• There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. ~Ernest Hemingway

Tuesday, 13 October 2009

  • You come with the morning

    Waking up should be the best feeling in the world. New days are fresh starts. Maybe a bird is chirping, and you could act like some kind of princess who joys in greeting the rising sun with a song, eager to clean the cottage and discover love. But when days and years pile and you wake up to a developed compost of recycled ideas—expectations, even—that haven’t seen fruition (because you’ve plucked up tender greens, knowing you could plant better), it’s hard to appreciate that maybe the soil is ideal for planting. It’s hard to wake up to scratch paper. Maybe a fresh start isn’t what I want at all. Maybe I should have spent these years building. Like a college kid in his last semester who realizes he’d like to be a dentist, not a teacher, after all, I say starting over is discouraging. I say mornings come too cheery. I declare I’m rolling over and pulling up the covers to catch a bit more sleep.

    But I’m keeping one lid half open, because I know you’re going to come with the morning and remind me that it’s my favorite time of day. And when you do, this feeling is all out the window.

    So, thanks. In advance.


Thursday, 13 November 2008

  • Hey NPR...This I Believe

    I was staying with my aunt and uncle for the summer, helping with both the six children and the business.  It was Sunday morning, and I knew what that meant.  It meant stirring pancakes, flipping on lights and pulling feet out of beds, changing diapers, resolving disputes about the skirt all three sisters wanted to wear, mixing orange juice, braiding hair, gelling hair, tossing out the burned pancakes, ironing little wrinkled shirts, locating a stray button, sewing said button back on in a less skillful and more “will do” kind of way, and finding, finding, finding.  These kids could lose the very shoe tied to their foot in less than three seconds, and in a place you wouldn’t think to look until Tuesday.  We had to find glasses, lip gloss, black socks, scriptures, pacifiers, earrings, and mother’s marbles. 

     

    At the table, I tried to answer questions about Old Testament sacrifices.  I talked about the sacrifice of God’s Only Begotten Son and explained the significance of sacrificing the firstborn pure lamb...apparently they had never heard of Old Testament sacrifices...they were rather shocked. "They would kill a lamb?!"  I knew I’d made progress when ten-year-old Brooklyn made a connection; she gasped, jumped up on her chair, and pointing at the oldest child said, “So if we were sheep, we’d have to sacrifice Sammy?!” Everyone doubled over in loud and animated laughter.  When I cleaned up later I found powdered sugar all over the floor and in the salt, syrup drizzled over the plums in the fruit bowl, and bits of eggs and pancakes on the floor and in the shoe that five-year-old Cameron left on the table. He had to wear his sandals to Church because we couldn't find the other one.

     

    On the way to Church, my aunt tried her hand at a teaching moment.  She asked, “Children, are those men on the motorcycles smart or stupid?” They all knew the answer to that.

    “Stupid!”

     “Yes, and why are they stupid?”

    They thought for a moment, then Madison offered, “Because they’re wearing bandanas!”

     “No,” corrected my aunt, “it’s because they’re not wearing helmets.”

    “Or seatbelts!” chimed in Brooklyn.

    For a moment we rode in silence until Cameron whined from the back, “Mommy, I need to go to a chiwopractor.”

     

    I believe in children, from sandy toes and bleach-blonde hair to grape-stained Kool-Aid lips.  Children bring joy to the world, and joy should be brought to children.  Their innocence and complete sense of reliance on others is inspiring.  They trust you, they want you, they need you, they teach you.

     

    I believe that children are the best dose of medicine for ailments of pride, discouragement, and disbelief.

     

    Children know how to suck the marrow out of life.  They hate going to bed for an afternoon nap because they’re afraid they’ll miss something.  They want to drink it all in, learn all there is to learn.  They live with imagination and say what needs to be said.  Their mistakes don’t embarrass them as it would an adult.

     

    I believe that children are not the latest Hollywood fad; children are not accessories.  Instead they are a great gift with which we have been entrusted.  They are family.  They are life-long friends.

     

    It has been a few years since that summer with my cousins in Colorado, but I still get calls from my cousins, who want to tell me about their Halloween costume, or, in Brooklyn’s case, a friend named Emily who just had surgery to “take out her independence.”

     

Monday, 03 December 2007

Thursday, 29 November 2007

  • Suicide and Depression: A Disturbing Trend

    Depression, cutting, suicidal tendencies, anxiety, etc. are all very real and difficult issues to deal with. However, there is a disturbing trend developing to embrace and even encourage negative thoughts, expressions, and actions. I have noticed this particularly in many pieces of creative writing I have read lately. I understand the need to "express" negative feelings, and have often done so myself. It can be therapeutic. However, when "raw" emotion and uncontrolled rantings are valued above refined feelings and developed philosophical thought, there is a problem. There seems to be a culture of unhappy people who band together to encourage each other's misery. I am convinced that happiness truly is the object of every person's desire; there is something carnally comforting in harboring grudges, anger, sadness, and loneliness, and perhaps this comfort is what such people seek from each other. However, holding onto and developing these feelings can only result in a decrease of happiness. I believe that, at least to a significant degree, everyone is in control of his/her own happy state. Instead of letting negative feelings fester, people should seek out happiness. I am not suggesting that the process of securing happiness is not often difficult, but it should be the pursuit nevertheless. Perhaps many just don't know where to find it...

  • Open Adoption

    It is not until after the Earth twists
    Through heavy clutches of lethal winter
    That in capers Spring. She conceitedly sits
    In vases and gathers in baskets, or
    Spindles through gardens and weighs down the trees
    Flaunting songs of birds, and brilliant blushes,
    Bursts of swollen peaches, and dripping greens…

    And when she is tired of promises,
    What catches her fancy, that she ups and
    Leaves that sweet fruit to slop off limbs and spoil?
    What matter so pressing, what lure so grand
    That justifies this constant betrayal?
    Child, you can rely more on this dirt
    Than on Spring’s fickle flowers of comfort.

  • More October

    I always smell October coming,
    And feel it’s wet creep up my pant legs,
    Almost to mid-calf, after certain puddles.

    Watch it fall
    Purple
    From a tree.

    Hear it patter on the stair,
    Dripping beneath the yellow lamp post

    Its blazing orange engorging pumpkins.
    Cinnamon, or chile on the stove.
    Tinging my extremities with cold.
    Its eyes fill every space
    Between the stitches of this red yarned hat.

Friday, 16 November 2007

  • Renewal

    Today I noticed red in my soft hair as it blew into my face on my way home. I breathed in Tresseme and cold grass. Looking out the window one could be fooled by the brilliant sun; it was cold. It's funny that people shrink when it is cold--I am no exception. I raised my shoulders to my neck inside the synthetic fur-lined jacket I so often borrowed from Annalyse and watched my feet slowly shuffle uphill. It's ridiculous watching your feet that way; they seem unattatched. Perhaps they moved so slowly because I hadn't eaten anything today. I was grateful for the weight of my backpack which almost overruled the weight I carried inside. The seven minute walk took fifteen this afternoon, and when I reached the gold malibu I stopped and stood and stared into the horizon before reaching in my bag for the keys. I didn't want to drive today. The engine, the heater, and the music started as I turned my key, and I was out of the parking lot before the end of the song registered; Rigoletto. When I pulled into the Aspen Village parking lot I felt, rather than heard, the powerful tones rip through my preocupation and demand my attention. I left the car running and closed my eyes. My heart rose and fell with the rippling vibrato of the male's tenor, and in my chest cavity on the right side I felt that familiar, soothing burn. It stitched up the tears there and pulsated, golden. I breathed slowly, steadily. The music intensified and swelled, louder and louder, until he sang "pain," the longest note in the song--the heart of it. I listened, and my brow creased. I felt the gold inside, and when the song ended, the last vibration silenced, my eyes sprung open and my hand shot out to turn the key. I opened the door, heaved my backpack, and faced the Rexburg temple. Angel Moroni, gold on top. I shuffled again, slowly, but not because of the weight this time. Carefully, up the stairs, then closed my squeaking door, dropped my backpack on the couch, and finally called my mother. I'm not very good at that; I go weeks, sometimes months, without calling. It must be my independence, but it's ridiculous, whatever it is. She's always exactly what I need, and I shouldn't have waited so long carrying everything.

    Because that everything is going to be ok.

lds_chick

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    • Name: Tina Marie
    • Birthday: 10/21/1986
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 3/25/2004

Profile Info

  • Favorite Books: I am a Boxcar Child. I’m detective Nancy Drew. I’m a Little Princess and an American Girl. I’ve eaten poisoned apples, spun straw to gold, discovered Treasure Island, and baked bread with a Little Red Hen. In sixth grade I obeyed my primitive instincts and responded to the Call of the Wild, surviving The Jungle with only a Hatchet. I’m a reader. I’m a writer. I’m a liver, a pretender, and a truth-seeker. Before that, though, I was a listener. “Three songs or one story?” It was our nightly decision. Sometimes I opted for the songs, because three is bigger than one, and I loved hearing “Once There Was a Chicken Who Would Say…”, especially when Dad sang; he messed up the song so entirely as to be certain to elicit the giggling that made Mom call from the other room, “Dan! You’re supposed to be putting them to sleep!” Most often, though, I chose a story. From Mom it was Dr. Seuss, Aesop, and Hans Christian Andersen; from Dad it was something disjointed about a dragon and a fair maiden about my height with my color of hair. And I couldn’t get enough of either. Soon they were both complaining about my unsocial behavior at home, and if chores weren’t done, the book I was currently reading was confiscated for terrible lengths of time. I recognized that the same wonderful feelings I got when hearing great musical pieces, exploring nature, and learning Truth at church were somehow similar to the feelings I got while reading. A turning point in my life was in elementary school; I can’t remember the grade, but it was between 1st and 4th. We were all in the library, as happened weekly, and I was standing in front of a rather tall bookshelf, asking the librarian to help me get down one of the latest books in the “American Girl” series. Her response startled me. “No, I’m afraid those books are much too advanced for you.” Shock turned quickly to indignation. I was no reading novice, and I had certainly been able to tackle books more difficult than “American Girl: Meet Samantha.” I explained that I owned several of the books in the series, but to no avail. There was only one thing left in my power; I took the matter up with Mom, who talked to my teacher, who talked to the librarian. I’ll never forget handing over that “special permission” slip to a reluctant Mrs. Gillespie, who didn’t say a word while she checked the book out to me. I learned that some part of me knew innately that reading wasn’t just my hobby or my privilege. It was my absolute right.