thank You for the little things

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Thank You, Lord, for tea biscuits, for long walks at dusk,
    for bronze mailbox numbers that reflect light like lava.

Thank You for books upon books - more than one can read in a lifetime!

Thank You for friends, who love me even when I feel most alone;
    for family that wraps me up in 'snuggly' hugs
    and tell me that they love me.

Thank You for cameras, for Drama Class, for fifteen choices of tea.

Thank You for alarm clocks - even when I want least to wake up.

Thank You for table lamps, cookbooks, video games, and pillows.

Thank You for fingers for typing and playing piano; for prayer, for stories,
    for funny TV shows, for John MacArthur sermons,
    for a building for my church to worship in.

Thank You for voices with which to sing praises to You!

Thank You for watch faces that spin an tick a happy tune in my ear,
    for cat food dishes, for autumn orange hand-knit blankets,
    for green jeans, for stuffed toy bunnies.

Thank You for wilted roses, for shiny silver earrings, for recycled paper notebooks,
    for bottles full of moss, for unscented lotion,
    for Swedish dolls that stack inside of each other.

Thank You for dried flowers, for eyeglasses, for chopsticks, for 'present' rings.

Thank You for tales by the Brothers Grimm, for emery boards, for postage stamps.

Thank You for sandwiches, for ribbons, for electrical cords, for backpacks.

Thank You for the little things, 
    the forgotten things, 
    the things we take for granted.

who, what, when, where, why and how

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What does this life matter, unless you have a friend
To carry you through all, one on whom you can depend?
What matters if you've lost your way in a desert long gone dry?
Hope on, hope new, hope real and true; the rain it lingers nigh

Who cares if the darkness comes and envelopes the salty sea?
The sun spins again around the earth into eternity
Who cares if your plight lasts for you another long black night?
You will wake again tomorrow to the promise of morning light

When does the bird call, why, how, and for whom?
And why does the bird's lover call back to him so soon?
When does the flower die and bend down onto the grass,
Or the rocks take a breath from under the water gushing past?

How does the sky fall and yet never touches the earth?
Is it blue, or auburn, or gold, or green, or of color have a dearth?
How can a cat stumble down from a high place and always land
On her feet so very gracefully and thenceforth proudly stand?

Why can my brain remember all in pictures, feelings, words?
It gathers files of my life and itself with memories girds
Why does all creation plea for answers from above,
When God has already given His Word with messages of love?

Where does the time run off to each day, and yet have some always we?
Can it linger-on like pages of a book that I might start to read?
Where do these pages go; how many languages are they in?
The answers to these mysteries escape the mind within


Might, fight, cry, shove,
Life, light, hope, love,
Sing, sigh, shine, grow,
Ask, bask, glean, know.

Enigma of the Night

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From November 6th, 2012 Tuesday, a poem with a forgotten tune of a song I wrote for pleasure:

//Enigma of the Night//

Verse 1:
There's a feather floating on the breeze
Dancing through and past the trees
T'ward the great and fearful seas
    to swim instead of fly

Undiminished drops of dew
Drop on by right next to you
Sitting there on the toadstool
    to hide instead of shine

Bridge:
We all have seen those kinds of days when life won't satisfy
Until it gives-in to our will and grants us a surprise

Chorus:
Fairy-tales, fantasy, starlight riddled with our dreams
We all want to know how it would feel to fly
Fairy-tales, fantasy, all the raindrops in the sea
It's a mystery that no one can deny


Enigma of the night

Verse 2:
There's a jewel in the rocks
List'ning as the starlight mocks
And it breaks free of its stocks
    to glow instead of cry

...

Bridge 2:
We all have seen those kinds of days when life won't satisfy
Until it gives-in to our will and grants us a new prize

Chorus 2:
Fairy-tales, fantasy, things aren't always as they seem
All our trouble only last a little time
Fairy-tales, fantasy, all the tears upon my sleeve
It's a mystery that no one can deny

Enigma of the night

ellipsis...

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As a child, I never would have guessed where my writing would have taken me, how far I would come in the simplest things such as spelling or metaphorical speech, nor how close I could be to actually becoming an author.

I began this novel in 2005 on my grandmother's beautiful typewriter when I was eleven. It was based on a dream, based on a video game, and it was the beginning of something marvelous. Countless drafts and eight years later, I am six chapters completed with my novel. Never have I been so determined to finish it, to publish it, to hold its bound pages in my hands. I want to fulfill my lifelong dream of typing out the words, 'The End' and someday putting my work-well-done on my bookshelf, alongside The Goose Girl and The Healer's Apprentice and Redwall, and all of the books that have made me who I am today.

I always am encouraging my fellow writers to continue writing. There is no other hobby or talent from which I derive more pleasure than writing, and it is lovely to watch others develop their dreams and stories along with me. We all see things differently; we all look at a painting and arrive at a completely different idea of what the story is behind the artist's craft.

I find myself presently at the same point every writer inevitably meets along the winding road of literary choreography and revision: I am residing within the confines of an ellipsis, three small dots oft used to represent a continued thought, or the cliff of a sentence yet to jump off of to reach the other side.

...

Where shall I go next? My story is thirsting for more, crying out to have its ending revealed. I know the ending. Arriving at that end is the issue. There are so many distractions, so many other activities and necessities in life to make time for. But, Lord willing, I will finish my novel. He is the highest Author, who writes the story of every person alive, and I endeavor to have all that I write give Him the glory always.

If you are a writer, do not give up. Do not be exasperated when it seems there is not enough time for you to pursue your writing; do not feel dejected when others criticize your work or tell you what you love is not good enough; do not grow lazy; do not grow discouraged when you think others do so much better than you; do not even despair when what you write does not sound the way you had hoped or planned...

Write. Rewrite. Determine to see your writing to the end. It does not matter how long it takes. (Good grief, it has already been over eight years for me!) Trudge through your 'ellipsis'. After all of the sweat and tears, you can take a nice long hot shower and reward yourself with a little snack (kiwi, Junior Mints, a Klondike bar, or whatever you like), but for now, keep working. Keep writing.

It will be worth it.

Stories

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Stories.

It's at the Beginning of a tale when the very heart of what it is all about is revealed.

The Middle, the End... these also play a large role in unraveling the truth about the meaning of a tale, but nothing should say it so plainly as the very Beginning.

The Beginning draws the reader in. A writer can tell so much that the reader may guess the ending, but can also tell so little that one feels draw to discover how that end may come about.

What makes a story so special? Is it the characters, and how loveable they are? Is it the drama, the plot, the atmosphere, or the words? No.

A story goes far deeper than words. It goes far deeper than the skill with which the story is woven, or even the material the writer has chosen for his or her craft.

What makes a story special is the writer.

What goes into a story is not just ideas or dreams or words... it is the writer. Their thoughts, feelings, needs, and yes, even their very heart must be poured into a story to make it so very special.

It seems to be quite proven that the stories which are close to us are the ones we grew up with, the ones we treasured, the ones that became a part of us.

Stories go beyond teaching us morals or guiding us on a path with a character to which we can relate, or through mysterious lands, or into curious circumstances in which we wish to partake. Stories tells us who we are when we least know what to think. They are our teachers, our friends... they flow through our beings like our own blood and are equally as essential.

Those who live apart from stories lack the fervor, the excitement, the love which we who cling to stories have in full. It is a dry, coarse world which neglects to stop and pay attention to the little things, to remember a childhood fantasy, a poem tied more firmly around their being than their own name...

There is something inexplicably personal about stories because a story is made up of a person.

This is what makes a story believable.

This is what makes a story so special.

This is what makes a story real.

The Tale of Dozyville

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So, I told some of my dear writer friends that we should do a small project; each of us should write our own short story based off of a picture I found on Pinterest, and then share it with each other. I thought it would be a good idea for me to share with everyone else in the meantime, since it's just for fun. ;)

    And now, here is the picture... and then begins my short story.

Amelia was walking through the garden, picking ripe pods from the rows of peas. Mother was selling the chickens' eggs and fresh leeks at the market, and Father was working in the wheat fields with the other men of Dozyville.

    So, Amelia was by herself that sunny summer morning, which suited her just fine. She carried the basket of pods into her parents' cottage, stoked the fire, swept the ever-dusty floor for the third time that day, and sat down to shuck the pea pods at the table.

    The peas were perfectly green, and Amelia helped herself to a large handful when the basket was full. She was already feeling quite sleepy, though the day was new. Without really meaning to, Amelia dozed off, her pale brown braid dusting some peas onto the floor as she leaned her head down onto the table. She began to dream sweet dreams of trees gushing with fresh sap for maple syrup. Sweet, surreal syrup.... She slipped her arm under her head to make the dream even pleasanter, and in her whimsical rest didn't notice the sprite climbing out of the cauldron.

    Sprites like mischief, and living near Dozyville, they often chose to be mischievous to the unknowing people there. You may have guessed by now that there is a reason why the town is so named: Sprites put a sleeping spell over their victims, whispering little soothing songs that are too soft for the big people to hear, but too powerful for them to fight against even if they should happen to know about the rogues all around them.

    These particular sprites were young and small enough to easily hide behind the carrots and potatoes and onions Amelia had placed in the cauldron to make soup for luncheon. Sprites are moderately patient, but when Amelia had lit the fire their little toes grew hot, so they cast their spell hurriedly, hopped up on top of the hot vegetables and crawled out of the cauldron, quite ready to avenge their blistered toes.

    "Let's tie her braid to the leg of the table," one sprite suggested eagerly.

    Two more sprites followed after the first, and one nodded in agreement. "Let's mush peas in her hair and under her fingernails!"

    The third was lazier, and had grown a bit of an appetite waiting so long in the cauldron. He began eating peas, smiling impishly while his brothers began to work their mischief.

    A fourth sprite was still peeking over the edge of the cauldron, and took a moment and a great deal of strength to tumble over the lip, narrowly missing the fire as he fell. Amelia snorted in her sleep, and all four sprites froze in their places. But Amelia did not wake, and so they let out a quiet, unified sigh and went back to work.

    The sprites snickered as they finished their handiwork and scampered out the front door of the cottage. They steered towards the garden and began pulling up carrots and nibbling the young leeks that Amelia's mother deemed to small yet to sell. They congratulated each other on their success and enjoyed their prize, stuffing as many seeds and beans and other small vegetables in their pockets as they could carry.

    One of the sprites lifted up his ear to the sky suddenly, and looked alarmed. "One of the big folk is coming along the path!"

    They ducked under the cabbages when the lumbering big person came by, and nudged each other gleefully when the woman entered the cottage and began to shriek. "...So irresponsible!" was all the sprites heard as they scuttled away through and beyond the garden back to their secret homes, chuckling all the way.

    In the forest that surrounded Dozyville, in the shelter of the tall trees, these four sprites lived with the rest of their kin. They retold the events of their day to a rapt audience. But as they went to bed that night in their oak-leaf and thistle-down nests, the sprites planned the same scheme for the following day. "Only this time," the laziest of the four said excitedly, "we'll start before the girl's mum has left for the day, and leave a surprise for the father when he returns from work after dusk!"

    The other sprites agreed and whispered a special little song to sooth themselves to a light summer sleep.

    The next morning, the sprites left before the sun touched the top of the horizon, stumbling through the dark to the cottage on the edge of Dozyville. Amelia was up earlier than usual, not doubt trying to make up for her sleepy mistake the day before, and was already in the garden harvesting food, confusion riddling her face at the tiny bites marks on the vegetables.

    When Amelia at length went into the cottage, the sprites followed cautiously. They narrowly missing being trod upon in their hurry to hide beneath the stove, trying to avoid being seen. The tips of their pointy little ears brushed the black metal of the stove, and they grumbled to each other that it was already lit for morning tea. Their little brows began to drip with sweat as they waited for Amelia's mother to wake - which seemed to take hours - and then eagerly put the sleeping spell over the big folk and crawled out from beneath their hot hideout.

    There were no peas to mush into hair today, but as they crossed the floor to the big people's toes, the sprites noticed a great deal of not-yet-swept dirt. They glanced at each other, grinning impishly. "What an opportunity!" one of them said as Amelia and her mother snored and dreamed.

    The sprites scooped up handfuls of dust and dirt, and in pairs climbed up the skirts of the women and onto their laps. They drew pictures of the people on their aprons from a sprite's perspective - fat, stupid, slow, and of course sleepy - and colored their faces and fingers black with stray charcoal fallen on the hearth.

    The sprites clapped their hands with delight and waited near the cottage until night, munching on vegetables until Amelia's father returned home from a long day of working in the fields. The man scratched his head in such confusion, the sprites were stuffing leaves up each others' noses to keep from laughing too loudly.

    Off they went back to their homes; they recounted their tale of success, and their kin laughed harder than ever. Some of them asked to join the four the next day for another adventure, and made even more dastardly plans.

    This time, Amelia and Mother were up and Father with them, for it was the rest day of the week. "What luck!" the sprites said to one another, "We again have them just where we want them! What great and terrible trouble we can make for them now!"

    Gleefully they sang the sleeping spell and began their work, this time tying the laces of all of the big peoples' six boots together in one great braid under the table, spilling honey on their heads - "What a mess this will be when they wake!" - and stuffing their sleeves with straw.

    "Scarecrows!" one sprite sang, dancing upon the table.

"Scarecrows sleeping in their chairs,

dreaming of daisies, unawares

They know not what ails their peaceful home;

we sprites, I say, cousins of the gnome!" 

    The sprites giggled and left the cottage, patting each other on the back. They stopped short when they heard a strange sound in the garden. A bleating, a baa-ing.... The voice of a goat with a very long grey beard, one that had apparently strayed into the garden for a snack.

    "What luck!" cried the sprites. "More mischief to do!" But as they drew near, the goat gobbled them up, only the two youngest and most agile escaping to bring the news to their kin.

    The sprites were troubled - imagine, troublemakers troubled, having never failed in their impish arts in all their lives! They worried and discussed the issue, and finally decided to put the goat to sleep, or possibly risk every one of them being eaten as well.

    The next day, the three sprites who drew the shortest straws sat behind the cabbages, gulping as they looked up at the great dumb animal which posed them such a threat. They nudged each other to go first, until at last they clumped together and stumbled nearer to the goat, staring up into the beast's unnerving, horizontal eyes.

    They opened their mouths and squeaked out a short sleeping song, but the goat did not even blink. It munched on the sprites as though they too were tasty garden greens.

     Soon, others in Dozyville began keeping goats, and though they never knew exactly why, they realized it somehow prevented them from falling into random, catastrophic naps day-by-day. And so, the sprites had no other choice but to keep to themselves or themselves be made into dinner! The hungry goats kept the gardens clear of sprites, day and night, and Dozyville at last was free of their mischief for good.

Better to do good uncredited under someone's nose than to be caught in the act of mischief.

nature

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Some autumnal/winter shots I took 'last year' on my Nikon D3100, kit lens

the Hobbit

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Yesterday I went to see The Hobbit: An Unexpected journey for the third time in theater. (Which is a first. I don't know if I've seen any other movie even just two times in theater before.) I started knitting a hat during the trailers and was about half-way through by the end of the movie (and that's mostly by feel, not by sight). My mom and sister, Emily, were with me --- I think we all agreed that The Hobbit gets better every time. (They were seeing it for only their second time because we all went to the midnight showing, and I went again the next day with a group of friends from church.) But seriously; I've started being able to quote it, memorized the dwarves' names (and faces!), and am determined to read The Hobbit again before the next two parts are released.

Martin Freeman is Bilbo Baggins, an actor whom I was first introduced to watching Wild Target, a comedy starring Bill Nighy, Emily Blunt, and Rupert Grint; then one night my sisters and I began watching the BBC television series Sherlock with Benedict Cumberbatch (who actually plays the dragon Smaug and the Necromancer in The Hobbit). It was shortly after that when we learned Martin Freeman was going to play the part of Bilbo, so naturally we were... well, ecstatic, really. He portrays Bilbo perfectly. He's the number one thing I like about The Hobbit, but believe me, not the only thing --- I like every detail. ;)

 

It's fascinating to look at the behind-the-scenes videos (such as the one above) which explain a good chunk of the work that goes into the making of The Hobbit. It really does take so much to make a movie worth watching, and I believe Peter Jackson and his capable crew did a fabulous job! I've heard people complain about The Hobbit 'not being as good as Lord of the Rings' or 'too silly' and suchlike. Well, truth is, The Hobbit is NOT as serious at the Lord of the Rings. I've heard that J.R.R. Tolkien actually wrote it to be a children's book. And The Lord of the Rings trilogy is frankly pretty dark. I appreciated the humor of The Hobbit because the end of the "LotR" (Lord of the Rings) trilogy when Frodo sails away just breaks my heart. I needed a little cheering-up, and An Unexpected Journey did just that for me.

And I know a lot of people thought it was a little stretched out, but seriously: what true fan can complain about having three whole movies made about a favorite novel, especially if they star Martin Freeman? There were actually aspects of the book I didn't fully understand, and other parts I couldn't really picture in my own imagination. An Unexpected Journey answered a lot of questions I had. And how often do we have the chance to see a fantastic book like this from another person's perspective, anyway? I can't help thinking that if J.R.R. Tolkien could see his books from Peter Jackson's perspective, he would be very well-pleased.

For those of you who loved The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey even half as much as I did (which is still saying a lot!), don't worry; The Desolation of Smaug comes out on December 13th of this year, and There and Back Again, on July 18th of 2014 (and that's only about half a year after part two!) We don't have that much of a wait ahead of us. And I plan on watching An Unexpected Journey several mores times when it finally comes out on DVD.

For those of you who didn't really like the movie all that much, think about the reasons for that. We geeks will allow you to be more interested in other movies --- everyone has their own tastes and is entitled to their own opinion --- but if your only excuse for disliking The Hobbit is because they're splitting it into three parts, just know that The Lord of the Rings was originally one book as well, but was separated into three parts because of its length! Length is a problem for you? *Chuckling ensues* Well, my friend, because I'm a true geek at heart, I'm hoping for more extended versions --- love those --- to put up on the shelf, next to The Avengers, Doctor Who, Merlin, Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, Star Trek, and every other 'geeky' movie or TV series I have on my rather extensive wishlist. Length is good.

Lastly, I want to ask everyone to do one thing concerning movies based on books; to give the movie an honest chance. Allow yourself to not be prejudiced, but see its quality in and of itself, even if you still like the book more. You really are seeing the book from someone else's perspective, seeing their very imagination, which is FASCINATING! Allow yourself to look over any quirks you don't care for and simply enjoy the movie. And please don't make judgments until you've seen a bit of all the work everyone put in to making that movie. (Particularly The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.) Could YOU have done a better job? Let's give Peter Jackson some major kudos for bringing The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings to life!

writer's block ... why?

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I don't know what to write about anymore.

I feel like I should try to find something interesting in my life to share with everyone, but how can anything in my life be very interesting to anyone else? It's all so . . . normal.

It's like I'm just waiting for something to happen, and until it does, there will be nothing but normal life to drone-on about. Maybe I'm waiting for my opportunity to buy that new camera and begin an entirely new chapter of my photography adventure.

Maybe I'm waiting for that next vacation which always is a source of new and beautiful memories.

Maybe I'm just restless in general, so it's hard to sit down and push buttons once a day as lead by my brain.

Or maybe it's just the weather.

Honestly, the weather affects me greatly. I am usually most inspired to write when the season change. Winter always makes me want to cuddle up and read The Goose Girl, or Princess Academy. Summer makes me want to dig out my old dragon stories I wrote as a child and grimace and laugh at my inexperience. And I never know what inspiration to expect in autumn or spring --- they are pleasant surprises.

Maybe it's because I'm not going to bed before midnight very often.

There's always some sort of excuse for why this occurs; last night it was that I was in the mood to clean the house, and so I kept going until after midnight and I could hardly keep my eyes open anymore!

Probably, the answer to my restless trouble is a combination of many things.

Anyway, I hope you'll forgive me for not writing many things of interest. I'll just have to remind myself that if my writing is for the Lord, that's all I will need. I just want to please Him.

More Inspiration... Garden Dragonflies

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As promised, here are more inspirational photos!

You can barely see his wings, but he was kind enough to hold still long enough for me to take this photo. The photos you will see below are all of the dragonflies who modeled generously for me this summer.

To Inspire...

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All of these pictures below were taken this year by myself. They are wholly unedited, and now presented to you for inspiration, pleasure, or anything of the like. Please do me a favor and share them with your friends. (But don't save them to use as your own because they took a great deal of time and effort to get them they way they are.)
    I'm planning on posting more soon!