Since it has been almost a year since I have updated this thing, I thought I may as well just copy and paste an assignment for poetry class that I had...God has been so faithful to me. And, honestly, I have things I want to share on here, but I just need to do some tweaking. Time is not something I have a lot of these days...
Content, though. Happy and content.
Birds: too many poems about them. Should I even try?
During my oatmeal and coffee this morning (I admit, it was afternoon, but I feel funny that I have oatmeal and coffee as snacks during the day) I decided to sit and watch the birds hop around my backyard. It started as an easy enough sort of venture, me sipping, her pecking, me thinking “hey…birds…poetry” her craning her neck around the bird feeder for those minuscule little seeds that inspired the term “bird food.” I watched her call her friends to the buffet, yet nudge and budge them with her wings when they go too close to her plate. Sighing, I get up to get my notebook because I knew that the thoughts I was having weren’t going to stick with me (though I promised myself I wouldn’t forget). I started jotting, paused, and wrote some more. I watched. I listened. Birds are much like people, but have the advantage of escape.
Journal #2
“…the pillars still bore traces of where wrought-iron gates once hung. But the gates themselves had vanished long before I appeared on the scene to read meaning into their absence. Like iron gates and railings all over Britain, they were removed during WWII to be melted down and reforged into armament.”
Chris Arthur “(En)trance”
I would really love to write a poem about the iron gates that were melted down during WWII. I think it would be fun and challenging to write.
Journal #3
Braces. Pimples. Early bloomers. Late bloomers. Pretty boys. Boys whose voices have already changed. Nice boys. Boys whose moms still pick their clothing. Funny boys. Silly girls. Giggly girls. Nice girls. Shy girls. Girls who don’t think they are beautiful. Girls who reach out to the "outsiders."
Middle School.
I love it. I love everything about middle school kids, the way their sense of humor is developing, but so often channeled at inappropriate moments or the wrong people. I love the awkwardness of it all, the first flutter of crushes and the tell-tale signs of heartbreak.
Student: (giggling) “I agree with Nathan-N-iel (strokes hair) because he is right about the character's perspective” (more giggling/gazing at Nathaniel)
Nathaniel: (flips hair)
Me: “Okay. But what did YOU think? I heard what Nathaniel thought, but I want to know your thoughts.”
But, these kids are more than these stereotypes. In my classes, all of them are asking “am I capable?” All of them are asking “am I important?”
Sometimes all people see are braces, pimples, and laziness. Sometimes its hard to see the beauty.
Most middle school age students have engaged in some kind of sexual behavior before they reach 9th grade. Often, these students are given up on long before they are no longer moldable.
I don’t really know where I am going with this. It isn’t philosophical, poetic, or beautiful. It is just life. And, sometimes, life reeks of a normalcy that drives us towards apathy. Sometimes people give up and it is difficult to look at that and transform it into an inspirational life lesson.
Life is a lot like middle school, I think.
Journal #4
Bird-Flu: I think I have it.
When they peck the ground, it almost looks like they are trying to suck the life out of the earth, penetrating its skin
Which leads me to the question: do birds have tongues?
Come one-come all-drink of life’s wine
Their secret call, connect the dots from the sky
A single noise can create havoc. A surge will arise as the vibrating hum of their wings closes in towards the sky
Unity. Arrive together, leave together when alarmed. No bird left behind.
They arrive and leave with the sun, their mother. She draws them from slumber and lulls them to sleep until their chirping turns to dreaming (unless, of course, they sleep-chirp)
Journal #5
I have tried too many times to write about my grandmother’s death.
And I really loathe every work I produced.
Why is it that the things which seem to shape you the most are the hardest to write about? It is one of the most intimate details of my life, yet I can never seem to get it right. Why can’t I express in full what I felt and still feel? Why is it never enough? Maybe I am not supposed to get it right. Maybe that it is the point of these sort of life experiences. If I I keep producing things that, though not quiet exact, have an ounce of truth in them, then maybe one day I will have written it all. It will just be in pieces. A little here, a little there. Then, at the end, I would gather those few lines and assemble them into a unified and accurate image of what it was like.
Maybe I am supposed to keep writing. Maybe, that is the point.
Journal #6 An interesting writing assignment
Dr. Jones assigned us to list five, and only five, experiences in our life that we would want to include in our memoir. “When I…”
1. When I realized that my older brother and his friends finally considered me an equal playmate, comrade, and adventure-hunter, instead of just Albert’s corny little sister who can never seem to reach that first branch. *
*I have since become an expert tree-climber
2. When I visited Maine and fell in love with its toe-curling winter chills, salty lobster chowder (chowdah), and cliffs penetrating the seashore.
3. When I realized that the only type of “love and marriage” that I am interested in is the type where God comes first for both of us, and we are each other's "second." I want him to love God more than me and put Him before me. I want to love God more than him and put Him before him. I want us both to know that we could live without each other, but, for some glorious reason, God gave us to each other. I just want a partner to do this Christian life with and to help along the way. I would also like to be friends and do things like go to books-a-million to read and drink coffee, go horseback riding/hiking/camping, play scrabble, and watch documentaries and go to bed early. Flannel is a must, for both of us.
4. When I realized that I don’t really care for the typical life of middle class comfort. I kind of just want a life where I am never too comfortable. Like, God could ask me to pick up and leave and move somewhere and I would just say “okay, God.” I would like a house, though, I just don’t want my sense of comfort and peace to be solely wrapped up in my surroundings and finances or belongings. I want to be taken out of my comfort zone; I want my heart to be willing to be surprised by God.
