'Tis the Season :)

We are less than a week away from Christmas and yet somehow, I still don't feel prepared. But that's not stopping anyone else so I guess I better get shopping.

My room is clean, immaculate even, which means I have time to focus on the more important things this next week. Things like catching up on my huge stack of reading and playing settlers of Catan and risk with my family:) Did I mention that I am really looking forward to the next few days?
We may not have any snow on the ground and the weather might perhaps feel a bit like June with balmy winds and sunny days, but that's not stopping us from drinking eggnog like it's water or filling the house with the smell of gingerbread smothered in cider sauce.

How is it that Christmas just gets better every year?

.......

Sometimes I feel the urge to write a book just so there would be something I could read without having to read the back cover or skim through it. I wish I could just pick up a book where the storyline was not only in depth and creative but that was also full of real life issues, redemption and the true nature of man. Don't get me wrong, there are untold amounts of magnificent, glorious of books out there, written by brilliant theologians and beautifully gifted storytellers. Many of these books are classics and a vast amount I have already read.

But why is finding a good book written in the past five years so hard? Something a bit deeper than Harry Potter or Twilight would be nice. But alas.....my mind is one big jumbled mass of words of late and I think I'll have to sort through everything before I can ever begin to write out the endings to novels!

Red Wine and Stuffing.

Happy Thanksgiving! After waiting for this day all year long it's finally here. The weather reports are predicting snow tomorrow and the entire family will be here by the end of today :)

We have started are massive annual food preparation. The 24 pound Turkey is thawing in our kitchen sink and the other turkey is roasting in the oven, filling the house with a wonderful aroma. Rolls are in the oven and I'm about to start making the pie crusts, for a whole bunch of pies.

The snow has been falling in big white flakes for the past seven hours and does not appear to be stopping anytime soon. The world outside of my delicious smelling haven is one covered in a heavy feather blanket of white.

Good food, hot drinks, a brand new version of Settlers of Catan to try out and I am ready for a weekend snowed in and free of school!

Ramblings on notes and snow..

Dark is all I can see out side my window. Dark and the ever so often glimpse of white fury, swirling in its own madness. The constant pounding of wind and ice against my window is the only reminder I have of the cold outside.

Here I am, warm and just slightly tired, reading by the light of my computer screen. The soft light of the lamp in the corner really is useless for reading, but it does add a certain warmth to the room.

I really should be doing some of the piles of homework I have laying around, instead of sitting here writing random words. But of course I'm not. Instead I'll put it off as usual and then stress about getting done in time. I don't really care though, I haven't written for so long and it just feels good!

Chopin has been playing through my pandora station for a little while and as always his music strikes something in me that sends shivers down my spine. There have been very few classical artists who have affected me the same way Chopin has. Certain aspects of his music about a specific phrase or stanza, seem to tell a story. As I listen I can see the story unfold in my head.

This is what makes the music so much more beautiful and real. The chords and intervals of his music are like life, they can change from the joys of childhood to life's bittersweet memory's in so short a time. It's not about the fingering or perfecting the technique of a phrase, because as I listen to music like that I hear only timing and precise fingering.

This is not what I wish to hear. Play for me the notes of life and love between those cleft lines. And don't skip over the bitter notes because they are what make the rest sweet.

A Garden full of quotes :)

Many of these I have written down over the years because I love them so much, but a few I just recently stumbled upon. They just made my day better...
Sometimes I could go for hours reading quote after little saying and it never grows old. Enjoy!

Substitute "damn" every time you're inclined to write "very;" your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be. ~Mark Twain

When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can. ~Samuel Lover, Handy Andy, 1842

I love writing. I love the swirl and swing of words as they tangle with human emotions. ~James Michener

Everywhere I go I'm asked if I think the university stifles writers. My opinion is that they don't stifle enough of them. There's many a bestseller that could have been prevented by a good teacher. ~Flannery O'Connor

Ink on paper is as beautiful to me as flowers on the mountains; God composes, why shouldn't we? ~Terri Guillemets

A synonym is a word you use when you can't spell the other one. ~Baltasar Gracián

One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment. ~Hart Crane

I'm back....

There is something about typing my thoughts down on a screen instead of wring with pen and ink on paper, that blocks my mind and causes havoc on my brain. I don’t know if there’s a disconnect between the motions my hand make as I write or the lack of them as I type, and it is something I'm working on conquering.

How does one accomplish this? I wish someone would tell me. Lately I’ve been struggling with writing even a little bit. I feel no deep longing to write and this worries me. I know that good writing takes practice and the strength to sit and put words down on paper, even when you’re not feeling creative in the slightest. Out of hard work comes masterpieces.

To me this quote explains a lot.

Writing is easy: All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead. ~Gene Fowler

Lately this is how I feel all the time. It’s almost been easier for me to write essays and such, than it for me to put down in writing my thought’s or recent happenings in my life.

So this right here is me dragging words out of my throat, can’t you tell? I know I can.

Until another time, and I promise it won’t be so long.

Love your tired college student.

Join us for Irish Step classes this Fall!

It's official! My sister and I have finally found a studio to begin teaching Irish step classes in! It's not only affordable and nearby but also has the most amazing space I've seen in a studio!
From the outside it's looks like a small town fifty year old storefront house, with a little shop down below. The blue paint is peeling, the stairs are just a little bit rickety but the studio upstairs is beautiful!

Fall classes here we come!

Making summer memories, left , right and in the water.

The end of August is almost in sight now. Once September starts everything will be more rushed and crazy with the start of school teaching Irish step and teaching Sunday school at church! I'm worried that I won't be able to schedule everything.

But why think about that right now? I think I'll just daydream about the rest of this month and all the last minute parties I can plan! We never really did that beach party I wanted......

But then I guess it's the little things that make summer so special.

Like Going to the Russian evening service with a bunch of friends and then finding out at the last minute it's canceled, so instead, heading to the park to walk along the waterfront, but ending up, kind of on accident but mostly on purpose, jumping into the pacific ocean with all of our clothes on.

Or maybe a special moment could be swimming at Whatcom falls and accidentally going over one of the falls and then watching in wonder as a certain sister decides to do the same, only on purpose. Only then we were stuck and couldn't get out. Boy are we stupid!

Just for the record both of these incidents happened in the past week.

Ever wonder how boring summer would be without water?

August Rain

I wrote this about three years ago,on a very wet and rainy day in march. Spring seemed a long time coming, I was babysitting kids that didn't really need me in really dirty house and I was in a bad mood. And then creativity hit me! or maybe I was so bored I just started to write and ended up with this.

Anyways, it was originally titled Springtime, but after today, I'm thinking of changing the title to August Rain.... or something like that.



Constant is the rain,
sinking my spirits down
into the muddy ground
like a limp leaf.

Looming are the clouds,
colorless and steady,
promising a future of
wetness and cold.

Dark are my thoughts,
ready to murder anyone
who says a sunny word
to me.

Dead is the sibling,
the one that disregarded
his sisters warning.


Don't worry. A run in the rain and a nice cup of tea afterwords cheered me up :)

One of my favorite poems.

Piano, my silent

mother,

I can touch you,

you are cool

and smooth

and willing

to stay with me

stay with me

talk to me.

Uncomplaining

you accept

the cover to your keys

and still

you

make room

for all that I

place

there.

We close our eyes

together

and together find that stillness

like a pond

a pond

when the wind is quiet

and the surface

glazes

gazing unblinking

at the blue sky.

I play songs

that have only the pattern

of my self in them

and you hum along

supporting me.

You are the

companion

to myself.

The mirror

with my mother's eyes.


~(Taken from) Out of the Dust,
by Karen Hesse

These are words.

The shiny black cover of a new notebook, lures me, from its place on the bed.

I sniff its delicious newness with delight while slowly I turn the pages.

Stories flood my head, vivid pictures and tender poems,

mix with color descriptions and lonely poetry until they're all just a bunch of meaningless words.

I sift through it, untangling the jumbo. Then a story leaps out at me,
itching through my fingertips to be told.

I reach for the sharpened pencil, and chew on it's pink eraser.

Then I put the tip to the lined paper and watch with interest as my story unfolds on

to its hungry pages.

A summer night with CEF.

After a long but very good day, it feels good to be home again. My comfort zone has been stretched and bruised almost beyond recognition, my feet are tired and sore and my energy level is basically zilch, gone, evaporated.

But the taste of Earl Gray Ice Cream still lingers on my tongue and I am happy with the knowledge that I CAN go door to door, passing out flier's and not die!

Ok, maybe the dieing part was slightly exaggerated but still.....I have accomplished something I never thought was possible for my timid self to do.

I might have even enjoyed myself part of the time!

Except for the dogs. Oh the dogs........

Good morning!

There was a red Sun rising this morning. with the mist coming in over the fields and the sun coming up from behind the trees, glowing through the mist, for some reason I thought of the Crucible.

It did wake me up though.


I'm making up a challenge for myself. I am going to blog every day for the next two months until school starts. We'll see how this goes!

Better run for now. I actually need to get OFF my bed and go get ready. Time is calling.

Summer Moments

Over this summer I've been volunteering with CEF(Child Evangelism Fellowship) off and on, doing day camps. I'm pretty much a counselor, answering questions and filling in little teaching jobs that need to be done. But mostly my job is just to sit with the children, separating fighting brothers, keeping restless children under check and trying to motivate the kids that think they're to old for this 'boring kid stuff'.

I love every thing about it. The secret smile that little girl, sitting in font of me gives me when she thinks no one is looking. The cheeky but slightly guilty grin the little boy gives after I catch him bugging his neighbor with a loose shoe.
I love hugging the child who is having a bad day as we sit and listen to the story, and the way they pull me into whatever game that is being played with a little smirk on their face.

But I think my favorite part of this job, is hearing all the funny things kids say during the day and watching all the leaders going red in the face with the effort of holding back there laughter at whatever little joey said.

When all the kids have left for the day, then we laugh until our sides hurt and tears are rolling down our faces. These funny story's and quotes are retold all summer long and because of them the summer is sweet.

"Dear lord, Thank you that Kaiti didn't die and thank you for her being so nice."
-Jordan, praying.

Back to the blogger world......

After nearly an hour of setting up, picking font styles and the right colors not to mention picking the right template, my new and updated blog is up and running. Now the question is, will I actually stick with this template? Probably not. It's like when I was little and setting up the dollhouse, why stick with just one choice when there are so many other options to chose from and it's so much fun to set up? Nope. My five year habits haven't changed a bit ;)Well I have to lickity split down to set the table and then go outside and frown at the sky until the sun comes out.

I sound like Garfield.

Ugh.....Mondays.

I always used to think, what's the big deal about Mondays? But that was before I started college and I had to get up at 5:50 on Monday Wendsday and Friday to catch the bus to school. Wendsday isn't so bad and Friday I'm not even bothered by it. But on Monday morning, as I stand beside my silent and no longer shreaking alarm in the frigid dark, I am reminded once again how much I HATE Mondays. It's just about all I can take for me NOT to climb back into my warm and comfy bed, forget about English and just go back to sleep. Why does that essay need to be due today, on a Monday, right after Sunday?

Sometimes I just stand there by the alarm, swaying back and forth asleep on my feet like a horse, to tired to even walk the few feet back to my bed. But then Hannah comes in and I slowly head for the bathroom, limp both in mind and body feeling like I have a hangover. A Sunday Hangover.

Funny thing is, I can't wait until next Sunday.....

I have this problem........

It's called not blogging for months at a time. I don't know what my big deal is, everybody else in the blogger world can do it without any problem whatsoever. Is my life so boring and without adventure that I have nothing to write about?

It's getting late so I'll write more tomorrow.

Just a picture formed with words.........

“The joy of writing, the power of preserving, revenge of a mortal hand.”
--Wislawa Szymborska

Sometimes those moments that change our life forever are hard to narrow down to an
exact time or place. Do our lives change forever all because of one specific monumental moment or is
more than that? Perhaps the reason for these life changing experiences are because of the changes in us
as people. In my case it was the latter. When I flew across the sea to Europe I was not expecting to come home feeling so different and changed.
I brought when I left, a small black lined notebook with a clasp. This was to serve as my journal and I intended to put it to good use. The first few days kept me busy writing down what I saw and heard. My thoughts about the plane food filled up two pages alone. But it was not long before long my journal entries became fewer and fewer. One of these memories I never actually recorded until now. This memory took place in spring 2009 of last year. It was early July and I stood in a crowded post office halfway across the world.
I was mailing post cards to family and friends back in the states who were eagerly a waiting news of my adventures, or I hoped they were.
This was my first trip out of the states and in spite of the fact that I truly felt like an outsider (I
probably looked like one too) there was a comfortable feeling of familiarity which surrounded this tiny
Polish post office, and I felt at home there.
I stood in line quietly not wanting to draw attention to my American self. I was trying to act as Polish as possible, as if I did this every day and spoke the language fluently. Despite my efforts I don't think many people believed the act. It was a humid summer day and my feet were clad in worn down orange flip-flops which had begun to hurt. Walking over cobblestones and uneven ground for a week will do that, and that day I had done more walking than usual. The never ending humidity had caused my clothes to to cling to my skin like a slightly sticky wipe. I should have felt hot, tired and miserable but instead I felt wonderfully alive.

As the line moved closer to the counter I moved forward a few steps and glanced out of the window. I could the sun beginning to set outside and evening roll in. The few dark rain clouds that had poured rain on us that afternoon were blowing away to dump their contents on some other unsuspecting souls.
The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in through the open door and I took a deep breath. At home
I would have gone out of my way to avoid the smell of cigarettes but here I had grown accustomed to
the smoke and against my will, grown to like it. Polish cigarettes had a sweet vanilla smell that
reminded me of out door patios and the evening rain on a summer night. Unlike the
usual cigarette smoke I was used to which made me want to wash my hair whenever I walked
through a cloud of the harsh smelling stuff.
I was almost to the counter so I pulled out my money and organized the post cards by zip code,
not that it would matter. One thing post offices have in common all over the world is their lack of
organization. I had a feeling that some of my letters would never make it to their destinations.
I finished my mission and headed out into the warm evening. The post office was located in the
towns plaza with little shops and an American McDonald's surrounding it. Off in the distance I could
see the beautiful craftsmanship of another town church. Its steeple silhouetted against the deepening
night sky. The churches bells chimed out the hour. For a brief moment I stood and looked. I savored its inlay, trim and massive oak doors, wishing such history and architecture could be found back home.
All around me the lights of the city were beginning to wake up. Streetlights and Narnian lampposts cast a warm glow on the busy people as the night life of Wroclaw came to life. A fountain in the center of the plaza bubbled over and splashed onto the cobblestones. The restaurant where our group had just eaten dinner was lit up by small fires at the entrance. A small crowd was gathering there, so aided by curiosity I walked over the cobblestones to see what was so interesting and discovered much to my surprise and amazement the combined efforts of some local fire jugglers! .
Later that night as I was walking slowly back to hostel, I began to think about all the books I had ever read that portrayed similar places like this and girls like me walking down streets identical to mine. I was a character in a story. My own story, and I wanted to write it down in such a way so that other people could see what I had seen that evening and hear everything my ears had heard. I finally had something to write about that was real, something I could taste and touch. The distant lands my poor imagination had tried to make tangible were now real. I had always read about places like this, plazas lit by streetlight and accordion music filling the square....
This might be a bit confusing so let me explain. Reading and writing play a big part of who I
am. Actually let me rephrase that, the love of reading and writing plays a big part of who I am.
It all started when I was seven. The year I first learned to read. It wasn't much later I also became acquainted with writing. Learning these two abilities could be called the most important moments in my entire short lifetime.
Why was it so important to me? Perhaps it was because words and their meanings had finally clicked and fallen into place. Those long strings of words called sentences on the page in front of me made sense. And they sounded so beautiful when put together to make a poem or a story! And then to think I could someday write my own!
Letters and words on the page used to be a mess of confusion and jumbled nonsense which
made my head hurt and my heart long to understand. I knew that books held mystery, thoughts, ideas
and stories I wanted to read about. Now this was possible. And once my brain got started it was as if a
roller-coaster was carrying it away in so many different directions and nothing could stop it.
As I grew older a favorite pastime of mine was to sit for hours writing short stories about
fairies, princesses and pink ponies. A few more years pasted and my writing grew smoother and flowed nicer but something still was missing.


It wasn't until years later as I walked along the cobbled stones of Europe when I came to understand that writing isn't just a record of my thoughts and idea's, or an account of my likes and dislikes, descriptively written though it may be. Writing is meant to make people think and ask questions. It can be used to spark emanations and stir our emotions. The written word is a very powerful tool, with more potency then most people realize.
“By speech first, but far more by writing, man has been able to put something of himself beyond death. In tradition and in books an integral part of the individual persists, for it can influence the minds and actions of other people in different places and at different times: a row of black marks on a page can move a man to tears, though the bones of him that wrote it are long ago crumbled to dust.” --Julian Huxley.
My visit to Poland has completely changed what I thought writing was and how I write as a person. Its hard to come back from a country so laden with history where the very cobblestones are worn down from age and still write the way I used to. Even the writing of short poems and and descriptive paragraphs have taken on a new meaning for me. I can still picture in my mind the tall steeples of the old churches in a silhouette against the gray-blue sky. The beautifully sculpted statue in the center of the fountain, chipped and worn in places from both wars and time. How can these not affect a person?
These memories will linger in mind until I am old and gray. I can draw on the feelings and emotions I felt that day, how the sun felt on my back, what the couple in line behind me was talking about. And with the powerful tool of writing, convey these and feelings to other people. This ability might take a while but nevertheless less my writing is slowly progressing into becoming more than a 2 dimensional piece of work.
“All I need is a sheet of paper and something to write with and then I can turn the world upside down.”--Friedrich Niezsche

My new favorite website. Enjoy!

Ted.com