Greif: @ The Redeeming Things

Well, it seems I am a liar. Or, at least, I was wrong last April when I said I would be back in a month.

This summer was hard. I had no interest in writing, none at all, it was too painful to think deeply. But then school started, and as a writing major, I had to write again. So I wrote. I wrote pages and pages, and none of it was for an assignment. I had to drain out all the summer's stagnant waters to get to what was clean and pure. To heal.

Out of that came a blog post for my internship. I came back to the blogging world today on The Redeeming Things, a blog for the Twin Cities written by a collaboration of Christian writers from my church. You can find the blog post here.

It begins:

"C.S. Lewis concluded that, if God is good, suffering in this life must have a purpose. I fall under the category of one who believes God is good. Experiences sometimes challenge that mentality, but recently I have been learning the truth and comfort in C.S. Lewis’ words. This semester I had to read A Grief Observed for a class, and it enlightened me even more in my personal confrontation with grief.

You see, this summer I had a miscarriage.

The whole summer went by. And I didn’t realize how depressed I had become..." [read more]

Goodbye for Now

Hello world.

Before I say anything more, I would like to apologize. I am super cranky today, and I just can't handle my emotions. Aside from getting virtually no homework done last night (the school's computer server was down), I also found out that my husband has to work on my birthday. He asked for the day off, but so many people asked for that day off that, well, someone had to work. That someone is him.

I'm really having a hard time accepting that I'll be home alone eating Ramen on my couch on my birthday. It doesn't seem fair. It feels like a punishment. Will it steal my joy? No. But I have to say, I'm feeling discouraged.

So, instead of pretending all is well and writing something poetic and hopeful, I decided to just tell it like it is this morning. Nobody's life is perfect, and we can't expect them to be. Next month, when I'm looking for ways to make money by writing during a few weeks without employment, I won't even be thinking about this day.

I apologize because this is my last post for about a month, and it's not a great one. I have to finish this semester strong, and then I plan to get some hours in with the schools. So I'm sorry to leave you this way. If you haven't been around for long, please go back and read some of my previous posts. If you like what you read, please hit the little "follow" button. Or subscribe. You will be notified next time I post, and that way you won't miss a thing once I'm back. Also, it's always encouraging to gain more followers. You guys push me to do better.

See you in a month.

Our Story: The Wait

My husband and I waited until marriage to have sex. That's practically unheard of these days, I know. Sometimes I wonder if we only waited for fear of being caught in an awkward situation, but then I remember the times we had opportunity but parted ourselves anyway. There is one time in particular that frequently comes to mind, and occasionally I feel we should win some sort of medal for purity - though most of the world would just call us foolish.

One year, before my man graduated from high school (I was in my second year of college), I went to Orlando with his family. At the resort, I shared a room with his sister, and he and his brother slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room. On our last day there he and I were sent back up to the room for a forgotten key to return it to the office. While in the room, we thought to double check for any other forgotten items. We also, since we were alone, essentially locked in the room, took the opportunity to kiss without his family members making comments. Two young people rarely kiss in private without going horizontal, so it follows that we ended up on one of the beds, he on top of me. 

This, of course, would have been the opportune time for us to tear each others' clothes off. And oh, we wanted to. Between kisses we talked about how exciting it would be, and how no one would know. After all, society expected it of us anyway, right? Who would ever believe we didn't? 

But we stood up, grabbed the spare key, and returned it to the office. Then we crawled into the van with the rest of his family, unembarrassed, and watched the resort disappear into the endless line of Disney-themed hotels and chain restaurants. That's my favorite part.

I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
    that you not stir up or awaken love
    until it pleases.

               Song of Solomon 8:4

String Theory

I'm posting a little late today because Mr. Wonderful and I both have a day off. We spent the extra time this morning sleeping in and eating a big breakfast. It was so nice. But now it's time to register for next year's classes. Senior year! I haven't decided if I want to go on to grad school yet, but I'll definitely leave that decision for the future. Far in the future.

I'm using the free internet access at McDonald's right now - kinda sketchy, I know -  so I'm a little anxious to get offline. Here's a flashfiction piece I'm working on for a class portfolio. I've really enjoyed writing these, so I hope you appreciate this one.

String Theory

            She didn’t care for love. Or boys, for that matter. She hardly had time for friends, and at her age, who needed a boyfriend anyway? She didn’t need a reason to dress up to be told she looked perfect.

            Her mother had her in enough extra-curriculars to keep her busy through college and beyond. She hoped to break free during college. Not that she didn’t enjoy the city chorus choir, volunteering Thursday nights at a local food shelter, voice lessons, piano lessons, lessons for every stringed instrument, enough to make her her own small orchestra.

            She loved knowing she was admired, especially when her mother was outwardly approving of her work. But it got to be tiresome. Each night she would come home just past dinner-time and instead of sitting down to relax, she would have a mountain of homework. Honors English literature, pre-calc, chemistry, and with the expectation from her mother and instructors that she would practice any one of her instruments for at least an hour each day.

            It was during one her of her longer practice sessions, in fact, that she broke her violin. She had felt the urge to do it before, but feared the consequences, the disappointment, and always talked herself out of it. At one o’clock in the morning in her basement practice room, driven by fatigue and pure frustration after getting the same two measures of music wrong for fifteen minutes, she did it. With both hands she raised the violin over her shoulder and swung it like an axe. Wood splintered into a thousand pieces in the most awful symphony she had heard from the three-thousand dollar instrument.  She stepped over the mess and went upstairs to bed, sleeping in fits.

            Her mother found out the next morning when she went to the basement to collect music for the next Sunday’s church service from the practice room.

            “Do you have any idea how upset I am with you?” was all her mother said when she flipped on the bedroom light.

            The satisfaction of the wood splitting musically in her fists faded like the final note of a cello concerto solo. Her parents used part of the college fund to buy her new violin. She would just have to make up for it in scholarships, her parents told her.

            She held the delicately crafted instrument, running her hand over the fingerboard and feeling out the strings before dragging her bow across them. The instrument shrieked to life, a voice more sure than her own.

Secret-Keeper

When I was senior in high school I once planned and hosted a surprise party for a friend. Actually, the friend was my ex-boyfriend, but we were good friends for awhile after our break-up. I remember how hard it was to get the chance to talk to his friends without him around or making him suspicious. It was so hard to plan the party without letting it slip that we were doing something so special for him. But the reward was that he really was surprised, and felt so good to have all his friends work so hard just for him.

Have you ever had really good news that you're not allowed to talk about... at least not yet? If you've ever been invited to a surprise party, you know how hard it is not to talk about something that's exciting. For me, well, I have two exciting secrets that are not yet to be revealed.

How does one go about not gushing about exciting news? For me, I think I may sort of over-compensate by being perhaps overly friendly to the bearer of the good news. When I find myself having a hard time not telling anyone I just contact the person whose secret it is to be told and talk to them about it. The problem with this is that when the conversation is over I then find myself bouncing with anticipation to tell others.

What I've realized, though, is that secret-keeping pays off when done for the right reasons. In my present situation, it's not actually my news to tell, and as excited as I am to talk about the news and make plans, I've committed to being faithful in keeping the secrets of others.

Get ready, because in the next few weeks (or in about a month), there will be an explosion of fantastic news on this blog. I am so excited to share with you the wonderful things happening in the lives of my family and friends.

I'm curious to know: how do you keep a secret, well, secret?

Pointing the Finger

Bad moods have the tendency to keep us from seeing things in the proper perspective.

Today is one of those days.

After reading Dr. Gary Chapman's The Five Love Languages before getting married, I became a firm believer in love languages. I had thought that mine had something to do with getting one-on-one time with loved ones, and found that mine was Quality Time. So after a week of my husband working all night and a weekend of sharing him with friends and family, I was excited to spend the day with him on Monday. However, when he called work to get his hours for the week he found out he was scheduled to work, even though he had asked for it off. I hate to admit it, but I was inconsolably disappointed.

I wasn't angry with him, it wasn't his fault. After calling about seven different people who claimed they couldn't work his shift, he ended up going in and leaving me home alone for the night. This isn't the first time our plans have been cancelled because of a scheduling mistake or a last-minute phone call. Mostly, I felt let down by these people who he cancels plans to work for all the time, but who then won't do the same for him.

I've been thinking a lot about our culture that has sold itself to an entitlement mentality. Everyone tends to put themselves first without really considering others. Even I'm guilty of this more often than I would probably like to admit.

So, as much as I would like for someone to go in and talk to my husband's coworkers about teamwork and dedication, I realize that it's important for me to think of where I could give more of myself as well. It takes the effort of individuals to make a team function at its best. And I am my own responsibility.

Taste and See [for Yourselves]

For though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you again the basic principles of the oracles of God. You need milk, not solid food, for everyone who lives on milk is unskilled in the word of righteousness, since he is a child.
Hebrews 5:12-13

You know what I hate? I hate that this world demands evidence of every claim made by anyone, but that few actually go out to seek that evidence on their own. In our culture of instant self-gratification the "give it to me now" attitude often gets in the way of truth. This is frequently displayed in our culture, but I see it most often when I am sharing my faith with others.

It's no secret, on my blog or anywhere, that I am a Christian. This is never really a problem with anyone until I show my faith isn't only emotional, causing me to act on compassion and "do good", but also intellectual. Actually, people seem to most often have a problem with the intellectual part of Christianity.

Last week, for example, I found an image posted by an atheist friend on Facebook that depicted a timeline of how the Bible was made. The cartoon was not terribly inaccurate, many of the dates for different steps in the translation and compilation of the Bible were correct, but the motive and many of the "facts" were just completely wrong. I left a comment pointing out a specific part that wasn't right and said that the person who created it had obvious knowledge of events but was not educated in them.

Here's the deal: when I point out to people that things they believe about Christianity and the Bible are wrong and try to clarify meaning, they just don't believe me. For years I thought that they didn't believe me because I was uneducated and they thought perhaps they knew more about my faith than I did. However, I'm now seeing that even though I go to a Christian school and study the Bible, theology, and the history of Christianity, people still call BS when I try to clarify to them what true Christians believe. Now, instead of saying that I just don't know enough about what I believe, people will tell me, "that's just what they want you to think."

The past few years, this past year in particular, I have had the wonderful opportunity to learn under people who have traveled to Jerusalem and other parts of Israel to walk where Jesus walked and see the culture and the land first-hand. I have met men who have learned from the world's top theologians, and I have heard the testimony of a professor who worked hard, even lost a job, to bring the Dead Sea Scrolls to the public. The truth is out there, evidence is out there. Go look and see for yourselves!

Because the evidence is not hidden and the history is no secret, I do not apologize for my unfaltering faith. I will continue to unashamedly speak what I know, not because I merely believe what someone told me, but because I have done research. And I will continue to absorb as a sponge everything I need to know, from a historical and literary perspective, but also from one of faith in Him who makes the blind see and makes all things new.

Priorities

Today I traded in the mocha for a hot mint tea so that I could feel good about buying breakfast along with my coffee. Unfortunately, my mocha has become sort of ritual for me, telling my brain when it's time to write for the blog-world, and I'm finding that I either need to drink a mocha each time I sit down to write this blog or get myself out of the habit of drinking a mocha every time I sit down to blog. For me, this goes under the category of problems to solve another day, and I choose to make note of it and move on for now. But I couldn't help noticing that as the barista rang up my total, it was less than I normally spend on my one small mocha.

This year has really been about finding priorities. Last semester was busy and hard, and I ended up quitting one job and significantly reducing hours in another. Putting schoolwork ahead of employment is not normally the advice I would give to others, but after looking at our budget and finding that with my husband's income we would have, once again, *just enough*, I decided to spend the year focusing the majority of my energy as a student. But prioritizing isn't always easy.

I have a friend who is in a training program to become a pastor who tells me she can't do anything around the house until her homework is done (with the exception of taking care of her children when, say, they need food or a diaper change). Her husband, on the other hand, can't focus on writing a sermon or speech or making a budget until the housework is done and he can be free of distraction. They're lucky, they have it figured out. They know exactly what they need to do in order to focus and complete their tasks.

I have met students here who are killing themselves over grades. I met one girl whose philosophy is to get all of the homework done, sacrificing sleep, work, anything she can cut out of the day to get work done. She and others strive for A's and anything less is unacceptable. Of course, I can understand this, but I don't think it's any more healthy than putting everything off until the last minute and doing a minimalist job.

What I have found this year, especially after spending a year in the "real world" where you have to work hard and make a sustainable income, pay bills, etc, is that there are no A's in life. I am learning that most of the time family comes first, gainful employment is important for a sustainable lifestyle, community involvement helps more than the individual.

It's hard to find a balance in a world where everything is graded, but you can't neatly file learning, understanding, gaining of knowledge. As my colleagues and I get closer to graduation, it's harder to regurgitate exactly what the professor wants. What professors want these days is not to see how much we can remember from text books but how we apply what we learn in class to our own work, and how we develop. In the real world, we need to know how to prioritize.

Because ultimately, what we become is far more important than what we know.

Vulnerable Me

 About a week ago we discussed vulnerability in one of my writing classes. The class started with some uncomfortable shifting in seats and possibly some eye-rolls. However, it turned out well, and we had a good discussion. Maybe it's just the dynamic of a classroom setting, but most students left agreeing with the professor's main point: we must learn to be vulnerable.

While writing my short story for that same class last weekend, I was struggling with the ending. I will point out to you here that to talk about this I must make myself vulnerable. So, I was writing my short story, trying to figure out where I went with the ending because my professor didn't find the first draft believable. In the first draft, my main character finds out she is pregnant after a rare and accidental one-night stand, and decides, since she is pretty fresh out of college, to get an abortion. I just couldn't let her go through with it and had to find a way out, so I had her call the baby daddy at the prodding of her roommate to ask for some help with the decision. He, of course, is far from okay with the thought of abortion and offers to raise the child if she will only carry to term, which ultimately causes the main character to change her mind and not get an abortion.

Don't worry, I now see where the story went wrong. I think I did at first, too. But I was having a hard time really being open to taking a risk in this story. I decided that a risk had to be taken, and while I was re-working the end of the story, the end became a story of it's own, and it is now the beginning of the piece. Yup, I chucked out the whole first draft, and basically, started over. All because I was willing (finally) to become vulnerable. In allowing myself to potentially be hurt by taking a risk, I actually wrote a much better story... which would be tooting my own horn if I didn't know from the writing process that it really is a better story.

Our culture tends to think of vulnerability as synonymous with weakness. It makes sense, considering the dictionary definition: capable or susceptible to being hurt or wounded; open to moral attack, criticism, temptation (definition from dictionary.com).

Vulnerability is the main topic of Brene Brown's Ted Talks, which can be found on the Ted Talks website or on YouTube. Brene Brown studies shame for a living, and found that while dealing with shame one must become vulnerable. She is pretty inspiring and I would recommend taking the time to check out some of her speeches.

Now, we have established the definition of vulnerability, but does that make it synonymous to weakness? Yes and no, I think. If you've ever looked in a thesaurus you are aware that looking up the definitions of words is also important; not every word listed as a synonym actually has the meaning you may be looking for. So, where vulnerability is synonymous to weakness, it is not necessarily weakness.

In order to be vulnerable, you need to be willing to make yourself susceptible to weakness - to being hurt. These days we work really hard to close ourselves off and be strong so that we can't be hurt by anyone; we won't allow anyone to hurt us. But in order to be real, and according to Brene Brown in order to be truly happy and free, we need to learn to allow ourselves to be vulnerable.

Vulnerability is honesty. Openness. In being vulnerable we do open ourselves up to be hurt, but we also learn to trust that way, too. Meaningful relationships can't be built through a wall. To develop a truly strong relationship with anybody - a friend, a potential dating relationship, a therapist, even - we must be vulnerable.

In opening up we learn the freedom of trusting people, and find little pieces of ourselves on the way.

Preview

Good morning, Tuesday readers. Thanks for doing this day with me.

Today, I have a theology paper due, a short story to re-write, a personal essay to look over, and an essay about SPAM to edit. Needless to say, I'm short on time. Spring break is just a week and a half away, and I have so much to complete before that big fat due date next Wednesday.

Hey, maybe I'll post something new and exciting for you in the next two weeks. It's about time I become a real writer, after all. I'll admit, though, it's hard to feel O.K. about showing my work. Really dang hard. I'm currently overcoming my fear of letting things be finished and presented to the public.

Yesterday in my fiction writing class we spent most of the hour talking about vulnerability. Yeah, I really need to get better at opening up and being honest, allowing my work to come through me and not just out from wherever a mediocre Twilight-type story comes from. Popular doesn't always mean exceptional.

Come back next Tuesday for a discussion on vulnerability.

About the College Student

It's a little bit funny, sometimes, to think I live in a climate where underground tunnels between buildings are necessary. Downtown Minneapolis got it right, maybe, when they built the skywalk (an above-ground system of hallways connecting buildings). At least you can experience the beauty of day from above ground through the windows that way. Either way, in Minnesota winter, it's just too dang cold to be outside for more than five minutes. Especially when it's under 10 degrees with a windchill that brings it to 35 degrees below 0.

As I tunneled over from the cafe to the library this morning, I noticed a Coca-Cola machine with a sticker on it that read, "Open bottle carefully." I thought it was kind of funny that the school felt it necessary to remind college students that their pop would be shaken after tumbling down the chute, but then I had a picture of a sticky mess of caramelized drink in that hallway made by a delirious student wanting the immediate satisfaction of caffeine, and realized they probably had good reason for putting up the sign.

I have noticed lately that college students, though considered 'adult' and 'independent,' aren't vastly trusted by the general public, especially by those who run educational institutions. When I first realized this, I was a little offended, I guess. But then, just as with the sign on the pop machine, I thought that maybe it is for good reason.

College students, almost by definition, are irresponsible, whether intentionally or unintentionally. Hey, we have a lot going on at this stage. We have to balance homework, relationships, social functions, and if our parents don't have the desire or means to give us everything, gainful employment. For the most part, we're all generally sleep deprived and, if my own recent experience is any indication, bewildered. Maybe from lack of sleep or maybe from the sheer volume of what we cram into our heads, but I think all college students develop some form of attention deficit during the learning years.

 I have a writing professor who always tells her students that we know nothing, that we're not good at what we do, and that we can't be. This is always offending, but I understand. After all, I, only six years older than students in high school, think of them as inferior in art and thought, even if they're decent at anything for their age. Yet, when I was in high school, I thought I was kind of on my way to something. I thought I was okay. So I forgive my professor, because I know she's right, even if I feel that my effort warrants thinking there is some form of possible talent on my part.

It's true, we're inexperienced and still learning. I just wish we could be told when we're doing well. I think people forget to tell us we're doing well at this stage. Life is an unending venture of trying, failing, and finding success, after all. Is there ever the fabled satisfaction of a job well done?

I guess this comes from feeling a little on the end of worthless these days. How should I feel that going on is worthwhile if I'm only ever told what it is I'm doing wrong, and not what I'm doing right? How do any of us decide it's worth it to go on? To prove someone wrong? That is true for some, I know.

These are the years that we learn whether we're worth our salt. We work hard, strive, seek, and keep getting batted away. It's not failure, but it is something like trial. When we make it to the end, at least we know what doesn't work. Maybe life will prove what does.

Morning Mocha

Coffee and I have a love/hate relationship. It beckons to me from distant places, and I follow its call like a little lost lamb. Once the craving hits, it can't be satiated by mere substitutions. My cafe drink of choice is the mocha, and it has to be dark chocolate. I love my mocha, and my mocha, well... it tries. It brings me momentary satisfaction, but often only to let me down in the long run.

I suffer from migraine headaches, which I'm beginning to find are more common in people these days, especially in young people close my age. Millennials, we are too heavily caffeinated a generation.

If caffeine helps when you have a headache (even a little one), if you get headaches after a few days without caffeine, if you get headaches regularly, then you may also suffer from migraine (as if you haven't suspected, because you're one smart cookie). These are questions my father-in-law (who is a doctor) asked me when he heard me complaining far too often of my headaches. My mom gets migraines, my sister gets migraines, and I never thought that I suffered from them, too, but as it turns out, I do.

The only way to deal with migraine headache is to try to find what creates it (i.e. caffeine) and basically stay away from that thing. People, even doctors, will talk about "triggers" (red wine, chocolate, red meats), but I've heard mixed commentary on whether triggers really exist or not. Caffeine withdrawal is what normally causes migraines, which I've found by experience when, say, I drink coffee or Dr. Pepper every day for three or more days, then don't drink any caffeine for a day or two. Those are the times I get the worst migraines: first the dull headache, then tightness in my shoulders, nausea that radiates through my fingertips and pounds to my head until it feels like my head will split open. Such an awful experience, and if you can relate, I feel for you.

My husband works hard at keeping me away from caffeine entirely. He implemented a similar tactic that I took in high school, for health purposes rather than avoidance of migraine, but I didn't realize then how much I may have been helping myself.

In high school, I would allow myself only one pop each week, two under special circumstances (I wasn't a coffee drinker in those days, but I did love my Red Bull). I rarely, if ever, experienced migraines, so when they manifested in more recent years, I was shocked to find that migraine is basically a life-long condition. It wasn't until college that I found the magical powers of a morning coffee and started feeling the effects of long-term caffeination. So my dear sweet husband now allows me only one or two caffeinated beverages a week, because avoiding the addiction is the best way to avoid the withdrawal.

So, it is Tuesday, once again, and here I sit with my weekly mocha. The added benefits to drinking less caffeine of course are that it's easier on the budget and the waistline. On Tuesdays my husband and I get up and out the door earlier, and surprisingly, it's actually the weekday I  look forward to the most. I get my blog, I get my mocha, and the day starts off well.

Life is good when you don't have to give up something you love in its entirety. In exchange for my caffeine addiction, I get comfort from being enslaved to it (those who drink caffeine every day and suffer from migraine must drink coffee every day).

 It's about compromise.

Grappling Understanding

It's not quite 8:00 yet on a Tuesday morning, and here I am. This is the one day each week I take the time to sit down and write whatever I have a mind to write. No theology papers, no forced, edited, tweaked, deconstructed and entirely re-written essays or short stories. Just my thoughts, my experiences, my own judgment.

Today I have to write a paper on what I believe about God's character, His works, and His Trinity. I know what I believe about these things, but I never realized how much theology has to say about just these aspects of God. For centuries people have put a lot of thought and time into trying to explain God. Truly, there is nothing new under the sun.

The Trinity. Three in one. It's hard to grasp, yet Christians insist it is the true nature of God, and we try to explain it, attempt to understand. In the end, only to find it's impossible to fully understand.

God is Father, God is Son, God is Spirit (or as my theology book put it, an inversion: Father is God, Son is God, and Spirit is God). All three separate, all three equal, all three one. It's paradoxical. It doesn't make sense to our little human minds. It's been argued that it's not even biblical. But it is, isn't it? It certainly explains how Jesus spoke of God and himself. If it's part of God's nature, why is it so hard to understand? Why can't we just know?

It's part of God's nature for us not to understand. He's so big, so much more than we are. How could we begin to understand the mind of the one who created the universe. It's impossible. We are just the tiniest reflections of the Creator, and we are consistently imperfect creatures trying to reflect on the nature of One who holds all things together and abides outside of time. It's crazy to even try to understand.

But we have to try, don't we? Our knowledge grows with trying. And though the more we know the more we realize we don't understand, still the closer we come to Him in our attempt to know Him.

God is good. All powerful. Gracious, loving, merciful. He is patient and constant. He is eternal, infinite. This is what I know, and as I explore and falter, it's all that matters. To know Him.

A Coffee Break Study of Nature

Writer's block. A masked man with a gun to your head when you don't have the answer.

Eventually he goes away, right when you expect to be shot through the head, usually. Still, it's paralyzing.

I took a break this morning when I got to campus at 7:30, bought a mocha and sat in the campus cafe to sip my drink and nibble my strawberry Pop-tart in peace. It's funny how if you go to a coffee shop without a laptop these days, or at least a book, you get funny looks. One sir even stared directly at me as he passed after saying hello. It's mysterious, I guess, to just sit and take in life.

I just needed time before retreating back inside myself and relinquishing the precious knowledge of anything I've learned about writing, about theology, about analyzing style. Time to clear out the corners of the mind and find all that's there, if possible. With a laptop in your lap, a cellphone in hand, a book to hide behind, it's hard to take in the world around you without distraction. So I sat, undistracted, and watched.

It is said that writers pay closer attention to nature, have more reverence.  I don't know if that is necessarily true, or if we just document our observations more than most. This morning, at the window in the cafe with my coffee, I was a student of nature.

I watched the birds in their flight patterns, swell and dive, swell and dive, two by two. I contemplated the ice cracking and melting and running, forming puddles. I saw the few people here this early take slow, safe steps, cautious on today's ice layer.

Sitting as a silent observer, I overheard the different volumes of the baristas, listened in on the topics of their discussion. What's important to strangers. We're all a little bit the same.

This morning, I took the time to soak in the mysteries and revelation of the flitting birds, the tedious steps, the words that say nothing but reveal more of us than we know.

I watched the trees, reaching up, always reaching up. Even when the snow and ice weigh down as if to break their strength they remain firmly planted, reaching. But even strong trees sometimes fall. Yet they maintain their upward stretch until their time is over.

I want to reach up like the ancient pines and great oaks. Up, beyond the trees and clouds and stars. I want to stop being so conscious of the ice sheet on the ground, afraid of falling, and focus on what is all around. In front, behind, above. Reaching for the answer, the reason, the strength against the things of this world that weigh down. Always up.

Calm Coolness of Winter: A Reflection

Right now in the Twin Cities, MN it is -11 degrees. The high today is 1 degree above 0. Walking the one minute walk from the Billy Graham Community Life Commons (called "the Billy" by students) to the arts building on campus, my coffee had sufficient time to cool to a reasonable temperature. Question: how did anyone ever see this region as habitable for humans?

Then again, how do people survive the Middle East in their burkas? I mean, it seems to be hot enough there in the desert without them, right? What I mean is, there is probably something to complain about no matter where one lives.

I do have the hope, however, looking ahead, that spring is approaching. With each passing month, the weather will get warmer. For now, we're still in the deathly cold. But soon enough we will get our thaw.

The day, though cold, is beautiful. The sky is blue as the sun rises on the bricks of campus' oldest building, which used to be a monastery. After last semester's tears and hair loss (not major, just stress-related), I am finally able to look around campus and remember the beauty. I like it here.

So I drink my mocha and watch campus come to life from the library. I'm here (at the library) enough during each semester that it's actually a wonder why I don't work here. It's too late to apply now (I checked), but maybe next year. For now, I'll do my homework, people watch a little, write a little, sip my cooling mocha, and enjoy the opportunity to be properly educated. Life, as I see it, is good.

Your Short Story

I hate it when I get a magnificent idea for a topic for this blog while I'm sitting in class and neglect to write it down. I suppose I could write it in the margin of my notes, but at the moment the idea comes to mind I always think that I absolutely need to find a way to sneak my little notebook out of my purse and write the idea in there. My thought journal organizes my thoughts, but man, I really need to learn to write things down wherever there is available space just for the sake of keeping it with me.

That said, welcome to my new topic. That is, what I was learning in my fascinating Writing of Fiction class at the time I thought of (and subsequently forgot) a topic for this blog. Short stories, and the necessity for conflict.

I'm not talking about a page long, I'm talking twenty-six words long. Twenty-six being the maximum number of words we were allowed to write for our story during class yesterday. Does this seem impossible? Well, if you're a writer, you're already thinking up multiple different sentences that tell a story. If not, well, let me explain.

Ernest Hemingway wrote this one: For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

See the story? This one sentence all on its own brings the reader to ask so many questions. Most questions trying to answer "why were the baby shoes never worn?" Yes, the questions go unanswered, but there is still conflict, still tension. That is what it takes to make a story.

The child ran out into the street while chasing a ball. His mother looked up and let out a scream.

The dog chewed up my only pair of work shoes for my new job.

He leaned in a little closer and Sara could feel her breath catch, but nothing happened. When she opened her eyes, he was gone.

There was so much traffic on the way home that the ice cream melted all over the trunk of the rental car.

These short lines tell a story. There is no climax, no resolution, yet there is story. The Post Secret website (www.postsecret.com) is filled with these short strings of words that tell stories on post cards sent anonymously. As a society, we have become people who think of our life situations in the form of short story.

Status update: My car battery died last night when I closed for work. Fml.

Anyone with any form of social networking, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, etc have become accustomed to these little stories. Everyone has become an author, sometimes only of their own stories. We're all writers, even if the traditional conventions of "being a writer" aren't present.

I find the interconnected relationships of our minds simply fascinating. We are so many, yet we are bound to one another by experience, tendency, and desire.

Not Another Abandoned Blog

This may be more for me than it is for you, but I just have to make something clear: this is not an abandoned blog.

I understand what happens when blogs aren't written in enough, when the writer walks away never to look back, or gives up because he or she can't keep up. But this girl is not going to abandon this blog.

Recent readers may have come across this blog and find that it hasn't been written in for awhile and never return. That "follow" button may go unclicked because the content is neither interesting nor frequent, but I'm working on it. Readers will return, or there will be new ones, or I'll just go on to make a new blog (the link of which will be posted on here for anyone who may somehow be interested).

Writers write because the words eat their way out eventually. The need for expression through words is a weight that cannot be bore for long before it becomes crippling. Sometimes so crippling that the words all come out at once and can't be sorted to make logical sense.

So, as I do school and try to work despite the copious number of homework assignments, as I try to balance classes with cooking and cleaning and making money so that my dear husband is not the sole provider, I promise this semester, this year, to make time to write something that is not a required assignment.

As the creator and author of this blog, I will breath new life into it and do my best to make it something that may bring hope, inspiration, and at least entertainment to you. Whoever you are.

Just wait and see.