Packing My Suitcase for the Future

After going almost nonstop since four o'clock this morning and turning in my English essay 15 minutes before it was due, I finally had the opportunity at five o'clock this evening to sit on the hill, drink Happy Belly tea, eat some of Mom's homemade cookies that arrived in the mail today, and read heartfelt quotes from Brian Andreas' book, Trusting Soul. The book is filled with rough sketches of people and quotes about uncertainty, change, growing up, and other ideas related to trust and the future. In the introduction to his book, he writes,

The future is what you bring with you & you get to choose. I think of the stories & drawings in this book as the things I have chosen, the suitcase I've packed for the future. It's only the essentials, because I know you'll bring stuff, too. I packed the lilt of a voice, the curve of a neck in laughter, the glance between people who have wrapped up in each other in the soft night. I've put memories of my grandparents & other made-up people because it seemed like they'd be fun to have around. I've thrown in more than enough packages of love & play & chocolate because the future can always use extra of those & I sneaked in a few unexpected gifts, simply because there is no greater joy than an unexpected gift to a trusting soul. (Andreas) 

The things I try to include on my blog are what I've chosen to pack for my future––pictures and quotes and musings and questions and stories and moments that fill me with inspiration and joy. I try to avoid rambling complaints or conclusions that end with bitter emotions, because these aren't what I want to bring along with me in the future. I'd rather leave them behind.

What's even more fun than packing the suitcase is opening it up and sharing it with others, which is why I get such joy out of posting. It's a space for the collective relish of big questions and small moments.

So for you, today, I'm sharing a picture of the autumn trees on campus and one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver.

Morning

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

***

What will you pack in your suitcase?

A Life of One's Own

“Are you a writer?” a customer asked me at work. I was wearing my favorite T-shirt, one I got from the Reynold's Writer's Workshop two summers ago at Denison University. 

"I want to go into English and Theatre," I said.

She beamed, thrusting her hand forward to shake mine. "Best of luck to you! I'm a writer and my daughter wants to go into theatre. Congratulations!" I couldn't help beaming back. I could feel my body swelling with pride, being congratulated just for wanting to go into the field. 

It’s a daunting question that Mary Oliver asks. It sounds similar to the “slower and booming” clock that Lin-Manuel Miranda talked about in his commencement address at Wesleyan University this past spring. In her novel The Bell Jar (semi-autobiographical), Sylvia Plath analogizes all the different paths she could take to figs hanging on branches. As she contemplates which path to take, they begin to “wrinkle and go black,” and eventually drop to the ground because of her inability to choose one.

It’s a question that I myself often get overwhelmed with. After all, I can’t even choose how I want to fill a day, let alone a life of days. But this wouldn’t be my favorite T-shirt if I thought the question was demanding. (Considering the question literally sits right on my chest, I probably wouldn’t be able to wear it without my chest tightening up.) I wear it because it reminds me to be excited about the question, rather than daunted by it. Instead of a melodramatic take on it, I can be enlivened by it. I imagine it phrased like how a parent would ask a child in the candy store, “What do you want to buy?” and the child responding with wide-eyes and a million colors swirling through their heads. Of course, I’ve always been indecisive, so whenever anyone asks me what I want I usually take a really long time deciding. But I’m trying to learn to be excited by choices rather than overwhelmed by them, and to learn to make decisions without attaching so much life or death weight to them (unless, of course, it is a life or death matter, in which case the head in my hands overwhelmed position is acceptable).

I’m at a point in my life where I have so much ahead of me, and I so badly want to make the most of everything that comes my way––every painting I see, every interaction I have, every new place I visit, I want to get something out of it. It seems like a good mindset, except that I try too hard. In trying to figure out how to make the most out of life, I'm losing out on life. So even once I choose the "fig," it's dropping in front of me while I’m trying to figure out the best way to pick it.

My favorite question to ask people right now is, "What did you major in?" followed by, "What do you do for work?" which is sometimes followed by, "Is that what you see yourself doing long-term?" More often than not, the people I talk to aren't exactly where they want to be, nor does where they are directly correspond with what they went to college for. Their paths aren't linear, and that's what makes their lives interesting. We don't have to know exactly where we're going. All we have to do is look at what's right in front of us, and know that it's all a part of our overall experience. Not everything has to correlate, and things may correlate in ways we don't see right away, until we get to the end and finally everything seems to fit together so seemingly perfectly that it seems like it couldn't have happened any other way. It's like at the end of a mystery novel when you finally find out "who did it" and you flip back and wonder how you didn't see it coming, because everything seems to connect so perfectly. What I'm learning from talking to people is that there is no one "right way to do life." 

That energy I felt when that woman shook my hand embodies the excitement of Mary Oliver's question. I thought about how my math teacher gave me a hug at the end of the year. "Good luck, kiddo," he said. I thought about my classes for this semester, and how next month at this time I will be preparing to head off for Denison University. I thought about working in the scene shop, all the plays I will get to direct, spending long hours in the theatre, and all the people I'll meet. I get to make this life my own. And that's an empowering thing, one not to melodramatize, but to celebrate. 

Trust in Yog(i)

"There is nothing more precious than self-trust."

There are some days when Yogi gets it just right, and this morning was one of those times. The quote on my Yogi Throat Care tea tag this morning made waking up with a sore throat a little more bearable. 

This weekend is one of those weekends I am ready to fly. Perhaps it's the shining sun and the melting snow, the rugs airing out on the car roofs, or my new haircut, but I feel like I've been holed up for awhile. I'm not just feeling claustrophobic from winter. It's high school. Yesterday I went for a fast run, threw on my Denison University sweatshirt (one of the schools I'm considering going to next year), and went over my friend Shelby's house to talk about the future. It's all I want to talk about. I'm at the point now where people ask me what year I am, and I can say I'm a senior. They ask me where I'm going next year, and I can give them an answer, which is that I'm not sure quite where, but I have ideas. They ask me what I want to study, and I can tell them, which is I want to double-major in English and Theatre with the hopes of directing.

It seems like so long ago that I submitted my college applications. I remember the day vividly. It was the last Saturday in October. I had rehearsal for Peter Pan in the morning, then came home instead of going to my friend's senior day for soccer (which I remember feeling guilty about) because I wanted to submit my applications. Around 6 o'clock I finally finished, and then I drove over my friend's house and we sang and watched the musical Rent. Now I've heard back from all my colleges. The waiting game is over. Now it's time to decide. The dilemma of decisions...

I think part of my characteristic indecision comes from my fear of “choosing wrong,” whatever “wrong” may be, whether it be what movie we watch, which cinnamon roll to choose, or what topic to study for a project. It’s much easier when someone else makes the decision, because then if it doesn’t turn out to be the “best” decision, well, I didn’t make it, so I don’t feel inclined to beat myself up over it. But this is my future, and the idea that I am getting to decide where I want to go next year excites me. I don't want anyone else to make the decision for me. 

For awhile, I was questioning whether I really did want to go far away for college, which was scary, because I mostly only applied far away. Visiting St. Olaf last month was like a trip into my future. The entire weekend was scary, exciting, and overwhelming. I had so much freedom...the freedom to skip lunch and sit in on an extra class, to share my passions with strangers, to sit in on a Lutheran chapel service. There were moments I felt confident, that I was ready for this next phase in my life, and others when I just wanted to crawl back into my bed at home. But I kept pushing through the weekend, telling myself that I was okay. My weekend at St. Olaf confirmed my decision that I do in fact want to go away. Everyone challenges themselves in different ways. My challenge is going away from home, where I don't have Mom to validate my every decision. 

"Are you going to be okay next year? I mean, without Mom?" my brother asked me a few weeks ago. It was a valid question, and I think the fact that even my younger brother picked up on my reliance on my Mom assured me it's important to start relying on myself more. I've always been okay on my own. I like my space. But I second-guess myself a lot. 

And this is where Yogi comes in. I need to start trusting myself and my own decisions. I need to be confident in myself, and accept my decisions. If I make the wrong decision, I need to own that and roll with it, rather than berate myself for “choosing wrong.” 

And I can't just trust myself because Yogi said it. It can't be trust in Yogi. It has to be trust in Yogi.

Stepping Into the New Year

"Our intuition comes from innocence." 

That was my Yogi tea bag tag message for the new year. My intuition, my gut, my instinct, comes from innocence, purity, no muck. It comes in the silence within myself, when I can close out the bickering devil and angel on each shoulder. It comes in the feeling, not the label. It comes in my secret smiles to myself when I'm driving alone in the car, listening to Michael Bublé. It comes in the happy rumble in my stomach when I satisfy my potato and ketchup craving. It comes in the lightness of my step as I run along the beach at midnight. 

This year, I aim to listen to my heart. It's where I'm happiest. It's where I feel the most connected to myself. It can be hard to get to sometimes, mucked up with clutter and indecision and doubt. I'm good at talking myself out of things. I tend to focus on what I don't know, rather than what I do.

I need to start with what I know. Start with what I can do. For example: 

I don't know what to eat. What do I know? I know I like vegetables. Good. I know I like rice. Good. I know I like chocolate. Good. Go from there.

I'm feeling crummy right now. What can I do to make myself feel better? 

I don't know what I want to do. What do I know that I don't want to do? I don't want to watch a movie. Okay. That's one thing off the list.

It's like working on a math problem. 

Step 1: Reword the problem into words that make sense. 

Step 2: Write down what I know. 

Step 3: Solve.

Step 4: Check my work. Did I come to a solution? If not, try again.  

It's like writing an essay. Ernest Hemingway said in his memoir A Moveable Feast, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." Then, "go on from there." If I can write one true sentence, I can write another.

It's like putting one step in front of the other. Just take each day one step at a time, one moment at a time. If I can take one step, I can take another. Step through the muck. Be patient. Keep walking until I find my heart.

Time to Fly

It's been over a week now since my high school's winter musical, "In the Heights," ended, and I'm still listening to the soundtrack, wishing that I could hear the voices of my fellow cast members sing the songs instead. Even after four months of listening to the same music, I'm not sick of it. I'm sick for it. I would give anything to be back in Washington Heights.

"Post-show depression" is not uncommon for myself, or any actor. After spending four months working with a cast, connected with characters, lost in another world, it can be hard to come back to reality. I find love is more natural on the stage. I'm so much more comfortable on the stage. Life is so much easier on the stage.

And then there comes the time to leave it all behind. And suddenly everything I've been working on for four months–the relationships I've worked to developed, the notes I've strived to hit, the accents I've perfected–is gone. As Prospero reflects in Shakespeare's The Tempest, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounding with a sleep." Many people link Prospero with Shakespeare himself in The Tempest (Shakespeare's final play), particularly in this monologue. Shakespeare spent his entire life creating illusions that disappear at the end of the final act. The magic of his plays exists not in the text we hold in our hands but in the life the actors bring to them, and that life is not tangible. At the end of the play, we are left with a few good memories that may eventually fade and some props for keepsakes. How can one not come out feeling depressed?

This show in particular is a hard one to let go of. It's a story about community and home, and being able to share this story with a group who I have found a home with was an incredible experience. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the story, In the Heights focuses on the Latino community in Washington Heights, New York. The playwright Lin-Manuel Miranda commented that it was one of the first plays where Latinos weren't portrayed as servants or in a gang, but in their relationships with each other. Everyone in the story dreams of getting out of the barrio and making something of themselves. Ultimately, they realize they have been home all along.

Above is my much-loved script, dog-eared and bookmarked and filled with scribbled stage directions and character notes. Even my friend Alex, who never ceases to find amusement in stealing my things, knows that my script is not one to be tampered with by others. I remember sitting at the lunch table the day I got my script, highlighting my lines and music for my dream role: Nina. 

Nina Rosario is the one who makes it out of the barrio. At the start of the play, she is returning from her first year at Stanford University with some surprising news: she dropped out. The girl who always seemed to have it together, who "always made the grade," and who spent her whole life trying to go farther, feels like she failed. And she doesn't know how to tell everyone.

Nina is the most close-to-home character I've played so far. My prior leads–Ms. Wiz in The Wiz and Rizzo in Grease–required me to stretch my acting to become someone almost completely opposite of who I am. Nina is more genuine, and I found the line dividing myself from Nina to be very thin. I understand the pressure to succeed, the pressure to make it look like you have it together, the stubbornness to admit you don't know what you're doing. I felt it nearly every moment with this show. Nina's role is more vocally demanding than the roles I have had in the past. Mandy Gonzalez–who originated the role on Broadway–has a killer belt, and every time I listened to her sing, I felt self-conscious that I could never perform Nina as well. Every show, there is some prop or costume piece that helps me connect with my character. For this show, it was a butterfly.

My first exposure to the butterfly was this journal I purchased a few years ago with the proverb, "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." I didn't think much about the symbolism behind it, though, until my friend Liv gave me the butterfly Alex & Ani bracelet for my birthday in November.

Like every Alex & Ani bracelet, there was a brief description of the symbolism of the charm. The butterfly symbolism read as following: "A regenerative species, butterflies consistently transition from caterpillar to cocoon to butterfly. Giving us faith in change, the butterfly is associated with unwavering grace, soulful insight, and eloquence on our journey. Channel the energy of the butterfly and emerge brilliantly from your own transformation." 

When I saw Mandy Gonzalez wearing a butterfly shirt on Broadway, I knew the butterfly was my symbol for Nina. "It all makes sense!" I thought. "Nina is transitioning to find her place in this world. I'm transitioning to find my place. And I must transition to find my voice through Nina." Thus began my butterfly obsession. After browsing through every store in the mall and thirty different internet sites, I finally commissioned my stepdad, who's an artist, to paint one for me. 

And for Valentine's Day, my mom bought me two pairs of butterfly underwear. (Considering I had four nights of performances, I did a load of laundry every night to make sure I had clean underwear for every performance.)

I cannot remember loving a character more than I loved Nina. I worked tirelessly on her character, trying to find my voice in her songs. I will always remember that Saturday rehearsal when the music director approached me and said, "Something changed. When's the last time you listened to Mandy Gonzalez?" I told him it had been over a month. "You can tell. That was fucking gorgeous." And then I remember the Monday after that when I went to my voice teacher and she ripped apart the song, which I know ultimately made it better. I will always remember that moment on stage when I started crying during one of my songs because I connected with Nina so much, and I felt her pain. 

Every character I have ever played has taught me something new. Ms. Wiz helped me be confident. Rizzo taught me that no matter who I meet, I can always find some way to connect to them. Nina helped me find my voice, and I am so grateful to the casting team for giving me the opportunity to perform this role.

Tomorrow I have auditions for the spring play. It's time for me to take flight from Washington Heights, but I will always wear my butterfly charm as a reminder to let my voice be heard. 

"All the world's a stage"

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages," said the famous playwright, William Shakespeare.

I like this quote because it makes the connection between real life and the theatre. The theatre is a place to fabricate reality. It is a place where you can role play situations without consequences. Even within the confinements of the script, there is a remarkable freedom that comes with being someone you're not. Theatre is filled with these strange paradoxes, which fuel the theatre's intense conflicts.

At the end of every school year, our teachers ask us to reflect on our work over the past year, and make goals for the next year. This year, I decided that in addition to improving my own craft–both in writing and acting–I wanted to reach out and share what I love with others.

For those of you who have followed my blog, you may remember some previous posts talking about my volunteer work at an assisted living home. When I visited the assisted living home in previous years, I sat with the residents at dinner and talked, and sometimes visited them in their room. I wanted to be able to give them something, though. I wanted to be able to share with them what has been my ultimate outlet of expression throughout high school: theatre.

Compiling all I had learned from my directors and the books I had read, I compiled a 12-week theatre workshop subtitled: "All the world's a stage." I chose this quote not only because it is from one of the greatest playwrights of all time, but because it emphasizes the point that everyone is an actor-–we've been acting our entire lives. It puts everyone on equal playing grounds, regardless of their experience on the stage. Every week focuses on a different aspect of theatre, starting with monologue work by exploring the tools we have at our disposal as actors (voice, emotion, movement), working up to dialogue and experimenting how to work with others to perform a scene, and finally concluding in a small performance. My hope is that these sessions become a place where the residents, too, can express themselves.

This week was my second week. It was titled: Voice, Emotion & Characterization. Through a variety of activities, we explored how to use our voice and body language to embody different characters and convey different emotions. We had a grand total of seven people–three more than last week–and everyone stayed the entire time. It went much smoother than the first week. The first week was a lot of talking and about half the people left midway, which was a bit disheartening. I wasn't as prepared the first week. It was a busy weekend, so I didn't have time to review my notes beforehand. I hadn't thought about the fact that some of the residents wouldn't be able to stand up for the activities. I was unsure how to address everyone. I was nervous––I've never done anything like this before.

This week I felt much more prepared. I was able to laugh with the residents. Although I am technically the instructor, I have so much to learn from them. One resident attended a drama school that isn't even around anymore. She plays the accordion and traveled the world singing. Another resident used to sing in a barber shop quartet. He wears these great suspenders with musical notes on them.

There are centuries of actors, playwrights and directors to go to for inspiration. Sometimes I forget that there are people even closer for inspiration: those in my everyday life. I'm so excited to see what these residents bring to the table––or should I say, the stage.

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

This is the front of the T-shirt I got when I arrived at the Reynold's Writer's Workshop at Denison University in Granville, OH. I was dropped off this morning. For the next week, I will be immersed in one of the things I love most: writing.

I got my binder and my schedule and all the pens and stickers. I got the key to my room and I hugged goodbye and my mom closed the door and that was it. An empty dorm room with emerald and cantaloupe braided carpet; two wooden desks with cork boards and an overhead lamp; tape residue on the walls, textured from multiple repaintings; stripped navy blue mattresses atop rickety springs; white linens and a blanket; a 100% polyester ProTech Pillow, covered with breathable fabric covering.

I unpacked my suitcase and arranged my comfort food on the shelf above my desk: dried apricots, almonds and fat, unsweetened coconut flakes, two Clif bars (dark cherry almond and apricot), and two packages of Honey Nut Cheerios that I took from the hotel's continental breakfast this morning. I've learned that I need to have comfort food with me when I travel...otherwise I have a minor panic attack. Like this morning when I mildly freaked out because they didn't have the yogurt I liked...yeah, so I'm working on that with myself...

I made my bed and tried to tuck in the corners...sorry Grandma...

I arranged my favorite pillow and my childhood comforter Puff (although it has lost so many feathers by now it's more of a sheet than a comforter)...

Yes...I'm sixteen years old and still bring my Puff with me when I travel. I've given up on carrying my childhood stuffed animals Teddy and Mocha with me when I travel, although they sit propped against a pillow on my bed at home to greet me when I come back.

With everything finally settled, I jumped on the bed and listened to the sighs of the springs. I leaned my head against a former nail hole, now smoothed over with putty. I was alone. No one else from the camp had arrived yet and my mom and stepdad were on their way to the airport to fly home. It was one of those empowering moments, like when I drove by myself for the first time and I rolled the windows down and blared 102.5 on the radio. Or when I watched the sunrise over Mt. Washington. These past few months, I've gained so much independence. I'm doing the things I love and starting to figure out the person I want to be. 

So, what is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life? I plan to make the most of it. I plan to use my life to better others. I plan to take life as it comes and let it run wild, while always keeping a watchful eye. As I write this week, nobody knows me. And that's exciting. Because I can write whatever I want without worrying about offending someone. I can be graphic. I can be specific. I can be honest. This week, I will let my writing run wild. 

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" 

A Wise Bear Once Told Me

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard," a wise bear once told me. It's funny how the childhood cartoons are often the ones with the most meaningful quotes. Winnie the Pooh was a smart bear whose wise words stick to the heart like sweet honey.

Today was my high school's third graduating class. 31 members. They are officially the smallest graduating class that will ever graduate from our high school. As our Executive Director said today, though, that is exactly what made their impact on our school all the more powerful.

It was bittersweet, seeing the seniors in their caps and gowns. The selfish side of me wanted them to stay, but I knew and I know they are destined for greater things. I am amazed by how much they have grown just in the last year. Seeing them onstage, receiving their diplomas...they all had this fire in their eyes. They are so ready for the real world, even if they don't believe they are.

As I heard the graduation speeches, I got to thinking about my own future. If I had graduated today, what would I have said in my speech? What would teachers say about me? I am halfway done with high school. Many of the teachers referenced the growth they saw in the junior and senior years of the graduates. I can't help but wonder if the person standing on that stage two years from now will be different from the one who sat in the audience today and held back her tears as her friends received their diplomas. And if so, who will that person be? It's strange to think of myself changing, yet I know I inevitably will. I just can't imagine how or when that will happen.

But for now, I just have to focus on "now." The best things in life often come when we're just living in the moment, not lingering on the past or dwelling on the future. Because, as Winnie the Pooh said,
"Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That's why we call it the present." So many seniors talked about how fast high school flew by. I'm already halfway done. Two years from now, I want to be able to look back and say I made the most of it.

Congratulations to the Class of 2013!

A Long Way From Home

I made a friend today. As I held my bouquet of wilting flowers (and some fresh ones) on the bus to school this morning–I would be playing crazy Ophelia in Act IV, Scene V of William Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet, later that night at school–I parted the leaves to sniff the lilacs and I found a little wormy friend.

There he was, all curled up like a baby in a crib. I probably woke him from some deep slumber. The polite thing would've been to gently replace the leaf and let him sleep. But I was curious. It had been a long time since I had seen an inch worm. I was almost tempted to take it off the leaf and let it inch up my arm, like I used to do when I was younger. Then I remembered someone I didn't know was sitting next to me, and perhaps they would think I really had gone mad. So I satisfied myself with observing.

I felt like I was going to "Show & Tell." I think for "Show & Tell" in kindergarten I brought in my mom's old teddy bear. No offense Teddy, but I think the inch worm would've beaten you.

I should've realized from the holes in the leaves that I might have a friend along for the bus ride. I couldn't help but think how far I was bringing him from home. Literally millions of miles farther than he would probably ever have travelled in his lifetime. I don't know if he should've thanked me or hated me.

It reminded me of a children's story. I can picture it now: 

Ian the Inchworm was just an ordinary inchworm, but he craved the unordinary. The green leaves didn't satisfy him; he was hungry for adventure. One starry night, Ian was lounging on his leaf when he saw a shooting star. He wasn't the superstitious type, but he figured he might as well make a wish anyway. He wished for an adventure. Then, he went to sleep and dreamt about the world beyond his little lilac bush. When Ian awoke, he was on some big moving, well, something. And a young girl with really big blue eyes was staring at him. He didn't know what to make of it. How did he get there? Who was this girl? Where was he going? Regardless of any of this, Ian knew one thing: he was in for an adventure.

Ian the Inchworm, photo courtesy of http://www.wallmonkeys.com/cartoon-inchworm-498.

Okay, so now you see why I don't write fiction. But seriously...kids would love it.

Anyway, I didn't keep Ian. To be honest, I wasn't too keen on having him spend the day in my locker...I don't think he would've liked it either. I placed him on a leaf and found a safe spot for him when I got to school. 

I know...I sound like I'm five. But hey, sometimes it's fun to be a kid again.

Magnolia In Bloom

It's the perfect day for a wedding. The sky is blue and clear, the air is balmy, and our magnolia tree is in bloom.

When my friend and I were younger, we used to marry our stuffed animals under this tree. Teddy and Mocha one Saturday, Blueberry and Choco the next. We gathered all the dish towels and laid out a pathway. As the groom leaned proudly against the tree waiting for his bride, one of us walked the bride down the aisle while the other followed behind, tossing magnolia petals. 

Teddy and Mocha renewed their vows many a time under this tree. They seem to still be going strong. They never argue. Then again, Teddy is quite an agreeable fellow. All the stuffing in his neck went down to his stomach; it's turned him into quite the "yes man." 

With the magnolia tree in bloom, I'm reminded of where I am in my life right now. I see the magnolia flowers, so full and confident. I'm still a bud, inching my way open. One of these springs I will bloom with the magnolia flowers. That will be a glorious spring.

Right or Wrong

I went to a talk last week at my church. The man speaking quoted the wise words of his wife, which were that if you find yourself spending a lot of time trying to convince yourself something is right, then you should probably get yourself out of whatever that thing is.

I find I have the opposite problem. I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself something is wrong. If something seems right, then there has to be something wrong about it. There just has to be.

But why? Why can't I just let myself be happy? Let myself enjoy whatever that thing is?

Right and wrong is so black and white. How many things can truly be one or the other?

As Hamlet said in Shakespeare's famous tragedy, Hamlet, "For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" (II.ii.234-235). It is we who label something as right or wrong, good or bad. As a whole, historically the human race has felt inclined to separate the world into two black and white categories. We've targeted different races as "good" or "bad." We've captured different body types as "desirable" or "undesirable." We've labeled different foods as "healthy" or "unhealthy." Yet, few of what we categorize remains under that label forever. Our opinions change; our tastes change; our scope of knowledge changes. After the Civil War allowed African Americans to be accepted in America, we turned to the Natives; the question of slavery quickly changed to "the Native question." There was a time when a full-figured woman was desirous, but for many girls today, "thin is in." Potatoes used to keep families fulfilled for months, but now it's been blacklisted under the form of french fries and potato chips.

Why do these things change? Is it possible that no race is "good" or "bad?" (gasp.) Is it possible that there's no "perfect figure?" Is it possible that in moderation, potatoes–even in the form of french fries and potato chips–are okay? So, can anything really be labeled as right or wrong? Good or bad? Desirable or undesirable?

I think the reason why we are inclined to put a label on things is because it's comforting. In a chaotic world where everything is flying around us a mile a minute, it's comforting to be able to put something in black or white. Things get lost in gray. I can tell myself, "No. I will not eat those Oreos because the health magazine tells me processed foods are bad for me." Easy. If I want a "good figure", I just have to stay away from foods that are "bad" for me. (Just an example, by the way. I love Oreos.)

But "good" versus "bad" gets even more complicated when it turns into "right" versus "wrong." If there's anything that cannot be cast in black or white, it's emotions. I ask myself on a weekly basis–sometimes daily–if what I'm feeling is "wrong." But how can what anyone feels be wrong? "Well, my religion says this." "My parents say this." "My friends say this."

I need to learn to stop worrying about what everyone thinks. I need to think for myself, and sometimes, just not think. I need to stop labeling everything as "right" or "wrong." I need to just live. And if something feels right, not question it.

A few posts ago I said to never stop questioning the world around you. True. Except your heart. Never question your heart.

Hope, Love, Faith

Photo Credit: Madison Busick
My long-time friend and supporter and an amazing photographer! Check out her awesome blog!
http://maddieseeingtheworld.blogspot.com/

I had a particularly religious Easter today, considering I am usually not a very religious person. It is not that I do not believe in God; it's not that I don't pray. Because I do believe in God, and I pray regularly. However, I have always struggled with conforming to the doctrine of a religion. I am Catholic and my grandparents are all religious, but neither of my parents are regular church-goers. I didn't grow up committed to weekly mass; I have never felt a strong connection to my church community.

I wish I did. Some of my friends are close with their youth ministry groups and I think it's a fantastic way to be part of the community. Is there something wrong with me? Is there some part of this whole "religion thing" that I'm not getting?

As I said earlier, I believe in God. But going to mass every Sunday doesn't make me feel any closer to Him...at least not at the church I go to. Good sermons are rare there; it feels like mass is always the same. The preachings feel...outdated. And I can't grasp anything out of the Bible readings because I don't know what to listen for. What are the most important parts?

For whatever reason my body decided 4am was enough sleep for the day, so after an hour of trying to fall asleep, I decided to no longer fight it. What else to do at 5am on a Sunday than read "Les Mis?" 

Still curled up in bed, I flicked on my bedside lamp and curled up with my favorite purple pen to relish one of my favorite books. The chapters I read today were apropos for Easter Sunday. They talked about 19th-century religion, particularly the monasteries and convents of the Bernardine nuns––Jean Valjean hides with Cosette in the Petit-Picpus convent (founded by Spaniard Martin Verga) after rescuing her from the Thénardiers and escaping Javert once again. The nuns living in the Petit-Picpus convent live a strict life, to say the least. They fast several days a week, one nun must at all times be praying for the sins of the world, no men are allowed in the convent except the archbishop of the diocese and the gardener (who the convent makes wear a bell to warn the nuns of his approach), among other things. One interesting custom I read was about the induction of the novices. Victor Hugo described it as the following:

On the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in herhandsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair isbrushed until it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself;a great black veil is thrown over her, and the office for the deadis sung. Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passesclose to her, saying in plaintive accents, "Our sister is dead";and the other file responds in a voice of ecstasy, "Our sister isalive in Jesus Christ!"

In other words, the nuns attempt to make themselves dead on Earth so that they may be closer with God. This idea is difficult for me to grasp. After all, didn't God put us on this Earth for a reason? To live it? To live it in the image of his son, Jesus Christ? 

After pondering these chapters for about an hour, the sun had risen so I went for a run in the trails. I felt like I was being reborn, as if I too had been resurrected. It is times like these I feel closest to God. 

Cutting it a little close on time (as always) my family and I did something we rarely do: we went to church, or rather, we went to the non-denominational chapel my younger cousins go to.  It's an entirely different experience from the sermons I'm used to. There's lots of music and singing––not traditional gospel songs, but more modern religious ones. Everyone is up out of their seats and happy.

But what really struck me was how relatable the pastor made everything. With my good fortune, the sermon was centered around "Les Mis." The pastor cleverly tied in the mourning of Mary Magdalene over Jesus' death–some people theorize that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute and Jesus' lover–with Fantine. A girl of about my age sang Fantine's song "I Dreamed A Dream. "I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living," she sings. The pastor talked about how Mary Magdalene, like Fantine and like many of us in some point of our lives, had a dream that was different from what her life turned out to be––a life without Jesus. And with this, the pastor talked about hope––how hope is only empty wishing if it lacks reason. Mary Magdalene had given up hope; she believed she had nothing left to live for, so she wept. "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" (John 20:15) Jesus asked Mary after rising from the dead. She did not recognize him at first, but when she did, all hope was restored. Jesus was that hope. She clung to him, but he said to her, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God" (20:17). 

The pastor talked about how Jesus is the hope living within us, because Jesus lives within us. Life does not cease on Earth. When we lose someone we love, we will see them again someday. As Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil write in their musical:

Expanding on the "Les Mis" references, the pastor also talked about how Victor Hugo–the author of "Les Mis"–struggled with religion during his life. He believed in God but disagreed with many of the beliefs of the church. Where did he stand? Who was God to him? This morning I read one of my favorite chapters I have read in "Les Mis" thus far, in which Hugo questions God, infinity, and existence.

Volume II, Book Seventh, Chapter V-Prayer

They pray.

To whom?

To God.

To pray to God,--what is the meaning of these words?

Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent,
permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because,
if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent,
since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would
end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence,
while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence?
In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?

At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there
not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an
alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this
second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not
the latter's mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric
with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also?
Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities
are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an
I in the upper infinity as there is an I in the lower infinity.
The I below is the soul; the I on high is God.

To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought,
with the infinity on high, is called praying.

Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad.
We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed
towards the Unknown; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is
an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown.
Thought, revery, prayer,--these are great and mysterious radiations.
Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations
of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.

The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing
of humanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least,
there exists the right of the soul.

To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law.
Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree
of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars.
We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery
against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject
the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary,
to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion;
to clear God of caterpillars.

With all these questions and with chapters like this, "Les Misérables" is still considered a very religious book. Book Seventh is called "Parenthesis," which many say is due to the fact that Book Seventh does little to progress the plot. This may be so, but it doesn't mean it is "pointless" or by any means "random"; someone as brilliant as Victor Hugo wouldn't put thirteen pages in "just because he felt like it." 

Book Seventh is essential to the plot because it addresses the question of religion, of God, and of faith, all of which are themes that are essential to recognize and to ponder if one wants to read "Les Mis" with any level of depth. 

And shouldn't we all always be questioning? No matter what it is? Maybe we should take a lesson from the five-year-old, who always wants to know "why" (unless of course our parents ask us to take out the trash, in which case it doesn't matter why we have to do it, we just better do it). 

As Claude-Michel Shönberg and Alain Boublil wrote:

I'm not sure I believe God created this Earth and everything on it. I may be a dreamer, but there's also the realist in me that just can't fathom that idea. But I do believe in some higher being. I see God in all that is beautiful and all that is good. I see God in the frosty 7am trails. I see God in my friend who goes out of his way to talk to the shy boy in class. I see God in the big blue eyes of my little cousin as she asks if I can "please the blue egg dye." 

But maybe "seeing God" isn't what I mean. Maybe a more accurate way to think about it for me is to feel God––like I feel God's presence when I'm running on the beach. I might challenge Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil and say, maybe "To love another person is to feel the hands of God." 

Yes. Even "Les Mis" can be questioned.

Never stop questioning. Never stop hoping. Never stop believing, whether that be in God, in yourself, in others, in humanity, whatever it is you believe in. And whatever that thing is, believe it with all your heart.

Wishing you all "a heart full of love" in the week to come!

New Year, New Dreams

Happy New Year's Eve, everybody! All afternoon I've been toiling away at my honors project for English class. This class is hands-down my favorite class in a long time: 20th Century American Masters. Three mornings a week, I get to start my day off in the company of the brilliant minds of Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, T.S. Eliot, Langston Hughes, John Steinbeck, and countless other geniuses. If only I really were on the streets of Paris with the "Lost Generation" sipping coffee.

This semester, we've read classics like Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises," Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby," Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men," and a handful of poems from the Harlem Renaissance, Southern Gothic stories, and some Carl Sandburg too. What was interesting is that while all these stories spanned from writers throughout a century and across the world, there were several major themes that threaded through all of them. For our end-of-semester project, we had to pick a theme and make a presentation to the class about how that theme runs through the various texts we've read, and why that theme was significant to 20th Century America.

I chose [bah budah bah!] dreaming, and only now as I was sitting at my laptop trying to think of some New Year's blessing, greeting, hello, whatever you may call it, did I realize that this connected perfectly with the theme of our blog! What better time to make a dream than at the beginning of a new year? (I really am always dreaming...it's dangerous when we travel because sometimes I get so caught up with this world inside my head that I am unaware of what's going on around me––native city folk aren't too patient.)

 The "thesis," I guess you could call it, of my presentation is Langston Hughes' poem, "Harlem," (also known as "Dream Deferred"/"A Dream Deferred"). We analyzed the poem as a class, and I used this to help me connect each dream that Hughes describes in his poem to a dream that one of the characters we met this semester had. I found this cool Nike commercial that used a reading of the poem as a voiceover, but I put the words beneath it too, in case you're like me and have to read something to fully appreciate it.

"A Dream Deferred" by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

What happens to a dream delayed? Does it change or die, like a dried up raisin? Does it "fester like a sore," and infect you? Becoming dangerous? Does it "stink like rotten meat?" Does it have an expiration date and eventually spoil? Does it eventually go bad? Or does the dream "crust and sugar over--like a syrupy sweet." Syrupy sweets are addictive, but they're empty calories. They never fill you up. Maybe the dream just stays the same. Maybe it's like a heavy load that sags and weighs you down. Or does it explode? Does the pressure eventually build up so much that it finally explodes? 

This poem was unique to America in the 20th century. America was–and still is, but uniquely was at the time–the land of opportunity. For the first time, dreams could become reality. If you worked hard enough, you could "make it" in the world. Social class lines were blurred. You were in control of your own destiny. People began to question their lives; they didn't just accept them. They spoke up for themselves. African-Americans began to have a voice ("Any Human to Another" by Countee Cullen, "If We Must Die" by Claude McKay, "Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes). 

We Americans are fortunate to live in a country where it's possible to achieve our dreams and speak our mind. Think about 14-year-old Malala Yousufzai, a young Pakistani girl, who was almost killed for supporting education for girls. Yet, even she followed her dream, despite the risks. 

Don't delay your dreams. Don't let them dry up, fester, or spoil. Don't let them just hang there, useless. Don't let the pressure build up so much that they explode, because you never know what the explosion could trigger. Don't let your dream get too sweet. There's no better time than a new year today. You don't have to wait until a new year to tackle that dream. Tackle it today.

 

Falling into Fall

Fall...I love everything about fall. Apple picking, apple cider, apple donuts...warm. Sweaters and moccasins and boots and cozy pants. Football games, rosy cheeks, dragon's breath.

And pumpkin. Everything pumpkin. Pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin iced coffee at Dunkin's, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin donuts, pumpkin oatmeal. If only I had my license, I would make a special trip to the Oliver Garden for a slice of their pumpkin cheesecake.

Last Sunday, Mom and I had a baking day. It was one of the first real fall-like days we'd had. The thermostat read 60º in the morning, chilly enough for a sweater and chilly enough for baking. You can bake in the spring and you can bake in the summer, and of course you can bake in the winter, but fall is by far my favorite time to bake. Crisps, pies, cakes, breads, all those comfort foods that fill you to the brim with happiness like a steamy cappuccino.

Right now we have more kale in our garden than we know what to do with. The worms decided to take the load off our back and start nibbling away so now our kale leaves look like swiss cheese. Before the worms did any more work, we decided we better take advantage of this super food, especially because we now (thanks to a friend of my grandma) have a copy of The Book of Kale by Sharon Hanna, a recipe book with over 80 different recipes for kale. (You can only make so many salads.)

We started the morning off with Savoury Kale and Pumpkin Scones. I went out to the garden in my slippers and sweatshirt and salvaged what kale I could. In the kitchen I washed the leaves and I didn't even need to put it in a strainer, what with all the holes they practically strained themselves.

In making the scones, one direction that particularly confused me was: Step 3: Blend or sift the flour, salt, soda, baking powder and sugar together. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender or your fingers (Hanna). 

"Cut in the butter?" While we love to experiment, we are only that. Experimentalists. We measure with our hands and our eyes...a little bit of this, a pinch of that, and always a dash more sugar. (Rather, I'm learning to be more like this.) In other words, we are amateurs in the kitchen, and the most high-tech kitchen appliance we have (excluding the standard oven, stove, and microwave) is a blender and a food processor we got at the Free Store that we're not sure even works. Which meant I was just going to have to use my hands. But cut in the butter? I had never heard of the term before. I took it to assume that it meant mix in the butter...cold butter, the recipe specified. After a minute or two of using the fork, I plunged in with my hands...and of course licked every finger clean afterwards. 

Anything you can mold with your hands is so much fun.

Now what to have these scones with? Cream cheese? Butter? Jam? These scones aren't very sweet, but they're very healthy, and have the classic scone consistency. They're delicious with cream cheese, butter, and jam (we tried them all), but even more delicious with soup. Particularly, an orange soup. 

Doesn't it almost look like it has veins? 

A Winter Squash Soup. I won't even both linking this recipe, though, because we hardly followed it. Sure, we steamed and boiled the squash and peeled and tossed in an apple. But we also added the remainder of the canned pumpkin from the scones, a carrot, and the rest of the kale. 

It's a soup with a very thick consistency. It's filling and fulfilling. It's the kind of soup you want to eat curled up on the couch with a book, wearing your biggest, coziest sweater.

Alas, we ate it outside on our deck, but with the birds chirping and the wind blowing, it was still just as satisfying. And of course, I had to take the opportunity to have a little food photo shoot. Seriously...I think at least half the pictures on my phone are of food. 

We're reading T.S. Eliot's poem, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in English class. In his poem, the narrator says, "I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" (51). Cooking with Mom reminded me of that line. My parents are always telling me not to get hung up over details; to just go with the flow. With their guidance, I am learning to not measure out my life so precisely. I'm learning to be okay with a dash, a pinch, and a splash. 

What's your favorite part of fall? Or, if you don't like fall, what's your favorite season?

Happy fall, everyone!

P.S. "Did you notice?" is updated.

Poem in Your Pocket Day

http://www.squidoo.com/poem-in-your-pocket-day

As my World Literature teacher informed us today, today is "Poem in Your Pocket Day!" I was a bit disappointed with Google, considering the other day they had a zipper-themed Google Doodle to celebrate Eric Sundback's (the inventor of the zipper) 132nd birthday. I am by no means downgrading the significance of Sundback's invention (I can't even begin to imagine where my life would be without zippers...most likely even more disorganized with everything falling out of my book bags and countless other bags I bring to school everyday). I would've thought that if Google could take the time to create a zipper doodle to honor Eric Sundback (by which I was very amused in Global Studies the other day), they would've surely created one in honor of "Poem in Your Pocket Day."

But enough of my rambling, a lot of you are probably wondering, "What is 'Poem In Your Pocket Day?'" I will be honest that in past years I have only ever participated in it when it was required for Language Arts homework, and I would not have known today was "Poem In Your Pocket Day" if my World Literature teacher hadn't told us (however I might've if Google had decided to make a "Poem In Your Pocket Day" doodle...alright, I'm done). In fact, as I was researching "Poem In Your Pocket Day," I found that the month of April is actually National Poetry Month! While poetry is certainly not my forte, I enjoy reading it and picking out the alliteration and rhyme scheme and rhythm and playing with syllables...it's like a scavenger hunt! As a little background information for those of you who are interested, the U.S. created National Poetry Month in 1996, inspiring the Canadians to join in the spirit in 1999. Apart from the U.S. and Canada, April is celebrated as National Poetry Month in other countries around the world. In 2002, New York City created "Poem In Your Pocket Day" (PIYP) as part of the April celebration.

How does it work? It's simple! Find your favorite poem (or any poem that you like), write it down on a piece of paper, and carry it around in your pocket. I know for many of us we have passed the days of handwriting and carrying around physical paper, however I strongly encourage you to take the time to handwrite or even print out a poem and physically carry it in your pocket, not just as a note on your iPhone or what have you. The physicality of folding a piece of paper, smoothing out the creases as you clear your throat to recite, cannot be beat.

The idea of PIYP is that during the day, you take out your poem and share it with friends, family, coworkers, classmates, peers, teachers, whoever. It's a happy time, with everyone sharing their favorite writing and inspiring; it's like one big hot pot of inspiration! It reminds me of a children's story my mom used to read me when I was little called "Frederick" by Leo Lionni. The story is about a field mouse named Frederick. While all the other field mice are busy collecting food for winter, Frederick (a dreamer and a poet) spends his time collecting sun rays, colors, and words. When the food runs out, it is Frederick's stories that warm the hearts of the field mice in the winter.

I apologize for not posting this yesterday. I assure you I would've if I had known! Regardless, who's to say you can only carry a poem around in your pocket on PIYP? Any day is a good day to carry around a little inspiration.

We just started our poetry unit in World Literature (the timing couldn't be better!), so we've been reading lots of poetry in class. Today, our teacher had us copy down a poem to put in our pocket. I chose "Love Poem With Toast" by Miller Williams, mainly because I love the title.

Love Poem With Toast

Miller Williams

Some of what we do, we do
to make things happen,
the alarm to wake us up, the coffee to perc,
the car to start.

The rest of what we do, we do
trying to keep something from doing something,
the skin from aging, the hoe from rusting,
the truth from getting out.

With yes and no like the poles of a battery
powering our passage through the days,
we move, as we call it, forward,
wanting to be wanted,
wanting not to lose the rain forest,
wanting the water to boil,
wanting not to have cancer,
wanting to be home by dark,
wanting not to run out of gas,

as each of us wants the other
watching at the end,
as both want not to leave the other alone,
as wanting to love beyond this meat and bone,
we gaze across breakfast and pretend.

It's not even a love poem; it's just the musings of a young couple at breakfast. 

For homework last night, our teacher had us write "imitation poems," where we read a poem and write a response poem. Our response could either be addressing the message in the poem, responding to a single line or image, imitating the rhyme scheme, form, rhythm, whatever inspired us. It's a great writing prompt if you're interested, and it's fun because you're bouncing ideas off fellow writers. And even if a class of 25 all responds to the same poem, they're all bound to be different, because everyone will be inspired by something different. 

I did my imitation on the poem, "The Poet" by Tom Wayman. In his poem, Wayman talks about the absent-mindedness of the poet: losing his train of thought, speaking nonsense, not comprehending what he reads and hears, etc. 

The Poet

Tom Wayman

Loses his position on worksheet or page in textbook
May speak much but makes little sense
Cannot give clear verbal instructions
Does not understand what he reads
Does not understand what he hears
Cannot handle “yes-no” questions

Has great difficulty interpreting proverbs
Has difficulty recalling what he ate for breakfast, etc.
Cannot tell a story from a picture
Cannot recognize visual absurdities

Has difficulty classifying and categorizing objects
Has difficulty retaining such things as
addition and subtraction facts, or multiplication tables
May recognize a word one day and not the next

Just last night I was writing in my journal and reflecting on how much rambling I do. (Some of my blog posts are also very "rambly," although I try my best to spare you from my random thoughts...sometimes I just can't help myself though. I'm too excited to share!) So, I wrote a poetry response to the idea of writing nonsense; I wrote a ramble about a ramble.

Ramble

Sometimes I feel sorry for my journal, who, because of its pretty cover, was victimized to my long and sometimes (oftentimes) nonsensical rambles as I write whatever comes to mind and sometimes (oftentimes) whatever comes to mind is quite distant from my starting point. But I write it anyway because, why not? Perhaps the thought could be important for a future piece, and the idea of passing it by and not writing it down scares me. For what if, one day, I sit down and remember the shadow of a thought, a thought that would fit brilliantly into my story or hug a character like a form-fitting dress, but I cannot find the body of the shadow? What then? I would be ashamed to try and squeeze a pumpkin into a skinny slip, or try and get a string bean to hold up a ski parka...it just wouldn’t fit. So I write it down, just in case. So throughout my journal entries there are random thoughts scattered like Easter eggs, and I’m sure my journal gets quite impatient sometimes as it waits for me to get to the point. I am like a TV show host, a Ryan Seacrest, taking my sweet time to say what I really want to say (what I really mean to say), drawing out the suspense, avoiding every contraction, saying full names, using lots and lots of commas and triple periods and conjunctions (and parenthesis when I realize what I am about to write is a side-note), and it’s amazing you can do all of this in just writing, isn’t it? So I am grateful to my journal, who sits back patiently and lets me ramble and sort out my thoughts and maybe, eventually, after trudging through lots of muck and fluff, I may finally get to the gold. Or maybe not...often times not.

I invite you to please post a comment with some of your own poems in your pocket! And also any imitation poems you write. Just like stone soup, we could have one big hot pot of poetry! And when the days are cold, it will be this soup that keeps us warm.

Sweet Dreams,

Megan ;)

P.S. Did you notice? is updated.