Proslogion

Love the one good in which all good things are, and that is sufficient.

Desire the simple good which contains every good, and that is enough. For what do you love, O my flesh, what do you  desire, O my soul?

There it is, there it is, whatever you love, whatever you desire.

:)

Short Story 5

The Fourth Movement

Mary’s cello weighed a little heavier on her drooping shoulder as she took one last look at the arched ceiling and marble floor of the beautiful lobby. With sore fingers and heavy hearts, the other musicians filed out of the rehearsal hall. They did not know when they would return. Perhaps never. Stepping out into another grey, rainy day, they lingered wistfully on flooded the sidewalk in front of the hall. The musicians were all reluctant to acknowledge the end.

            It was the principal trumpet that broke the spell. The tall, bespectacled man, usually so amiable, was irreparably deflated today. With a wave, he silently made his way across the street to the bleak parking lot where his rusting Ford waited. He had hoped to get a new car, but the week before he was to make the purchase, the orchestra director made his tearful announcement. Let go, all of them. 80 unemployed musicians. Something about poor sales, declining audiences, not enough “cultural relevance.” Now he only hoped he could pay the heating bill.

            The others slowly followed the trumpeter across the street. They were instrument-wielding specters, with pale faces and empty eyes that reflected the steely sky. No one could speak.

            “Wait.”

The word carried through the heavy air, clear and ringing as a French horn’s call. It was Mary the cellist. A young woman with a short brown bob and a frame about the size of the instrument she played, Mary was one of the youngest members of the symphony. A year ago, she learned that she had beat out hundreds of other competitors for the coveted open spot in the cello section. A month after that, she’d moved to this struggling city with the renowned orchestra. She practiced, rehearsed, and performed. She breathed in eighth notes and drank up sweet-sounding melodies, pure as water. And it was the beginning of her dream, until it ended. So abruptly. Far too early. It was all wrong.

“Everyone, wait,” Mary said again. The others turned around, still half-immersed in their melancholy daze.

“Don’t leave. I’m not ready, and neither are you. Let’s do something.”

“You’re young, you don’t know how it is,” said the oldest member of the orchestra, a violist with no hair and a hoarse voice. “There’s nothing to do. They’ve been threatening for years, and now it’s finally happened. It’s done.”

“No it isn’t,” said Mary, her voice rising. “We’re going on strike.”

            Now everyone was awake.

             “You can’t go on strike if you’ve already been fired,” replied the gloomy violist.

            “Look, that was our last concert, but our contracts are good until the end of the month,” the tall trumpeter said excitedly. “Let’s strike.”

He turned to his pessimistic colleague. “Do you have any other plans for the next few weeks?” he asked incredulously.

Silence.  “Didn’t think so. We have nothing to lose.”

The soft murmur rose to an excited clamor of voices. Plans were made, concerns voiced, problems worked out. And for the first time in weeks, hope emerged from its hiding place, delicate but unmistakable. In a city accustomed to hard times, the musicians joined the ranks of the strikers. Like the assembly line workers and the casino employees, they were manual laborers; they suffered back pains and arthritis for the sake of the beautiful final product they produced. They needed this commodity, and the city needed it too.

So the musicians prepared for battle. Tuxedoes were their suits of armor and bows their swords. They carried sheet music like battle standards, and they bravely sounded their fortes with the force of a gunshot. They returned to the hall they loved, they took possession of their land and refused to move. Gradually, the story trickled out of the hall and into the streets; it spread rapidly through a population eager for news that didn’t involve corruption or bankruptcy. “Sit-in Symphony,” the evening headlines proclaimed. “Rogue Orchestra Refuses to Quit.”

The musicians eliminated “quit” from their vocabulary. They didn’t have much of a vocabulary at all, for they were too busy playing Beethoven and Tchaikovsky and Mendelssohn, dressed in their finest attire for the occasion. At first, they played to an empty hall. But as the news broke, a few curious enthusiasts took their seats. Others followed; they were supportive, idle, or simply hoping to witness a confrontation.

The seats filled to capacity, and the musicians played with the passion born of true emotion. Through the music, their anguish, worry, rage, and hope became manifest. The sound engulfed the audience. It soothed and startled them, it elated them and sunk them into despair. Sometimes, they forgot to breathe, so immersed were they in the wonderful, reverberating notes.

The orchestra played and played. The conductor gracefully waved his baton, sweat trickling down his temples as he poured his being into his orchestra. They were performing for themselves, for the audience, for the city, for the cause. The sun went down without any sign of weariness from the laboring players. Dinnertime came and went, and no one made a move to stop. Far into the night they played, onward through the darkness.

The clouds of the previous day had dispersed, and the sun’s first inviting fingers beckoned over the broken city. The last quavering note died down in the cavernous expanses of the hall, absorbed through the parted mouths of the transfixed listeners. In silence, the conductor shook the concertmaster’s hand. He bowed. He serenely descended the podium and walked off the stage. The orchestra sat still, their energy and passion spent.

A single clap broke the silence. Then another, and another. Slowly, the sound grew into a deafening thunder of applause. Cheers rent the air. The beautiful chaos was music of its own, an expression of gratitude and solidarity from the audience to the orchestra. They all understood each other; they needed each other. And they would find a way to help.

The orchestra struck up a joyful march as the audience emerged into the sunlight. 

Short Story 4

Catching Up

She’s carried all of the cleaning supplies from her car to the kitchen. She sits at the table and eats lunch, a can of tuna and a banana, before she starts to work.

…She sez she don’t wanna go to school today. And I sez, well ya gotta, I ain’t calling you in sick and you sure as hell ain’t gonna miss the bus again. She’s a good girl, but she sure is lazy sometimes. All she wantsta do is sit on the sofa and drink pop and watch those crappy shows about pregnant girls. You ask me, those shows are a real bad idea, girls don’t need to be watchin’ stuff like that. So anyway, that’s why I’m late, see, ‘cause Tina didn’t move her butt fast enough and I ended up having to drive her to school. Late again. One more and she gets detention. That girl. I keep tellin’ her, education is important. Look at me, I did it all backwards, now I’m tryin’ to get my basic courses in at the community college and they don’t give me enough scholarship money to buy the books, even. I tell ya, they don’t make it easy.

… Oh, yeah, we broke off the engagement. No, no, don’t be sorry, it just wasn’t meant to work out. He’s a nice guy an’ all, but he wasn’t cut out for a father. I got four kids and I gotta watch out for ‘em, y’know? And they was just too much for him. My oldest, she’s engaged, though. Real nice guy, he works out at the GM plant. The wedding’s gonna be in August. We’re tryin’ to make all the arrangements. Budget’s tight, but I think we can do pretty well. She knows it’s not all about the reception anyway, the ceremony’s the important part. That’s the fact of the matter. …Oh yeah, thanks, I’ll let her know. I’m real proud. She picked real well.

‘Scuse me for a minute while I find my pills… all these dang medications, you’d think I’m my mother’s age. I’m only 43, but all the bendin’ over I have to do, it really messes with my back. And these are for my blood pressure, and this one’s for my knee pain. And these here, I can’t tell ‘em all apart, but they do somethin’ important. Gotta go to the doctor again soon, make sure everything’s workin’ the way it should. My mom, she went for a normal routine visit, and next thing ya know, they tell her she’s got breast cancer. So ya never know. Gotta keep an eye on everything. …Oh, she’s doing better. Still in the hospital, though. I don’t know how much more they can do. I’m just tryin’ to visit as much as I can, keep her from being bored, ya know. She loves to draw, I got her some of them colored pencils from the art section at Meijer’s and she just loves ‘em. Drew a real pretty pitchur of herself on her wedding day, way-back-when. Copied it from a photograph. It made me wanna cry, it was so pretty.

I do wonder sometimes if I’m doin’ the right thing, goin’ back to school. Especially right when all my kids are getting to that age themselves. But this job, ya know… I mean, it’s fine, it gets the bills paid, as they say, but it’s so unpredictable. And with everyone gettin’ less money these days, folks are less likely to hire someone else to do the cleanin’. I’ve always wanted to be a therapist, I like talkin’ to people and listening and trying to help. Woulda done it way before now, but I had Lizzy and got married and before I knew it, the time was gone. I don’t regret it, I wouldn’t for a second wish things were differn’t ‘cause then I wouldn’t have my kids. But… it woulda been nice if I’d had more time. For me. Gosh, that sounds selfish; that’s not what I mean. You know what I mean. So now I think I’ve saved up enough to try it again, but it just takes so dang long, only takin’ a few classes a semester, and at night. And they want so much for grad school, they want all the way up through precalc, and I never was good at math. Still just tryin’ to get beginning algebra done with. But I think it’ll be a real investment, if I can do it. I looked into this program at Wayne State, and starting salaries coming out are 50, even 60,000 a year. So that’s not too bad. And it can only go up. I figure, people always need people to talk to. They always got problems. And man, I’ve had practice listenin,’ just being a mother.

… You’re lucky you’re so smart, you and your brother. Man oh man, how did your parents do it? My kids just don’t have that work ethic, ya know? I guess some people just have it. I mean, I guess I don’t, and my ex-husband sure don’t, so I don’t know why I would expect my kids to. But Jimmy, my son, he might just have it. He’s the smart one, always buildin’ things and readin’ about how to take apart computers an’ all. He’s gonna do real well, if we can just get ‘im to pick up his English grade a little. Sez the books are too girly, he can’t stand to read ‘em. Can you believe that? I sez to him, I sez, if it was good enough for Teddy Roosevelt, it’s good enough for you. He loves history, see. And I told him Roosevelt used to read three books ever day. That’s a fact, ya know. And I bet some of ‘em were the “girly” books, and he turned out just fine. So he’d best get readin’ or no Wii for a week. Boys are funny like that. Sometimes ya can’t reason with ‘em, ya just gotta tell ‘em like it is.

…No, no, thanks anyway, I got a Mountain Dew right here. That’ll give me a nice kick. And I hope ya don’t mind if I turn on the radio, it just gets a little lonely up there, in this big old house. Nice to have a little noise. … Oh good, glad it doesn’t bother ya. Like I say, it’s a fine job, but there are times when I miss being around people. ‘Cause most of the time I come in, clean, and leave and no one would even know, not a soul around, they’re all at work or school. That’ll be another nice thing about getting this degree, I hope. When I’m a therapist I can be around lots of people all day. No time for radios.

… Oh, yeah, of course, you gotta go. Well, it was real nice seein’ ya again. Tell your mom I sez hi, and your brother and your dad too. Real sorry to hear about your dog. But that’s the way of things, isn’t it. Anyway, guess I should get up and start on this floor. Aah, aaaah. No, hon, I’m fine, just these stubborn old knees again. Well, have a good one, and I’ll seeya again sometime.

…Oh yeah, thanks for that, I hope it all works out too. Bye now.

I don't like Aristotle, but I like this quote.

"Most cities of this sort preserve themselves when at war, but once having acquired imperial rule they come to ruin; they lose their edge, like iron, when they remain at peace. The reason is that the legislator has not educated them to be capable of being at leisure." - The Politics, Book 7

I think I'm a city at war. I'm always trying to control things, and then when I gain control I can't handle the ensuing peace. Relaxation makes me go insane. I am incapable of being at leisure, because I'm always worrying about the next battle. And then relaxing becomes an assignment as stressful as any other... "have fun, or else." Who is my legislator? My mind? My soul? My mother? Whoever you are, I need to figure out how to follow your advice.

Now y'all know I'm nuts. As if there was any doubt before.

Short Story #3

This one's for Mom.

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The Bottle of Champagne

The flight attendant’s cool voice sounded over the intercom, asking if there was a doctor onboard. I half-smiled incredulously.

            Every time I fly, someone needs a doctor. Every time I push the call button above my seat to offer my services, the flight attendant approaches and gives me a sweeping glance. She takes in my petite frame, short hair, and baggy fleece pullover. She asks if I’m a nurse. I say, no, I’m a physician. She says thank you in a tone of polite rejection. Then she accepts the second volunteer, a distinguished-looking gentleman with gray hair and a corduroy suit jacket. My children whisper furious insults at her back. I glance down the row and calmly tell them to let it go.

            This time, though, it was different. I did not press the call button. I sat attentively, listening for the sounds of a patient in distress. There were none. It was probably a case of popping eardrums, or lightheadedness, or panic induced by swollen fingers. Calm words and regulated breathing would cure them all. People don’t realize that half of practicing medicine is simply refusing to get worked up about things. Over the years, I’ve debunked countless, unfounded fears of illness with reassurance and the occasional Tylenol. It’s not laziness on my part. In fact, it takes a lot more energy not to offer treatment, to gently wade through floods of tears and to soothe anxiety with words of reason. That’s the truly exhausting part of my job.

            The intercom chimed to life once more. The flight attendant’s voice, more urgent this time, called again for a doctor. I sat up a little straighter in my uncomfortable seat. We were six hours into an eight-hour transatlantic flight. I hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Soon I would have to navigate the streets of an unfamiliar city and stumble over the words of an unfamiliar language. Surely, I thought, surely someone else can handle this. Someone who actually likes the attention and glory forced upon the healer of minor injuries. I had seen the man across the aisle reading the Journal of the American Medical Association and completing the multiple-choice test in the back; that’s not something people do for fun. He had even made sure to carefully fold over the pages so the attractive young woman next to him could see the dense articles and the pictures of x-rays. But now he was feigning sleep. I could see his eyes fluttering open every so often, shutting tightly again as soon as he felt my gaze.

            I am not a guilt-ridden individual. I consider, I choose a course of action, and I do not dwell on what-ifs. It’s what makes me a good doctor. But at that moment, as the flight attendant rushed down the aisle with a cup of ice and a towel, her face lined with concern, I stopped to reassess.  An unfamiliar twinge of shame filled the pause. Shame that I had, if only for a moment, become cynical at the world, at its melodrama and little injustices. Yes, people are filled with flaws, but isn’t that all the more reason to care for them? To heal them? 

            Rising from my chair, I walked briskly down the aisle until I found the site of the dilemma. A small group of people hovered over a row near the back of the plane. Between the whispering bystanders, a man was stretched across three seats, his head resting on a pile of rough airplane blankets. He was unconscious, his face tinged with gray, his forehead damp with perspiration. I pushed through the audience and asked them to please go and sit down. The man’s wife, looking stricken, told me the man had passed out without warning and showed no signs of waking.

            He looked bad, but he was still breathing in quick, shallows gasps. I removed the blankets from beneath his head and used them to elevate his feet. I wiped the sweat from his face with a cool towel and gently spoke in his ear, trying to coax out some sort of response. And I waited. All of the fainting spells in churches, on planes, and in theaters that I’d ever treated drifted lazily through my memory. This was the true nature of medicine, of life: sudden dilemmas in difficult places. Often, waiting patiently is all we can do.

            The man groaned softly and his eyes cracked open. I bent over him, blocking the  harsh light from above, and asked if he knew where he was. He did. I asked his name, his age, his hometown. A shaky nod from his wife affirmed that his answers were all correct. The plane’s first-aid kit was scant, but included a stethoscope, which I used to check the man’s heartbeat. Weak, but regular. I told him to keep his legs elevated, to take deep breaths, and to tell me if he felt faint again. I reassured his wife that he would be fine, that this was a common complication after heart surgery, and that he should go to the hospital once we landed to make sure everything else was fine. Then I went back to my seat and sat very still, eyes open.   

            Two hours later, we landed smoothly. I collected my coat and bag and waited for the paramedics to board so I could give them a quick summary of events. They cheerfully thanked me and joked with the man as they lifted him onto a gurney, despite his protests that he felt much better. I walked away from him down the aisle. Just as I was about to exit, the flight attendant stopped me, thanked me sincerely, and handed me a bottle of champagne. Bemused, I took it and kept walking.

            I did not want champagne. The sleep-feigning doctor flashed through my mind. He probably would have gladly accepted it; too bad he was nowhere in sight. Maybe I had only imagined him. The only real thing was the bottle, heavy and cool in my hands. The next time I passed a trashcan, I gently deposited my burden into the bottom. Then I walked sleepily down the hallway to customs, ready at last to slip into dreams. 

           

            

Short Story #2

I hesitated to put this up. It's pretty rough, due to the fact that I had to read King Lear on the same night I was supposed to write it. It's scary, putting these things up here. But I like y'all, and I know you'll like me even if you think this is silly. 

__________________________________________________________________

The Recovery

During the third hour of the “I Love Lucy” marathon on Saturday night, I started to crack. I was alone in the dark living room, my parents having retired to bed many episodes before, and my thoughts, which I had tried to suppress all day with errands and television, mutinied into a terrible roar that overpowered Ricky’s singing and the exuberant laugh track.  All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears, all I could feel was the hot, roiling despair in my stomach, and all I could see was a blurry screen through the tears escaping from the corners of I eyes. It was done, and I was done. I was broken.

            I hated myself for these cliché symptoms of teenage heartbreak, but at the same time, I finally sympathized with all the melodramatic characters in books and movies that I once despised for their weaknesses. This hurt, more than anything I’d known before, more than any physical pain I’d ever been in. And I’ve been around for a full 17 years, which I maintain is plenty of time to learn what absolutely awful feels like.

            My self-destructive reverie ended with the increase in volume that accompanied the commercial break. It was a late-night infomercial, one that catered to the largely baby-boomer audience of an “I Love Lucy” marathon. For some reason, I always give more attention than I would like to admit to the advertisements for miraculous cooking utensils, power tools, and cosmetic products that the overly enthusiastic salespeople proudly proffer to the camera. This particular commercial was for a new version of Rogaine, specifically targeting those half-bald men who stand in front of me at church and reflect light off of their astoundingly shiny pates. I wonder if anyone I know uses this stuff? I wondered.  Maybe Sara’s dad. Or that unfortunate, prematurely balding kid in my French class. Bad luck, to be in the prime of one’s life, body at peak physical form, and share a burden with a man twice one’s age. A flaw, of sorts. Flawed. That’s what he is. So very flawed, and I wish to God everyone else could tell. I wish his appearance reflected the meanness inside of him.

            I looked up. The well-coiffed salesman assured me that two easy payments of $19.99 would bring a full head of hair to my doorstep. And then I knew exactly what to do. I picked up my cell phone, which I had placed on the table next to me with the secret and shameful prayer that he would call me. Now I would do the calling. I dialed the toll-free number on the screen. On the other end, ringing. Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Rogaine Sales Team in Burbank, California.  This is Joe. May I assist you with a purchase?”

“Yes. Uh… yes.” I said, trying to make my voice sound male, husky and post-pubescent. “I need your product. I suffer from… severe hair loss.”

“Sir, I can offer you our Basic Package, which includes—“

“Better make it deluxe. I’ve lost a lot of hair,” I responded, trying to sound doleful.

“Oh, well, of course, that’s our best deal by far,” said Joe, astounded that I was doing his job for him. “I’ll just need your name, address, and credit card number, sir.”

How fortuitous, that my ex-boyfriend had written down his Visa information so that I could buy us concert tickets for the next weekend. How unfortunate, that he should decide to break up with me before I bought said tickets. And how providential, that the little slip of paper with the number on it should still sit innocently on the table in front of me.

I hesitated. This was wrong. I had never dreamt of doing something like this. I was not vengeful by nature. But I had been so very betrayed, so dragged through the mud.  I made the decision in a snap.

“My name is Ben Auburn. Address is 1695 Lerner Lane…”

It was done before I knew it. I hung up with a triumphant flourish. He had just bought $100 worth of Rogaine for himself. I hoped it arrived on his porch when his new flavor of the week was over for a make out session. I let the satisfaction wash over me.

Engulf me it did, but not enough to prevent a trickle of something less comfortable from creeping into my mind. Soon, that same empty feeling from before had returned, compounded by the certainty that whatever bad thing he saw in me was real, because I’d just done something wrong to prove it. What was wrong with me? How could I fly from one extreme to another like that? It wasn’t me.

I sat very still for several minutes, my thoughts racing at an impossible speed until they dead-ended in resignation. Fingers trembling, I reached for the phone once more. I pushed speed dial 3 (an honor he no longer deserved, but one which I could not yet bring myself to revoke) and sat immobile with baited breath. And then I was hearing that voice again.

“Hello? Liza?”

“Oh… um, Ben. Hi.”

“Look, if you want to talk, I don’t really think—“

“No. I mean I do, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”

“What else could you be calling about?”

“I did something bad and I have to tell you.”

“What did you do? Shit, Liza, if you saran-wrapped my car, I’m gonna—“           

I stopped listening. He didn’t know me at all. He never had. With a newfound clarity of mind, I interrupted him.

“Actually, I sent $100 worth of hair-enhancing product to your house with the credit card number you gave me to buy tickets to the concert that we are no longer going to because you no longer love me. It’s alright, though, I’m fine with the way things turned out. Have fun with your hair.”

I snapped my phone shut with a satisfying click. Turning my attention back to the television just in time to see Lucy stuffing a fistful of chocolates into her mouth, I let out my first laugh in a week. It sounded strange, but not at all unpleasant. It sounded like me. 

Right here with you

I drove home for the weekend, and on the way, I reverted back to my favorite artist for road trips, good times, hard times, and all times-- Josh Ritter. One song came on that I haven't listened to frequently, and today the lyrics really struck me. It's exactly how good friends should treat each other. And mine do, and I am so very grateful. So this is for all of you. Listen to it; it will make you happy. 


"Long Shadows"


I'm not afraid of the dark
We've been here before
Fallen on hard times, honey
We've fallen on swords
But if a long shadow
Falls across your heart
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

I'm not afraid of the dark
When the sun goes down
And the dreams grow teeth
And the beasts come out
Cast their long shadows
Every time that they start
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

Out on the hills the hounds are baying
Out on the moor the foxes run
To stay alive until the light has faded
Then pray for light that seems so long to come

I'm not afraid of the dark
So if the stars get scarce
And you reach for him
And honey he's not there
Just a long shadow across your heart
You can reach for me
I'm not afraid of the dark

I'm not afraid of the dark
When the sun goes down
And the dreams grow teeth
And the beasts come out
Cast their long shadows
Every time that they start
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

Arrivals.

Here is a short story I wrote for my fiction writing class. It's one of my first attempts, but I really enjoyed writing it. Hopefully I'll improve as the semester goes on.

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Arrivals

Misery lives in airport terminals, late at night, when children doze fitfully on their mothers’ drooping shoulders and everyone shivers in the freezing air that creeps in from the tarmac. Nowhere is less inviting than this modern purgatory, stark and depressing under the harsh fluorescent lights. The final business meeting and the last-minute sightseeing trip of the early afternoon seem pointless now, already forgotten as the dread of a sleepless night of travel sets in. First confusion, then irritation, then fury toward the delayed plane, the desk attendant’s cool voice, the other flights that made it out on time, and above all the helplessness that comes with waiting.

In the air of mutinous discontent that gripped Terminal 24C at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport on a Sunday night in late November, an elderly man sat apart from the angry buzz of conversation, facing the wall with head downturned in an attitude of melancholy, or meditation, or both. Lips shut, eyes on the square of carpet directly in front of him, Frank Portello gently rubbed an object between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. A curious bystander, if there had been one, could have easily mistaken the article for a rosary or a charm. Instead, it was a woman’s necklace, old-fashioned and lovely. A white cameo of a rose, delicate as a carved bone, sat framed against a midnight blue oval mounted on a brass frame. The pendant, about the size of the tip of a man’s thumb, trailed a long gold chain that glimmered in the artificial lighting.

Not a soul noticed the man and his necklace, though he cradled it with the tenderness of a child’s hand. Fifty years before, Frank had given it to a young woman whose eyes widened with delight when she opened the box. Those eyes, those dear brown eyes, had closed for the last time a year before, leaving Frank with the cool oval of metal and his memories. Funny, he thought, how even as the world bucked and pushed and stole away, the necklace stared up as innocently as it had on the long-ago day of the girl and the dance and the whispered promise.

The intercom crackled to life as the desk attendant announced that flight 734 to Omaha, Nebraska would now be boarding. Sighs of relief permeated the air, quickly replaced with impatient grunts as the scuffle to board the plane ensued. Forgetting their manners, every man, woman and child rushed toward the door, if only to finally feel like they were making progress on their long journey home. Amidst the confusion, Frank blinked, inhaled deeply, and slowly rose to his feet, his arthritic limbs making the change in position a difficult one. While he was still partially hunched over, a middle-aged woman accidentally bumped into him hard, setting him off balance and forcing him to fling out his arms to avoid tumbling to the floor. Muttering a vague apology, she rushed off toward the end of the line, heaving a toddler and a toy-filled stroller in her wake. Frank winced as he made his second attempt to rise, only to fall to the ground again, this time on purpose. In desperation, he scoured the floor with his hands, searching for something missing, something precious. The necklace. She had owned it for 50 years and never misplaced it, and now he had let it fly out of his hand at the smallest disturbance. How could he let her go so easily? Her bathrobe still hung on the back of the bathroom door. He missed her so very terribly. How could he lose her like that?

Frank knelt motionless on the ground as a sea of oblivious travelers swarmed around him, stepping over his bag and skirting his prostrated form without even glancing down. Utter hopelessness, lonely and cold as the airport terminal. He couldn’t bring himself to rise, not without her. He would stay and do penance for his loss, until his knees became stiff and his back ached. This is what Frank promised himself as a young man slipped effortlessly between the mindless flock and lowered himself into a kneeling position beside Frank.

They locked eyes. Something fleeting and familiar passed between them, but before Frank could think of what it was, the young man spread his hands wide and began sweeping the floor.The line dwindled as the passengers disappeared into the jetway, and still the young man searched, patiently, reassuringly, as though he would scour the entire airport if he had to. At last, with a soft and satisfied sigh, he pulled something gold from beneath a chair several rows away from Frank. Without a word, he smiled and dropped the necklace into Frank’s hand, who clutched it lovingly as his eyes filled with tears. He looked in wonder at the young man and was about to attempt to express his gratitude when another sound interrupted him.

"Sir, last call, we are about to close the gate. We can’t wait for you,” called the desk attendant in a hoarse, tired voice.

“I’m coming, I’m coming, I just have to thank…”

Frank trailed off. The young man was gone, striding away from the gate and down the long, deserted hallway into the darkness. Frank stared after him, heart brimming with tenderness and sorrow. He wanted to weep, but instead he swallowed, picked up his bag, and kissed the necklace before depositing it safely into his front vest pocket. As he entered the tunnel, he took one last look over his shoulder toward where the young man had disappeared. Nothing except an empty terminal and the black expanse of the unlit hallway. Frank whispered a prayer as he turned again and took a step forward.

On words.

I named this blog in a fit of infatuation with the world. And generally, that is how I go about trying to live my life. But right now, the truth is painful, and the world is not so beautiful. I'll try to find my old perspective again, but for now, I am viewing the outside from a small and dirty  room.

I am a person who believes in the power of words. I love everything about them -- the way they feel when I say them, the music they make when I hear them, and the power they possess over the mind and the soul. When I say something from my heart, each word is carefully weighed. I am careful not to use words that I don't mean, or to convey more feeling than I intend to show to another person. To me, a word used insincerely is an offense of the highest degree. To use a word is to carefully wield all the associations and implications it has come to embody. Carelessly tossing a word at someone is no less dangerous than throwing a knife through a dining room. You never know who you are going to hit. That's why I am guarded. It's not out of fear for myself, but for those around me.

Today I went to Spanish mass with Libby. I didn't understand the language, but the rhythms and the response sequences spoke for themselves. Even the homily was in Spanish, except for the following poem, which the priest graciously read in English. Perhaps it's a sign that I was meant to really think about it, as it was the only thing I could comprehend. I hope I keep thinking about it. These are words, used correctly. These are not knives, but embraces.



Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
gorgeous, talented, fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
so that other people won't feel insecure around you.
We are all meant to shine, as children do.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously
give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
our presence automatically liberates others.


-- "A Return to Love," Marianne Williamson 

Another day, another dollar

Well hello again. I decided to resurrect this blog, even though my life is no longer interesting and European, because I miss writing it. So here is the reincarnation, with a new name but the same author and the same attitude towards life in general: amazed, bemused, confused, but hopefully gracious and thankful as well.

So here I am, once more, in Lewis Hall. It has the same Lewis smell that I remember so well from freshman year, a smell that still brings nervous excitement to the surface of my emotions even as a prepare for a rather low-key semester. In my 3 days of class, I've read 2 books, started another, realized I forgot everything about music theory, and had a minor crisis over what to do about the future. Busy indeed. It feels like I've been here for months already. In fact, did I ever leave at all? I wouldn't believe it if I didn't have the pictures to prove it. It's lovely to be back home on campus, but also a little disconcerting-- many of my friends are abroad this semester, and their laughter is noticeably absent from my conversations. They are dearly missed.

Last night, Libby threw me a surprise birthday party and invited some of our abroad friends over for cake. Apparently, any normal person would have realized what was up, because about half of the attendees accidentally made some mention of the event to my face during the day. But ignorance is bliss, and boy was I blissful yesterday. I was completely taken aback when 10 people crashed into the room with a cake and a lively rendition of "Happy Birthday." It was so nice, I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Possibly in part because I was wearing my moose sweatshirt, running shorts, and big fuzzy socks, which I probably would not have willingly elected to display in company. Oh well, hopefully they still like me despite my dubious wardrobe choices.

That was actually my second surprise party of the year, On my actual birthday during orchestra tour, my friends threw a party at the hotel we were staying at in Orlando, complete with food and adult beverages which I can now legally consume. I have wonderful friends, truly. And speaking of orchestra tour, it was great-- we travelled around the gulf coast, giving concerts and watching the Bourne trilogy on the bus. Now I'm definitely ready to stop my nomadic lifestyle for awhile and buckle down to do some work. PLS is already reminding me of its wonderful but formidable demands. Juries for the Music department are in 3 weeks. But I can't say I'm not happy. I am, just in a different way. Happy for the opportunities ahead, excited to learn and discover.

And so my subject of conversation shifts from Big Ben to homework. Such is life. Everything is a phase, constantly in flux, a pattern of motion. (Who said that? Heraclitus? I think so.) Obliging. Adaptable. That's what I'll be.