The Phoenix

When I was little I remember looking at a poster we had in our house, it was never hung up, but it was old and worn in the folded edges when I looked at it... My siblings must have liked it too. On the front was a beautiful painting of a stream running through a glade. A unicorn stood in the shallows, looking at me. Beyond the trees was a castle on a hill. A castle that matched the white of the unicorn. To complete this romanitc picture there was a perfect rainbow arching through the sky.

The best part though was the back of the poster. That was the side we all looked at the most. Mythical beasts were scattered across it with their names printed besides them and paragraphs of information. I had two favorites. The griffin, a fierce looking half eagle, half lion, and the fiery phoenix in the upper right corner. It was an eagle like bird diving through a flaming sky.

Several months ago one of my brothers asked me if I would paint him a picture of a Phoenix. I agreed. But then I had to decide what I wanted my phoenix to look like. I steered away from the bird flying out of flames, that was too common for a phoenix. If I was going to bother to paint one I might as well do one that was different. I also made my phoenix a little more swan like then the eagle of my childhood. In that regard, and the long tail feathers I was probably influenced by how J K Rowling wrote her phoenix. Also while researching a little about the phoenix I found something that said that it's name comes from the Greek word for Purple. I wanted some purple in my painting . Anyway here is my painting, it's done for good or ill.

And if you want a little extra information about the legends of the Phoenix check out this website. http://monsters.monstrous.com/phoenix.htm.

Happy New Years. When we can all burst from the ashes and begin again.

Christmas

It's Christmas. I have better things to do today then post here. I hope you do too. Have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Angel

This is a picture I took a while ago (more then a year ago). It was taken in a car driving back from the Louisville Kentucky LDS Temple. Perhaps it is appropriate for this time of year. But I really love it.
This week I have been cataloging (I guess that's what you would call it) pictures from this time period so I thought I would share one with you.

A Walk

This is another scene from a memoir I wrote for school. This one is not in the final draft so I thought I would share it here. It probably would make a little more sense within the whole, but I hope it is understandable.

We stopped in New York state – the rural part of it, for a picnic and a long walk in a sun-drenched field. The hard dirt path was a canyon between the tall grasses, it reached above my head even higher than the marsh grasses behind our house.

“What's this?” My brother asked squinting down at me.

“This is Queen Anne's Lace.” I said fingering the delicate white array of flowers. “Look at the tiny black dot in the middle, that's how you tell.” I continued. He had just returned from his mission, and it was good to have him home.

He pointed farther down the path to another tall stand of flowers. “So this is it, right?”

“Yep.” I answered smugly, showing off for my brother, the one who's tall dark looks made everyone call him handsome. He had a quirky smile that took in the world, saw its weaknesses but still turned upwards, a little.

“How about this one?”

“Uh. I don't know” I hesitated, bending over another plant with trumpeting yellow flowers. “What's this Mom?” I called.

She walked back down the path toward us, my father trailing behind her.

“Oh, I've been wondering about that one too,” she followed my finger “I think it's called 'Butter an' Eggs'.”

“Butter an' Eggs” My brother and I echoed in unison “cool.” We listened as she continued to describe the little flower to us.

Like a butterfly I flitted along the path and among my family.

“Look at this snail.”

“Did you see the Tulip tree, the leaves look like a cup and saucer. It's super cool.”

“This is a beautiful walk.” My mom agreed.

My mind and words flitted from plant to plant and away from any impending future. Just because I ignored the future sometimes, it didn't mean it went away. That summer I saw my sister married. My brother went back to college in Utah in the fall, leaving only my youngest brother and I at home. All of his senior friends were my friends too. At the end of the year they graduated and went their separate paths. I was finally an only child. Like the last leaf on the tree I wondered when it would be my turn to fall, my turn to fly on the wind.

Rehashed Conversations

The other day I was sitting in the hallway of a building on campus. A professor I had two years ago walked by, noticed me and stopped to talk to me. He remembered me. At least a little bit. It was not a particularly important conversation but later that day, sitting in another class, it came back unbidden. I rehashed the entire conversation in my head, head-nods and gestures included.
This happens to me fairly often, where I find myself nodding or giving an inaudible answer to a past conversation. I don't think I'm crazy but it does make me wonder why. What do I find so compelling about certain conversations that I relive them over and over again?
One thought is that it is the people. These conversations tend to be with individuals I admire or respect, and I want their good opinion. Professor's for example.
Another thought is that they are conversations that make me feel good. As in the Professor remembered me (kind of) after two years.
Perhaps I am just rambling but I found it interesting to think about.

Perfection

I realized something about myself this week. And I can't decide how I feel about it. I realized that my brand of perfectionist relates to homework. This means my homework rules my life and I feel that I have to completely do every bit of homework, every reading assignment, every piece of busy work. I do well in school, but sometimes I wonder if it is all completely necessary. It's odd really though I've never been a grade eater, I don't care if I get perfect grades, 4.0's, whatever. To me I think it has more to do with pleasing the teacher, I like people to think highly of me (I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in that feeling). But it really isn't all about being a people pleaser either, it's just I feel like a slacker when I don't do everything that is asked of me. And it's not necessary. But that's how I am. I don't really know how to change, and yet I'm not sure I want to either. It's good to be able to be proud of your work.... but when it takes up your whole life it's kind of annoying too.
Before I started thinking about this I hadn't really thought I was a perfectionist. I guess there is room for everyone in that happy home. Just like everyone is creative or patient in different things. Maybe everyone is a perfectionist in some degree. What kind are you? and do you mind?

Complaining

So a couple of days ago someone challenged me to refrain from complaining the weeks preceding Thanksgiving. I thought OK, I can do that. I'm not a particularly negative person, I can do that.
I've failed. Badly.
My first challenge came when I was in a situation where other people were complaining. I understood their grievances and could commiserate, so I became just another member of the group and joined them.
Failure one. Complaining by Association.
Next I had a bizarre experience happen to me. I was trying to print 20 copies of a 14 page paper for my writing class. At the first computer lab I ran out of free copies. At the second there was a line to even get into use a computer, and I was running out of time. The third computer lab let me print the rest of the copies that I needed. Too bad they then took my ID hostage until I put more money on it to pay for all those pages. During all this I was happy, I was laughing. Life was good. But it was so bizarre I wanted to tell people about it, but whenever I did I felt like I was complaining.
Failure two. Sounds like complaining.
Then, that odd day was followed by two miserable ones. I had a lot of homework and nothing seemed to work out. Really, that's not why I was mad though. I was just feeling grumpy. And so I vented my feelings, crying and complaining. I was overall miserable.
Failure three. Actual Complaining (with the emotion and attitude behind it).
Ha. I thought it would be easy. Easy to be grateful and happy. Nope. It's hard. But the challenge succeeded in one way, I may not have stopped complaining but I've been a lot more aware of when I do complain.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Rainbow and Lighthouse

So the other day someone told me that they had always wanted a picture of a lighthouse with a rainbow in it. I set out to create one. Strangely enough I don't feel like I have a ton of free time so I didn't want to do anything too crazy. Plus I am already in the middle of a full blown acrylic painting, so I didn't want to start another one. I thought about doing charcoal... but black and white didn't seem very conducive to a rainbow. I thought about a couple of other mediums, pen and ink, craypa, scrapbook. Can you tell I like to play around with different things?
Finally I pulled out my box of watercolor colored pencils. The premise is that you draw something with these colored pencils and then paint over it with water and the colors bleed out just like the coloring books for kids. Except you put the color where you want. It's kind of a tricky process because its hard to know how much color you'll need to make it vibrant. I haven't played with them in a long time and as you can probably tell the grass and rocks and ocean probably don't have enough color. But it was a fun endeavor. It also would have been better if I had had real watercolor paper.... it doesn't soak up the water quite so bad and curl the paper. I taped the paper down with masking tape before I started painting it with water, so that helped a lot.
Anyway this was a fun little adventure. Too bad the picture turned out a little dark. We'll see if the lady likes it.

Stirring Hornets

I forgot to post last week. And I even had an idea. Well you get it now.
A couple of days ago my dad told a story that a friend from work had told him. At a scout camp he was attending several young men all got attached by wasps. After medical attention was provided they were asked what happened. One boy confessed that he had found a long stick and seeing a wasp nest in a nearby tree he found it his fascinating duty to knock the nest from the tree. Once that was accomplished he found that that was not enough. He then proceeded to catapult the nest back from whence it came, lodging it back within the branches of the tree. About this time several other boys apparently walked under the tree were they were promptly but unsurpisingly swarmed upon by indignant wasps. What is really surprising is that the wasps hadn't swarmed earlier.
After this story of boyish stupidity -I hope you don't mind me calling it that. My father's friend told him "You were probably that boy. You aren't afraid of stirring up wasps."
"You" I exclaimed in response when my dad related this story. My mild mannered father. When my siblings and I were little it was never him we went to if we wanted to ask permission for some odd adventure.
But... I remember at one point after sticking up for some personal rights in a work position I'm pretty sure he should have written a book entitled "Don't Ask Me. I only work here. Maybe." He does stand up for things that matter. But he's certainly not one to pick a fight.
I guess he doesn't mind playing with hornets.
The other day I was sitting in a class discussion. The questions and topics we were discussing were about patriarchy and the role of men.
"So do you think any form of leadership or power shown by men can be a good thing?" Mi professora asked.
The ring of predominately women students sat silent.
Courage.
I raised my hand, my professor nodded in my direction. "Yes"
"How can you answer so positively? Can you elaborate?"
I struggled for words. "All of us have spheres of influence whether we like it or not and if we use the power we have in good, constructive ways in those spheres whether men or women it is a benefit."
The subject dropped.
The spheres of Dr. Warren, John Adams, John Hancock, and Paul Revere were fairly large, widened by their own actions.
During the late 1700's Massachusetts was a hotbed of revolution, politics, and a little warmongering. I'm from Massachusetts. I've wondered would I have sided with Adams and Hancock or would I have been a Tory, a Loyalist. I am a quiet law abiding type.
The more I think about it, stirring hornets, the more I wonder why do it. Is it just to antagonize fellow creatures? Or is it commenting on standards of life, standing up for things that matter. Do you stir hornets? Sometimes I do.

Perfect Picture

After I posted last week I realized that cemeteries would have been a more appropriate post for this week, oh well. This is a memory I wrote. It is part of a larger memoir I have to write for one of my classes (unless I edit it out :) ).

We stared out at the gray rock in the ocean, like the head of a seal poking it's head above the waves.

“Where are the seals?” My parents, siblings, and I heard the question, muttered by the congregated tourists. We mirrored the skies and the calling sea gulls.

“Can I see the binoculars?” My dad asked my mom. She unlooped them from around her neck and passed them to him.

The water moved hypnotically below, the gray of the Pacific crashing into white. Tired of looking for the missing seals on the distant rock, my fingers traced the rust marks on the guard rail. Suddenly a shout rose above the waves and the sea gulls. “There they are!”

A single seal had pulled its dark bulk out of the water onto the shelf of rock. That one seal's movement explained to its audience what to look for. We looked out and saw that the lumpy gray rock of moments before, had been transformed into a swarming hive of seals.

“Oh.” I paused, and then gave a little nod “I'm taking a picture!” My hands moved towards my eyes framing the rock and the seals as I pushed an imaginary camera button. “Click” I said, audibly, and stored away the 'picture' in my mind.

Cemetery

In cemeteries I have laughed, walked, taken pictures, spread flowers, eaten lunch, talked, thought, cleaned, and documented. (I was going to say "dug" but that doesn't sound right... but I have dug around gravestones that are half buried.)
My favorite are the old New England cemeteries, the dappled light amongst the trees, the soft mossy ground, the crumbling stones that read out old puritanical reproofs to live a better life.
Out west the cemeteries all seem so new, the stones covered in detailed etches of faces, horses, mountains and trucks (who wants a truck on their tombstone anyway?). It just isn't the same ambiance. I suppose, they tend to be a bit more somber too, considering on the newer gravestones I might see the name of someone I actually knew, instead of the long dead ancestors where the gravestone is all I know of them.
Names, dates and hopefully a precious line of something else, a poem, a commemoration, a title, from these a tiny bit of a history can be gleaned, understood or imagined. The death date of a baby son only a few days after the birth, and the grieving parents, only a row over, suddenly gain more life. Another tomb labeled "Mother, Wife, Friend" brings to mind my own mother. Was this long dead mother, loved for the same reasons mine is?
The quiet stones tell their own stories.

Bones

I decided that although I liked my last several posts I thought they were kind of boring to look at. So here is a picture I took this week. They are rib bones from my bone class. Osteology if you want to feel smart.
That class, among others, continually amazes me how divine this world is, how things have been created in such amazing perfection.
"all things denote there is a God" (Alma 30:44)

Painting Smudges

Water pours over my hands, and then flows into the yellow basin and down the drain. I halfheartedly rub my hands together, somehow missing the larger blotches of color. In the mirror I can see my reflection turn off the faucet and reach for the towel. Then, grabbing the plastic cup covered in layers of colors, I rinse it once more and leave the bathroom.
As I place the cup back on the table in my room, and line my still wet paintbrushes onto the Tupperware container that holds my paint I critically examine the two feet high canvas. The patchy outline of a phoenix flies through a starred sky. It's a good beginning. I reach out to push it back from the edge of the table. The back of my hands are speckled with faint white freckles, and smudges of blue the color of the night sky reach up to my elbows. How they got up that far, I don't know. Good. I think again, that means I've actually done something today.
Several minutes later my dad comes home from work and my mom calls me for supper. I kneel across from her, my dad making the third point of our triangle.
"You're shirt looks kind of messy." My dad points out to my mother as he sits down at the table.
"That's what happens when you work all day" my mom replies, excusing the vibrantly mashed strawberries spotting her front.
Today, like every other day I can remember, she had worked hard. Today's occupation happened to be paring, slicing, and drying pears, picking strawberries and cooking meals.
My family gets frustrated with me when I tell them I won't go into art. "What's the point?" I say "Art is useless."
The next day, blue smudges still make a pattern up my arm. For some reason the washcloth brushed over them lightly.

Defining Friends

A long time ago I had a conversation with someone about what a friend really was. Opinionatedly I told him that a friend was someone you could be completely yourself around at all times. My companion disagreed and he told me that my definition was too extreme.... I wondered why I had no friends.
After a little more life experience and time (especially serving a mission) I have revised my statement. I don't think I am ever "completely me" with one person. I adapt my interests and ideas, the things I talk about and how I say them depending on who I'm communicating with. No matter who it is. Is that wrong? Am I two-faced, or ten-faced? It is not that I am trying to be dishonest or am necessarily hiding things, but I just adapt. I guess I really am a chameleon.
The other interesting note I have to say about friends is finding them. I have made friends (no I still haven't defined what that means) because of convenience (age/location). I have made them because I was living with them 24/7 and it was better to be friends then enemies. I have made them when someone else initiated contact and friendship. I have come to call many people friends, a lot of whom I have nothing in common with. How does that work? It is not about "clicking."
While serving my year and a half mission I served with seven different people. Sometimes we would ask each other "would we have been friends in high school?" Sometimes the answer was yes -we would have searched each other out because of similarities in interests or opinions- but sometimes it would have been no. Either way, we are friends now. And that is important.
Friendship is about love and service and time. Friendship is not about me, about being "myself" completely. It is about them, do I love them, serve them, listen to them, laugh with them. That is friendship.

Five W's and an H. For your information.

Who? Me. Call me Shrike. Rebecca.
What? This blog. "Quiet Inside." It is not "Miracle Hunter" which I thought about, but in some ways Miracle Hunter is more proactive more forward then I suspect this blog will be.
Where? Here.
When? When as in when did I decide to do this.... well its been distilling in my mind for a while now. When, as in how often will I post. I promise, once a week. I know consistency is important, and so I am telling myself for now, it will be once a week.
Why? I really don't know. But, as I've tried to explain to people, and never felt like I succeeded (why would it work this time?) I want to write something, create something, that moves people, that changes them like I have been changed by the things I have read. Maybe in some small way this can do that.
How? This will be a blog, what kind, I'm not sure yet. But my guess is I will ramble here about books (I told you I read a lot), and ideas. Occasionally there will be artistic posts... I play around with paint, paper, clay, and the camera. And all of it will be words. Hopefully you're ok with that.
Welcome to Quiet Inside.