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
Friday, January 28, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
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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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.
Arrivals
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.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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
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
Friday, January 21, 2011
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.
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.
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