Breathe. Let it Pass.

   A couple of days ago, I was desperately awaiting my moment of freedom from my poetry class. I'm rather picky about that class. There are days I like it, but then days that I feel like I could accomplish better things. Anyways, I'm backing away from my main point.
   Once I left the room we met in, I wasn't in the mood to head back to the apartment immediately. I wasn't even hungry for supper. It was like an electrical shock went down my spine and I was eager to have an adventure. I just wanted to run around the old building I was in, spy out secret rooms, secret passage ways, and see if I was daring enough to sneak into any of them. I went to the basement mainly, because in our one campus building, that floor seems particularly suspicious. I walked around quietly, like I was hunting for wildlife in a forest. I could hear voices, but I desperately hoped they wouldn't hear my footsteps. I found two locked doors, clearly with no one on the other side (or so I hoped). I found one door that I wanted to find a way to get into. It looked very interesting and I spent some considerable time staring at the key code on the door. Perhaps I was turning on the Sherlock Holmes part of my mind in seeing how faded the buttons were, which ones had the most scratches on them, and at what angle they were going in.
   Did I figure out the code to get in? I'm sorry that I must say that I didn't attempt a break-in. I gave up that quest, thinking that it would be more fun if I had a sidekick there with me, to watch if the coast was clear. Need I say, where was my Dr. Watson?
   I am getting distracted again, though, so let me keep the story going. I decided that my adventures could be put aside for the time being. I had to get something to eat, or else I would have a very upset stomache. I crept up to the doors at the end of the hallway, and jogged up the set of stairs that would lead me to a back door leading outside.
   But I stopped. I couldn't move. I heard something coming from above me. It sounded haunting, but beautiful at the same time. There was a choir singing in the chapel on the second floor. I felt glued to the spot as I listened to their voices echo down the stairs, their voices needing no musical instrument to blend their harmonies together. Looking out a window, the world began to look very bleak, like it was a simple factor in a larger number. There were people walking around outside, laughing and chatting away, but I couldn't hear them. All I saw were mute mouths speaking about absolutely nothing.
   It was a sad moment when the songs ended, and there was no more joy to be felt. But was it joy that I felt? No. If anything, I would of guessed it to be some sort of longing. What was holding me there? Did I expect the music to stay, because the sad truth is that it never does. Music only lasts as long as one can breathe, but if you lose breath, how can you keep going? The instruments die down when fingers are cramped, and knuckles are locked.
   I'm not one for religion. It sucks the beauty from your lungs and keeps you hanging on rules that you'll never be able to keep right. But I swear, for that one moment that the choir sang, I understood God. He was scary, but lovely. He was a soldier, but majestic. He was harsh, but caring. He was just, but holy.
   Yet it all passed. I was left to wonder if any of it was real. I picked up my bags, and threw the door open. And I guess I'll never know why my heart felt sky-high in that moment. I had no choice, but to leave it behind me. One cannot linger always on things that are lovely. Neither can they linger on what hurts.
   But what if when I stood there alone, I felt both?

This Isn't a 'Beauty' Sermon

      At long last, my college years are bringing to me the classes I have been waiting for....well, some of them. In due time, there will be more. I suppose that what I am really excited about is that for once, I can use my creativity. This isn't to say that I never did before (we all have to be creative with most of the homework given to us), but it's English this time. It's poetry. It's stories. It's life on a whole new level.
      But I'm not really here to talk about my college career. That could get pretty boring, I think. We all know the deal. We've got to get good grades, show up to class everyday, eat enough food and exercise frequently. No, what I'm here for in this moment is to relate a story that happened yesterday, something that both hurt and confessed some truth.
      I got up Monday morning and thought that I would try something different. I had thought about it over the weekend and came to terms that it wouldn't hurt to give it a go. Not only was I going to dress a little cute (as in, I put more effort into it), but I was going to apply a bit of makeup to my face. Boom. I know. It's shocking if you know me. It wasn't anything entirely drastic. I played with the eyes mostly, using some eye liner and eye shadow. I tried some fancy lip gloss too as an after touch.
      So there I was, staring at the stranger looking back at me in the mirror. That looks nothing like me, I thought, but nevertheless proceeded in gathering my books and slinging the backpack on me, I headed out the door.
      Now, there can only be a few assumptions on my part with the next statement I'll make. I like to observe people (don't judge me, because people-watching isn't always creepy), so when I say that people were looking differently at me, that's just what I thought was the case by looking at their expressions. These were just people I didn't know as well, so I couldn't make any statistics from this. Later on when I went to lunch, I bumped into a girl that has been in a few of my classes. We said hello and all that polite talk, when before I left, she stated ecstatically "You look really nice today!" I said thanks and walked away, but this one little comment got me thinking for the rest of the day. There was a part of me that enjoyed the compliment, but another part that made me feel upset the rest of the day. It didn't help that I had to go to a night class and take a test. I was better by the time I could go back to the room and relax.
      So what was my observation from all this? It's a very easy one and rather common, but it still makes me mad when I contemplate it. When I wore makeup, I was suddenly termed pretty. Sure, I've gotten compliments on clothes and what not, but what about the natural beauty? Just so you all know, this doesn't change who I am. I'm not going to start wearing makeup everyday just to impress everyone, but the standard of beauty is sadly lowered from what it was a long time ago. I think I'm beautiful without having to 'make' myself that. I am that.
      It's just a shame that there are still lots of people who try too hard.

Love and Suicide Don't Hold Hands

   Last night, I decided to watch the 2011 film of "The Deep Blue Sea". I can say that it was a good film, though it definitely was not what I expected it to be. The way in which it was filmed had a haunting sort of beauty to it. There was normally no music; and if there was, it was the saddest string music ever to be heard. There would be the occasional singing at the bars or in the tunnels, but other then that, the movie was silence. I think this made the dialogue between the characters richer. It made it realistic, as though you were sitting in the room with them at that very moment. If anything, I believe the film was more focused on the character's emotions or thoughts instead of how impressive the filming was. It was kept simple, because what mattered was getting into the character's heads.
   That was not the only thing that shocked me about the film. What first surprised me was the beginning. The main woman, Hester, was attempting a suicide. She did not succeed, for some people found her and revived her. From there, the movie explains who she is, where she's come from, what she is living for and what she was trying to escape from. In short, her past consisted of marrying a rather old man, not liking her life there and then meeting a younger man, Freddie, who she falls desperately in love with. Her husband, Bill, finds out and doesn't care that she leaves, but he makes the matter difficult by not filing the divorce. So she can live her scandal, but it would be more of a scandal because she was still married. Nevertheless it all takes place and she leaves him. Her suicide attempt came from, I believe, spite to the young man who didn't seem to be present on important occasions. He had forgotten her birthday and was not there to celebrate it. She had wrote a letter to him so he could find it after she was dead, but since that never took place, he accidentally finds the letter and is hurt deeply. The rest of the film proceeds in a manner of her trying to make everything right again.
   Now the matter I wish to discuss here is what I noticed were some of the responses on the internet to this movie. Considering her suicidal state, most did not like the fact the Freddie left her after finding out what she had almost done. At first, I agreed with them, thinking "She just tried to kill herself that day and the best thing he thinks he can do to stabilize her is to leave? She'll probably attempt another suicide as soon as he walks out the door." Then the more I thought about it, the more I pitied Freddie over Hester.
   And why is that, you may ask? Suicide, to put it simply, is selfish. Most people who take their lives only have one thought in their heads. It's all about them, all about how they can't be happy and get what they want. Hester was upset that Freddie forgot her birthday. In my mind, her attempt at suicide showed her true colors about that relationship. It was all about her. It was not about how Freddie felt. Her marriage to Bill was not about how he felt. It was all about her. I won't put names out, but I know someone who stayed with their spouse merely out of the reason that the spouse threatened to kill theirselves if the other left them. Needless to say that that particular relationship ended badly.
   So in short, I think Freddie did the right thing. It was hard and he knew the risk he was taking, but he couldn't live with someone who, if he didn't entirely make her happy, would end her life. That's not a stable relationship. Unless I have mistaken the ending, she didn't kill herself at the end; and I think it was because of Freddie's last act of kindness. He almost bailed out that very night, but decided to stay with her one more night before he left. Everything was packed in the morning and they had their sad farewell, where he said "Be safe." and she replied "Be good."
   Well, to say the least, I'm not entirely sure what I wanted to point out in this post; and I certinaly don't want anyone to think I am cruel to the people who struggle with suicide. That's definitely not what this is about, because I pity those people too. I suppose it's up to every individual to take from this what they like. I guess my main goal was not to put the people who voted for Hester down, but to give the frank and dangerous mindset of suicide. I've had my fair share of knowing what the mind can do when in a state of depression and I know that suicide is all about yourself. Other than that, the movie was very good. I would recommend it to anyone who wants to watch something that will make them think.

Emotionless Dancing and Mourning

   This summer has been spent in a lot of thought for me. I am constantly, however, reminded of a picture a friend of mine posted once on Tumblr. Though I do not remember the original artist or link of the photo, I can clearly recall what the picture held. It was the image of a man lying on a couch. A giant lightbulb had smashed his head, leaving blood on the floor and furniture. The lightbulb was cracked and pieces of it lay all over the place.
   The meaning of the picture? We think too much. Sometimes our thoughts can lead us to a sort of mental death, to a point where we can't think anymore, we can't live happily or in peace.
   This is precisely the place I have been trying to avoid going to. I know my thoughts can rule me, can push me to think the most unthinkable ideas. Even worse is when I am thinking of five or six different things at once. That truly makes me go mental and I have no way of talking to anyone with a straight conscience. I have been outruled by my unrelenting mind.
   And this leads me to ask the question of whether or not our thoughts are one cause of the misery and joylessness of life. Although I'm hardly a vigilant prayer person, I tried to go back to it today. In these moments, I sometimes open my Bible, hoping that there are words to find that will suit the prayer, since I hardly have the words left for such an act. Curious as to where my book-ribbon was, I flipped to the location of it. It was stuck in Matthew. I usually have reasons for the ribbon being in certain spots. Obviously there was a day in the past where I saw something that struck me and I decided to save it for another looking. I looked and looked on those pages today to see what I had saw that I liked. And I did. It started in chapter 11, verses 16 and 17:

      "To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others: 'We played the pipe for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.'"

   Of course, my first response to the verse is "Those are part of the lyrics in 'Torches Together' by Mewithoutyou!" My second response was a bit more sinister. What are we? What do we do with our minds and our actions? I cannot help but feel that we are the emotionless people of that generation spoken. Children are trying to cheer us up. They are singing and dancing; they are mourning and sad; but we have no emotions left to spare. We are the adults who have duties to pay heed to, familes to take care of, bills to pay, cars to fill, groceries to eat and thoughts to think on. There is no time for being happy or being sad. We can only be hard as stone, for letting ourselves be vulnerable through love and emotion is to surrender our wits and discipline.
   Is it? Is it really surrender? Can laughing and crying be all that bad? This is one area in which I see the ruling of our mind's thoughts as key to the trouble. After spending a lot of time this summer with my niece and nephew, I've learned that children understand the balance of emotions better than we do. They would cry if they didn't get their way or if they got hurt, but not long after that, they were back to their happy selves. There was the time for sadness, but they knew joy was just around the corner. Children have taught me a great deal. They have shown me that if I let my thoughts control me all the time, it could drive me into madness. If I just know when to dance to the flute or to mourn to the dirge, then I'll be on the right track. Tears are not a weakness and dancing is not a sin.
   Our generation needs to lighten up; that goes out to every person of every religion or no religion. If we take our lives too seriously, we'll kill ourselves from the inside. This isn't to say that I don't struggle with this part. I am very serious to the point that I can appear to be a jerk to some people. I apologize if any who read this got that impression from me. It's my stone-cold wall I've built because I don't want my emotions to get the best of me and I have a hard time trusting people.
   I've got to listen to the kids. I've got to be the emotions without shame.

Long-Lost Relatives and Selfish Prigs

      Earlier this week, my father found me sitting by the poker table in the basement, intently immersed in a book, my nose close to touching the paper. Before my dad told me of his errand on seeing me, the first question that came from his mouth was, "Do you ever stop reading?" I stared up, an amused yet astonished look on my face as I replied, "No, I don't." The coincidence in this is that he wanted to tell me that he found two old books in the garage of which he was going to give me to add to my library. To my satisfaction, I was given an ancient copy of "The Epic of Gilgamesh" and an old Oxford Latin book (I suppose I have a legitimate reason now to teach myself the lost language).
      I'm not ashamed of my being bookish. I find it to be worth my while to educate the mind always, even if it means reading a children's novel. I've come to the conclusion that we read because we're eager to learn, to broaden the scope of our brains. We seek to untie the knotted lies that society has told us about humanity.
      I've just recently finished "Surprised by Joy" by C.S. Lewis and "Henry IV Part 1" by Shakespeare. I'm glad to say that I've been able to move on to "Henry IV Part 2" and it's already got my senses tingling with anticipation. I pity the souls of those who have no interest or respect towards Shakespeare, one of the greatest writers of history. I've met a few people in the writing field who don't like Shakespeare because they can't understand him. Again, I will say 'pity' for them. Just because they cannot understand him does not make him worthless. He understood humanity, and had one of the most creative ways of portraying it. Whenever I read his words out loud, I cannot help but fall in love with the story. I fear we've lost that beauty, that elegance in our writings today. There is no second glance at the old english; and half the time, it is because people 'cannot understand it.' Pity. Pity, pity, pity. I support my avid words with the words of Lewis in the novel that I just finished. "Liking an author may be as involuntary and improbable as falling in love." Yes, I've fallen in love with Shakespeare, as well as Lewis, both of whom I have never known in life. I wish I had. We would of had so much to say.
      Speaking of similarities, I have found myself confronted with something of which I cannot shake off. Reading Lewis' book was a new journey for me. Granted, everytime I read anything by him, I am struck with the way in which he seems to address my very soul, as though he knew me. After reading "Surprised by Joy", I found myself metaphorically lifeless on the floor. I have become certain that Jack and I are long-lost relatives. Of course, I cannot prove this in any way (I don't have any map of my family tree), but I'm certain others can relate to the feeling. It's like admiring a musician, then finding out that person likes many of the things that you do as well. Time and space somehow pull the two together, though they have never met each other.
      That is me and Lewis. I'll speak as a madman, and say that the spirit of this author is haunting me in my own home. I happen to be obsessed (strangely enough) with Norse mythology; then I find out that specific mythology was one of Lewis' passions, one of his first obsessions in the story world. Ironic? Well, it gets better. How does it happen to be that I am in the midst of reading Henry IV and Lewis uses the character Falstaff as an example to something he was explaining? There is too much that is relateable between this man and I.
      Also, I've found that the place in his mind that he resided in during his youth is where I happen to be in as well. I'm sure all who read this will instantly interrupt with, "Well, everyone can relate to somebody of popularity somehow. You're no different." I entirely agree with this statement, but I must be boastful and ask a question in return. Have you ever related to someone so much, so keenly, that you were certain that you may be the new embodiment of their soul? That's how I've felt. I've recently teased the idea to my friends that I am the female version of C.S. Lewis that is still living. It may be a jest when I crack the joke then, but I come home and find myself seriously pondering the idea. Is it possible that two people who never knew each other in life can be so much the same person?
      I realize that all these statements may come to be very priggish of me (oh damn! another similarity between Jack and I!), but I don't regret the fact that I am a selfish prig. Who isn't? We've all got our ideas, and we all live according to their boundaries.....but I fear this post will be too long for anyone to have the patience to read all in one sitting. Those are my thoughts of the day....at least a few. I could never write everything in my head. If I did, it would be considered the never-ending novel. It would go on...forever....

"Painfully Limited"

      Earlier this afternoon, I was reading “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” while eating a rather unhealthy lunch. It has felt good to dive back into the books I’ve wanted to read, but lacked the necessary freedom for it at school. As the food was settling in my stomach, I picked up the book again and continued reading. The famous trio of teens was visiting a man, Xenophilius Lovegood, who they thought would give them some answers on a particular symbol that they kept seeing in certain books or places. The man, who was a bit loony to most, had worn a necklace with this mark on it at a different time in the book. When he explained how it represented the Deathly Hallows, three items that when put together would conquer death, one of the trio, Hermione, was adamant to the whole idea that the myth was false. In her mind, there was no way those objects could exist; there was no way to be a conqueror of death (even though in secret, she and her friends knew that they had one of the objects). What I thought was interesting was the man’s response to Hermione:

     

      “ ‘But,’ said Hermione, and Harry could hear her restraint starting to crack, ‘Mr. Lovegood, how can you possibly believe – ?’

      ‘Luna has told me all about you, young lady,’ said Xenophilius, ‘You are, I gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded.’”      (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p. 410)

      I had to read this passage about two or three times, because I liked it so much. It struck a chord in me that continued to hum long after it had been plucked. It somehow rang true to my ears, and I found myself thinking about it long after my lunch was gone.

      Now, allow me to connect this thread of conversation between Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Mr. Lovegood to the world of Christianity (don’t cringe yet, because this will hopefully be worth your time). But first, let me say that in this moment, Hermione even reminded me of Susan Pevensie from the Narnia stories. Ah yes, I’ll bet you’re starting to get the drift now. Hermione would rather be led by logic, by what she knows and is certain of, over an idea that had not been proven real. Mr. Lovegood had no living proof that he knew those objects were existent, that the story behind the objects was real, and that there was even the slightest chance of finding them.

      So how does this unbelief stretch into another realm? I think we Christians have the terrible tendency to trust our logic over our belief. If there is something in the Bible that does not make sense, we either discard it or try to make it make sense in our view of sense….. right? And that is exactly where I think we can lose footing. There were just some things that Jesus’ disciples could not understand that their leader was telling them. It all, I’m sure, sounded like a cluster of incoherent English words. I’ll give a short glimpse into where I’m reading from:

      “On hearing it, many of his disciples said, ‘This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?’

      Aware that his disciples were grumbling about this, Jesus said to them, ‘Does this offend you? What if you see the Son of Man ascend to where he was before! The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and they are life. Yet there are some of you who do not believe.’……

      ….From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him.”     (John 6:60-66)

      This is where we might gasp, and exclaim, “Wait! There were more than twelve disciples?” Of course! Besides, we ought not to be counting just the ones who were with Jesus 24/7. Any believer is a disciple.

    So my point is ultimately this: Hermione couldn’t make sense of Mr. Lovegood’s words, and the disciples couldn’t make sense of Jesus’ words. Whereas later on in the story, Hermione finally wakes up to what she doubted, the disciples merely walk away. I can’t help but wonder if the disciples thought that they were smarter than Jesus, and that was why they left…

      I fear that we may be in that slot: we may be ‘not unintelligent’, but we could be ‘painfully limited.’ The reason our faith may seem to smolder under our feet could be because we won’t push ourselves over the limit; we won’t experience Jesus in a way that says, “I may not get you sometimes. I may think you’ve totally lost your marbles. I may try to outwit you, but in the end, I’d rather believe in your crazy tales than live a dull life filled with earthly knowledge.”

      I’m sure that even I may not be making any sense as I type this idea out. All I know is that I got a feeling, and I decided to follow it, even if it started to sound a bit mad. That’s okay. I think we are all meant to be mental at some point.

A Dream Between Europe and the States

      Although I have not been to the Outer Banks, N.C. in quite some time, I still carry the memory of that one vacation with me always. It was such a great time to be with friends and family, even if the time was short. I can still remember the grainy sand between my toes, the sun burning my back to a lobster red (not to mention the awkward white lines that ended up being on my skin because of my friend not rubbing the sunscreen lotion in.) and the soothing sound of the waves hitting the beach. All of this and more make this place in North Carolina a perfect spot for a get-away.

      All of these factors, however, are not the only moments I cherished. There was one afternoon where I sat in the sand, reading or listening to music. I took a long, hard glance at the ocean in front of me. My eyes wanted to penetrate the distance of that great body of water, but no matter how hard I tried, I knew it would never work. My mind still imagined it, though, as I recall thinking in that moment, There is another land, another world out there. Somewhere across this massive ocean, there are places I’ve always wanted to see. Maybe one day, somehow, I will be there, looking out at the ocean from the other side, knowing home is somewhere beyond.

      This is, I’m sure, one of many thoughts that could go through anyone’s minds. How we long to travel! How we wish to see the world! Sometimes, dreaming is the only way to make it real.

      In my case, dreaming was the only way to make it not only real, but actually possible. Yes, I can say this with confidence, because I’ve had the privilege this year of making it all happen (of course, my parents definitely get most of the credit for making it a reality). In the middle of my spring semester, I went on a school trip that headed to Ireland. I know that one of my fantasies has always been to see that place with my own eyes. To be quite frank, I hardly believed that it was happening, but sure enough, I was on that plane and was soon landing in Dublin.

      Now I could go on talking about all the fantastic things I got to do and got to see, but I feel like the most important thing for me to say now is this: I felt at home. Granted, their accents were sometimes a bit too thick for me to know every word they spoke, or that I actually got lost in Dublin. The thing is I have a lot of Irish background in my family. As much as there is all English in me, the Irish is pretty big too; going to that place made me feel like I was discovering a part of my past, a part of my family line. This isn’t to say that I actually found out anything about my family (in fact, one of the Irish names that I know is in my family has probably been long gone from that island for some time). What’s important is that, every time the classic Irish music was played, every time I drank tea in the morning, every time I walked into an old monastery, I became alive.

      Needless to say that eventually, those 10 days ended and I found myself back at school, my whole spring break used up. Whereas a lot of other students came back refreshed, ready to kick the rest of the semester off, I was getting rid of jetlag, not ready to do anymore work, or run around the campus to classes.

      I don’t regret the trip. Even if I was sorely tired when I returned to the States, I wouldn’t change any of my decisions. Going to Ireland was not only a wish come true, but a step out of my comfort zone. We all need those moments in our lives. We need to not be afraid of the ‘what if’s when we are uncertain what making a particular decision will cost us. I had every single ‘what if’ before I signed the papers for that trip. What if I can’t afford it? What if I use up a precious break without my family? What if I lose my passport and Euros before I get there? What if, what if, what if, it doesn’t matter! Just do it! Yes, there will come times where you must consider deeply what it will cost to make a choice like that, but sometimes we miss a big opportunity because of it. I probably won’t be making another big trip for a while, but I’ll be content with what I’ve got. Besides, I still need to work on my giant scrapbook to put all of my pictures from Ireland in and I’ve got to finished eating the Irish Whiskey Fudge I bought!