Patience and Waiting

As the youngest of five, I often felt like I was left behind. Waiting. Because of some of those experiences in high school, I have wanted to write a story about waiting. Taking my fiction class has given me an opportunity to do so. I'm not going to put it here, (maybe later), but I just wanted to mention some of the important things about waiting.

Waiting seems to be a common lot of women. Throughout time, the nature of men and women and their roles often leads to men going off to war, or missions, or business trips, or even just daily work away from the home. While women are often left to dwell at home with a more limited sphere. I stand in awe at the patience, and the steadfast diligence of women who stay home and "hold down the fort." They see the days turn into years as they watch their "menfolk" do the "more exciting work." Again, where do these women gain the patience to stand still? Maybe that is why being quite inside is so important.

Some thoughts on Journaling

I have kept a journal (almost daily) since my senior year of highschool. I feel rather strongly about record keeping. I'm not exactly sure why I feel so strongly about it but here are a few reasons:

*I love rereading my journals. Isn't it awesome that I know I was a terrible speller in second grade, and that on May 28, 2005 I spent all day writing a history paper.

*It's also really nice to be able to look up important events, or experiences that I've had. Several months ago I gave a talk at church and I was able to read directly from my journal to relate an experience. It's amazing how much you forget, and yet how much a journal can remind you of the thoughts and feelings you had at the time.

*I like writing in a journal, putting down thoughts and everyday unimportant details. Sometimes I understand things more deeply when I write them down and realize how they correlate with other parts of my life. It helps me see the bigger picture.

The picture is of several of my journals. As you can see I'm not picky about what they look like. So far I have always written my journal longhand, although a lot of people type theirs. I guess I like the randomness of types of journals, and I also know that my penmanship changes with my mood. And that's neat to see.

Happy Journaling.

Goodbye Don

Sorry I'm late again this week. I was looking through some old notebooks this morning for some story ideas. And I found a little nonfiction piece I'd written about reading.

Don was my enemy. Every day I went to my first grade classroom in the old elementary school. We would talk about the ducklings we raised. We made pinch-pots in art class. We added and subtracted on the dusty green chalkboard. And I fought Don.

Don and Nan, they were friends and fellow conspirators in torturing me. Together they saw cats, ran after dogs and hugged dads. I just didn't care about Don's tree and Nan's shoe. And yet my teacher insisted reading was fun.

Every night my mom read me stories about meek griffins(1), and families of bears(2). My sister told me stories about an Anne with an "e" and red hair(3). My brothers talked about mice that could "eat with all four paws" and otters that fought epic battles(4). But me! I was left with Don and Nan and their dog named Spot.

My mom must have laughed when she saw me reading The Scarlet Letter. There I was in my hideous sweatpants, laying on the couch, my blanket pillowing my head and my sister's assigned book held above my face, as if reaching for the sky. There I was, reading, "the," "and," "if," the sight words I knew. There were no "Dons" in the whole chapter. And I kept reading. It was long and tiring and with only those few words I didn't understand much, but I felt there must be something. Something deeper. Something better in that book. It was huge. There must have been a reason for it. (In high school I read it again with a few more vocabulary words under my belt. I was right.)

And yet, everyday I went back to Nan and Don seeing a tree. The cat in the tree.

My teacher put me in the stupid group. The reading group for dummies. Of course no one called it that, but we all knew it anyway. But what did I care. I was in the smart group where we added apples and subtracted oranges. I cared more about apples then I did about Nan. I was solving mysteries.

One day everything changed. I don't even remember how, but I got a copy of The Boxcar Children. Suddenly I had new friends. Friends that a decade and a half later I can still remember. Henry was brave, Jesse was capable, Violet was sweet, and Benny was joyful. These siblings were close, like my own family. They were happy, and adventurous. People changed and things happened. It was a new world. With that book Don and Nan were vanquished and forgotten.

By third grade I tested at an 8th grade reading level. Why didn't anyone tell me learning to read didn't have to be boring.

(1)The Pinkish, Purplish, Bluish Egg by Bill Peet

(2)The Berenstain Bears by Stan and Jan Berenstain

(3)Anne of Green Gables by L M Montgomery

(4)The Redwall Books by Brian Jacques

Finding Center

During high school I remember my peers always talking (or should I say complaining) about how their teachers give them so much homework and act like geometry or European History or whatever class was going to be our life. But really, how would we ever need to use that information. Ever.

Now I'm a Junior in college, and most of my classes are in my major. And now not only do my professors act like this will be my life... but so do my peers. I realized it this week, and it was somewhat of a shock. Sure, I like Anthropology, it's interesting but I don't want it to be the center of my life... economically or mentally. Part of that, I think is because I do have a wide range of interests (hence Anthropology in the first place) but second because I want the Gospel of Jesus Christ to be at my center, and with that my family. Period, the end. I'll keep taking Anth classes, I'll keep writing, and blogging, and reading but I never want any of those things to be my center.