I'm complaining, and I don't want to be the kind of person who constantly talks about her problems. I do want to say a few things about it, though, and quickly give a little context for whomever may be reading this.

After the month or two or however long it's been, after my research, opinion-gathering, and thinking, I decided to try medicine. I doubt my decision. I believe I would have doubted it either way, but this way I can say I gave it a try. I started it Tuesday night, so this is day four.

I've done my research, but I still feel weird taking it. It isn't actually fully effective until the third or fourth week, so it isn't supposed to do much right now. So far it's just given me a slight headache and a vague sense of drowsiness. I didn't really feel very affected by it until Friday.

Friday, I felt sick and sleepy all day. It was mild, and that's a normal reaction, but it was really scary anyway. I felt disoriented and embarrassed. I felt very drugged. I know those are just psychological reactions, but I couldn't quite redirect some of those thoughts... I wondered how much other people could see it, if my eyes looked as blank as they felt to me, and if my reaction time seemed as slow as I thought it was. I think probably I did look a little off or something, but I don't think people perceived it as badly as I suspected. I'd like to think they didn't.

I wanted to apologize to everyone I was around, wanted to tell them "I'm sorry. I feel really weird today because of this medicine I'm taking," just to explain myself in case they did see it as much I thought they did... but I was too embarrassed. And I didn't want to put anyone in an awkward position by saying something about it--how do you respond to that? So I thought it was best if I put it here, because you can feel free to read it without responding.

I wished I was a better audience member for Janisse Ray, an honest-to-goodness Nature Writer and an honest-to-goodness poet. I was feeling worse physically by that time. I felt too distracted by it to write things down in my notebooklet. I wasn't sure during the day if it was actually the medicine making me feel that way or not, but I believe now it was because when I took it again upon getting home, I felt better. So I think I was feeling the effects of it wearing off. It was sort of like benadryl with a strange headache. I couldn't concentrate, and my eyes kept drifting away...

She talked about how unhappy America is in spite of all her achievements. She mentioned the record numbers of people on medication for depression and other mental illnesses. At the time, while I was feeling really sick and weird, I felt a pang of guilt for adding to that number. Then I revised the thought. The problem is not the people on medication. The problem is all the pain that weighs down on so many people. My taking medication isn't furthering the problem... it just means that I'm beginning to get an insider's perspective and I can contribute to the healing later.

I did feel bad for a while, anyway. I just really wanted her to know I appreciated her coming. It was really sad to me that she thought she wasn't Friday Night worthy and thought we'd all rather be somewhere else. I think I'll say something about that when I email her, because I don't know how sincere I sounded when I said "What better way to spend Friday the thirteenth?" I really meant it, but I felt so weird. But how could I not be happy to be there? How often do I get to hear honest-to-goodness writers speak?

And speak to them personally?

First, I was freaking out because I was actually walking up to her. Then I was freaking out because she shook my hand and asked me my name. Like my name was at all important. That was amazing. And to talk to her, have a conversation with her all of the sudden in the middle of the lecture room... For her to express interest in my little college freshman essay, write her email address in my notebooklet, and hug me??? I can't believe she hugged us. Hugged each of us, and asked our names.

It felt amazing to me to belong to that group, the two writers and two artists talking to a poet. I'm really glad that you came with me... I don't think I would have done it without you.

This sounds melodramatic, but that's just what was going on in my mind.  
 
When I email her, I've got to remember to tell her how helpful her advice was, too. I've thought about things from my parents' perspective plenty of times, but I think because of that I've started leaning toward complacency. It was good to be reminded, and I've started looking deeper.

I think this had the most powerful effect on me out of everything she said. I wanted to write it down, but didn't, and I'm glad I managed to remember it:

"You are my father,
I love you,
I'm not going anywhere." 

I almost cried when she said that. She spoke a little about her father beating her, about his struggles with illness, and I was awed just by imagining the incredible strength she has. That she could feel such a powerful love for him, for someone who hurt her so much, and at such a terrifying, painful moment... that she could stand strong and say that to him, asserting her love even in the presence of that anger.

And to write about that... even after talking to her, it's hard to imagine how she sent her manuscript to her family. It's incredible.

I also really liked what her father wrote... I think it was... "This is my daughter's truth, not my truth, but I honor her telling." So beautiful. Such a powerful thing for both of them to do.

So she got me thinking about my father. I make an effort to see things from as many sides as I can, and this is far from the first time I've considered my father's point of view, but I thought it was worth looking at again.

He's caused me a lot of pain. But can I imagine with my 18 years how much he has suffered? How little he's talked about any of it, how painful it must be to let that compress inside and fester over the years... And now he's watching his mother die, watching his children drift away from him. What do I know about that? And me, the things I've suffered in my little span of life to now, what does he know about that? Very little. How can we know when we don't talk?

I'm not a talker. I'm trying to learn, because talking is important. As much as I wish I could, there just isn't time for me to write an essay every time I want to express something. Still, I can't talk to my father.

But I can write.

Letters are amazing. I believe writing letters to my father is the perfect idea, but I've been thinking of it the wrong way. I've been taking everything too fast. There's no reason I should resolve everything as quickly as I can, trying to fit all this in a semester.

What I need to do is write my father conversational letters, letters that have nothing to do with the state of our family. Right now, I don't have a relationship with him at all. My relationship is with the character I've created in my mind. I don't know my father.

Letters are perfect because my only connection to my father, the real man, exists in our books. He loves to read, and often reads what I read... he used to leave books he thought I'd like on my desk for me. If we talked about anything that wasn't business, it was about a new Koontz novel, the next Maximum Ride or Paolini book. We didn't discuss them. It went about this far:

"Have you read that book Inkheart?" he asked when the movie previews were circulating. "Yeah," I said. "It's good. You would probably like it." Then we went on with whatever we were up to.

We didn't discuss them, but we had a connection through them. Just a thread... but I believe it's real. When I read those books, I had a vague sense that I was talking to him, and I wondered if he thought anything like that. Like maybe we were trying to tell each other that we're good characters in the end.

I've edited some writing for him before on applications he put in for work. He used to want to be a writer when he was younger. I can see it.

He read a couple of ridiculous autobiographies I had to write for school and a couple of my ready writing essays... he always had really kind things to say about them. When he read one of those autobiographies I wrote at 16, he said he was really surprised by how "mature" I sounded. In the months after all that ready writing business, which I still don't really believe happened, he persisted in calling me Champ... and before I left for Tech, in the midst of the conflicts over my choice of emphasis, he told me he thought I could write novels. I still have no idea what to think of that.

This is where our relationship must begin. He works in security, but he is a writer. So I will connect to him that way. I'll give him the opportunity to speak his mind without having to worry about time. I'll get to know my father, and he'll get to know me. I don't want to change him, and I won't use letters as an attempt to do that. 

This is the right way. I need to do this with Mom, too. If I can do this, I believe there is a chance we could all become more like people to each other, instead of perceived characters in each others' minds. People, instead of strangers we have obligations to.

I know what would mean the most to my father out of anything I could do. Someday, if I can learn so much and grow so much, I would hug him and say "I love you." I haven't hugged him back in years, and I can't remember the last time I said I love you. Probably before I learned how not to love. One of the saddest things to learn...

I'm not going to commit to that, but I think I'll call it a goal.

And All at Once the Crowd Begins to Sing...

I'm not so sure I can write a song right now. I do know I would love to sing one, with the full force of my lungs, to a large crowd.

It would be even better if the crowd sang with me.

Defense Against the Dark Arts

A quick note: All the quotes of my instructor are paraphrased. It drives me crazy, but I can't have my notebooklet on the mat, so all of this is from memory.

I love my Aikido instructor. He's a modern knight, full of chivalry but with more respect for the strength of women. He's old Japanese wisdom mixed with modern volunteer fireman. 

Sometimes he gives us "speeches." We all sit on the floor in two long rows, the way we sit when learning a new technique. He paces in front of us. Today he asked if we had heard about what happened at Fort Hood. Most of us said yes, but only a couple of people knew details. Collectively, we filled each other in.

I'm not going to attempt to describe what happened at Fort Hood, because I wasn't there, I haven't been watching the news or reading the newspaper, and I don't think I'm qualified to write about it. I think people mostly get the general idea at least, so this should be enough context.

After we finished comparing details and settled on the story, he posed a question. "If someone walked in the door with a gun right now, what would you do?"

Silence.

Then one of us said "Run toward him."

My instructor nodded. "That's absolutely right. That's our army guy. He's a soldier. Part time, but he's a soldier."

I don't know about everyone else, but I was thoroughly confused. He explained, though, that if everyone in the large, open room turned and ran away from the gunman, dropped to the floor, or jumped behind something, nothing would be stopping him from killing all of us at his leisure. Hopefully at least a few people would make it out the back door, but most would die. If four or five of the people closest to the gunman ran toward him and the rest ran for the back door, there is a chance one of them would stop him and even if they didn't, only those four or five would die.

He said the reason he asked, the reason he was talking about it, is because death is real. Often we're really removed from it, but things like what happened at Fort Hood remind us. Usually it happens to someone else, but not always. Someone has to be that someone else. He talked about the odds of assault, especially for women.

"What are you gonna do?"

"Start crying," one girl said. We all laughed, but then he continued.

"If a man attacked you, what would you do? How far would you be willing to go to stop him? If you were pinned, and had a clear shot, would you be willing to pop his eye out?" We cringed. He continued.

"Now I'm not sayin' you should go around attacking people for looking at you the wrong way, or that fighting is always the best idea. My Japanese sensei, who was about 60 years old when I met him, five foot two, a black belt and general badass, was asked "What would you do if a man pointed a gun at you and asked for your wallet?"" He pantomimed pulling out his wallet. "The point is to be prepared to do whatever you need to do to survive. If he takes your wallet and leaves, great. If you have the opportunity to run, great."

When he paused for a moment, another girl raised her hand. She asked, "So how do you take a guy's eye out?" We all laughed, especially my instructor. He quickly grew serious again, though.

"The way to gouge someone's eye out is to decide within yourself that you will stop at nothing to stop him."

This idea that life, including one's own, is worth defending... worth living...

"This is universal. Regardless of nationality, race, color, creed, or religion, parents will do anything to protect their children, including die. Do that for yourself, too."

My survival instinct is incredibly weak. I know I would die for someone else, but I don't know how much I would do to defend myself. I'm more likely to do nothing and make my peace with dying. This idea is so strange to me... that my life is worth defending, too. 

"Now I'm old. I come from the old days, and I believe when you see something wrong happening, you don't just sit there. You stop it. Don't hesitate. Today we sit back and worry about causing a scene, and try to reconcile it later. Don't hesitate. The scene is already started. This is just my opinion, but if a person tries to take the lives of others, he forfeits his own life. He has made that decision, and I would not hesitate to take his life to save the others."

"Don't hold back."

Whenever he talks to us this way, he always adds disclaimers. "Yes, I know this is just a one hour P.E. class. No big deal. I know it's just one class in your four years here..." I sit there and think, No it isn't. Of course it isn't just a class. Of course it's important. This is right up there with Caswell. The last time he spoke about something similar, I wanted to tell him I appreciated everything he said, but I didn't do it because I wasn't sure that I should. Today I resolved to thank him after class for his "speech."

He said that he just wanted us to think about it. He wanted us to be aware of it. "If someone attacks you, and you're prepared mentally, you can handle it. If you're not, you're struggling to keep up. If you're smarter, stronger, he's struggling to keep up."

He told us to keep all of this in mind when we warmed up today. Sometimes, when we do the various exercises, we let our feet drop to the floor or do our push-ups higher at the end because it hurts and we're tired. Today we were thinking about gunmen, about carrying people, about defending ourselves. My feet never touched the floor. I did every push-up. I kept myself above the ground for the full minute. I ran with Meredith on my back and didn't cut corners.

I thought about what it means to be a soldier. The guy in my class who answered that first question is a soldier of the U.S. Army, but all the rest of us are soldiers, too. Any of us is capable of throwing someone, breaking and dislocating joints, even killing someone. But we are all soldiers. College students are soldiers. Mothers are soldiers. Handicapped people are soldiers. Old people are soldiers. Children are soldiers.

At some time, we are all fighting something. We are all defending something. We are all soldiers. I am a soldier.

I'm so small. I'm so aware of it, especially in Aikido. We did an exercise once where instead of rolling normally, we rolled over weighted bags, and then over people. I was one of the ones on the ground, and I was smaller than the bags. I can't lift a person on my shoulder--the muscle strength is simply not there. But I can carry someone on my back. 

I'm so glad I chose Aikido instead of Jui Jitsu. I'm sure Jui Jitsu is awesome, too, but Aikido is perfect for me. No matter how strong someone is, if he loses his balance, he falls. No matter how strong someone is, he has the same bone structure and placement of joints. No matter how strong someone is, I can defend myself against him. When you use Aikido, you fight with something instead of against it. Your opponent's strength is your strength.

After class, I thanked my instructor for his speech. I told him it meant a lot to me, and Aikido does, too. I didn't say anything about depression, lacking a will to live, or beginning to see a way to find it through his class. I can see boundaries, and I don't want to seem too weird. Regardless, he was really happy, and thanked me for saying something. He said he hesitates to get too serious and doesn't want to take the fun out of the class, but thinks it's important.

I talked to him for several minutes, and he told me something else interesting. A man who is roughly the same size, same age, and exercises the same amount as a woman will have more upper body strength. However, lower body strength is roughly the same. I didn't know that second thing.

"You don't have to be stronger. You just have to be smarter."

I've been thinking about taking Aikido again next semester. I need another P.E. credit, and I was hoping I might be able to get it by taking Aikido twice. When I asked him about it, he said he didn't know, but encouraged me to keep coming to Aikido at the rec if I wanted to regardless of the class. If I wanted to get ranked, I would have to join the federation, but I could still come whether I did that or not.

He said something else that shocked me. "We have all kinds of people who come to Aikido at the rec. Some of them just come a few times, others join and stop at a brown belt, but some stay longer and think about trying for a black belt someday. I don't know what I'm gonna do when Mario graduates, though. Maybe you'll step up and be my assistant in a year or two."

I thought he was joking, but he was really serious. I'm sure there are other people more qualified who will probably be his next assistant, but it amazes me that he thinks I could do that. To think that a small, timid female could assist teaching an Aikido class. I doubt it will happen, but I love the idea that something like that is possible.

And I love that I'll be able to keep doing Aikido.

I felt so good when I left. Only once have I ever gone to Aikido in low spirits and not felt better afterward. Today I felt amazing. I felt so strong and clean and capable. I rode Schwinny back to campus, and then I decided to walk to lunch because it was so beautiful outside.

I looked at everything, the sky, the buildings, the sidewalk, the trees and their colorful falling leaves, and I found that even biking is too fast for appreciating the world I'm passing through. I believe if I spent a day sitting outside, I would find that walking is too fast, too. Even sitting may be too fast.

I loved walking. I loved the motion, and I thought of Caswell's book, An Inside Passage. Walking is good for the soul. I said hello to everyone I passed whether they looked at me or not.

I had a nice lunch, and sat comfortably with two strangers. I usually eat alone, either to think or out of laziness. When I left, I meandered around campus for a while just to watch the world.

My face is working. It's slow, but I don't feel so frozen. Normally I feel stuck and have to think about smiling, laughing, or anything else. But today I've been able to react to things almost easily for the first time in months. I think about a year, actually. Or maybe longer.

When I went with everyone on the art trail, I felt able to talk to everyone. That isn't to say I did a very good job of it, but it was amazing to feel that way. I was so happy. I wanted someone to ask "How are you?" so that I could say "Absolutely fantastic," but I didn't feel that I had to. I was so happy. I still felt a fundamental separation from humanity, but I felt much, much closer than I have in such a long time.

I also got Dr. Smith's message of appreciation today. He's so incredibly kind, to send us a message just to say he's proud of us and to hang in there.

This was the best day I've had in months. Usually I feel I'm made more of thoughts than physical substance. I'm usually more like a ghost. Today I was human.

So here it is. Proof. It's possible.

I just want you to know. The world is incredibly beautiful. Your life is worth living, and worth defending. It doesn't matter how strong your attacker is, human or otherwise. Move with it. It doesn't matter if you are small. You are strong.

Don't hold back. Live.

The Trick of It

Today was a good day.

I made it to Spanish class on time. On a Tuesday. That means 8:30. That's right. 8:30 found me sitting in the right section of the room, ready to be assailed by another language.

In Caswell's class, I performed my first warrior exam, and survived just fine. I just so happened to get the story about depression, so I had plenty to talk about, and several people said during the feedback time that they were glad I got that quote. It was a really nice class today. Someone even remarked about how happy I was. If other people notice, that's a good sign.

I got my essay back from Caswell---the highlight of the day. I tried not to sound too eager when I asked him at the end of class, but when he said "Oh! I almost forgot..." and opened a folder full of loose paper, I thought--yes!

I spent every day since turning in that paper anticipating getting it back, hoping for those words in friendly blue ink... Bliss is getting an essay back from Caswell.

Physics... I was more prepared for the quiz than I usually am. Much more than usual. Yesterday I went to the library, put myself in a little cubicle, and read the chapter. I made a start on the homework, but I didn't have time to get all the way through it. But it's a good start.

Sadly, almost the entire quiz revolved around a bunch of math I'm not very good at. I don't think I did very well. But I certainly tried. Maybe next time I'll work on the homework on several different occasions, have it finished in advance, and really be prepared for a quiz.

I was a little sad about that.

Then I made this ridiculous decision to eat lunch. That's a healthy thing to do, but I had my honors advising at 1:30, and I didn't have my schedule planned out. I think it's good, actually, that I ate lunch, because I don't think I would have figured out my schedule in time anyway. I ended up having to reschedule the advising.

That's okay. I'll have time to do it tomorrow, because Wednesdays are good days as long as I don't fall asleep. 

But at the time I was very upset. It was a good day so far, but all it takes sometimes is a bad feeling about a physics quiz and a lot of anxiety about talking to the honors college people. Telling them, no, I'm most likely not in good standing with the honors college right now. Planning my schedule is just an overwhelming thought. I need to talk to Suzie, too, and one thing this semester has taught me is that scheduling is extremely important.

So I rode back to Gordon, sat on the sidewalk, and started crying. There's something about crying on a sidewalk that is profoundly sad.

I was very aware that this was irrational. I know everything will be okay. So logical, and so ineffectual against my stubborn heart, or neurotransmitters as it were. Who knows? But I could see it, and it was quite obvious to me that crying on the sidewalk and thinking about how sad that is was not a constructive thing to do. I couldn't stop. So I called Terri. I felt bad about calling her... isn't it awful to call someone because you're sad? It seems like such a selfish thing to do. I try not to call people or otherwise let them know when I'm that upset. I don't want to spread my misery.

I think it was selfish of me to call Terri, because I know my negativity must have been draining for her, and I made her worry, but she helped me a lot. She told me to go for a bike ride. I rejected it at first. There's so much to do... but I had to shock myself out of my irrational misery, so I went.

I rode to Tech Terrace and explored until I found Caswell's house. I didn't stop, of course. He probably wasn't there, and it would have been ridiculous anyway. But I did walk down the alley behind his house, and it was incredibly beautiful.

I came back feeling much better, and I got a few things done. I scheduled my follow-up doctor visit, did my Spanish homework, and took a shower. Then I lay down in my bed and talked to Jacob, and read the beautiful words written in friendly blue ink again.

And now it's time for sleep. I will sleep, and my heart will reset with the morning. I'll go to Spanish class on time. I won't fall asleep when I come back, and I'll get as much done as I can.

My heart will unwind like a music box as the day goes on, clicking slowly through the afternoon. I know the notes will space out in the evening, and the cogs will heave painfully against each other to force the tinny tones into the air, falling heavier with each strike. I know they will creak to a despondent stop and need to be rewound again.

But I also know the trick of it. The trick of it is not to fear the silence. Silence is music, too.

To Heal a Soul and What Ocurred to me at Laura and Terri's Apartment

Who knows what a soul is? I can't say I do. But I do know they need regular healing.

I feel everything in my solar plexus. Every emotion is centralized there, and I feel everything in colors, density, weight and lightness. Most of the time I carry a colorless weight.

Some things make it seep away for a while.

One of those is Celtic music and Sugar Brown's. Being in this golden place of dim lights and deep earth tones, of people talking and laughing over the smell of rich coffee... sitting at little round tables and in brightly colored comfy chairs... listening to the patient rush of Celtic music, and seeing these people perform... doing what they love to do, living in their music--it's incredible. It heals the soul.

People are so beautiful.

The world is so beautiful.

While sitting on the couch in the apartment, I looked out the glass door. I looked at the world outside, and the concrete of the little porch. I thought about how strange it is to go so many places when there's so much where we are. I could spend an entire day in their living room, actively observing, and not see everything around me.

Every particle has a wealth of character, and even more so do the things we can't see.

I wrote a poem I didn't expect, but it's on the silly side... I thought a few brief things I'd like to post, though:

Look deeper.
Meaning is waiting.
Life is waiting.
Hope is waiting.
Always.

I recommend taking a close look at a wooden table, a counter top, a wall, or maybe a carpet. If you're outside, try a tree trunk, a fallen leaf, the petal of a flower, or a blade of grass. Look at anything. Everything has an intricate grain.

Thank you Laura, Glen, Terri, and Ty.

I love you.

Master Caswell's Second Essay

"Write about a place you like to call home" 

I thought this was the most difficult essay I've ever written, but it's actually the most difficult anything I've ever written. I wanted to make this "both happy and sad, like me," but I don't know how well I did in the happy department.

I learned a lot while thinking and writing this essay. I could feel myself learning. It was incredible. I've never learned so much about writing as I have in this class.

I stayed up until 2 in the morning the night before workshop day trying to finish my draft. I spent hours on it, but I felt so awful and was so stuck that I still didn't get much done. I finally went to sleep dreading the morning. I tried to get up early to print it before class, but of course that didn't work.

I had to tell Caswell that I didn't have a draft to read. I could say that to my high school teachers without flinching because they didn't care overly much about the creative process of writing. They were all about grades and responsibility. But Caswell... to say that to Master Caswell, someone who cares about my writing enough to make comments in friendly blue ink... I dreaded that, and I felt sick saying it.

I don't know what I expected, really. Just a look of disappointment, a statement that points would be deducted later for not having it today, or a simple, dismissive "Okay." Something like that. But instead he said "Well. You'll just have to tell us about it and we'll have a sort of conversation instead. Good?"

Oh, Caswell... if you knew how kind that was.

I felt better knowing that my essay would still get sort of workshopped. I very much needed it. But I was also nervous about this "conversation." It was a lot to explain and a lot to remember, and yet again I was choosing to share painful personal information, and I worried what people would think about that. I also worried that they would think it ridiculous that I was trying to fit so much into one essay.

But when it was my turn, I found words. Not the best words, but fairly clear ones. As I talked about it, seeing Caswell nod from across the circle kept me going, and I eventually finished describing my 5 pages of rambly draft.

The first thing anyone said was "Wow. You have a lot to write about," but he didn't say that it wouldn't fit in one essay.

I felt so much better just telling people about it. I kept the actual essay to myself for weeks because I could see how it should go, and I thought it could be really powerful if I finished it. So I didn't want anyone to see it until it was finished. It felt much better to tell people about it, though, and I realized by keeping it secret I missed a huge part of writing it.

Something Caswell is teaching us that is extremely difficult for me to accept is that most of the time the first paragraph or two we write will need to be thrown out later. Tossed, entirely. He says that usually just gets our thoughts going, gets us used to weaving them into a thread instead of a pile.

My initial intro to this paper talked about memory. Some of it was pretty. But I realized that obviously, since I'm writing about home and a time when I was very young, a reader can already tell it's difficult to remember. People already know what that's like. For a few moments, it killed me to throw it out. To get around that, I saved it elsewhere, just for the prettiness. It still bothered me to completely remove an entire paragraph like that. But then, after getting over it, after reading my essay again, I realized that by doing that my paper now started exactly where it needed to. I realized Caswell is right.

I love writers.

Also, Laura, thanks for being my first reader. Your comments were very helpful, but I didn't have time to implement many of them. This essay could have used another week, really. But I'm very glad you read it before I turned it in, and I'm very grateful for the title.

Jacob, thanks for putting up with all that thinking.

So, here it is, in all its length and imperfections. Like a marathon, I'm just happy it's finished.

Fist on a White Door
 

Wheeling, West Virginia 1990

My mother tells me we lived in the hills, with apple trees and rain, with long, winding dirt roads and wild blackberries and raspberries. There were gardens and pies and days full of sunshine. If I was lost, my mother found me in the garden, digging up potatoes and dropping them in baskets while our huge English mastiff Plato kept watch.

West Virginia. Mountains, rain, illness, and poverty. One of the poorest states in America, but as a child, all I knew was that it was beautiful. All I remember now is warmth and leafy giants with arms full of golden apples. I do not remember any of the houses my family lived in when I was very young. My maternal grandmother’s house, nestled between a creek and a mountain, is what lingers in my mind.

Her house was my first home. The sidewalk in front felt like laughter, like tears, the garden in back like a happy sigh, and the porch swing was deep, steady breathing. In the arms of that swing, every trouble in the world could vanish with a kick of my feet. Her little house, with its low, sloped ceilings that hugged the furniture, was where my older sister and I ran when we were not supposed to, where I learned to roll a ball of yarn, and discovered the vast mysteries hidden within a basement. In the grass of my grandmother’s front yard, I had conversations with ants and caught fireflies in glass jars. I skinned my knees and broke my nose in that yard. On the sidewalk I chased ducks with my older brother and tried to pin the world down with chalk. At the edge of the creek across the street, embedded in the earth just beyond a wall of evergreen trees, I learned to skip stones.

All I knew was that it was beautiful. But illness and poverty moved my family to Texas when I was six years old. My father and I were both hospitalized with pneumonia, and jobs were impossible to find. I am told I nearly died twice when I was four, so my parents sought a new state with more employment and cleaner air.

Cooper, Texas 1996

Population 2,150. A lazy town where one can always find cows and fundraisers without looking. Since moving there, this is the town I write in the “permanent address” box of all the paperwork I fill out.  

After staying for a while in several temporary places, we moved into a two story white house on the outskirts of town. It is easy to find; go to the museum, the old railroad tracks, pass the Feed Store, make your way around a bend in the road (watch the holes), and there it is, leaning on an overgrown lawn amid clusters of pine, oak, and pecan trees.

The house is beautiful from afar. Closer, it is still beautiful, but in a sad, neglected way. The roof caves in at some places, the paint is peeling, the porch always wears a heavy set of junk, like too much jewelry, dozens of spider webs adorn every corner, and the whole house leans and shifts with the seasons. Some doors open only in the summer, others only in winter.

In that sad, neglected way, it is incredibly beautiful.

The inside is much the same, but more cluttered and even lazier. Nothing ever quite gets done there. There is simply too much to do. Hundreds of things get started, but most are fated to sit abandoned in corners, closets, the attic, and the hallways. The past is everywhere, watching, waiting, and none of us can escape it.

It was a sad place, but I had two havens there. The first was the yard around the house and the pasture behind it. I spent most of my time wandering around outside, talking to the grass, trees, and birds, catching butterflies and grasshoppers, and going on adventures with walking sticks that I found beneath a massive pecan tree beyond the back door. The second was the kitchen, my nighttime sanctuary. In the kitchen, I read books, made tea, conversed with spoons, and watched Nick@Nite. There I found solace in the dark when the rest of my family was out or elsewhere in the house.

There was beauty there, and plenty of happy things, but my memory of the house is stained by the anger. My house was a place of slamming doors, my father the man behind the knob. When I try to remember what exactly he was so angry about, details elude me. Like the subtle humming of a refrigerator, or the high-pitched whine hidden within the organized noise of a television, over time, that constant presence becomes so normal and expected that one no longer hears it. That anger scarred me, but I can’t fully remember a single specific incident. Only fragments.

I remember…

Slamming doors, footsteps that rattled the floor, the terrible flash of his eyes, the awful timbre of his voice tearing the air in front of me, a long, rigid crack in the wood—the mark of a fist—on a white door.

A question directed to me, my mother’s answer, and his shouted reply. “Is your name Tracey? I didn’t ask you, so shut your mouth!” the sharpness of his tone, and the sickening contrast as he turned to me, eyes full of what might have resembled kindness if I tilted my head a certain way and lied to myself long enough. “What were you saying, Tracey?” Voice full of feigned kindness, as if he could get me on his side.

I remember that razor sharp voice, the immediate tensing of my every muscle. A wave of fear coursed through me every time, fresh and raw, no matter how old I grew. Staring at the new crack on the door, the legacy of an angry man, I remember various culprits sitting embarrassed on the kitchen table—late bills, forgotten permission slips, a broken dish, bad news in the mail. There was nothing to do after he stomped away, nothing to do but stare at the table blankly and feel the pressing weight of assumed guilt. We all felt it in silence.

Later, under the familiar veil of normalcy, my mother spoke in calm, understanding, reassuring tones. She carefully placed the blame on herself—he would not have gotten so upset if she had seen that bill at the bottom of the mail, she had not interrupted him, or she had caught the falling bowl. She apologized to us, as if her fist marred the wall, as if her words marred our hearts. It meant nothing but sadness. I tried to tell her that something was wrong here.

And she said, in this tired voice, “He’s your father,” as if that justified everything.

Lubbock, Texas 2009

We left at four in the morning. My older sister began the long drive through the dark, and we made our escape. Everything was packed light so that we only needed to make one trip. We drove in shifts and stopped only when absolutely necessary until, six hours later, we arrived in Lubbock, Texas, population 212,169. Every passing mile filled me with an exhilarating sense of liberation.

Lubbock is flat, wide, and open, with the largest sky I have ever seen. I stepped out of the car, stretching my arms up to that huge sky, and basked in the bright morning light. I felt the tension seep out of me from my fingertips.

I was a college student, six glorious hours from home, and free.

We arrived a week before classes started, and I helped my sister move into her new apartment. I carried in clothes, lamps, and cardboard boxes full of books. My sister and her roommate filled the apartment with art, and their friends from two doors down filled it with music. The sweet sounds of mandolin, banjo, and guitar sang from their fingertips as we unpacked or cooked dinner in the tiny kitchen. A friendly, life-sized stick man stood against one wall, welcoming everyone who entered. This was a place where no one’s word was law, and I could laugh and speak my mind. This was a new place, a new city, a new day, and all the dust came from the land outside.

Later in the week, I marveled that I had been happy for five days in a row, and was awed when this streak continued. My sister helped me move into my dorm room at Texas Tech University, where I discovered I had the incredible power to Do Things. In a single day, I opened a bank account, bought a computer, and acquired a photo ID—things that might have taken a month or two in Cooper. I went to my first college class, and began meeting people with different ideas and philosophies, people who previously existed only in books.
For three blissful weeks, I was happy. I was free.

Until I realized that it follows me. Until something crept in at the edges, a familiar feeling of nameless dread, a familiar pain I don’t understand. Until I realized…

Home is haunting me.

It slips back in through phone calls and emails and the approach of holiday breaks. The calendar reminds me that I still have to go back. And I know when I do, that tired house will still be where I left it. The dark hallways will be waiting, preserving the past while I have lived in the future.

I began to understand the appeal of burning bridges, eliminating links to the past, and beginning anew. I began to wish I would never see that town again, that home of old dust and sadness, never hear my father’s thundering voice, or see that rigid crack on the door. I thought about Oregon and financial independence. I thought about fire.

As the weeks went on, I realized something else; bridges are rarely made of wood anymore. The bridges to my past are made of stone and steel. Home, each one I find, both beautiful and painful, is etched into my being. I was shaped by the rain of West Virginia and the dust of that East Texas house, by the leaves of apple and pecan trees. The sun is in my skin. The air is in my blood.

I could light bonfires on those bridges, but nothing would change. The path would still be open, only scarred black and covered in ash and the smell of smoke. I could run from it, but it would always follow me, always haunt me.

I must go back.

Even if I chose not to return physically, my feet would cross those bridges again. Lacking transportation and financial independence, Thanksgiving and Christmas will find me back in that old house. I know I must return periodically over the next few years, but afterward I will not stay. Oregon is calling me.

First, I must make my peace.

Now, when I think of home, I like to imagine a new one, built very, very carefully. I think about how much I would love to be a mother, how much I want to tell my children stories, and show them how beautiful the world is. Someday I will make a new home. It may be a house, an apartment, or it may be a bicycle and a backpack. I may have a family, or I may be alone.

I am not certain exactly what I will do, but I know one thing I will absolutely never do. I will never allow anyone who finds rage in things like lost luggage, interruptions, and unexpected inconveniences to dwell in my home. I refuse to allow anger to pervade my walls. I will never let the imprint of a fist decorate my door.

I will make my peace.

Usually, being alone is what I do.

But it's awfully painful sometimes.

Por Favor, Dígame un Cuento

This probably isn't correct, but I wanted to write a Spanish poem. At the moment, I'm tired of English.

Por Favor, Dígame un Cuento

Hola,

Vivo aqui, tambien.

¿Sabias que

el mundo es lindo?

es tan lindo,

y aun más lindo

como piensas lo es.

Necesitas saber

Te amo,

a pesar de todo.

Y en esencia,

El mundo,

El universo,

Todo de existencia,

Y cada criatura lo dentro,

En esencia,

Todo

está bien.

Ven,

Te contaré un cuento.

Storytime

I wonder how long it would take to ride to Hester's...

It isn't so far, is it?

I want to read Where the Wild Things Are. I don't think I'll be seeing the movie... I don't know if I could handle it. That story is powerful. Portrayed on a massive screen, in graphics sharper, colors more vibrant than reality... powerful.

I just realized it doesn't matter how long it would take to ride to Hester's because I don't have any money at the moment. She probably doesn't have the book, anyway. What with the movie coming out this Friday, surely lots of other people felt compelled to go find it...

I'm not sure if I ever heard the story when I was little, and I'm fairly certain I've never read it. I heard it first in Spanish, con sus garras terribles... And a year later in English, performed by a high school guy at a theatre competition.

I have a powerful desire to be told stories.

Maybe this weekend there will be stories in New Mexico. I hope so. I'm going to ask...
I want to find a library that has Storytime, and sit on the floor with a bunch of children and be amazed by the power of words that paint pictures. I'm not sure if they would let me, being old and everything...

The library!!!

Tech has a library! Of course! Does Tech have children's books? I rather doubt it, but I could find out...

Alas... I have a draft to write, a poem to edit, a physics test to study for, and some silly Spanish something to do. And I have a million things to say.

Another time, perhaps...

To Trust the Floor

Irimi...

Entering,

Raise your hands,

Raise your eyes,

Raise your mind,

Watch,

Settle to stillness,

Listen.

Ukemi,

To trust the floor,

Become a ball,

Fall.

Eye to eye,

Toe to toe,

The memory of hesitation,

Disappears in the silence,

In the moment,

Before the strike,

Yes,

The hands know the air,

The body knows the motion,

I trust the floor.

Aikido,

The way

of adapting the spirit,

The way

of moving,

Dance of gentlest death.

Irimi...

--I do not fear the night.

Getting Somewhere

This is the most difficult essay I've ever written.

So far I've spent a week thinking. A draft in two days? Right. (Don't worry, I didn't have to turn it in; that was just to get us started.)


The prompt was something like "write about a place you like to call home." I don't quite remember. He tells us our prompts in person at the end of class, but the way he says it, it's more of an idea than an order, and the exact wording escapes me even when I write it down at the time. It's both frustrating and liberating. Ultimately more liberating than frustrating.

I love this class.

What is home?

I wrote this around 2 in the morning one night. I swear I couldn't have written it at a more reasonable hour:

Home. That's a powerful word.

Master Caswell, you ask me where home is--you ask me to figure out the core of who I am and how I got that way. You ask me to paint my dreams and visit my nightmares. I almost want to write about what it's like to think about it. It's a journey by itself. A long one.

It's funny how sometimes it's so obvious that everything happens for a reason. I'm going to counseling, Master Caswell asks me where home is, I'm trying to write letters to my father, my song...

If I'm too happy, I won't figure it out. If I'm too sad, I won't figure it out. So here I am in the middle.

Winter camping. Harsh environment, good gear.

I can't stop thinking at night. I lie there in the dark and there it is, all the world before me and I have to write it down.

I wonder what I think I'm doing.

Why do I have this unquenchable desire to figure everything out anyway? Why do I feel so driven to understand things? Would it matter if I did?

Rabbits seem to be happy. They don't know how to quanitfy the age of the planet or what it means to belong to a nation. But they seem okay without that.

What is the purpose of thinking? Why do we think?

Why am I awake?

I don't do things halfway, but nor do I ever finish them.

Where is home? Why does it matter? Why do I think? Why am I trying to write the world down?


Why am I awake?

It hurts so much.

I'm such a weird kid. It's just another essay. Write about home. Describe it. Turn it in.

Essays are never just essays. They're massive undertakings to see the entire world through a small piece of glass.


There are moments when I believe I know why novels are written. In those moments, I believe I know why we love music, and why we create art.

Sometimes I believe I can see everything, and everything in the world makes sense. There's just not enough time to think about it, to spin the words around it.


I wonder, why is it so weird to tell people what we're really feeling and what's really going on inside us, and inside our world? Why do we try so hard to maintain this vision of a well-to-do world where we always brush our hair and meet people for lunch on time?

I think we should talk about it. I don't think we should pretend it's easy to exist. It's okay to not brush your hair sometimes.


Nervousness is green, bright green, intense happiness is yellow, and depression is the rosy grey of raspberry tea with cream in it, gone lukewarm.


Why would I want to face my humanity? Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I write? What makes me think I can figure things out? Why am I doing this to myself? What makes me think I can do it? Why now?
And why does any of it matter?

I don't know.

Gathering information is no trick--the trick is putting it together and doing something with it.



So.


All of that heavy, jumbled mess has just possibly slowly gotten me somewhere. At dinner tonight, I was sitting by myself with my two pages of so called pre-writing--a mix of printer type and unruly inked-in phrases--when a possible layout occurred to me. I think I may have found a way to write this essay so that it's both happy and sad, like me.

Mostly, I hope you're having an amazing Friday. 

Hay Tanto Que Hacer

Pero, que lindo el mundo es...

Another Time

I'm wondering, what would you really like to do?

Right now, I'd like to lie on the sidewalk in the sunlight and write children's stories about monsters and stories about onions who play violin.

A man in a suit, a very, very nice suit, extends his hand to me and says "Another time, perhaps." Yes, another time. Today I'll take his hand again.


I'm really not much of a poet. But I think this is my poem this week:

Another Time


Tell me,
What would you really like to do?

I was thinking,
Right now,
What I'd like to do,
Is lie on the sidewalk,
Barefoot,
In the sunlight,
And write children's stories
about monsters,
Write children's stories
about onions
who play violin.

When I look up,
As I always must,
There stands a man,
A man in a suit
--a very, very nice suit--
Extending his hand to me,
He says

"Another time,
perhaps,"

And today,
I take his hand again.

Thank You for the Soup Sister

RainDrop Soup

When I'm sad,
I make soup.

Steam,
And the sweet scent
of solace,
Tiny wisps of water,
Rising,
A billowing cloud,
Kisses my face.

The sweetest,
Heady scents,
Breathing deeply,
I feel like honey...

Soup is for when it's cold outside,
When fingertips glow red,
And the wind sings through every crack in the wall,
Soup is for sore throats,
Sore, aching hearts,
Soup is for sadness,
Soup is for missing someone,
For lonely,
Heavy thoughts,
Soup is for healing the soul.

I found the perfect soup--

Ingredients:
-2 cups fresh rain drops
-1 cup deep blue sky
-1/2 tsp. morning light
-1 fallen star
-rosemary and clouds to taste

Dance in the rain,
And jump in every puddle,
Just enough to get thoroughly soaked,
Then wring out your hair and clothes,
Until you've got 2 cups,
Pour,
Sprinkle,
Or drizzle,
Into a pot,
Then add your 1 cup of deep blue sky,
And stir,
Over medium heat,
Stir,
Stir,
This takes time,
Keep stirring,
Until smooth and thick,
Then toss in 1/2 tsp. of morning light,
And at last,
Drop in a fallen star.

Don't forget to make a wish.

Dust with rosemary,
And clouds,
To taste.

Master Caswell's First Essay

Tomorrow's the day; I turn in my first essay to Caswell.

My prompt was to "write about an encounter you've had with a wild animal" the word 'wild' being a loose term. I wanted to post it on here because my first post to this blog included the encounter I chose to write about. I didn't let myself read the old post until after I wrote the essay. It's kind of interesting to see how memories change.

You know what's really funny? When I read this in class during workshop time, people thought it sounded beautiful and wanted to go there. Before the final draft, it wasn't especially clear where I was, so they thought it sounded really cool. Cooper? Beautiful? And then I realized it's the same phenomenon as me thinking Lubbock is beautiful when a lot of people who grew up here hate it. It's just like having fun washing someone else's dishes...

Anyway... here it is:

My Most Attentive Audience

On sad days, lonely days, I sometimes find my thoughts too heavy to carry. I’ve discovered over time that motionless thoughts only grow heavier, so on those days, I set them aside for a while. I pick up a musical instrument, leave my shoes inside, and walk out of the house.

One particular day, I picked up a relatively new instrument—the pennywhistle. My new friend was a very simple creature. She was made of a rolled sheet of tin capped by a black plastic mouthpiece, almost small enough to fit comfortably in my pocket. Small, rounded holes of various sizes lined her body, and she wore an even coat of dark green paint.

The pennywhistle is a very friendly instrument; anyone can play a pennywhistle. Simply close all the holes and blow. The notes ascend with the musician’s fingers, and when the player wants to change octaves, he or she simply blows harder. The drawback to this is that low notes are quiet, high notes are loud, and not much can be done about it. The pennywhistle is a very fun instrument to play, very exciting if you are the musician, but typically grating on the nerves to others unless played very well. When played well, the whistle sings pure tones, slips gently through the air like flowing water, high-pitched and sweet. Or, when played not so well, as is more often the case, high-pitched and raspy. And so Penny and I sought a large, open, unpopulated environment.

Pennywhistle in hand, I walked outside. I felt the ground changing beneath my feet—the coarse wood of my porch deck, the gentle prod of gravel, the sharp pressure of rock—until the land gave way to grass. Typically spending my time inside or wearing shoes, my feet are very sensitive. When I walk outside barefoot, I am acutely aware of every object, every change of the ground. The heavy thoughts fall as I slowly escape the house behind me, and my focus shifts to my feet, to the feel of the grass.

That day I walked over a spectrum of grass, some patches rough as sandpaper, sharp as rocks, and some deliciously soft, like strands of spun cotton. I walked over grass and twigs, fallen leaves and pecan shells, until I reached the center of a large field marked by a fence at its far end. I chose this place because it was a completely open field, empty of buildings, trees, or bushes. When I lay on my back in that spot, I could look up and see nothing but the sky, could fill my eyes with the sky. With nothing but sky in my vision, nothing but shades of blue, puffs of white, streaks of grey, I could imagine that the rest of the world did not exist, or at least that I did not live there. I could imagine I was a cloud or a little piece of the atmosphere. In the freedom of an undivided sky, I could imagine a million things.

There was magic in that sky and in that bed of grass, but there was also reality jutting at the edges. It was a typical field in rural Texas, complete with a pasture beyond the wire fence, a mobile home off to the side that wasn’t going anywhere, a few bits of plastic stuck to tree branches, the spore of people who chose to mess with Texas. There was birdsong, the overwhelming screech of cicadas, and the occasional moan of a truck begging for a muffler, choking on exhaust. There is a quality to that land, to that air, that hazes the brain and imbeds a chronic laziness in the bones. But as with all places, if you waited, there was quiet, and if you looked, there was beauty.

When I reached that spot, I lay back on the ground for a few moments, collecting myself in the expanse of air that stretched above me. Just a few moments, enough to remember how to breathe. Then I sat up, crossed my legs, and began to play.

I played hesitantly, fumbling gently through a simple scale. After a few minutes, I played freely, unafraid of misplaced notes and rhythms; these sounds were for no one but the field of grass, the sprawl of sky. I had brought no written music with me, so the songs I played followed the whims of my fingers. I played as I felt, as I thought. Just simple rhythms and unrefined nuances. The melody did not matter. I simply played.

Several minutes passed this way, the world around me calm and uneventful, surrounding me just as I left it—until I heard a sudden, unexpected sound. The sky above me was an unperturbed blue, so I was surprised to hear a sound like thunder. It came from behind me as a gradual crescendo, like the rolling of mallets on a timpani, but much heavier. I let the last note drift from my lips and turned in curiosity. When I turned, what filled my vision shocked me.

A cloud of black hurtled toward me.

A herd of bulls stampeded toward me.

I scrambled to my feet and stumbled backward a few steps, watching wide-eyed as the crowd of cattle approached. The bulls began to slow as they reached the fence, trampling to a stop at the edge. They settled, planted their hooves, and stood motionless. Watching me. Thirty or more large brown eyes, watching me. In silence.

Cows and bulls are a part of the landscape in rural Texas. They can be seen loitering in their pastures and moseying along fences from most roads, swinging their tails as if the air is thicker than water, chomping on grass at the laziest tempo with slack-jawed disinterest. They gaze out at the world blankly as if they know their end and can see no reason to move quickly in life. Bulls are large creatures, especially compared to small female humans. But like everything else, they look small from car windows.

Not at that moment. Sitting on the ground, just Penny and I, these dark giants towered over me. I felt the weight of their gaze on me and my little tin friend. They stared. Intently.

Surprise kept my feet rooted to the ground, but the unexpected adrenaline found expression in my fingers. In that surreal moment, an idea occurred to me; they had come to hear music. It was the most logical thought in the world at that time, so I decided to test it. I drew the pennywhistle to my lips and began to play a random melody. A few of the bulls took a couple steps closer, and then the bovine crowd continued as before, watching me, standing absolutely still, absolutely silent.

After about a minute, their constant gaze, the focused points of their huge eyes, was too unsettling; I allowed the music to drift into silence. Nothing changed. I took a few steps to the right, and every eye followed me. I began to play again and continued walking; the herd followed along the fence, step after deliberate step. Again, I stopped, and again, they stood waiting attentively. All of Texas had fallen away behind us. They were a crowd of breathing statues, and every brown eye remained fixed on me. Unnerved, I began to walk away, back toward the house.

Behind me I heard lowing, gradual, sporadic calls from the bulls until they became a chorus. I turned to see them all straining their necks over the fence and over each other, watching me walk away, calling after me. As the distance increased, a few gave up and broke away, ambling back in the direction they came. When I reached the porch and turned to look again, all but a few had ventured back. I stood and watched them go.

Finally, I could see nothing out of the ordinary—just an empty field, a pasture beyond it dotted with the black shapes of lazy bulls scattered across the land. I stood at the edge of my porch, left with nothing but my thoughts and the now silent whistle. I wondered if they had really sprinted across the field to better hear my music, or if I had imagined their attentiveness to me. What else could possibly invoke such behavior, such apparent reverence for such simple music? Why would such passive creatures stand so motionless and stare with such intensity? During that time, however brief, not a single one of them twitched an ear, shuffled a hoof, or swiped at a fly with his tail. They were absolutely motionless. I wondered.

Imagined or not, I’ve never had a better audience.

Cadence

This is sad, but it is temporary. It is now:

Sitting alone, staring into the depths of a cup of coffee.

Thinking is lonely.

I don't have any coffee. I see depths in everything. I stare.

It's lonely.

It hurts.

A world made of bells, made of strings and stretched membranes, made of bars, made of air columns, a world of bells that ring out fundamentals only at the right frequency, and all the rest is noise. A world full of overtones and people who hold their hands over their ears. Syncopated rhythms, triads, and fifths. Leading tones that seldom reach the tonic.

I am waiting for the tonic.

I can't reach the strings.

The Sadness is Sideways

I dreaded going to counseling today. I didn't want to go sit in a quiet, well-decorated room and talk awkwardly with a really nice woman. During the week, I was tempted to call and cancel the individual counseling because I was tired of thinking about everything. I wanted to pretend that it didn't exist and just be a happy little student at Tech and dedicate myself to going to Spanish class (which I did today, by the way), play beautiful music, write about the world... but happy students have to go home.

It's so hard.

It's been a very emotional morning. I read an opinions article today about America's dependency on prescription drugs and tendency toward hypochondria. I think that's a valid concern. America does seem to like her drugs, and I think some of that deserves investigation. For example, I personally don't understand why prescription drugs are advertised on TV. You only get them by prescription, through a doctor, and if you needed a medicine for something like bone loss, I would think your doctor would tell you. But I don't know really. Maybe there are good reasons.

Anyway, what bothered me about the article was some of the aggressive language it used. Most particularly, what bothered me was that the writer made a list of conditions that he believed to be good examples of things that attract hypochondriacs, and among them was ADD and "even anxiety". I immediately thought of a conversation I had with Glen. He told me a lot of things I didn't know, described to me how ADD affects the brain, how different chemicals interact and what they do to the body, explained how much it could vary from person to person and why that makes it so difficult to diagnose and treat.

In that same conversation, we talked about how sad it was that there were so many misconceptions about it and that society held such a negative view of it. The kind of view that says "it's all in your head" and makes people feel hesitant to take medicine for something that is a real physiological condition. The kind of view that says it's just a behavioral problem that can be 'fixed' with self-control. The kind of view that encourages the thought, though perhaps not always intentionally, that there is simply something wrong with you. You as a person, not you physiologically.

This article didn't strive to make points like that. This article was specifically referring to groups who abuse pharmaceutical drugs. Reading it just made me further appreciate the difficulty of that type of writing. The author made a statement midway into the article saying "I am not trying to bash pharmaceuticals.", but ideally that statement wouldn't have been necessary. It's so difficult to find that balance, that turn of phrase that allows you to illuminate one group of a whole without looping them all together and causing offense. I know that article wasn't meant to be offensive, but that's how I felt reading it.

At the time I read it, I was about a half an hour away from going to counseling. I was still dreading it. I had a mantra in my head that went "I don't want to do this." When I left Gordon, I said to myself at the bottom of the staircase, "Grace, can I stay here with you? I don't want to go to counseling. I'm tired of doing scary things. I want to stay here and bake cookies with you..." Staircases echo, like they're listening.

If I know that everyone there is really nice and that they're there to help me, why am I afraid?

I think society tends to treat counseling the way it treats things like ADD. I thought about that on the way over. Even though I know these things aren't true, when I walk into the "mental health" section of the Wellness Center, I feel sick, and I think there's something fundamentally wrong with me and that's why I'm there, I think I'm weak and "messed up", I feel fragile, like I need to be on medication and be supervised when I use scissors.

That is "messed up."

I shouldn't feel that talking to someone is wrong.

I told my counselor that when I was really little, I asked my parents what counseling was. My father said "It's for people with lots of money who can't solve their own problems."

That's simply not true, John.

I'm going to counseling because the way I grew up has hurt me deeply. I'm going to counseling because I want to create positive change. I want to heal my family.

I shouldn't feel stupid for trying to heal my family. I know I'm not likely to succeed. I know it will probably stay the same, and might get worse. But I shouldn't feel stupid for trying.

I didn't want to go today. I'm absolutely terrified of it. It's like a hospital with a painted smile, the sterile scent sprayed with perfume. It's nicely carpeted floors, tidy rooms with comfortable furniture, lively house plants, soft-colored walls, kind receptionists who speak in calm tones and ask me my name. The whispered word "insane" hides in the corners in a sheep's costume. It's women carrying clipboards and air so still I feel that it shatters every time I move.

That's why I look nervous. Because I am absolutely terrified. I am adrenaline. It's that societal pressure--it gives everything a sinister cast because society says this just isn't something normal people do. Something must be wrong with me.

I didn't want to go today. I wanted to forget about everything and pull my blanket over my head. But I went, even though I had that mantra going in my head. I ascended the empty, echoing staircase and walked through the door that said "mental health." Just me and Good Omens walking over plush carpet.

Today my counselor told me that it's really admirable that I'm there and that I'm doing this as a college freshman.

Thank you!

I wanted to hug her! I needed to hear something like that so badly. She needs some kind of award. Counselors are so amazing. That is such an incredible skill, to know just what a person needs to hear, to know what to say. I'm terrified of what I'm doing and I'm sick of thinking about it all, it hurts to think about it, but I'm still doing it. Aren't there a bunch of high-minded quotes that say that's what courage is, doing something you need to do even though you're afraid?

Of course, sitting there, terrified, all I could do was say something like "I really appreciate that." I need to express that better to her. She needs to know how much I appreciate it.

I'm getting so tired of doing scary things, but little things like that help me believe I can make it. I'm going to counseling (something I never thought I'd do), wading through my first year of college, struggling against a history as a failing student, living with strangers, having teachers pay attention to my writing for the first time (caring about my thoughts and ideas... how incredibly strange), trying to assimilate into an ensemble, adjusting to the idea of adulthood, maintaining a long-distance relationship...

I think they call that sort of thing "transition."

That strikes me as silly. It sounds like the movement of gears or a period in history. I don't have a better word for it or anything, but... it just seems so passive. It doesn't sound like the kind of thing that can make you plop down on the sidewalk and cry in public without being sure why.

I'm really glad I went to counseling today.

The first time, every minute was an hour, but this time I was actually surprised when she said we only had a few minutes left. I was still nervous, but much less so.

I told her about my idea to write a letter to my father and possibly implement parables. We talked about that more today, and she helped me see it in new ways and gave me a place to start. She cautioned me that I'm unlikely to get my father to change his behavior, but encouraged the effort. I almost cried when she said that. It sounded almost exactly like my mom saying "I can't change him." I don't want him to change, I want his actions to change. Even if he refuses to do that, does that mean she should live with it? I have to try something...

I think I'm going to do it as a series of letters that get deeper as they go. I was initially thinking of just one, but that's too much for one sitting. I may be able to gauge his reaction to them and alter the letters as I go, or stop if it's obvious that I'm failing miserably. I can give him the option to write back.

Even with someone helping me and checking my progress, maybe I'll never finish them. Maybe I'll never send them. Maybe I'll write a novel when I'm 40 about what might have happened if I had. The next several weeks will tell.

All of this has leaked over into songwriting. I was planning on writing a simple happy song about why I love the words "Good morning," so much, but other things happened. Now it's a sort of sad song about this. Professor Wilkinson says you can't write a sad song on ukulele. But I don't think I can write anything else. I think maybe it's possible, but with a ukulele the sadness is sideways, like a sad smile.

It's a sad song, but it's also hopeful. I really hope I finish it. If I do, I want to play it for you, sister.

Mija

I went to my first counseling session today. How absolutely terrifying. It must have been obvious, because my counselor said I looked uncomfortable. LOL. Very.

But it was good.

There is a beautiful cashier in Wall's Sam's Place. She calls me mija. I know I'm not the only one, that she calls everyone that, but I feel incredibly honored nonetheless. I wish I knew her name. I suppose I could ask, but that would be weird. It's weird enough that I'm writing about her in a blog.

I absolutely love it when people refer to non-blood relations as family members. When people call each other cousin, sister, daughter, etc...

In Spanish, hija means daughter. Mija means my daughter.

Solace in the Sound

Behind my face,
There is a door
that begs to be opened,
There is a conversation
that begs to be had.

Within my soul,
There is a part of me
that only wakes when it's raining,
There is a way of breathing,
A way of being,
that surfaces in damp air.

There is solace in the sound,
Of the sky falling down,
There is solace in the sinking,
Of my feet in the ground.

There is truth,
There is hope,
In the sky shifting,
From light to dark,
Dark to light.

Beyond my eyes,
There is a window
that begs to be opened,
There is a song
that begs to be heard.

On the surface of my skin,
There is a wall
that begs to be broken,
There is an empty house,
An empty room,
that begs for the living.

There are no visitors.

But there is solace in the sound
Of the sky falling down.