Grandma Florence

Several days ago, Carissa's grandpa was diagnosed with cancer, and her great-grandpa is in the hospital as well, so today we talked for a bit about them--and, of course, she got teary-eyed. But before I knew it, my thoughts went to my own grandma, and I started crying with her.

It's been five or so years since Grandma Florence died. It might be a bit strange, but I didn't cry when she died; it's only been moments like today, when I realize again that she's really gone, that the emotion hits me. After she was diagnosed with leukemia, the chemo drained the life from her and she was gone in a year--it's scary to see the strongest person you know become so fragile.

I remember never being able to get through to her and Grandpa on the phone--it was always busy because Grandma was praying with people again--for two plus hours minimum. I was one of more than forty grandkids, but she always had time for me to spend the night--some of my sweetest memories. There would always be a box of a certain kind of apple on her porch. They had a tight, tart skin, but their white flesh would crumble in my mouth, sweet--juice running down my fingers. I don't remember their name, but the smell of them is a permanent memory. I was looking through the apples in Cub a couple months ago and my nose caught that smell and I thought of her. She'd always let me help make supper: sprinkle flour into the eggy mix, push, push the dough with the heal of your hand, fold it over, and begin again. When it was all elastic-like, we'd roll out the dough, covering the kitchen counter, and cut it into strips for homemade noodles. The finer points of cooking were always interspersed with words filled with God's mercy and power. No one could talk to Grandma for more than ten seconds without one or both working their way into the conversation. In fact, if you left her presence without her praying with you at least once--it was a rarity.

It makes me want to be like her--to leave a spiritual legacy with my grandchildren in the way she's left one with me. Maybe that's why I didn't cry when she died...I knew she was just going home. I know that's cliche, but it was true. She lived Christ with intensity--that's what I want to strive for.

But I want to drive

Trust: letting go of the steering wheel of my life, moving to the passenger seat, and, worst of all, relinquishing the keys. But I want to drive. I want to listen to my own music, set the temperature to comfortable, cruise smooth, traffic-free highways, and choose my own destination. Trust. I grip the keys more tightly in my fist, impressing their shape deep into my palm.
It hurts.

So, I'll let you have the keys now, my hand tingles and burns. I know it's futile to fight You. But I'll form a back-up plan--hold back, encase my heart in foam peanuts to cushion the blow just in case. Who knows where this will end? You don't show me the itinerary. I know you'll make me listen to music I don't want to hear, crank the window wide to let in the frigid February air, make me uncomfortable. I hate not knowing.

My eyes are blurring, lids straining back to open after each blink. You say, "Sleep...I've got the wheel." I shake my head, straighten back to alert. If I lay back, relax, let each mile pass blindly...I'll lose any shred of control I have...think I have. I can't think anymore. My head throbs with worries of journey and, most of all, destination. Sometimes I wonder why I don't just let go, scrap my cushioned faith, and free fall. Trust. I know You know the road, but I don't. Sometimes knowing all the facts doesn't equal faith. But my grip is weakening with every mile. I'm tired--surrender is inevitable. If only it wasn't so hard.

Real Toads

Just a quote that amuses me...

"Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads." --Marianne Moore

I always picture little black and green spotted toads jumping out of poetry books. Hmm, perhaps Inkstone should take an entirely new direction this semester... (JUST kidding. Really.)

Super-glued Conversations

Look! I'm actually posting during the day as opposed to the wee hours of the night (are the wee hours limited to only the morning, or can they be night too? hmm.). Truly a miracle.

I'm an editor for our campus literary magazine, Inkstone, and like an idiot I decided to volunteer (actually more like arm-wrestle) for the chance to write the editor's note. Turns out my long hours devoted to arm-wrestling tutorage have finally paid off...so here I am needing to write the editor's note for the spring issue. And I said "like an idiot" before because I didn't really have any idea in mind for actually writing the creature. But I think I might now...(perhaps)

I've been thinking a lot lately about conversations (ok that phrase "thinking a lot lately" seems to be my blog chorus line...ah well). In my musings I'm forming this theory that conversations, along with experiences of course, have a major part in shaping who we are as individuals. I'm not talking about the everyday "howareyoudoingfine," five-minute deals that we all feel obligated to have. What I mean is the conversations in which the words hold so much weight that you feel as though you could snatch them out of the air and hold them in your hand and super-glue them to the walls of your heart. Maybe I'm romanticizing it all, but those conversations are where I verbalize who I am. I put into concrete words the thoughts and emotions that embody my being--put them out there to be listened to, absorbed, and reflected by those I trust and connect with most. Those words let my intimates know me, but more than that--they let me know myself.

While searching for famous quotes about conversation, I came across this one from Laurence Sterne (about whom I know nothing beyond the fact that he was an Irish writer in the 1700's). He says, ""Writing, when properly managed, . . . is but a different name for conversation." There it was: my Inkstone editor's note condensed into a sentence (or so I hope). But regardless, little fireworks exploded in my brain, and thoughts began to connect. As I said earlier, when I converse, I put my thoughts and emotions into concrete words--how much more then is writing an extension, even an amplification of that principle. These Inkstone contributors, through their poems, stories, essays, and art, are beginning (actually continuing) a conversation. They are contributing their part of the dialogue that is formed by literature and the arts. As we put out this issue of Inkstone (eventually!), we are inviting readers to listen in, eavesdrop on this conversation about the contributors' lives. Now the question remains as to what the readers' response will be.

(Im)Patiently Waiting

Still working on my taxes...which is really frustrating when you have to file both in Minnesota and Wisconsin. One of my lifelong (well, not exactly lifelong of course) questions, aside from why grape-flavored things taste nothing like real grapes, and who ever figured out how to make cheese (thankfully they did somehow), is why did they make taxes so difficult? In my opinion there are little numbers which should go into little boxes...sounds simple right? Nope.

It doesn't help that I'm not the most patient person in the world--the future isn't now and boy does that bug me. I suppose we are all like that, waiting for the next big thing in our lives to happen, so we can move on and move forward. So in that sense I'm not unique from the whole wide world of impatient people. Lately though, I've been especially impatient. Life just changes so fast when you are in college--nothing seems to be constant: classes change like my hair color every semester (I'm TRYING not dye my hair again--it's cheaper!), I haven't lived in the same place for more than ten months of the year, I haven't lived at my parents' house for more than a month at a time, and relationships may or may not be there when the semester starts again. It's a little scary sometimes to think about the future and what might happen. Sometimes I long for some sort of stability. At the same time, I completely enjoy the spontaneity of my life--it certainly is the antithesis of boring.

I guess I'm really thinking about the importance of focusing on now. I can worry about the future so much that I forget to enjoy today--I forget to have joy today. God has given me this moment; I can chose to use it or spend it wondering how I am going to use the moments I don't have in my hands yet. And most often that's when I start to take them out of His.

Sparkly Moments

I tend to lose things a lot, or maybe it's just that I'm really absent-minded. Like the day I wore two different shoes to class--no joke. Actually I think I'm not so much absent-minded as I'm very easily distracted. Dangle something sparkly or interesting in front of me and there I go. Sometimes thoughts work in my head like that, something interesting (or sparkly) pops into my brain, and I have to follow it or lose it. (Like on the phone with John tonight, I said that I was going to come see him if I had to run screaming down the hall painted green. He wanted to know where that thought came from--I have absolutely no clue.)

It's like that with a lot of things, relationships, life, God--that instant where something strikes you--you can choose to live in it and let it change you, or put it aside to be forgotten ten minutes later. And I'm always left wondering what might have happened had I grabbed onto those instants.

Lately, I've been trying not to let my busy schedule keep me from relishing the moments that ten years down the road I'll remember much more than whether or not I finished my Lit assignment. It's the conversations and people that will stick with me. It's the truth I took time to contemplate that will stick and become a part of my heart. Maybe it's just that I'm so detail-oriented, but I'm finding that those little instants are shaping me into who I am. Hmm. So many thoughts.

The Nile and Parental Wisdom

Whew, right now my head is muddled in the land of ancient Egypt--the first big test tomorrow, so I'm furiously cramming about Amenemhat I & III, Imhotep, Sesostris I & II....not to mention trying to spell them! So back to the present for quick breather before returning to mummies and pyramids.

I'm also working on the second draft of my freelancing article--a profile on my aunt and uncle. They are the parents of nine kids, eight of which are adopted, including several different ethnicities and disabilities. Truly amazing parents--they both work full time and manage to keep going through their kids' special needs, endless doctor appointments, basketball games, and still eat supper together almost every night!

It has made me think of my own parents--amazing in their own right for raising me, my two sisters, and five brothers--including my four-year-old brother with Autism. I called home on Saturday and ended up talking with my dad for a while. At one point, I mentioned how much I appreciated everything he and my mom had done for me--and he stopped to thank me for saying that. I could tell from his voice that it meant a lot to him. Perhaps I need to say it more often. It's a funny moment when you realize that your parents, for all their "uncoolness" (to borrow from back in high school) were pretty much right all along. Well...it's back to the delta.

A Littlish Nudge

"Our life looks trivial, and we shun to record it." --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Well, after a week of having a blog and not posting anything, I've been encouraged by my friends Emerson and Isaac to write a little something, even if it's not profound or hilarious. So here I am getting my feet wet in the blogosphere.

I'm realizing more every day just how fast life goes by. The routine of class, work, and homework blends and blurs into yesterday, last week, and last year. I just sent out my first application for a tech writing internship with Caribou this summer and realized the quad ends in two and a half weeks, then nine short weeks before summer. Crazy. But I want this space to be a place where I can pause a little from my insanely busy life, remember to breathe, and live without thinking of what I need to do next.