NPM 2016: Day 5 {Unrelinquishing}

Unrelinquishing
August 19, 2015

Favored seasons are flavored yet
by these unrelinquishing regrets,
where the cider cups
and the appled stuff
trip us on the post-summer steps.

Each prematurely fallen leaf
and misplaced ad for Halloween
wither within
my chest like a bin
full of discarded flowers, forever unseen.

And the wilted petals blossom out
from silent shivers to shaking shouts,
where a bright affection
replaced by winter’s inflection,
redeemed only when the wind is out.

I’ll never be ready for the fall.
I long to go back and absorb it all
before sorrow unlocked
like an autumnal clock
making my large joys small.

National Poetry Month: An Introduction (Day 1!)

Each year I wait for April, and the closer it gets the more often I find myself abstaining from writing poetry. This is a difficult task. If you are not a poet or a writer it might sound a little ridiculous. A surgeon doesn't keep away from his doctor duties in preparation for surgery. A teacher doesn't stop writing lesson plans right before she is reviewed by her principal. Most people practice their skills before the big event, to make sure they've got everything down.

Poetry isn't like that--at least, not for me.

Poetry is a piece of me, a part of my body and soul that seemed to be attached to me long before I recognized it or realized it was important. The feelings come effortlessly; it is only the perfecting and revising of words that come with practice and patience. And so I hold in my feelings for a while, in order to let them burst forth later for thirty days straight. The hard part isn't writing when I'm supposedly "out of practice." The hard part is finding the perfect words for the imperfection of raw emotion.

In the spirit of honesty, I must tell you that I am not writing new poems for every day of April. However, they will be new poems to you. I have a secret poetry blog, which is hidden from the public for other secret reasons, but I've selected a handful of poems from this "other place" that I wrote over the last year. They will be edited and revised in order to be shared with you, in addition to some new ones (of course!)

So, without any further dawdling, here is a poem. (This one is new.)


Spectrum - April 1, 2015

Blank slates are black
made rough by white thoughts--
an absent mind
or absent-minded scribbles.
All the colors at once
overwhelmed and beheld,
or all at once
to see such colors.
The right frame of mind
or right-angled frame
makes hues into words
and names into shades.
But seeing holds the belief
in the distinct
without the instinct
to take away choice
and just paint the world gray.

Recess

While tutoring a ten-year-old today I came across the word 'recess.' He had two long lists of words to study, and this was one of them. I varied the studying methods--a definition there, a spelling here, a sentence for each one. I asked him what recess was and he said, "When you get to play!" I agreed, then reminded him it could also just mean a break.

It immediately brought me back to my own ten-year-old self, and all the recesses I was forced to endure. As an adult I am more aware of the rest of the word--it offers us a break from real life, a respite from the day-to-day or the overwhelming. It could mean we take a long bath or go for a walk or snuggle with a fluffy dog. Maybe it means hot cups of coffee with friends or watching hours of Netflix or going swimming.

As a child, it was strictly for playing outside. I grew up in Washington state, and our school took recess very seriously. We had one mid-morning and another right after lunch, and it had to be raining (not drizzling, which is more common) in order for recess to be held inside.

I loved indoor recess, but not for the reasons you might think. I actually loved playing outside. At home, I would spend hours playing in the woods, climbing trees and riding my bike down a dangerously steep hill. I had scraped knees and slivers and weird tan lines on my legs from hours spent rollerblading. Being outside in my own domain was a thrill and a joy.

But being outside on a playground where some unknown "Recess Duty" would admonish me if I didn't have a ball in my hand or wasn't swinging on the monkey bars was more like a punishment. I was also extremely shy, extremely terrified of strangers and confrontation, and so the prospect of being approached by the Recess Duty because I wasn't "playing" scared me to death.

I wanted to be inside reading--which is, of course, why I loved rainy days and indoor recess. I loved curling up with a book in my classroom's library, or coloring vast landscapes at my desk until the bell rang again. There is something depressing about the fact that 'play' used to only mean running, jumping, or climbing. I hate that the other kinds of play, the kinds I was so connected to as a kid, were somehow considered lazy or less beneficial.

As I went on a sort of emotional adventure last weekend, this weekend I'll be taking another break from the real world--a recess, you might say. It's time for another road trip, for sure. In recent weeks I have been overwhelmed by doctors and recovering and bad news, and the turmoil of knowing it's all going to get more painful and overwhelming before any of it gets better. Starting next week I have my first post-op appointment, so before all of it begins...

I'm taking a recess. I'm going to play. I'm going to be with friends. We'll watch movies, drink tea, maybe even read books or draw pictures. I'm going to take a break and play in the way that most benefits me. I don't even care if it's raining.

Thirty Thanks, Day 26: Roadtrips

The movies will make you believe that roadtrips are always catalytic and full of growth, like a coming-of-age novella. They'll convince you that every pit stop can be transformative, every bump in the road a metaphor for life. Movies will also show you that at least one person is always miserable, and at least one person is oblivious to the other's misery.

But the truth is that sometimes roadtrips are just another part of life. Sometimes they're really meaningful. Sometimes they're full of angst. Sometimes you're asleep the whole way. I'm thankful for them, regardless of the outcome or the journey. 

Roadtrips have always just been a normal part of my life. They were often methods of travel--moving to Washington from Montana, visiting Montana, visiting family in Oregon at least once a year. And when I was little, they symbolized uninterrupted time with my a sketch pad or a Mrs. Piggle Wiggle book. As I grew I began to use the time to listen to my portable CD player, alone in the backseat. Even if we didn't stop anywhere exciting on the way to our destination, even if I was bored out of my mind because we got stuck in a traffic jam, I still enjoyed the journey.

Now that I'm an adult, my roadtrips are more meaningful, and transformative... but only because I made the decision to take them myself. Not quite a month after I got married, we roadtripped across America so I could get back to school. And last year some friends and I took a roadtrip to Missouri for a wedding. Today I'm roadtripping up to Wisconsin for Thanksgiving.

But they're not meaningful because of the location. Or the occasion. Or the duration.

They're meaningful because of the memories made with the people you care about most.

I'm thankful for roadtrips, because sometimes they do allow you to grow. And even if you don't grow into a "better" person or a "new" person sometimes you just grow closer to your friends, or yourself, or to God. I'm thankful for the opportunity to see new places and experience new things, to find adventure and inspiration. I'm thankful for a semi-reliable car. I'm thankful for the company of good friends, today and every day.

Thanks, roadtrips. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 20: This Man

Five and a half years ago I met a really nice guy. He had, literally, the bluest eyes I'd ever seen and this adorable crooked smirk. He was really good with kids and animals and had such an upbeat attitude most of the time. He was just so nice. Such a nice guy.

And this was the summer I decided not to date anyone, or even think about dating anyone, or even become friends with boys. I'd just had my heart broken, so I swore I would not make the same mistake again so soon.

Oh well, right?

So I met this nice guy and we fell in love and two years after that we got married and now I'm living happily ever after with this really nice guy.

Except that he's not a nice guy.

It's not because he's the opposite of nice. It's just, I really hate the word nice. When I was teaching, I admonished every student that used "nice" as a descriptor. "Nice" has lost all meaning. Nice is boring, nice is simple, nice is uninspiring. There are so many more words that convey something deeper than "nice." So... no. My husband is not a nice guy. But he is a lot of other things. I am so thankful for my husband, and all of the not-nice things he is.

I am thankful that he is hilarious, because he loves making me laugh and finds humor in everything. I'm thankful that he's focused, and that (even if it takes a while for him to get started) once he gets into a task he doesn't stop until it's finished. I'm thankful that he is gentle and kindhearted, because it means even in our worst arguments he never aims to hurt me or cause me anxiety. It also means that when he apologizes, to me or other people, he is sincere. I'm thankful for his creativity, which allows him to do well at work but it also inspires me in my own creativity. I'm thankful that he's so ridiculously handsome, and that he has an awesome beard (because without it he looks like a twelve-year-old.) I'm thankful that he is faithful--not just to me, but to God. For underneath all the stress and fear caused by this world, he knows who to really trust and serve. I'm thankful that he is adventurous and isn't afraid to try new things with me. I'm thankful that he's extroverted and outgoing, because it takes a lot of the pressure off of me when we're in social situations. (Phew!) And I'm thankful that he loves me, and that despite my human-ness he chooses to love me every day.

I'm grateful that he's not nice, too. Thanks, husband. You're incredible. <3 p="">

Thirty Thanks, Day 19: Coffee (200th Post)

This is the 200th post on this blog. I'd say that's quite an accomplishment. So we have a very special topic for today's "Thankful" feature. Enjoy.

A long time ago in a faraway land called Montana, my mother gave five-year-old Katie two ounces of coffee in a tiny tupperwear container. It was part cream, part coffee, part Sugar Twin. It was perfectly flavored, and I fell in love with that perfection.

Fast forward to July 4th, 1996 in Seattle. It was my family's first (or second? I can't remember) trip to Gasworks Park for their fourth of July celebration. We ate sandwiches in the car and, because I was so accustomed to "dipping" my PB&J in milk, I needed something to quench my thirst. My father had a gigantic travel thermos--I swear, that thing held at least 40 ounces. The lid was used as a cup and I begged to take a drink. "I NEED coffee!" I exclaimed. Dad was driving and mom took care of the coffee-dispersion. "It's just plain, black coffee," Dad warned me as Mom passed back the cup-lid. I don't remember much else except that I was reprimanded for not saying "please", and of course that I was actually fancied the heavy flavor of black coffee.

Fast forward once more to 2001, just as I began 7th grade. Because I'd started private school my parents now drove me to school on the way to work. There was a coffee stand at the end of our street (something common in Washington) and on Mondays they had $2 mochas. My mother and I began a long tradition of stopping here each Monday, sipping our coffee on the way to school and work.

And now fast forward one last time... not to a singular moment, or a precise date on the lengthening calendar of my life.... but to a thousand moments, a million separately wonderful instances and events in which coffee enhanced life's greatest treasures.

The first time my husband said he loved me, we were sharing a caramel macchiato. (It was on accident, and I told him to take it back because we weren't even officially dating yet, but still...)

My best friend and I first bonded at a coffee house.

When I was a teenager and my dad and I both had free time in the summer, I felt incredibly hospitable and grown up when I volunteered to bring him more coffee.

In all of my jobs, I have connected with coworkers over coffee.

I have more coffee cups than anything else. More mugs than socks, underwear, spoons, maybe even more than paperclips.

I am so thankful for coffee. I am thankful for how it brings people together, connecting us through sorrow or joy or rage. I am thankful for it's alleviating strength, how it can make an awkward situation endurable or a weakening fatigue less overwhelming. I am thankful for its approachable nature in that "meeting for coffee" can be both a safe way to interact, or an ordinary event that could lead to something more adventures. I am thankful for its many flavors and varieties and methods of being brewed, allowing food-artists the opportunity to be innovative and creative. I am thankful how it is desirable in every season, in every circumstance, for many ages and stages of life. I am thankful for its calming nature, for the way a cup of coffee can bring me back to focus and center and stability, or give me the headspace for inspiration and creativity. I am thankful for its presence in so much of my life, for what it adds to life, for what it exposes in the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Thanks, coffee. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 11 - Day 18: All These Things In Between

An entire week has passed since I made the time to blog. I mentioned, I think, that November was my busiest month. I wasn't lying. Perhaps this is why it's important to stop and be thankful for things amid all the chaos and bewildering activity. I would attempt to go back to each day I've missed, thinking of something that happened on those days that I can be thankful for. But it's been a long week, and then a long weekend, and so these smell in-between things are going to be arbitrarily chosen.

Day 11: I am thankful that my apartment is fairly clean right now, and that (for the winter, at least) the spiders have stopped invading.

Day 12: I am thankful for winter clothes, and for the excitement I experience when I take them out of storage and put away the summer dresses.

Day 13: I am thankful for stores that are closed on Sundays, even if it inconveniences me.

Day 14: I am thankful for friends who come to visit me in Illinois, because it makes me feel grown up and worth hanging out with.

Day 15: I am thankful for Chicago and all its wonders.

Day 16: I am more thankful for Seattle, because it's my favorite city, even if its wonders are more familiar and less mysterious.

Day 17: I am thankful for stores that haven't put up their Christmas decor yet.

Day 18: I am thankful for peppermint flavored things, and the abundance of them during this absolutely delightful season.

And now I'm all caught up. I promise to try to get on top of everything again tomorrow. I may even write some posts in advance because Thanksgiving is coming soon and I will be even more occupied and busy.

Thanks, all-these-things-in-between. You're incredible... and your brevity is convenient.

Thirty Thanks, Day 9: Fall

I don't have much to say, because I'm pretty tired, and I have some work yet to do tonight. It's been a busy weekend, and I have a busy week ahead, then a busier weekend, then a less busy week, then a REALLY busy week, and then... it will be December, which is like all of that packed into one.

So today I am thankful for Fall. Fall is sort of a conundrum in the Midwest, because it takes forever to get here, and then it's gone in about four weeks. Summer lasts forever and then a little breath of autumn and then ALWAYSWINTERBUTNEVERCHRISTMAS. I mean, ahem, it snows a lot and I get bronchitis.

I have talked often about fall, and how I love the changing leaves and the colors everywhere. So I won't say a lot more about it. It's beautiful. It smells nice. It makes for many pretty pictures. Also, pumpkin everything.Thanks, Fall. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 8: The Story (Part 2)

Many things divide your life into two halves. The time before you met your spouse, and the time after. The time before you lost that friend, and the time after. Before kids, after kids. Before getting that job, after having that job. 

There has never been a time before stories. And there will never be a time after, for all of life is a story. The chapters change and the pages increase in number and spine becomes bent and cracked with age. But there is never after. It always is.

However, there was a time when I didn't know what stories meant to me. 

Children who love books usually know they love books, but they don't know the power held in them--we can't all be Matilda Wormwood. Children who love books will cart them to and from the library in large stacks. They will have trouble on library day at school, because they can only check out two books at a time. They will sneak peeks into their parents' bookshelves and steal glances at books they're not mature enough to read. They will do all these things and find thrill in every moment without ever realizing that their love for books is actually a love of story, which is more than a hobby or pastime--it's the adventure of a lifetime.

This sort of adventurous love for story is a compulsion, a conviction, a belief. It is the belief that for every question the answer is a story. Every sorrow comforted, every wound healed, every mistake forgiven, and every joy affirmed by a story. Jesus himself used stories to express his love for people and carry out his mission. The Bible itself is a story of epic measurements. 

And so we have this belief as children without knowing it, until one day we do. We know it. We feel it. We believe it. 

During the year I decided I wanted to be a writer, I also realized how deeply I loved books. But even then it wasn't until later that I understood it was a love of story that really fueled my love for writing. And there was a difference in everything. My thinking change, my writing changed, my heart changed. The world looks different when you comprehend its story-ness.

Yesterday I was thankful for the stories of my childhood. Today I am thankful for the stories after childhood. I am thankful for the transformative power of a story, for the way they alter my way of thinking and the way I perceive the world. I am thankful for the depth added to books when we recognize a good story, and not just a plot or characters that are "interesting." I am thankful for the way stories engage us at every turn. I am thankful for the way stories allow us to connect with each other, regardless of the people we have been or the people we are or will be. I am thankful that stories follow us and shape us. I am thankful that stories can be uniters and changers and inspirers and convicters. I am thankful for the way faith in Jesus is so naturally shared by story. Most of all, I am thankful for who stories have made me--before I knew they were changing me, and after. 

Thanks, stories. You're incredible. 

Thirty Thanks, Day 7: The Story (Part 1)

Long ago there was a blackbird whose wife was stolen by an Indian ruler. Blackbird made put on his armor and made himself a drum and traveled toward the palace to get back his wife. On his way he met some ants, some cats, some sticks, and a river. They had all been wronged by this evil ruler too, and so they climbed inside Blackbird's ear. They made their way to the palace, overcame every obstacle put in their way, and rescued Blackbird's wife.

This is my favorite childhood story. It's adorable, but that's not why I'm thankful.

Last year I made a blog post that was thankful for simply all books, or at least my favorite books. But this year I want to express more about the foundation of that feeling. I did not reach adulthood and suddenly become a book-lover. No, my love for such things was built over many years. Today I want to say that I am thankful for children's stories. 

The story mentioned above is an old Indian folktale, called Rum Pum Pum. It's one of my favorite books from my childhood, but also one of my favorite books EVER. It's not because there are talking animals--I couldn't care less about talking animals. In fact, I'd rather do without them all together. And it's not because it's a "hipster" book that no one knows about, or a "folktale" and therefore more moralistic and meaningful that more popular children's books. I love it because of its phenomenal story that resonates with reality.

Our protagonist has suffered a great loss. Rather than give up hope, he finds his strength and starts a journey. There are many adventures to be had and friends to find along the way. He is victorious not by his own strength, but by the unity formed between them all.

In real life, we suffer great losses. We feel compelled, sometimes, to lose hope. But we don't. We hold on. We fight. There is a fight to win, a battle to begin. And there are others who have suffered their own losses, others who have their own tragedies and sorrows and they will fight with us! Many things in this life we must do alone, but a victory--vindication!--is something to be shared.

This is true of Rum Pum Pum, of Little House on the Prairie and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and The Little Engine that Could. There is a fight, there are friends, and a grand finale. This is also true of the stories my father told me when I was little. They were about Princess Goldenhair (ahem) and her brothers (ahem) and some evil goblins. These were stories about fighting for justice and friendship and being brave.

I am thankful for the stories of my childhood, for the lessons they allowed me to learn. I am thankful for the deep love for books they ingrained in my soul. I am thankful for the connections I was able to make within each story, how every character taught me something about real life. I am thankful for the good guys and the bad guys and the illustrations and even the talking animals. I am thankful for the way books can be friends themselves, and for the way they can heal and comfort and inspire.

Thanks, stories. You're incredible.

Thirty Thanks, Day 5: The End of the Day

As far as schedules go, mine is pretty weird. My husband and I both work nights. I get done at 8pm, he gets done at about 11:30. We're not usually tired when we get home, so this is usually when we relax together. We spend a little time together during the day but it's not usually as relaxed because we have to watch the clock and get ready for work.

It's clear, however, that we are both night owls. (Although I can be a morning person, if I want to.) When we get home he takes the dog out, and then we usually watch some television on-demand (because we're not home when shows air, duh). We make popcorn and I get into my comfiest sweatpants, and when we're bored of TV we play video games. Yes, we play them together--and they're not even multiplayer games! Right now we're playing through The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword. We take turns, but he usually beats all the bosses for me anyways.

Sometimes we read instead. We've been reading through the Harry Potter series again since June, but things sort of paused after my work schedule at school started up. We also started reading Wicked sometime last winter, but... I can't remember why we stopped, or where we are in the story. It's also very common these days for us to be reading separately, but next to each other. (Of course, Joey is only reading 2 books right now. I'm reading 5.)

One night, we even colored together. With crayons. Look, proof! (Yes, we found a legitimate Star Wars coloring book at the dollar store.)

I am so thankful for the end of the day. I'm thankful for the rest I find when work is over, and for the peace in being at home with my husband. I'm thankful for the comforts the end of the day provides. The chaotic thoughts of the day seem to drift away. The building is quiet, the dog is content to snuggle on my feet. I get to spend time with my favorite person, with some of my favorite things.

There was a time, it seems long ago, when getting ready for bed meant putting on my pajamas, wasting time in the dark (while my roommate went to sleep) and then sitting a cold hallway where I would talk to my fiance. Joey was 2000 miles away from me, and every night I would wait to go to sleep until he finished working. This meant it was 1am for him, 3am for me. I was thankful, then, for the time we spent together.But it doesn't beat what I've got now.

Thanks, end-of-the-day. You're incredible.