Mondegreen

According to Wikipedia:

A mondegreen is the mishearing or misinterpretation of a phrase as a result of near homophony, in a way that gives it a new meaning.

As many of you know, I mishear/misread/misspell things on a very regular basis. I usually keep them to myself, pause a second, reinterpret correctly, and move on. But they do add a rather humorous dimension to life! Anyway, here is the latest:

I'm reading Francis Chan's new book. Or rather, I've been meaning to read it. My mom had borrowed it from me for one of her trips and then tonight when I was packing for vacation she came in and I heard her ask, "Do you want to take a race in hell?"

Ummmm, no, that's not where I was hoping to go for vacation?? It's not really a destination race for triathletes, either... I replayed it over in my mind, trying to grasp any sliver of a context. Then I saw what she was holding.

She had said, "Do you want to take "Erasing Hell"?

Yes. Some good theological beach reading is now in store.

Real. [girls]. eat. plants!

I  think this will be my new mantra. :)

If you haven't seen the movie Forks Over Knives, you need to! It's a fascinating (okay, so it's also in my area of interest, but I think you will at least agree with me that it is an interesting) look at the foods we eat. It's based on the research and studies of a couple of doctors (one of which is from the Cleveland Clinic- yay Cleveland! ;) ) and presents some fairly compelling evidence.

Here are a couple trailers: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O7ijukNzlUg

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPJbYAYzP04&feature=related

I've watched several documentary-type movies on this subject and this is by far my favorite so far!

So go watch it! It will make you think and may even save your life. Seriously. Plus you'll understand my new mantra! :)

"Follow Me"

I recently had this refrain running through my head over and over again to a variation of a traditional Irish tune called The Chanter's Song. While I was hearing it, I kept picturing being surrounded by children somewhere in the Middle East, I think, and they were all vying for my attention, trying to pull me to their village to help them. I finally jotted down the lyrics in an effort to get it to stop repeating, so here you go:

There's a way 

through the wind and the sea.

All around they cried, "Follow me! Follow me!"

And I heard them laugh 

and I heard them scream.

All around they cried, "Follow me! Follow me!"

"Why," they ask,

"are you caught in a dream?

There's a world out here and we have many needs."

And they took my hands

and pulled me through their streets.

All around they cried, "Come with me! Follow me!"

And I said to them,

"It's not as easy as it seems.

I have school and debt and not many means."

And they faded fast

receding into dreams

and they called to me, "Come with me! Follow me!"

Saying:

There's a way 

through the wind and the sea.

All around they cried, "Follow me! Follow me!"

And I heard them laugh 

and I heard them scream.

All around they cried, "Follow me! Follow me!"

Raw Vegan Desserts

As you may know, I've been playing with the idea of going to a raw vegan diet and thought I'd test the waters a bit with some dessert recipes I found while doing a stellar job of procrastinating... ;)
The first is brownies and the recipe is here:
http://uncooking101.com/site/raw-food-recipe/caramel-fudge-brownies/

I didn't have lucuma so the frosting isn't caramel, but it is still very good! I ended up spreading the brownies into an 8x8 pan instead of 6x6 and then cut them into 36 squares and garnishing each with half a red raspberry. :)

The second recipe was Baby Blondies (recipe here: http://almostveganchef.com/2011/01/22/the-5-minute-single-serving-raw-vegan-blondie/ ) with chocolate ganache (recipe here: http://almostveganchef.com/2010/10/04/reviews-tropical-traditions-xagave/ )

Instead of making a single serving with the recipe, I pressed the dough into five smaller servings. I also took the vanilla option versus hazelnut in the ganache based on what was in the cupboard!

First attempt at intentionally raw vegan desserts has been deemed a success! :) I highly recommend the recipes and hope to pursue raw vegan foods in general (slowly transitioning from my cooked vegan diet, of course!).

Mission Accomplished.

Well this wraps up my fourth and final day of the juice reboot. Why not ten, you ask?
My purpose for this reboot was two-fold:

a) I wanted my mom (who has been doing this with me) to feel better from various ailments and adopt a healthier life style. I had told her that I would do it if she would do it and she has for three days (I started a day before her). At this point, she says she needs to have more than juice in order to do her jobs up to par, but has realized how unhealthy her diet was and wants to center her diet in the future around fruits and vegetables- which I'm thrilled about! :) She also plans to cut down her meat intake to once or twice a week (also fantastic!) and cut out white flour and refined sugar! We (I'm going to continue to eat what she eats, hence stopping the just juice portion) are going to continue to juice once to twice a day and to still just eat fruits and vegetables for probably around another five days, at which point we'll add in nuts, seeds, beans, etc. and then after that she can add back in moderate animal products if she wishes (I will not be eating the same as her in that case, though!).

b) I was impressed in the movie Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead by the need to give your digestive system a rest, which given our typical American eating patterns, we don't tend to do much. So, I'd say that four days qualifies for that. I do still want to do a ten-day reboot at some point (hopefully after I have a wide variety of really yummy juice recipes to live on!) but that will be slightly postponed for now.

From this mini-reboot:
- I've enjoyed clearer vision.
- My resting heart rate has come back down to 54, which is what it was when I was training pretty hard over two years ago.
- My body feels healthier in general and more ready to resume training (yay!), less sluggish, etc.
- I've learned some important lessons in nutrition and really experienced the difference on how you can feel on great fuel.
- I've also learned that it's okay to feel a little bit hungry. This is a very important lesson as I was starting to pick up a pretty nasty habit of diving into food given the slightest excuse of hunger, boredom, need for brainpower, etc. On the reboot, I was rarely not hungry, and learned to be okay with that.
- And yes, I also lost a little bit of weight. :)

So! I recommend to all of you to focus on fruits and veggies and experiment with how to make healthy living work for you! (And maybe you'll even do a little reboot yourself!)  :)

Going Green

Okay, well maybe not quite like that... ;)
This is more like it:

This is a green smoothie that I've been drinking for the past few weeks to phase myself in.
You can make it too! :)
- Start by putting a banana and a cup of water in a blender and blending until smooth.
- Then add some spinach. I started up with a small handful and worked my way up to about 3-4 cups. Blend that until smooth. The awesome part about this recipe is that you really don't taste the spinach, so it tastes like a fruit smoothie, but you get the nutrient load of all the spinach!
- At this point you can add in 1/2- 1 whole cucumber, but you don't have to at first. Be warned that you can taste the cucumber a tiny bit, but it isn't overwhelming. If you do decide to add it in, cut it into 2 inch segments and blend until smooth.
- Add frozen fruit. I like a mix from Sam's Club with strawberries, peaches, mango, and pineapple. Add however much you want. I usually go for about a cup. Blend until smooth.
- Add water until you reach desired consistency, blending it through.
- You can also add ground flax seed and hemp protein powder for added nutrients if you want.

So that's what I've been drinking the past few weeks. (Well, not just that! I've been using it as a supplement to my vegan diet and then started using it as a meal replacement smoothie.) Now, though, I just successfully completed day 2 of a 10 day juice reboot. And what I'm drinking looks more like this:

This reboot was specifically inspired (I've generally wanted to do one for a little while now) after watching the movie Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. Here's a link to that trailer:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gv3vEXy_EwU
It's a documentary about an Australian guy, Joe Cross, who does a 60 juice reboot while going across the United States. It is a very interesting look at what we eat and what it does to us and I would HIGHLY recommend everyone watch it, regardless of whether or not you are interested in ever doing anything similar, just for the informational value on a side of medicine that we often don't think about. (And he's pretty funny, so it's not like it's a super dry and boring way to spend an evening! :) ) And if you decide that you might want to try some juicing, there are some good recipes on his reboot website:
http://jointhereboot.com/

So far the oddest thing I've noticed in the past few days is that colors are brighter and everything is more vivid. Kind of like when I go from not wearing glasses to putting on my glasses and suddenly the world is in focus. It's like that, but I'm already wearing my glasses, so it's like a step beyond that! Kind of cool! :)

More from Cornerstone Simi

I thought I'd just jot down some quotes that have really jumped out at me from the Cornerstone Simi podcasts. Feel free to comment with any thoughts you have.

"I want to be so gracious and loving that it just makes the day of each person I meet. Am I a person that loves God? Am I a person that loves people? And when they come in contact with me, do they see that? I want people who come in contact with me just to go, "Man, he like looked in my eyes, like he really cared! He genuinely loved me!" That's what God does for us. Okay, this isn't going to be by your own power. You don't just master up a love like that. You come before God and say, "God, make me a lover of You. Make me a lover of people. Holy Spirit change me. Holy Spirit empower me, so that I can show that type of love to my friends and that I can share the word of God with my friends, as imperfectly as it's going to be. Help me to disciple my friends and let's just see what happens from there."
~ Francis Chan, Love God Love People

"I'm very excited about the future... It's an adventure and our lives are going to be over before we know it."
~ Francis Chan, Love God Love People

"There will be no cowards in heaven."
~Francis Chan, The End

"I love how the fact that Paul talks about it in Philippians 1:6– the one who began a good work in you, He's going to complete it. He has a goal–not only in this grand level with these people, but in each of our lives, to shape us and mold us into the image of Jesus. That was the purpose of the cross, was that we would be drawn to Him… that now being drawn to Him because Jesus is open this way we can now go to that God and as we draw near to Him, we begin to look like Him and walk like Him and we gain His heart, we gain His mind. And we become these people, true humanity– what God desired us to be."

~ Todd Nighswonger, "The Great Salvation of God" 8-7-11

Of love, faith, and freedom

‎"A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another." 
- John 13:34-35

All across America today churches will be gathered and hold services in memory of 9-11-01.
That is not wrong. The loss of life that day was horrible.
But how many people will also remember those who have suffered and died since then?
How many people will take action to help those who are still suffering the repercussions?
The response of "Christians" in America has not always been what it should have been. We have allowed bitterness and hatred to grow unchecked towards millions and millions of people that we have grouped all into a generalized category, regardless of whether or not they fit in that category, all in the name of patriotism. Responses of certain "churches" have been completely atrocious– people reacting from their own hurt, but in turn hurting a multitude of other Christ followers around the world who then fall victim to extreme governments who wrongly have grouped these earnest, gentle Christ followers in with these "Christians" in America who are being so hateful. The result? More persecution, false trials, and wrongful imprisonment and death for those who dare to follow Christ in those districts across the world, as well as bigger barriers built between true Christians and those we are called to love.
Lately I've been listening to the Cornerstone Simi Podcast "The People of God" sermon by Christian Burkhardt given on 7-10-11 and it's really made me think through some of these issues.
Do we have the heart of a priest, representing Yahweh to the people in this world? Think back on Moses offering to take the people's punishment himself in Exodus 32. That is what Christ did for us. Do we have that same love towards others? We have indeed been called to represent God to those around us. Do we care so deeply for those who don't know God that we would be willing to offer ourselves in their place?

Here are some links you might find interesting if you want to pursue some of this further:
If you would be interested in building bridges rather than barriers:
https://www.crescentproject.org/
advocating for persecuted Christians:
http://www.opendoorsusa.org/advocacy/
writing a government official on behalf of an imprisoned Christian:
https://secure2.convio.net/ccod/site/Advocacy?cmd=display&page=UserAction&id=243

Those are just a few of many options. Feel free to share thoughts or more links below.
I'd like to close with the prayer that was given at the end of the podcast referenced earlier:
"Yahweh, You are who You are and not who we think You are and You are more than we can understand. Would You, Lord, please keep our feeble minds from gravitating towards what is comfortable and understandable to us because You are bigger than we can understand and You are better than we can understand, and You have called us to make You known. Father this is not about us trying harder to be like You. This is about being in Your midst, drawing near to You. We have that amazing promise from You in James that if we draw near to You, You will draw near to us. And we see how You took a man like Moses and You molded and shaped his heart to bring it in line with Yours and we ask You to do the same in us. We do not love as we should, we do not care for others as we should... it is intimidating to think of having to love in such an uncomfortable way but Your love is uncomfortable and it's unstoppable and You want to show that through us. It's not about our ability, it's never been about our ability. It's been about You and Your plan and so we humbly ask, God, would You make us a part of Your plan? Would You use us in amazing ways to show Your glory? We ask this in Your name, Lord Jesus, Amen."

Double Take

*other people's names and scores have been changed to protect privacy*

So last night was our first EMT test (covering the first four chapters). I was extremely nervous, not having a clue as to what to expect. We took the test on four different scantrons, turned them in by chapter, and had a good half hour to sit around in agony (AKA break) before starting the lab part of class (taking vital signs). The tests came back in the room and sat tauntingly on the corner of the desk with the promise that we'd find out our scores right before we left for the night.
On another break I asked the instructor leading the lab (Eric) why my resting heart rate first thing in the morning could be as low as 54 but the one I took in class (after the test) was 78. He said he doubted that my numbers were right, but that stress could influence heart rate a lot.
I said, "Could apprehension over a test be enough stress to raise it that much?"
He looked doubtful, but Murray, the other instructor who had graded the tests, pointed down at a column of numbers he'd written and tapped a circled 91 with his finger saying, "That's her score."
Eric looked down at the number and nodded back at me. "Yes, that may have done it."

***

At the end of the night, the class started packing up our stuff and putting back stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs while Murray started reading off our test scores by number. (Each person in the class has a number so this allowed us to find out what we'd gotten without the rest of the class being able to link scores to person.) "1. 72, 2. 83, 3. 68, 4. 75..." I listened, gathering my things and waiting to hear number 11 just for added confirmation even though I'd seen the score earlier. "9. 58, 10. 77, 11. 75, 12. "
My breath caught, the muscles in my jaw briefly flinching as I willed myself not to give myself away. I slid my notebook into my backpack. Maybe he was reading off the scores for each individual test instead of the average I'd seen earlier. "Oh! Wait, sorry. Number eleven, 91. 12. 78..." I exhaled and reached for my textbook. When all the scores had been read, Murray passed out blank scantrons for the next three chapter quizzes. I swung my backpack on and took the pack of sheets he offered. He grinned, asking, "So, did I scare you when I read the wrong score?"
"Yes!"

Glad the first test is over. Hope the rest of the tests go as well! :)

Just... juice??

So I am considering embarking upon a new endeavor. One that most people think is a bit crazy...

What would it be like to just live on juice for 92 days?

Now, before you think I'm totally insane, let me clarify. What I'm talking about doing is called a juice feast. This is significantly different from what most people have heard of being a juice fast.
In a juice fast you drink about 2 quarts of juice a day, which is a deficit in normal caloric intake, resulting in you becoming quite lethargic and finding it difficult to continue with your daily activities.
In a juice feast you drink a gallon to a gallon and a half of juice a day, maintaining your caloric intake, allowing you to continue to meet the demands of life.
One more clarification: we're not talking store bought juices here (too processed and full of sugar and preservatives to do much good). Instead, you make all the juices by hand with fresh fruits and vegetables in a blender and then strained through a nut milk bag to remove the fiber.
Here is a link to the juice feasting website:
http://www.juicefeasting.com/
and here is a link to a video by one of the guys who really heads up the movement who has some pretty interesting things to say about a wide variety of diets:
http://www.viddler.com/explore/JuiceFeasting/videos/275/

So, there you go! If you have any thoughts about this, I'd love to hear them! :)

Driving Stick Shift

So my dad met me at the Y to run with the triathlon class and afterwards we were both going to be driving home and he said, "Hey! Why don't you try driving my car home?"
I looked at his manual transmission VW Passat and groaned thinking about all of the unpleasant memories of learning to drive in it–the stalling, the rolling backwards, the honking as angry drivers flew past me when the light turned green...
Dad smiled at me saying, "You know, if you want to learn to ride the motorcycle, you're going to have to be really good at shifting..."
Argh!!! Won over. We switched cars and he waited for me to pull out first.
Stall once.
Stall twice.
And rolling! Yeah!
Switch from reverse to first gear and stall for a third time.
Stall for a fourth time. That motorcycle better be worth it!
Stall for a fifth time!
About to just get out and switch cars back but it finally decides to cooperate with me.
Got to the street and waited for a good opening, letting several pass by that I would have gone for if I wasn't having images of stalling in the middle of the street and getting smashed into a million pieces racing through my mind. Finally got a ginormous opening and MADE IT! Giant obstacle one overcome! (Well if we aren't counting getting out of the parking space and not smashing into any cars or pedestrians on the way through the parking lot... but you know...)
Turned down the side street and then repeated the long waiting process to turn onto the next street. So far so good!
Safely onto a straight away, I started to accelerate. First gear. Second gear. Third gear. That's funny– I didn't remember the RPMs being that high and usually I could go more than 20 mph when in third gear. Oh well, time to turn onto the highway anyway.
Starting down the onramp, I shifted into fourth gear and then fifth, pushing the gas pedal further and further down. Nope. Something definitely wrong. When in fifth gear and with pressing the gas pedal all the way into the floor, I should be capable of going more than 25 mph.
I pulled over and easily brought the car to a stop, slapping on the flashers. Dad pulled over right behind me and I jumped out to explain my predicament. He came over to the offending vehicle and I slid back into the driver's seat, staring at the gages. "Are your ABS and brake lights usually on?" I asked, just now noticing the lit up symbols that I was used to having permanently decorate my own dashboard.
"No," he said, leaning in the window a little further. "That would probably be because the emergency brake is still on, which would also explain why you were stalling it so much."
My eyes widened, having forgotten that he used the emergency brake. Sure enough, it was still up, pointing at me as if scoffing at my mistake. I slid it down with no problem. "You shouldn't have much more problem with stalling!" Dad said, sliding out of the window. "It's a really strong brake."
"Is that why there's a burning smell in the air?" I asked. He nodded and I shivered, mentally berating myself over the stupid mistake. "I hope I didn't mess up your brakes!"
"They'll probably be fine," Dad said. "Let's head home."
The "probably" of "probably be fine" echoed in my head the rest of the way home, but I didn't stall it anymore and the brakes do seem to be working so hopefully it's all good! :)

"Procrastination"

Bugs are bumping against my screen.

Computer light goes orange to green.

Life decisions remain unseen.

Procrastination.

Water... (happy sigh)

I love water. :)

Dream: "If you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write..."

I had a dream last night. My friend says that it sounds a lot like Inception and if I ever watch it, I'll feel like one of the victims. It was like my brain was trying to give me a peptalk, like my brain does want to write.

I was in this room with this person (in the room she was a girl, but later on it was a guy, and then a girl again, so I just say "they" usually) and they wanted me to climb this bookshelf. I tried several times, but all of the books were perched on only half an inch (the shelf was only half an inch wide) so when I would try to grab, several books were in danger of falling off. I told the person that I couldn't get up it and they said it was okay, we'd find another way to get in there. I didn't know where "there" was, but I went with it.

Then I was outside at a gas station and walked up to the person (now a guy) who was filling his motorcycle with gas. He finished and went in to pay, telling me to get on the bike. I did and then he got on behind me, wanting me to drive. I was nervous because I'd only briefly driven once before, but onward we went. The paved street turned into a dirt path and went into the woods. I really didn't know how to navigate now, debating between big rocks like a Maine hiking trail or a narrow dirt path, ended up going with the path. The guy kept saying, "See? This is a dream, if you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write." We kept going and the path kept getting harder, so I was going slower and slower. Finally we reached a drop-off, and luckily I could stop in time because we were going slow enough. He said, "Okay, we have to get in there."

We got off of the bike and slowly slid down the cliff and he said again, "If you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write," and we landed in this little doctor's office type room. One after another these doctors kept coming in talking about how they were going insane and the person (now the girl) would lean over and say again and again, "See? This is a dream, if you can imagine to dream, you can imagine to write."

"Beach Ride"

“Let’s ride to the beach!” I said, one foot touching the ground and the other poised on my bike pedal ready to take off.

“Which one?” Dad asked.

“We haven’t gone to Headlands for a little while,” Mom said. 

And off we went. Usually it wouldn’t be safe to have a conversation in the middle of a street, but ours was different. The strip of pavement serviced only two houses, first our neighbor’s yellow sided one and then ours with darkly stained wood, before dead-ending into the woods. The water line was aimed up in the air after our driveway creating a fountain which would coat the branches of a nearby pine tree in ice come winter. 

We turned right, onto Jordan, passing the old baseball fields. They hadn’t been used for baseball for about twenty years. Now they were the grassy meadow home of a herd of approximately forty deer. As we rounded the curve–proclaimed by black arrows on reflective yellow signs–the field turned into an old pine tree farm. The precise rows occasionally sullied by one of the sixty foot giants crashing down to their grave. 

The pine trees gave way to the wet marshland that surrounds our little island of sorts, tall reeds reaching up and bushy cattails swaying in the breeze. Most people didn’t think of Headlands as an island, but there were two ways to get to it and both required you go over a bridge. It just wasn’t as obvious because of the surrounding marsh which just looks like four foot high grass. Every few years some stupid high schoolers will catch the marsh on fire. The fire spreads with incredible speed through the dry tops of the reeds, sending up huge clouds of black smoke. But then it just grows back.

We slowed our bikes to turn right again. Headlands Road used to go all the way along the shoreline with grand houses overlooking Lake Erie, but then the houses on one side started falling into the lake and soon several sections of the road followed, leaving only a fragmented remnant of itself. I started testing my brakes, just to be sure they wouldn’t fail me. We were about to go down the hill and I didn’t like losing control of my bike and crashing, which had already happened a few times. 

Right next to the road was the sledding hill which would become littered with children in winter but was currently serving as the hangout of several pairs of Canadian geese and their growing goslings. My parents flew past me, peddling on the downhill, racing to the entrance. I glided at my more leisurely pace, swooping around the curve and onto the bridge over Shipman’s Pond. A couple of boys sat on the edge fishing and a man and his wife paddled further out in kayaks. 

Rounding the second curve, the beach entrance came into view. The highway literally dead-ended into the beach entrance so I was careful to check for absent-minded drivers flying past the stop sign. Swerving past a family of ducks waddling from one stream to another, I finally caught back up with my parents. We wound our way through the parking lot, being careful to avoid the sandy patches before stopping for our final reward–the rocky pier stretched out and was finally crowned by the white lighthouse with red roof. The sunset spread across the sky, reflecting in the unusually calm water. A hush fell on the beachgoers as the flaming ball dipped to it’s final farewell.

Tree Thoughts

I've been thinking lately. About trees, careers, dreams, growth.

We have different stages of life. That is good, but stagnating is bad. It's the people who seem frozen in one stage that concern me. I have a friend who has had several different careers. Every six to eight years he would switch to something fairly different. From engineering to sales to being a triathlon race director to being a lifeguard to being a paramedic to being an account manager. That is the kind of life I want to live.  That is the kind of life that it seems you would look back on and feel the least amount of regret.

I love climbing trees, but there is one here at school that just is leagues above the rest. It is my absolute favorite one to climb anywhere. From the outside it is a perfect "tree" shape, a rounded out triangle. From the inside it is a maze of intertangled branches forming almost a spiral staircase. As soon as you know which branches to duck under and which ones to climb over, you start to see all the possibilities. There are branches that are perfect for looping you arm around and taking naps, or standing, reading, sitting, lying down, and the list goes on. The leaves are all on the outside, creating a green dome around you and the branches cradling you sway as the wind rustles through them, sending down a swirl of little green helicopter seed pods. These create a carpet at the base of the tree, a perfect nursery shaded from the sun's fierce glow where inch high seedlings begin to unfurl.

I want to write. But (as you may notice from looking at the blog archive dates on the side) as soon as the semester’s class let out and I stopped getting assignments to write, my mind has been functioning as a black hole, sucking away any idea fragments that slide past and funneling them into far away oblivion. That’s not good. It really doesn’t bode well for my dreams of writing. Why can’t I just be inspired enough to write on my own? I also feel that I can’t write anything good on purpose (even when I can get words onto paper). If there is anything good, it’s a complete accident. I’m walking into a major that will definitely stretch me and teach me a bunch of things that I need to learn and that’s great, but also very daunting.

I have this problem. I think it comes with being an extreme dreamer. I’ve also heard that it is related to my personality (INFP creating the acronym I Never Find Perfection... hmmm...). Whatever the case, I can be extremely passionate about something, latch on to it and pursue it completely, but then once I’ve started getting into it, I get discouraged and lose interest in it, finding continuing on that track to be nearly impossible. Tie that with being incredibly future minded and you get a mess. I really want to major in English–I promise. Really. But right now I’m taking a bible class, moping about not having any writing ideas, drawing out completely useless floorplans, and trying to sort through future plans. I’d like to get my MFA in creative writing (haven’t taken any classes as an English major yet) but I’d also like to get my Master’s of Divinity and become a chaplain at a children’s hospital. That could be my steady job so I could write, too. But my day job was going to be being a college prof. Why did I want to do that again? And why a chaplain? Right now I’m about the last one of my friends that I would go to for advice or counsel or comfort, etc. (Yeah that makes sense, doesn’t it? I detach myself from myself and wonder among my friends and decide to sit down and have a conversation with myself... no, just kidding.) Or I could move to England. Or do all of it, piece by piece. But what first? Oh whatever. Conclusions are elusive and currently irrelevant. Why can’t I just focus? Like on finishing writing the paper that’s due next week? ...

Looking up at the dome of the leafy cathedral

Creative Writing Manifesto

Creative Writing Manifesto

I am a writer. I sit at the keyboard and words flow out from my fingertips, racing each other, vying for a place on the page. 

I struggle with consistency, mute until the deadline, then rushing to capture the torrent in writing. This usually happens late at night or mid-morning. 

I am paralyzed by bright, sterile places. My mind goes blank and the words freeze up in my head and on the page. Instead, I long to be in touch with nature or withdraw into the dark. 

I need human noise to be quiet. Then words can flow into that silence and stories make sense again. Sometimes I loop The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe soundtrack. The haunting yet hopeful melodies unlock my mind as well.

I want to make a habit of getting up earlier and writing, making it a top priority. I know I need to practice writing regularly so it becomes more and more natural.

I use writing as a healing catharsis from depression, a release from frustrating circumstances, forcing me to reach deeper and persevere through. If I’m upset, I will be agitated and restless until I can sort through my jumble of thoughts on a page.

I love stories. I am intrigued by the idea of character development, that a character could begin to do and say things that I didn’t tell them to do or say. That thought thrills me.

I realize that there is a contract between the reader and me, but I also hold a contract with myself. If I’m not interested by what I’m writing, I find it extremely difficult to continue.

I jot down ideas as I read, things that I find interesting or springboards that inspire me to write. I also make up stories about people as I pass them on the sidewalk, recording unusual snippets of their conversations.

I appreciate the empathy that writing brings. In understanding a character that you wouldn’t necessarily agree with, you can then be more compassionate in reaching out to other people you meet who are similar to that character.

I am not a writer because I have published books. I am a writer because I write.

Car Craziness

So my van wouldn't start for 20 minutes when I was supposed to leave for school- no turning over, nothing, just not starting. My dad has been working on it all weekend and charged the battery today, it shouldn't be dead. We call him on his way to work. Looks like the only chance is to push the van to be even with Mom's van. 


My mom and I go out to the driveway and start to push it but it doesn't budge. "Okay," I say, "we have to do this together. One, two, three." We push and it rolls. Called Dad back for instructions on how to jump it. "Well be sure you're completely dry." I look up at the downpour all around me, rain from my hood cascading onto my nose, and the down into the inch deep puddle coating our driveway and the stream taking over the yard. "I don't think that's going to work well, Dad." "Well get a towel and try to dry your hands as best you can." I duck back inside, grabbing the nearby dog towel and try to dry my hands but as soon as I move the water from my sleeves applies another generous coating to them. As I lean over the battery, drops bounce from my hood and onto the battery so Mom holds the towel from the hood of the car to over my head. I obsessively dry and redry my hands. 


"This is the dangerous part," comes Dad's staticy voice over the phone. "Only touch the insulated handle." After much cajoling, the clamps decide to remain on the temperamental metal. "Now start your van." The vans are parked too close together so I slide into my passenger side and reach the key over to the ignition, but it won't turn. I slide to the drivers seat and try again but with no better luck. "What do I do if the key won't turn in the ignition?" I ask. Dad immediately responds, "Is it the right key?" I look at the incorrect engraved symbol and reach into my pocket for the appropriate one. The van starts right up.


My mom thinks that the alternator is draining the battery but tells me if I just keep it running, I should hopefully be okay. She adds that I might lose my headlights partway there and if I do I'll have to pull over and get it towed.


Picked up Cora with no problem. Two hours to go in our trip and the battery light comes on. Keep hoping it will get there okay, check headlights on passing cars bumpers to make sure they're still on. 


Drive into Cedarville and almost park in a handicap space but remember the last time the police officer yelled at me for doing so. "It's okay," Cora says. "We don't have that much stuff, we can carry it." We drive around back instead and go to back into a space and Cora says, "Wouldn't it be funny if your power quit now?" Boom. Nothing. I quick stepped on the brake before we rolled down hill and turned to her saying, "You mean like that?" So with the help of a passerby we pushed the van the rest of the way into the space. It's a little crooked, but hey! :) We made it! :)

"Marywood"

When I first came to Marywood, the music camp I wasn’t sure if I’d like it. Then I saw where I’d be staying: in the four-car garage of an old mansion, built in the early nineteen hundreds. It was every sixth grade boy’s dream! The garage door wasn’t used anymore and the inside now was set up with bunk beds, but still, it was really cool! The counselor, John, was my french horn teacher for the next two weeks. His quarters were in the hallway between us and the bathroom and were as generously spacious as what a Navy crewman might hope for at sea. One of the nights, John told us about how he got mugged downtown and then chased down the mugger, pleading for his horn back. He explained how that was the way he made a living and talked about going from paycheck to paycheck until the guy finally agreed to give the horn back in exchange for a watch and a $30 cash card!

Now it was the Sunday afternoon of the final performance and all 40 of us were very excited and kind of nervous. Mom and Dad had come and taken me out for lunch. I just needed to warm up before the concert. Walking back into the garage, I didn’t notice anything out of place. I grabbed my horn from my bunk bed and tried to toot a few notes, but it wasn’t playing well, at all. “John?” I called, heading into the hallway, “am I doing something wrong? I can’t play my part.”

“Let me take a look, try playing again.” I blew into the mouthpiece but the rich ringing tone that should have followed was alarmingly absent. “Whoa,” he said, looking closer. “Let me see that a second.” I held the horn out to him. “What did you do to your bell?”

“My bell? Nothing, it was just laying on my bed, why?” I bent to look over his shoulder and realized that where before the bell had just had a bunch of dents in it, now the metal was quite crunched in.

“These braces are broken, too,” he said, twisting the horn back and forth a little to show me how the horn was moving when it should have been perfectly solid and still. “We’ve got to try to do something to fix this before the concert! Help me look for some tape or something.”

We started searching through our own stuff and the camp miscellaneous drawer. “Here’s some scotch tape,” I called.

“Looks like that’s going to be about the best we can do for now,” he said coming back around the corner. “Let’s see how it will work.” After trying to tape it back together, he handed it to me. “Try playing something.” I started playing my second horn part for one of the pieces that would be on the concert. It didn’t sound good, but it was a lot better than before the tape.

What neither of us counted on however, was how scotch tape would react with water. Not to long into the concert, the tape was rendered fairly useless by the moisture from my breath and the sound reverted back to the gurgling air noise.

After the concert, the camp director apologized profusely to my parents, explaining how the kids in the juvenile delinquent home across the street made a practice of sneaking over to Marywood once a summer and doing some act of vandalism. “Unfortunately,” she said, “it would appear that Chris’s horn was this year’s victim.”
    My parents sent it out right away to be repaired. When we went to pick it up, the repairman turned to me and asked, “So, have you been missing a pencil?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I answered. 

With a laugh he pulled a curved pencil out from his desk, handing it to me. “I found this jammed three-quarters of a turn from the bell! I have no idea how it got up that far but your horn should play a lot better now!”

The next day I headed in for my regular horn lesson. The perfectly smooth bell felt foreign to me in memory of it’s previously dented existence. 

“Alright,” my teacher said. “Play me the scale you’ve been working on.” I tried, but wasn’t able to play in tune at all. “What happened to your playing?!” While I explained the events of the past two weeks as best I could, he leaned back in his chair, scowling. There was a long pause and he finally said, “Your parents have got to get you a new horn!” 

"Misty"

The four year old girl ran towards the looming shelves of toys, roughly pulling a gray wolf with yellow eyes down and slamming it along the floor in harsh galloping motion like waves pounding a jetty. “Gabriella-Nicole! Time to go. Come take Mommy’s hand and we’ll get some ice cream!” The girl responded to the sing-songy voice coming from the other end of the Bar Harbor, Maine tourist shop and I watched with horror as she violently threw the wolf pup across the room and ran the other way. 

Quietly stepping out from my position of relative safety by the wall, I skirted around little tables with puzzles and beads towards the still figure. The pup had bounced off the shelf and was laying in a rather painful looking position on the floor. “Are you okay?” I whispered, kneeling down to assess the damage. She seemed fine. I scooped her up and petted her reassuringly before carefully placing her on the shelf. 

My dad had said I could get one of the wolf pups, now I just had to choose. The options can be overwhelming when you’re six. There were wolves with blue eyes, yellow eyes, green eyes, and brown eyes and some were sitting, some laying down, and some with looser legs so if you held them off of the ground, it looked like they were standing. We had come into the store earlier–before I had gotten permission to buy one–and I had decided that I would probably get one with blue eyes in the seated position. As I looked at them now though, I was struck by how similar those ones were. They seemed lifeless and, well, stuffed! I turned back to the recovering pup I had just put back on the shelf. I hadn’t been planning on getting one with yellow eyes. Then a terrifying thought struck me. What if Gabriella-Nicole came back? What if she tried to hurt the one with yellow eyes again? 

I looked again at the blue eyes pups, all sitting in uniform rows, wave after wave staring past me with a blank expression, then back at the one with yellow eyes and she looked back. Her head was cocked at me as if to gently inquire. I lifted her from the shelf once more, cradling her in my arms as I walked back to where my dad was looking at postcards of whales and lobsters near the counter. 

“Find one, Joy?”

“Yes.”

“What will you call it?”

I looked down at the soft gray figure in my arms, contemplating for a second before answering, “Her name is Misty.”

When they rung up the order, they rolled Misty in tissue paper and placed her in a white paper bag. As we walked towards the door, I said, “Hold on a second,” and crouched down next to the bag, easing Misty out of the tightly wrapped tissue paper and crumpling it up so she could perch on it. When her head was poking out of the bag to my satisfaction, we continued down the street in the salty air.

***

That was how Misty and I met. Since then she has accompanied me on innumerable trips, staying in hotel rooms, at camp, sleepovers, and relative’s houses and being a faithful comforter through tears or after one of my frequent nightmares. We were separated by an evil force called a pre-med major and a silly notion on my part that such majors didn’t have such close friends as Misty accompany them. Now that has been corrected and Misty once again occupies her rightful place on my bed.

"The Settlement"

“Mr. Andrews!”

“I gave you my answer Emily, I’m sorry.”

She ran after him anyway. “You don’t understand.” He turned abruptly to face her, catching her off guard. “No,” he said firmly, “That’s where you’re mistaken. You are the one who doesn’t seem to understand here.”

“But people’s lives!”

“Are their responsibility...Not ours.”

He restraightened his suit coat and strode down the glass hallway.

Emily didn’t try to follow him. Arguing would just be pointless. She leaned up against the cool glass window looking out at the Massachusetts autumn. Orange and red leaves swirled down from the dark branches, covering the grass and sidewalks. That they would fall was inevitable. Was it the same with the lives? Inevitable? Mr. Andrews came out the downstairs door, crossing over the leaves to his gold Ferrari. From the other side of the courtyard, the groundsman was blowing leaves off the sidewalk. “Remove them!” Emily said out loud, then quickly ducked her head and glanced around to see if anyone had heard. The hall was empty. That was what she would have to do, though. Her attempts to remove the threat had failed. This was her only option now. She fast walked back to her office to make the last minute flight arrangements. She could leave first thing in the morning. Hopefully it would be enough time. 

That night sleep was elusive and fitful at best. Her bags packed, she cleared security with no trouble at all. Nestled down in her seat on the plane, she took out her blank notebook and a pencil. Sketching was always a release for her, but now no ideas came. The blank page stared back at her hauntingly. Then, without really thinking she began to draw the house she’d grown up in, flipping pages to include her memories of The Settlement. Faces from her past began to cover the next sheets, those sweet, peaceful people who had always loved her. Emily was unaware of the tears running down her cheeks until they splashed onto the page blurring some of the lines. She quickly brushed them off of the paper and reached in her bag for a tissue, glad that her nearby fellow passengers were engulfed in their own worlds. 

The plane landed and she transferred over to the rental car she had arranged. Paperwork completed, she started driving towards The Settlement. It had been started by her mother, well, by the woman who had raised her. When Emily was eighteen, the woman had called her and her two older brothers into the living room and explained how she had adopted them. Her brothers had taken the news well, they had probably suspected it, but Emily was crushed. Soon after she had left The Settlement and everything she’d called home. 
    Driving back these many years later, she finally allowed herself to remember. She remembered all the people that had come to The Settlement, disillusioned with the world and wanting to live at peace with nature and each other. Many came from very broken backgrounds and Emily remembered hearing her mother talking with them late into the night downstairs in the kitchen. She counseled them some and listened a lot. Her goal was never for the people to stay forever, though some did and she wouldn’t kick them out, but rather for them to heal and then return to the “real world” to be bringers of peace in their own corners of the brokenness. 
    When Emily had left she had pursued her career with a passion seldom matched by her peers. She would now be termed successful, holding a position at one of the top testing companies in the country. It was a posh post and she went through all of the necessary motions to maintain it, working hard all day, then often staying up late still trying to track down her birth family. Then one day she realized that one of the projects was more serious than she thought. The company had been contracted by the government to do some secret testing bomb runs out west. That she had seen the map of the location was a complete fluke, but when she did, her heart froze. “I thought you said it would be tested in a uninhabited section,” she had said to Mr. Andrews.

“It is,” he replied, giving her an annoyed glance. “The government arranged it. Apparently some woman bought this huge piece of land about thirty years ago, but twenty five years ago stopped paying taxes on it and isn’t registered anywhere for anything, kind of dropped off the map, so to speak. Probably couldn’t afford it or died or something, who knows.”

“But people live there. There are houses there!”

“The government has no building permits on record and no one’s name is tied to the property except that women and there’s been no contact with her for twenty five years! The government considers the property to have returned to their hands and they choose to have us execute the testing at that site.”

Her arguments fell on deaf ears because the inhabitants of The Settlement were undocumented and Mr. Andrews didn’t want to lose his power. She turned onto the dirt road at the faded sign. She’d tried everything from that end, only to be told that if she didn’t drop it, she would be fired and blacklisted. Now she was about to reenter a world she’d sworn never to even think of again.
    There it was. The big house. It wasn’t all that big, but compared to the little cabins scattered around, it was a mansion. No one seemed to be outside. She parked the car and went up the creaky steps and crossed the wooden porch. The paint had seen better days. She knocked. “Hello?” When no one answered her call, she tried the door. Unlocked. Of course, why would she think any differently. That’s how it always had been. Everything was still. Silent. She walked through the house, calling out as she went. Dust and cobwebs danced through the air, as if the house waking from a long and dreadful sleep. The kitchen still had a plate with the remnant of a couple crumbs by a list and pen on the counter and two teacups nearby but all of the other pots and pans and dishes were in order, hanging from their own hooks, sitting on their own shelf. So organized. The living room was next. She just leaned on the doorway transfixed by the empty chairs. Had someone else warned them? Where had they all gone? Someone always stayed in the big house in case a new guest came. 
    What are you thinking, Emily? Of course it could change. You’ve been gone fifteen years. For a minute she forgot why she had come. She just wanted to run upstairs to her old room and then run out through the fields of wildflowers she had always played in. Then she heard it. The steady drone of the airplane.