well, I wrote a novel (+ a Christmas Cash Giveaway!)

Remember when I said I was going to write a novel in one month? Well, I did it, folks! And now I'm here from the other side to say it can be done!

It turns out I have quite a few fellow aspiring authors among my readership, and it's been really fun to chat with you through the month about my book and its progress. Here are some FAQs and my answers about my novel-writing experience.

What was the goal again?
Because I'm crazy, I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo. The challenge is to write 50,000 words in one month, from November 1 to November 30. I didn't know I wanted to write a novel this year until I woke up at 4am in a hotel room with an idea for a story (remember this post?). And then I couldn't stop thinking about that dang idea, so I figured I better write it out so I could get it out of my head.

How long is your book?
Right now it's 53,000 words, which is short for a novel. That means it's longer than The Giver, The Great Gatsby, and A Wrinkle in Time, but shorter than practically every other famous novel. A lot of scenes (read: the whole book) are very poorly written, though, and I'm sure it will be much longer when I start rewriting the entire thing.

How long did it take you per day?
It depends on the day. I don't write on Sundays, and I took off three days for Thanksgiving break, so I had to write more words per day than most people in order to hit 50,000 words by November 30. My goal was 2100 words per day.

On some days, usually when I had a really good scene coming up, all I wanted to do was write. I would type really fast during every spare second I had. I charted a lot of words on those days. But then there were other days, usually when I only had a vague plan for what had to happen next, that I was really reluctant to write. Achieving my daily goal of 2100 words took HOURS and lots of will power on those days.

Is your book any good?
The short answers is nope, it's not!

The long answer is still nope, it's not! In the middle of a writing session, I would constantly think THIS IS THE WORST THING I HAVE EVER WRITTEN. And I'm not exaggerating about that. Lots of my scenes are terrible. He said this, she said this, then this happened. Really, truly terrible writing. I know for sure that any of my old fifth graders could write a better scene than some of mine. But the goal of a first draft is just to get it all out there. No time to go back and revise.

But there was this other part of me that totally loves my story. I felt this need to keep going, to finish my novel, because, and I realize this sounds insane, I felt like my characters were real people whose stories had to be told. If I didn't write their story, who would? And I had to finish it or else my characters wouldn't get the endings they deserve. As I type this, I realize just how insane that sounds.

What is the title of your book?
I have no idea. I've thought of a few titles, each more ridiculous than the last. So.... Untitled is the title of my book right now ;)

What's next?
That is the question! I guess I just need to start all over and rewrite it? Shannon Hale once said "I'm writing a first draft and reminding myself that I'm simply shoveling sand into a box so that later I can build castles." I feel like that's my first draft in a nutshell. A bunch of random words which loosely form a plot that can someday be shaped into something semi-cool. If I'm lucky.

Tips and tricks for people who want to write a novel?
I am SO not the expert you should be asking. I don't know a thing about writing a published work. (Incidentally, my aunt IS a published author, and you can check out her blog and books here.) The one thing I would say is really get to know your main character and/or narrator before you begin. I didn't do this, and it made me such a slow writer. I was always asking myself "what would my main character do in this situation? What would they think about this? How would they react to this?"

Finally, halfway through my novel, I sat down and really mapped out my character. I wrote pages and pages in my little notebook about my character. I interviewed my character in my head. I got on PlayBuzz and took some quizzes, which were actually pretty helpful in making me think about my character's personality. What would they do on a Friday night? What would their favorite TV show be? The last half of the book was much easier to write because I felt like I actually knew my character.

So that's it! I realize I'm crazy, and becoming an author is a crazy, different pathway for me to take. But I really wanted to try, and I'm proud of myself for setting a big goal and accomplishing it. And with only five thousand trips to Sodalicious along the way :)

_______________________________________

I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who reads my blog. Thanks for showing up and reading along about all the crazy things I do and the adventures our little family goes on. To show my appreciation, how about winning $250 of cold, hard cash! Well, actually it's $250 of a cold, hard Visa gift card that can be spent anywhere. Even better, right? Enter below, and may the odds be ever in your favor!

Giveaway brought to you by:

Mr. and Mrs. Powell  ||  Em and Me  ||  Style Elixir  ||  Ellie Love

Ry Diaries  ||  Simply Mars  ||  Southern Mama + Child  || Sweet Sunlight Style  || Nelson Notes

   Good to be a Gilbert  ||  Les Dedrickson  ||  Silver Lining  ||  Words About Waverly  ||  He and I

Giveaway will run for 1 WEEK and end December 9th at 11:59 PM CST!

Good luck!

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So, I'm writing a novel...

Not to brag, but in eighth grade I won the superlative for "Best Writer." I know, I know, you're super jealous ;) What does Best Writer mean in middle school anyway? I just wrote my 5-paragraph essays for English like everyone else. I wasn't even in the newspaper club or anything. I don't even know if my middle school had a newspaper club.

Anyway, I guess my eighth grade award was right about one thing - I have always loved writing. I used to think that someday, in the vague future, I might write a book, if I ever came up with a good idea. When I envisioned that vague someday, it was about 30 years in the future, when my children were all grown up, and I'd write while sitting on the porch of the Italian villa I owned.

Well, 30 years and my Italian villa will have to wait (let's be honest, I'll probably be waiting my whole life for the villa). I'm going to write it now, when my kid is not even close to grown up, sitting right here at my kitchen table.

Last week, when I was in Saint George on vacation, I woke up in my hotel room at 4am and thought "I have a good idea for a book!" so I grabbed the Best Western pad of paper and started writing. When both sides of those papers were used up, I wrote notes on my phone. And then, at 8am, which I deemed a more socially acceptable time to ask for more paper, I went down to the lobby to pick up a few more sheets. It made for one tired adventurer that day, but I was really excited about my idea.

Since then, my excitement has definitely waned, and has been replaced by the realities of writing a novel. You guys. It's hard (and I haven't even really started yet!). Anyone can crank out a 500-word blog post, but a novel with 50,000-100,000 words?? That's crazy. Not to mention, this is on top of everything else I do (I'm still not sure where my novel-writing hours are going to come from).

To be honest, I'm terrified.

But I'm doing it anyway.

I'm going to participate in National Novel Writing Month (abbreviated to the weirdly catchy NaNoWriMo, or sometimes just NaNo). It's where 300,000 people across the country write an entire novel in one month.

I'm not writing my novel for the intent of publication. In fact, I'm almost 100% sure I'll never even let anyone read this novel. But I want to prove to myself that I can do it, and it could eventually lead to a good novel (you know, 30 years down the road in my Italian villa ;). This week, I've been reading, researching, outlining, interviewing people and googling random things to prepare for November 1, and even this stage in the process has been really engaging and fun for me.

Anyway, now that I've declared my goal publicly this blog, I have thousands of people to hold me accountable! Don't let me quit. Ask me how it's going. Tell me to get off my blog and work on my book ;)

Has anyone else ever done NaNoWriMo?
Or written a book?
Or maybe just have a super motivational quote for me?
I need all the help I can get!

on beauty, and my postpartum body

When I was 9 months pregnant, I remember looking in the mirror one day before I got in the shower. My belly was huge, I had gained 35 pounds, and I had stretch marks circling my belly button. Oddly enough, the thought struck me that I was more beautiful than I'd ever been before. The curves and extra softness were signs that I was growing a healthy baby.

Right then, I made a conscious goal to be kind to my postpartum body. I wanted to respect my body for what it's just done - grown and given birth to a fully-formed human being. Especially in these first six weeks before I have clearance to do anything but short walks and light stretches, I want to be gracious in my thoughts and actions towards my body.

So, here's my postpartum body (these were taken at three weeks postpartum). It's not back to its pre-pregnancy weight yet. I still have stretch marks around my belly button. I still have extra chubbiness in my thighs and around my face. Some of the clothes that fit me best are still maternity clothes. And you know what? I think I'm beautiful. Beauty isn't measured just by how you look. Yes, exercise and taking care of the way you look is very important, but it's not the ultimate measure of a person's worth (sorry Vogue). Bodies are good for what they do with what they are given. They are vessels to accomplish things - to learn, to grow, to reach new heights and help people. 

I hope I can have these types of conversations with my daughter as she gets older. There will be comments about her physical appearance. She already gets all the "she's so cute!" compliments that babies so often receive, and I personally think her eyes are gorgeous beyond compare. But I hope that's not where the conversation about her body ends.

I want my daughter to understand that her legs aren't beautiful because they're long or slender. They're beautiful because they can walk and run and hike and bike and carry her places. I want her to know that her arms are beautiful because they can throw and catch and carry things. Her face is beautiful because she has eyes that see, a nose that smells, ears that hear, and a mouth that can taste. Her hands won't be beautiful insofar as she puts nail polish or rings on them (although I like both and hope to paint nails with her someday). Her hands will be beautiful because she can use them to experience, to help, and to create.


So today, I'm making the choice to be beautiful.Yes, I still have some baby weight and those stubborn stretch marks, but I'm beautiful.  I'm making the choice to not focus on the imperfections, the limitations, what my body can't do. I'm focusing on what it can, and does, do. Today, I picked up my baby. I breast fed her and rocked her and soothed her and went on a walk with her. I saw and smell and heard and tasted and touched today. And so I will be kind to my body, because it has been so kind to me.

P.S. Sorry about the wacky camera settings - I had about a 30-second window of time to snap these pictures before baby girl started crying.

Last thing - I can't write this post about beauty and my postpartum body without mentioning infertility. It's a topic that is so near and dear to many of the people closest to me. Some of the most beautiful women I know are infertile, yet they use their bodies to help and nurture more people than you know. Whoever reads this, out here in this blogosphere, if you know of a child who needs a great home, please contact me. I'll send you on to the online profiles of some great people who would make fantastic parents. 

Making life beautiful: our Jason decision

A few months ago, Sam and I found ourselves at a cross-roads. November was full of decisions about teaching and grad school and babies and moving. Nothing felt right, and I had this feeling we hadn't struck on the right answer yet. But what else could the answer be?

And then, one night, driving home through Sardine Pass - it came. The answer just came to me, and it involved an 11-year-old and it was not the path I was expecting, but there it was anyway, and it was like a deep breath in midwinter.

There are many reasons behind our decision to have Jason come live with us. We had talked about it since we first started dating, but we always thought it wouldn't be for a number of years. Some of the reasons are very personal and meaningful, and I won't share them here. There is a real and deep need for Jason's home environment to change. Sam and I made the decision like we make all important decisions - slowly, with counseling from those people whose opinions we respect most, and lots and lots of prayer and fasting. It's the big decisions that need the most consideration.

And this is what I realized - Sam and I would have fulfilling lives either way. We could take him or not take him, and chances are we'd have a successful marriage. We knew taking Jason would mean less money, more stress, more responsibilities, and less time to mold our marriage as a couple with no kids. 

But what I really want, as we look back over the years, is for our life to be beautiful. I don't want it to be conventional or cute or perfect, I want it to be beautiful. Jason is amazing, and having him in our lives will be such a growing and learning process. But more importantly, it will be a beautiful process to have an 11-year-old whom we need as much as he needs us.

So here's to choosing beauty over convention, challenges and change over stability and static, and most of all, to that road trip we're taking this weekend to bring home the 11-year-old who is changing, and saving, our lives.

___________

Thank you, thank you readers, for being so supportive and positive.

It's people like you who inspire me to be better every day. And I mean that.

And on a slightly different note - 

parenting tips?

Pre-teen parenting tips?

Great parenting or "foster parenting" books? (we're not actually foster parents)

I'll take any advice!

From an Elementary Teacher's Perspective: Thoughts on Sandy Hook

There is a war coming. It's coming here and it's coming now. It's not about programs, policies, or politics. It's a war of good against evil. Just look at the news. Bad things are happening, even as the good people get stronger. Everyone will have to pick a side in this war, for neutrality will not be an option.

The thing about being a teacher is you're not just someone who stands at the front of the room and lectures. You're much more. Teachers save their children without a second thought. Sometimes it's easy to complain with other teachers about specific students.  But the fact is, without a doubt, teachers will do anything to save their kids. They will literally die saving them, and that's exactly what six brave staff members did on Friday morning.

I consider myself a peaceful person. I believe there are better ways to solve problems. But if there's one thing I will fight for, it's children. I believe so strongly in the cause of helping children who are still learning how to help themselves.

I will fight for my 31 children, those 31 beautiful students who are entrusted to my care.

I will fight for children who are too young to help themselves yet.

I will fight for my little siblings.

I will fight for the world that my children will be born into.

via Michelle McLoughlin//Reuters

And I know I'm not alone. In this battle of good and evil that is getting stronger, I am not alone. A teacher in my grade is a foster mom to three beautiful babies, and she's fighting for them to have a decent chance in this world. Another teacher in my grade hardly sees her husband; they work split shifts so their children can always have a parent home and financial security. Parents fight every day in the defense of children.

I want to give one more example of how much goodness there is in the world: Friday afternoon, as the staff was reeling with shock and horror, the principal came on the intercom a few minutes before school got out. She requested that if we had a few minutes, she would love to see extra staff on bus duty, as it would be especially important for the staff to be visible today.

So many staff members came out. I almost started crying as I joined the line of staff members, all in their orange vests, standing along the curb. We were just directing traffic and helping children into their cars like always, but we were also saying we're here. We hate that this happened, and we're as in shock as you are, but we're here. We're fighting for these children, and we're taking a stand for good.

That's the whole point of what I'm trying to say. Bad things done by bad people are going to keep happening in this world. Instead of blaming gun control or mental health care or the shooter, I'm focusing on what we can do to magnify the good, not the evil.


Because I'm convinced that in the end, a small group of people doing what's right is going to save this world. 


Bad things happen; horrible, terrifying, unfathomable things. But good things happen too. It's the parents who teach by example, it's the children who show they are innocent and strong, it's the teachers standing along the curb showing their support that are going to be the saving factor, that are going to make the right prevail. They'll prevail because they know this truth: the power of goodness is much stronger than the power of evil.



*disclaimer: These are simply my thoughts, my feelings, my truths, and in no way represent official positions of my school, teachers, or community.

what survival of the fittest means in real life

Survival of the fittest.

In its most basic form, it means that whichever species is the most well-adapted to their surroundings survives and reproduces. Many times, it's the biggest, strongest, toughest, most aggressive species that survives the best.

But recently, I had an experience as a teacher that made me think differently about it.

It was time to change seats. My students each wrote the names of three people in the class they'd like to sit by, and then I made the seating chart. What I noticed as I read those papers is that the same few people were listed on almost everyone's paper.

It wasn't the most aggressive students that everyone wanted to sit by. It wasn't the biggest or strongest or toughest.

It was the kindest.

Everyone put down the most kind, caring, and responsible students on their paper. They didn't want to sit by those who make fun of other people, those who call out in class to get attention, or those who feel the need to gather a little following behind them {not that I have many of those. I have an amazing class.}. 

And it got me thinking - maybe the world doesn't need any more tough, aggressive people. Maybe the world already has all the harshness and brutality it needs.

Maybe what the world needs to really survive is a little more kindness, a little more concern for others, a little more gentleness.

And, as my 5th graders taught me, maybe those are the people who will have the easiest time surviving.

the gradual instant

History is a gradual instant.

In a war, it's years of tensions and politics and threats and bad moves that lead up to the tiny second the first bomb is released from a plane, the first bullet fired. The gradual instant.

It's the same with everything else, too. Olympians train and train for decades, and then make history the instant their hand touches the sensor one one-hundredth of a second before the other team. The gradual instant.

It's the same way with me. Sometimes, I think about all the events that led up to me, to my husband and I, to marriage. Years and years of experiences, and thoughts, and desires, all shaping us for this instant, this tiny moment when we walked out of the temple, hand in hand, husband and wife. That gradual instant, that special moment.

I guess I can't wait until Monday when it's our actual anniversary. We've had so many gradual instants, so many great things shaping us, preparing us for each other. And who knows what will happen today, this year, this lifetime, that will become our next gradual instant.

All I know is we'll make history together.

I love him.

What's your most significant gradual instant?

the glorious tree on my front walk

Right outside my front door lives a magnificent tree. It's full of blossoms, and fuzzy bumble bees. And oh the sweet heavenly smell!

Each morning when I walk outside, I say hello to the tree.

"It's a splendid life we live, isn't it?" I say. And the tree says back "just so, my dear. Just so."

Then the tree, and myself, and the bumble bees go on our merry way.

Boom. Published.

In other news...

//done with classes

//spring storms

//I was serenaded

loudly

in a public library

to a love song

by a girl.

Not an experience one expects to have, you know?

what I learned at the opera

On Thursday I went to an opera with my students. Their assignment was to write a paper about what the opera said about humanity. It was one of those long days (7:30am - 9:30pm). Sam took me out for dinner during my one break, and that was nice. Then I received a heartfelt message, which made me feel good. Then, during one of the most hilarious parts of the opera, I got a little teary. Just started crying when everyone else was laughing. I don't think any of my students noticed. It doesn't matter. It made me think that maybe, if I were writing that paper, I'd say something about that. Humans laugh one second and cry the next second. Both are true. We're so complex and we live these crazy lives, and it's no wonder that there's something deep inside us that says you need to cry now. Just for a little bit. Then, you need to take a deep breath. Then you need to smile and keep moving on with your crazy life and your crazy big dreams and your crazy schedule. Oh, and don't give up on those big dreams.

And I'd probably give myself an A.

Self Portrait

1.31.12.


Just wait one more second,
one quick stab of the smallest needle.
I'll be different then.


Stratford-Upon-Avon
in 1600
when love's labour's were not lost.



Those shadowy mountains,
those bright morning mountains,
those lambent sunset mountains.


Running.
Inhaling the sagebrush air-
gasping for green coolness
800 miles away.


A dusty brocade journal
with a hand-written letter tucked in the front
written all in cursive. One spelling mistake.


Parents gulping poison
and regurgitating waste.
They say "just fix my kid."
I say "your kid has a name."




Two pairs of knees
on the threadbare carpet
at midnight
together.




Comparison,
companionship,
and commonplace angels that invite you to dinner.




The day we dissected a primrose in class.
Tore it apart
with a knife and our fingernails
to see if a soul was inside.




And now - 
one single tick that could be
a quick kiss,
a car door
a smile
a revelation -
and now, I'm someone else.


----


Dedicated to my aunt Julie. Thank you for inspiring me to write, and for being my wedding escort/planner /everything. Thank you for the dinners and the love, and most of all, thank you for saving my life that winter. Happy birthday.


Compare this self portrait to the one I did about a year ago. I wrote this with all-new material, but it contains a lot of old elements. Just like me, I guess.

on making it big in this world

Today, I had a flash of inspiration. When I say flash of inspiration, I mean of course that this idea has been smacking me upside the head for months now, and I'm just now catching on. And once I catch on to an idea, there's no stopping me. Some call it fixation. I prefer the term "driven" or "dedicated," and please don't accurately diagnose me anymore, it's quite boring.

Here's the inspiration: I will use this blog to make money! Lots of it! I'll break into the {mormon} blogging community! I'll make millions! I'll put my husband through grad school with this money! I'll put my children through grad school with this money! I'll put my grandchildren through grad school with this money! I'll put my grandparents through grad school with this money! {think they'd want to go back?}

My creative writing teacher once told me I was allowed three exclamation marks in my entire writing career. Looks like I used up two and two-thirds of a lifetime in that paragraph alone.

Oh, and speaking of creative writing, someone wants to publish my work {my work! in a magazine!}. {there I go again with the exclamation marks. I am out of control tonight}. 

Anyway, back to the thesis statement of my impending affluence. Keep checking this blog for buttons, and linking parties, and about me pages, and guest posts, and giveaways and all things cute and bloggy. 

My grand idea was received with a mischievous grin by the husband, who said "it's about time that blog did something useful," because that love of mine is a scoundrel on principle. I still haven't figured out exactly what principle his scoundrel-ness is based on, but there is something to be said for people who stand by their principles, however vague and Han Solo-ish they may be. He also stands by the principle that the alarm clock must go off in precise five minute increments for half an hour before he will get up, which is another principle I have yet to see the logic of. Wouldn't you rather wake up just once, not every five minutes?

In other news, next week I start working in the elementary school all day, every day. That will be the real test, and I am so excited.

Tonight, to celebrate my impending success in so many areas {ha}, I am dreaming about my new chambray shirt (it's my current obsession, and now I finally own one. For the job, you know), and applying three coats of this nail polish.

{via}

To all my more seasoned blog readers: what are your secrets to success? How can I break into the blogging community? Tips? Helpful hints? Rich sponsors just waiting for an invitation to contact me? I love your input.

to the top

This week, my dear foe Mr. Inadequacy came to visit.


He came to visit at school, where all the girls get the assignments done a week early and still find time to do darling things for their husbands and dress fashionably.


He came to visit at work, where I have 80 students and only 20 hours per week in which I must meet all their individual needs.


He came to visit in the lovenest, where I didn't have time to make fancy dinners for my husband, and where I didn't have money or creativity to cover the white walls and bare windows.


Most of all, he came to visit at the in-laws, where I spent my weekend. He pointed out that I'm not clever enough or witty enough or good enough at baseball to fit in with that family.


The stupid thing is, I let Mr. Inadequacy hang around sometimes.


You see, Mr. Inadequacy is not actually his name.


In fact, he is not even a he.


It's me. 


It's me and my tendencies to compare myself to others, or to the facades I see in others.


It's me being a perfectionist.


It's me that needs to change, and believe, and trust.


Because I will make it. I always do, in the end.


I'll push and push and push and struggle to the top for air, and eventually,


I'll make it.

(via)

untitled

It was hot when I got out of the car at the cemetery. My hair was sticking to the back of my neck, so I pulled it into a side ponytail. My high heels kept sinking in the grass as I made my way through the tombstones, so I took them off.


I sat down at her grave. I traced her name with my finger like I always do. A few weeds were growing on the corner of the tombstone. I pulled them out.


I laid on my back and looked up. It was hard to tell where the sun stopped and the clouds began.

After a while, the grass felt prickly on my legs, so I got up and ambled over to the angel statue by the infant graves.


Someone always puts pennies in the outstretched hands of that statue. I don't know why. They must think  infants have to pay a fee to be ferried across the river Styx. But who would make them pay? If it were you, wouldn't you take infants across for free?

That thought made me sad, so I went back to the grave, laid back down, and looked at the sky again. I could hear a dog yipping in someone's backyard, far away. An ant crawled onto my foot, didn't find what it was looking for, and crawled off.


A few tears ran down my cheeks, under my ears, and mixed in with the sweat on my hairline.


Later, I stood up, walked back to my car, and put my heels on again. The dog was still yipping, and the clouds were still mixing with the sun.

Straight On

Lately I’ve received some interesting veiled comments, and some interesting not-so-veiled comments about my blog. It’s making me think long and hard about why I have this blog, and how I choose what I write.

This is what I came up with. My rationale for this blog:

This blog is my space. I created it. I designed it. I chose what it looks like. It’s the tiny portion of cyberspace that I claim all to myself. This blog is my space.

This blog is my emotional and creative outlet. I express myself here. I emote here. I ramble on in my silly girl way here. Often I won’t be able to get an idea out of my head until I blog about it. This blog is my outlet.

This blog helps me process. I explore different ideas here. I categorize events and people and attach meaning to them. It helps me figure out which things in my life are important, and which are not. This blog is my processor.

This blog is my personal journal. I write about my life. I write as an individual in an ego-centric generation. I write to help me remember. This blog is my journal.

Most of the comments I received about this blog are true. Yes, I am a very sensitive girl. Yes, I have a large tendency to complain. Yes, this blog is just a small little silly thing. But no, I do not write for sensationalism, or to provoke an emotional reaction from my readers.

And yes, despite everything, I am proud of my blog.

This blog is my space. If you, my dear readers, no longer agree with the subject matter, content, or presentation of my blog, you can unsubscribe, or just stop reading it. I promise not to be offended. We will part ways cordially, as friends. I promise.

Because the bottom line is: I get to choose what this blog is.

My name is Brooke Wilson, and this blog is my space.

Wheat Fields and Writing

Canada was so great.

It was all golden wheat fields and Tiffany skies. It was serene and small-town. It was close-knit and caring. It was fresh air and farms.

In Canada, everyone I met had hearts as big as those azure skies. Not only did they offer to house us scraggly college kids, but they gave us the best bedrooms in the house and cooked us hot breakfasts. Not only did they offer the Bennett and Blackwell families to help with the wedding, but they came the day before to set up for hours, and stayed late after the party until everything was put away and cleaned. They all took time to get to know Sam and I and our story.

And of course, the best part was that I got to be with my Sam all day, every day, except for 5 hours a night (some things are much more important than getting a good night's sleep).

______

In a separate note, the Utah Children's Writers blog does a 30 Days, 30 Stories project each April in which one author a day posts a sample of their work. I was the guest author today. Check it out here if you're interested.

Happy Monday everyone.

It Began with Ivy

It began with the ivy

curling up the side of a church

in a small abandoned parking lot.

It began with the rain

landing softly on their faces,

cleansing the ivy.

It began with two hands.

Ten interlocked fingers

growing together gently.

It began with the dance,

more beautiful than music,

quieter than the rain.

It began with hope.

Braided fingers twirling in slow circles

and water kissing their faces.

It began with whispers

from an inclination, feeling, need,

conviction.

Eventually, the entwined fingers

and cooled wet faces

danced on from the parking lot.

But the church,

and the ivy,

and the hope

Are there yet.

Five

This is Sam.

Every time I see this picture,

I laugh

because for some reason

at first glance

it looks like he has six fingers

but don’t worry

he has five

very capable fingers

which he uses

to beat me at Loser

frequently

and to hold my hand

frequently

which is also how often

I realize I need to help out more

with my own five fingers

at home

like Julie,

who uses her five fingers to make us dinner

every

single

Sunday

which is the day I have meetings

after church

for hours

which is okay

because I love my calling

and it’s nice to feel

like I’m putting my five fingers

to good use

for the girls in my Relief Society

even though it’s

small

like the amount of free time

I currently have

small

like the smell of spring

gliding in the air today

five weeks early

and small

like the way my hands feel

when they’re safe

and warm

inside Sam’s

five

capable fingers.

Decapitation

Want to see what I've been working on today?

A paper about this picture:

*note: don't scroll down if you're extremely queasy, conservative, or sheltered.

Cool, huh? It's called "Judith Beheading Holofernes," by Caravaggio. It's from Judith, an Apocrypha book in the Bible.

I have so many things to say about this picture. I could go on for pages about tenebrism and chiaro scuro, and shallow backgrounds, and epistemology.....10 pages, plus an annotated bibliography page, to be exact.

Anyway, I know I'm a nerd.

Okay, time to put down the decapitation paper and go enjoy my Saturday night!

Sometimes I Run

Sometimes I run

not to get in shape

but to get away from all the shapes

in my life.

Sometimes I run

and I race my shadow

but I always let it win

because if I came face to face with my shadow

after all these years of chasing

I wouldn’t know what to say to it.

Sometimes I run

until time slows down

stops

goes backward.

And I don’t want to stop running

until time has gone back far enough

to where hugs enveloped you

and cares were lighter than a robin’s egg

and death

was just a rumor

vacationing in a far-off land.

Sometimes I run

to wrap myself in the cool green mist

and soak up as much of it as I can,

to store it for later.

Sometimes I run

until I feel the blood pound in my head

and my muscles scream

and my lungs burst

and it feels so good

to know for certain

that I am

painfully

wonderfully

beautifully

alive.