Still Moving Forward

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On August 26th, 2012, I made a post called Keep Moving Forward. In it, I talked about my hopes, fears, and expectations for my senior year of high school.

Well, as of 6:14 a.m., May 25th 2013, I am graduated from high school.

*fistpump*YES!*fistpump*

So, I wanted to make another post following up on the one I made at he beginning of the school year.

This year, I read a lot of amazing books, learned about a lot of depressing eras of history, wrote many papers, recited WAY too many poems, and took another art class at the local college.

I did not get accepted to NET, but I was asked to reapply. I got a 27 on my ACT, but I'm currently not planning to attend college anywhere. My current prospects are: I have a very amazing art teacher who is willing to help me pursue art education without necessarily going through a four year college program, I have a resume in at the local newspaper, and I am going to begin writing a play for a community theater this week.

Although its tiresome to have tons of people constantly telling me what THEY think I should do, I'm excited for my future. I'm excited for where my life will go from this point on. I worked hard in school for 12 long years, and now, finally, I'm graduated.

I'm not by any means done LEARNING. I never want to stop learning. This world is very big and complicated, and I have only seen a small portion of it. I'm only 18 years old; there could be a great deal ahead of me that I can only imagine.

Once again, I have a sense that I am in a good place. Even though waiting and uncertainty are hard, they are building up my character and my strength for what I will do next. I am confident that I can and will do incredible things that no one can anticipate.

And I'm still moving forward.

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Composition Pondering: Can Language Convey Reality & Hemingway vs. Joyce

Just some fast thoughts I typed out prompted by my Composition assignments of the past couple weeks. I was imitating Ernest Hemingway and James Joyce and was asked which I preferred, and also whether or not I feel language can successfully convey reality. Nothing formal, so this is what I came up with Enjoy!

Can language ever do reality justice? Is it better to be Hemingway, the clear, the concise, or Joyce, the flowery, the metaphorical? I think language shapes reality; what we do and say, think and feel, all work together to make up reality, and language is how we retell reality. Can language always convey reality, capture it, reproduce it? 
No, of course not. Most of the time language fails miserable to do what we ask of it. Most of the time language is nothing but words, words, words, and they fall into place all wrong so that when we mean to say something meaningful, it comes out being funny, or vice versa. 
If I say that today I went shopping at Wal-Mart and bought seven things for under $35, does that convey reality? Yes, but it doesn’t convey anything but some of the facts. 
Reality is multifaceted, and the thing that makes language so magical, yet so maddeningly limited, is that it is not as multifaceted as life is. It takes us more time to describe a flower than it did for us to see the flower, smell the flower, touch the flower, smile at the flower, pick the flower, and put the flower in a vase. 
Language is limited, but that is where human beings come in. We all choose what is most important to us and use the language we have to express that importance. 
One person might simply say ‘the flower was a lily’, and another might have no idea what kind of flower it is and slowly and accurately describe a lily, and so well that anyone who has seen a lily before thinks, “Oh, it’s a lily!” 
So, back to that one question: Whose style captures ‘reality’, better: Hemingway’s or Joyce’s? Personally, I think the best way to capture reality is to use a mixture of both the stark fact of Hemingway and the romantic depth and confusion of Joyce. One alone lacks something that we experience in reality; the multifaceted beauty and experience within life itself.

The Man Who Was Thursday, Final Paper Assignment

Hello everyone! I owe this blog a post. It is now Holy Week...we are days away from Easter! Yay!

Yesterday I finally finished my last assignment for G. K. Chesterton's short novel, The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare. It took me a really long time to figure out my paper topic, and now that it is complete, I'm very proud of it and wanted to share it with you. Enjoy!

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3/26/13

Literature Qtr 3 Week 7 Paper

G. K. Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare, is the story of seven anarchists who are not really anarchists. The driving force behind the action, terror, mystery and drama of the story is the giant, mysterious gentleman called Sunday. However, we never really know what or who Sunday is. We know he is the leader of the famed and feared Seven Days Council and gathers the heroic detectives who represent the days of the week, making them believe each of the others is a murderous anarchist. At the same time, Sunday is the wise and kind “man in the dark” who called each of the detectives into the police force. Because Sunday is the one thing we never have answers about but the thing we desire most to understand, I believe that Chesterton means what he says in subtitling the story A Nightmare, and that Sunday’s role lies in his possession of the truly nightmarish essence of the tale.

At the end of The Man Who Was Thursday, all seven men are gathered together and dressed in beautiful robes that represent the day of Creation they stand for. Sunday is the Sabbath, the day God rested. He tells the detectives that he is “the peace of God that surpasses all understanding.” When his back is turned, he seems terrifying, and evil. Face to face, he is still terrifying because of his massiveness, but there is something about his face that makes all of the detectives think of the good. Because Sunday seems to mirror the incomprehensible vastness of God, many people believed that his role in the story is that of a Deity. But Chesterton, in an article published in the Illustrated London News, explained that this was not the truth. “It was a very melodramatic sort of moonshine, but it had a kind of notion in it; and the point is that it described, first a band of the last champions of order fighting against what appeared to be a world of anarchy, and then the discovery that the mysterious master both of the anarchy and the order was the same sort of elemental elf who had appeared to be rather too like a pantomime ogre.  This line of logic, or lunacy, led many to infer that this equivocal being was meant for a serious description of the Deity; and my work even enjoyed a temporary respect among those who like the Deity to be so described. But this error was entirely due to the fact that they had read the book but had not read the title page. The book was called The Man Who Was Thursday:  A Nightmare.”

That is not to say that the story has no meaning, though Chesterton wrote it to have the discordance and confusion of a nightmare. Throughout The Man Who Was Thursday, the main characters are repeatedly faced with what at first seems to be true evil. But every time, they find there is just a clever trick or a simple misunderstanding that reveals that what they thought was evil is really good. Many people might believe that, by this, Chesterton means to say that evil does not exist; it is only a mask that good sometimes wears. But this is not the case. What Chesterton illustrates in this is that the power of evil means nothing. It would not matter if all but a few good men were left in the world; the greatest power of evil is weaker than the weakest power of good. This partially explains the role of Sunday; he’s supposed to scare us, confuse us, surprise us, and then leave us guessing. Although he could manipulate the detectives, we see that he had no power to harm them. Evil is real, and it can be corruptive and harmful, but evil has no power over us until we welcome it.

In conclusion, The Man Who Was Thursday only makes sense when we look at it as a nightmare. It is a fantastic and funny tale, with heroism and courage and wonderful characters. But Chesterton did not write it to be a funny mystery story. The story is not a good dream; it is a nightmare. Chesterton said of this perplexing masterpiece of his, “It was not intended to describe the real world as it was, or as I thought it was, even when my thoughts were considerably less settled than they are now. It was intended to describe the world of wild doubt and despair which the pessimists were generally describing at that date; with just a gleam of hope in some double meaning of the doubt, which even the pessimists felt in some fitful fashion.” Sunday is, therefore, the embodiment of this ‘wild doubt and despair’ with ‘just a gleam of hope’, the vehicle for Chesterton’s intentions in writing such an imaginative story.

My wonderful weekend

This past weekend I interviewed with NET Ministries, because I feel that God is calling me to serve His Kingdom by ministering to youth who are in need of His love.

This weekend was absolutely fantastic. There were moments of great pain where the Devil tried to steal my peace in God's plan for me, but my Blessed Mother came to my rescue and her prayers helped me to trust again. I had so much fun, I grew closer to Christ, and I made some unbelievably awesome friends who I hope to keep for years, no matter who gets accepted this year.

One of my new friends, a magnificent young lady named Melina, I have actually been able to keep in touch with right away via e-mail, and I learned that she is a singer-songwriter slowly trying to work her way into the Christian music industry. Her videos are fantastic, and I wanted to share with all of you the one video that is my favorite so far. Please watch her videos and like them if you have a Youtube account (I do not)! She's trying to get 500 views this year, and she has a really beautiful voice :)

Melina is such a beautiful witness to God's unfailing love. I am honored to call her my friend. We're really different; she's confident and accomplished, I'm kind of goofy and procrastinating. But we share a common desire for Christ and His will above anything else. No one can take our Lord from us, no matter how we suffer or struggle in this life.

Please keep Melina, myself, and about 55 other young men and women who applied for NET this past weekend. We all desire to serve God in this way, and it is a journey that will take faith and strength, accepted or not.

In other news, my younger sister got back from Rome the Friday I was gone at my NET interview, and she bought me a gorgeous scarf and a big pile of Italian candy (I LOVE YOU MEG!!). I am starting my second semester of senior year. And that's about it!

God bless, and take care!

History Qtr 2 Week 5 Paper

FANFARE OF TRUMPETS, PLEASE!

Alright. I don't usually post a lot of my school papers on here, and ESPECIALLY not the history papers. But I have been working on this sucker for over a week. I could absolutely not come up with a single thing to say about my topic. I even wrote the NEXT assigned paper before this one. As such, I am extremely proud of it now that it is finished, and I just thought I'd share it with you.

          The French played a pivotal role in helping the American Colonies win their independence from the British government in 1783. A few short years later, the French decided they wanted their freedom, too. This is not at all surprising that the passion for liberty spread to Europe, especially in France, where the social system had been corrupt and unjust for years. The First and Second Estates had all the wealth and power while the Third Estate struggled and starved. The Declaration of the Rights of Man was the official response of the people of France to oppression and tyranny, and it was approved by the National Assembly of France in 1789.
            Unlike the Declaration of Independence, which sought to reach a diplomatic decision and held war as a last resort, The Declaration of the Rights of Man was a document written to declare the people’s desire for freedom and equality, even if it meant overthrowing the government. It consists of 17 articles that make definitive statements about the rights all men ought to have an equal share in. In America, the biggest issue that led the people to war was the fact that they were not being given a voice overseas in England, where all their laws and liberties were being controlled. In France, the issue was not that none of the people had any say, but that some of the people had all the say. There was major class discrimination, and the lowest class did all the work and bore all the suffering. The 1^st Article of the Declaration states, “Men are born and remain free and equal in rights. Social distinctions may be founded only upon the general good.”

            Because of the system of Estates (First Estate, Second Estate, and Third Estate), France was a top-heavy structure. The lowest estate had nothing, and the two higher estates had it all, which made it easy for corruption to spread throughout the nobility, and also the Church. Because of this corruption throughout all of France, even in the Church, the place that should have been an example of morality, very many rights were being denied to the poor and underprivileged. What kind of rights were the people asking for? Unfortunately, the rights within the 17 articles should never have been denied to them in the first place. Equality, religious freedom, and right to property are all included in The Declaration of the Rights of Man. The 13^th Article reiterates the unfairness of this class system: “A common contribution is essential for the maintenance of the public forces and for the cost of administration. This should be equitably distributed among all the citizens in proportion to their means.” It is interesting that the same people who stormed the Bastille prison in violence and chaos just a month before proceeded to call out in their declaration for nothing more fervently than balance and order.  

            In conclusion, the Third Estate of France was a veritable time bomb, and The Declaration of the Rights of Man was the fuse. It gave to the greedy and corrupt First and Second Estates fair warning of the people’s desperation to be free and treated with equality.  The Declaration can be summarized by the very true statement found within its 16^th Article: “A society in which the observance of the law is not assured, nor the separation of powers defined, has no constitution at all.” Unfortunately, the nobility and religious leaders refused to listen to the reasonable voices of the Third Estate, and so they answered to outright violence. 

Jaberwocky

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This week, I have to memorize Lewis Carroll's Jaberwocky. 

This poem is awesome, but I do NOT want to have to memorize/recite it. It's essentially nonsense. 90% of the words are made up. I really enjoy reading it aloud with a lot of passion when I'm by myself in my room, but that's very different from standing in front of my eager family and reciting it. From memory. 

So, that's what I'm up to in the realm of schoolwork. I have another poem to recite that I ignored last week, and I haven't memorized that one, either. 

Procrastination will be my undoing. 

Oh...please remember to keep tomorrow's election in your prayers!  

ACT prep

I finally got logged in to start practicing for the ACT online, and the first thing I looked at was the basic overview of what the MATH portion of the ACT looks like.

Unfortunately, all it made me do was cry.

I am horrible at algebra, because I can never remember what the first step to solving a problem is, and I can never correctly rewrite a problem. I didn't get it the three years I took it in high school, and if anything, its gotten worse now. I just have no clue.

I never took geometry, trigonometry  or even advanced algebra. I did intermediate algebra for two years, and I still didn't get all the way through the book.

So, I'm kind of depressed, not because I was planning on becoming a Biologist and all my hopes and dreams have been crushed or anything. No. It's because I want to do my best, but I feel like even my best will result in a total mathematical flop.

That's just kind of hard, you know? I didn't try hard enough when I had to do algebra, I barely met the requirements to graduate, and now it's going to bite me in the butt when I'm actually confronted by algebra in real life. I have never even fully memorized the multiplication tables. I didn't care, so I didn't try.

I know what I'll have to do; make my best guess on all the problems. Who knows? Maybe I'll get a few of them right. That might be good enough, but I hate being mediocre. I wanted to do better than good enough...I want to be able to sit down and understand how to do an algebra problem from start to finish, and I can't.

I'm just really angry with myself, because I could have done so much better, and I didn't.

A Tale of Two Cities

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..."

I finished reading A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens yesterday afternoon. I had to read it for my Senior Year Literature class. I was convinced I was not going to like it at all, because I read Oliver Twist in like, 8th grade, and was, quite frankly, not ready to appreciate great literature. I also 'sort of'' read A Christmas Carol, but I mostly skimmed it because of my intense dislike of Oliver Twist.

So, yep, I finished the book....

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I'm not even kidding. 

This was my favorite (and also the most heart-wrenching) part:

The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.

"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven."

"Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object."

"I mind nothing while I hold your band. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid."

"They will be rapid. Fear not!"

......

"You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?"

"Yes."

She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him- is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.

"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die."

The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three. (The Footsteps Die Out, A Tale of Two Cities) source

Sydney Carton is sitting in the prison, waiting to be executed so the woman he loves won't lose her husband. He starts talking to the seamstress. They ride to the place of execution with 53 other innocent people. They're standing at the scaffolding, waiting to die. They are just standing there, talking to each other like nothing in the world is wrong. And than he kisses her goodbye, and in less than ten seconds, they're both dead.

I completely lost it. I finished the book and wandered around my room (which is quite small) for almost ten minutes, just sobbing. It positively rendered my heart in two. 

That book was seriously the most fantastic piece of literature on the face of the planet. I couldn't even write my paper on it yesterday...I felt like my heart had been dragged across a mile of gravel. It was so incredible, and I felt like I was there for pretty much the entire book. I couldn't keep from imagining how I would feel if I was in Sydney Carton's place...but especially the seamstress's place. I would be so terrified. And there's nothing I like better than a book that makes me feel and see and hear exactly what is going on. 

What's interesting is this book almost killed my best friend, because he hated it. Well, it almost killed me, too, but definitely NOT because I didn't enjoy it. 

I usual don't like things that are 'popular' in literature, but I completely understand why this novel is as famous and highly revered as it is.  I feel horrible for every time I said "Dickens is boring" before now. I can't say I enjoyed Oliver Twist at all, or that I put any effort into reading A Christmas Carol, but this book? It is flawless.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; 

it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

History Paper on the Economic Theories of Adam Smith

History Qtr 1 Week 6 Paper

            Adam Smith was a Scottish philosopher who, like many philosophers before him, noticed how philosophical concepts worked with the study of economics. He defined new theories to promote a healthier, more stable market environment, including the theories of division of labor, the role of money, natural price, market price, labor as every man’s property, and the invisible hand. These theories are still mandatory reading for students of economics today.

            First, Adam Smith came up with the theory of division of labor when he observed that when one person was assigned to manufacture a pin entirely by himself, it took him a great deal of time and effort. But when ten people were each given the job of completing a single step in the manufacturing process of a pin, they could all work very quickly and complete very many pins in a single day. By dividing up the labor to produce goods, people could work more harmoniously and efficiently.

            Second, Smith regarded labor very highly, and considered money to merely be a physical representation of the labor of a particular person. Since each kind of labor was worth a different amount according to difficulty and importance, it would be difficult to actually trade labor for labor. For instance, if a man plowed a field for a baker, it would take a lot of loaves of bread for the baker to match the worth of the plowman’s labor. Smith’s theory on the role of money was that it stood in as a dividable, physical representation of each person’s labor. Thus, every market transaction is really an exchange of labor between sellers and buyers.

            Third, Smith developed a theory about the natural price of everything, based on the average income of members in a community, and average wage for rent and goods. The natural price is in essence the ‘perfect price’; the price at which the buyers would purchase as much of the product as could possibly be supplied. When something is being sold at its natural price, the market is in perfect balance; there is no surplus and no shortage, and the demand and supply are even with each other. Hand in hand with Smith’s theory of the natural price is the theory of the actual price or market price. The market price is often above or below the natural price, because it constantly adjusts to the market conditions. If there is a great demand for pins but very few pins in supply, the price of pins rises above the natural price. If there is very little demand for pins, there becomes a surplus of pins, and the price drops below the natural price.

            Fourth, continuing with his great appreciation for labor, Smith invented the theory that every man’s labor is his property. When a man labors to produce a vegetable garden, that labor, and everything that labor brings about, belongs entirely to him. He is not required to share it with anyone. However, since a vegetable garden might produce more than one man and his family could ever eat, and people need more than just vegetables to live, the man can exchange his property (the fruit of his labor) with someone else’s labor to satisfy both of them.

            And finally, Adam Smith believed in a governing force over markets that he called an ‘invisible hand’. While Smith was alive from 1723 till 1790, the prevalent economic system in Europe was that of mercantilism, which meant the government had full control over the economy, and restricted import while pushing export.  Smith saw that free markets naturally settled into the best, most productive prices, imports, and exports. He called this process the Invisible Hand; man’s natural tendency in a market is to freely and fairly exchange labor, and when men are allowed to interact freely in a market, supply and demand even out and there is far more harmony than the discordant and ineffective system of mercantilism.

She Walks in Beauty (Lord Byron) Rewritten

Enjoy!


Original:

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Mine (for school): 

He walks in memories, like a scrapbook
Of nostalgic thoughts and days gone by;
And all life gave him and all life took
Replay and relive behind his eyes:
Thus mellowed by old pages in his life’s book
Which he cannot forget even if he tries.

One moment the more, one day the less
Had half impaired the memories in his mind
From coming forth to his consciousness,
That soft awareness we all must find;
Where thoughts kindly quiet express
How poignant, how pure the feelings memories bind.

And on his tongue, and o’er his head,
So bright, so vivid, yet far away,
The thoughts that sweeten, that hunger fed,
But tell only of days of joy and play,
A mind in love with times now dead,
A pure thought as fleeting as the day!

Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, Rewritten

This was my assignment for composition this week. Enjoy.

Shall I compare thee to a foggy day?

Thou art more gloomy and more opaque:

Poor vision do blur the pleasant sites of May

And safety’s lease hath all too short a date:

Sometimes too low the clouds of sky resides,

And often is our own complexion dimm’d;

And every car into car sometimes collides,

By chance of drivers changing course unplanned;

But the fog not eternal shall fade,

Not keep possession of our sight from east to west;

Hopefully Death shall not brag in fog’s dense shade,

When the road’s lines are hazy like a ghost:

So long as the fog leaves, our eyes can see,

And on lives he out driving in the country.

Keep Moving Forward

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Tomorrow, I start my senior year of high school. Every time the summer ends I feel this distinct loss of something really good and beautiful, and this year is even worse. Several good friends of mine are starting college. I hardly ever saw them, but now I won't see them at all. 

But c'est la vie. 

I remember reading  a poem in third or fourth grade about how everything comes to an end. Everything changes. "This, too, shall pass." 

Our lives are constantly changing, sometimes for the worse, sometimes for the better. This year, like every year, I got excited collecting the mundane little school supplies even we homeschoolers need to get things done; floral mechanical pencils, a monkey-shaped blue eraser, a purple Ticonderoga eraser, a new pink pencil sharpener, paper, fruit-scented highlighters, and sticky notes with owls on them. 

But my life is changing. I'm getting older, and I might finally be moving on from being a little girl. I'm getting smarter. I'm learning more and more who I am and how God made me. No matter what stays the same, I have undeniably changed this summer. And things will begin changing even more as I go through my senior year. I'm applying for mission work in the fall, and taking the ACT to open up my options for college. 

I know I'm in a good place right now. I'm ready. As ready as I'll ever be. School is hard work, and sometimes it's A LOT of work. For instance; first day of school? Well to ease me right in, I get to read, memorize, and recite Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven. Wow. And I'm still working part time, so I have 10 hours of work along with five days of school my first week alone. 

This is an incredible adventure. My whole life has been an adventure. The more you move forward, the more adventures you can have. The more you can see. The more people you can meet. The more you can learn. The more you can grow. 

Changing, always changing. I know I'm probably going to face a lot of failure, uncertainty, and loneliness this year. But I plan to keep moving forward, to become the best version of the woman I was made to be, to follow God's will, and do my part to make this world better. 

Bring it on, Senior Year.

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Composition Qtr 3 Week 5 Composition, Fictional Character

Image link and story excerpt

In 2006, Kate DiCamillo wrote a book called The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. A friend had given her as a gift a lovely china rabbit, and one night, Kate dreamed that the rabbit was lying face down on the bottom of the ocean. She wrote his story to find out how he got there.

            The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo is a very moving, beautiful story about a china rabbit named Edward. Edward Tulane was a very fine, beautiful rabbit who lived on Egypt Street. He had been specially ordered for a little girl named Abilene by her grandmother. He was white, with beautiful blue painted eyes, and was made entirely out of china, except for his whiskers and real rabbit-fur ears. He was pampered beyond luxury by his adoring mistress, but he did not love her. Abilene loved Edward more than anything else in the world, but Edward loved only himself. Pellegrina, Abilene’s grandmother, was gravely disappointed in Edward, because his purpose had been to love Abilene and care for her. She warned Edward what could happen to those who refused to love, but he didn’t listen. And one day, Edward was lost. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane is the story of how he was found again, and how he learned to love.

            Edward is the kind of character with a well-guarded heart. He is so frozen in selfishness, because his heart is just as breakable as the rest of him, that he is incapable of any feelings. The first feeling he experiences in his story is fear, and he slowly allows his hard china heart feel gratitude, and joy, and at long last, love. Slowly, very slowly, Edward comes to life. His journey from being aloof and self-centered to loving and grateful is a truly miraculous one filled with achingly beautiful characters who all teach Edward something about being willing to risk a fragile heart to loving, losing, and loving again anyway.

            As I went along with Edward on his miraculous journey, meeting fishermen and hobos and children, I saw a lot of myself in him. I recognized his unwillingness to love, because loving is hard, and it can hurt us very badly. I recognized his selfishness, and I understood his desire to be detached from the world, where he and his fragile little heart would be safe. But Edward was able to love, even after his heart was broken. The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane is a very simple, very short tale, but to this day, it has greatly impacted me. It made me see myself differently, because it forced me to think of how I have often been blinded to beauty, and it made me see stories differently, because at some points, you forget it is a story and feel you are right there with Edward. I will always remember how it felt to go from being angry with Edward, to feeling sorry for him, and finally rejoicing with him when he is found. Edward found his way into my heart, and I think he will always have a place there. 

Composition Qtr 3 Week 2 Essay, Creating the Right Mood

Image found on DeviantArt
The Forest

            My brother Seth and I have been in the forest.

            We’d only meant to go in after his notebook pages. It had been windy all day, and as we walked up our long gravel driveway, he was showing me what he’d been working on. A strange but beautiful glow was settling over us, and I noticed that it was pale orange shafts of sunlight sneaking in between the trees of the forest we were never allowed to go in. I was about to ask if he noticed it, too, when a particularly strong gust caught two loose pages from the notebook he held open and carried them off. They whisked right into the trees as if sucked by some great, powerful vacuum. He couldn’t tell which pages were gone, and was anxious that they could have been very important.

            He hurried after the pages, but I hesitated. Our father had told us never to go into the forest. It was a strange place; I sometimes saw figures coming and going that never looked quite human or quite animal when I looked out my window at night, and Seth said he once heard voices and animal calls he’d never heard before.

            “Seth!” I called. “Wait! Are you sure this is a good idea?”

            “Come on, wimp!” he called back. “If you don’t want to help look, go back to the house like a scared little girl!”

            That’s how I knew Seth really wanted me to come. He would never make fun of me like that. He was scared, too. There was something unnatural, and deliberate about this. It was clear by the way the light slipping through the trees was going from orange to deep red. So I swallowed hard and hurried after him, dropping my backpack on the grass so I wouldn’t have to carry it while we searched. I heard Canadian geese honking overhead, and looking over my shoulder to see them flying in an untidy V. The wind was cold against my cheeks, and I pulled my unzipped jacket tighter over my chest. The zipper was broken, and I hadn’t asked my mom to fix it yet.

            I looked in front of me again, and drew up alongside Seth, who had slowed to a walk and was gazing uncertainly into the trees.

            “Is it worth it?” I panted. A chill had come over the air…a warm chill. It made no sense, but that red, umber glow of filtered sunshine was as chilling as it was illuminating. But the chill was not frightening; it was painful, pure, and wondrous.

            Its very lack of terror was what scared us.

            He bit his lower lip, and then nodded firmly. His eyes were grim. “It must have been important. I must have been close.”

            He spoke as if someone were out to get his life’s work…those abstract sketches of plants and animals. I had always been proud of how observant Seth was, but now I had the same eerie feeling he did about those sketches in his tattered blue notebook. Something was not right.

            Seth took my hand, which he never does. His palms were sweaty. He scanned the forest, trying to glimpse his papers before we actually entered the forest, but my eyes stayed on him. I sensed something significant in the way the warm red light washed over his pale face. I saw faint shimmers, like heat waves, all around us. I swear I heard the faint music of a single tin flute carry to us from somewhere in the forest. Seth’s snapping eyes made me think he heard it, too.

            “There!” he suddenly cried. I looked where he pointed, and saw a flash of white lined paper with neat blue print covering every inch, not far into the trees. He gripped my hand tighter, and we plunged together into the forest.

            The sounds of honking geese ceased. The wind dropped away from the air as though it had suddenly become as heavy as a stone. We froze, and watched as those two pieces of notebook paper whirled without a breeze along with the fallen leaves, broken twigs, and mulch that lay upon the forest floor.

            A noise like small, consistent notes on a xylophone could be heard in the air, and I saw what looked like silver snow sprinkling slower than gravity down from the treetops.

            “Can you move?” Seth asked. His faint whispered pressed against the perfect, sweet silence like an unwanted visitor.

            I nodded. The amber glow embraced us like old friends, and this time, it felt warm.

            This place was nothing like we’d thought, but everything we assumed.

            Magical. 

The Bloomington Tales

I had to read The Canterbury Tales for school today. And write a prologue in 'the style' of said Canterbury Tales. Here's what was produced:

The Bloomington Tales

Prologue

Now once a group strange and diverse

Decided, and set out, to traverse

The country from the West to Midwest and back again,

to reach the town of Bloomington

where lies the great American Mall;

there were five in our group in all.

Our purpose was to fill the Christmas lard

(and not wear out our credit cards).

There first was a frail and timid Librarian

named Mortimer Slothbar, a born Hungarian.

He lived for watching birds and books

and seemed a bird in all his looks;

his eyes were beady black and bright,

his face was narrow and quite white.

his legs were skinny, long and narrow,

and his coloring was just like that of a sparrow.

He was a master of many tongues;

Swahili, Dutch, and Chinese to name only some.

Next there was a Suburban Housewife,

who’d dreamed of this venture for most of her life,

especially the joy it could bring to her kids

(though the size of her budget was giving her fits).

She was tall, blonde, alert, and quite organized;

she kept to the map and she kept us in line.

She drove from the backseat until we

Just gave her the wheel; she made great time and fast speed.

Also along on our excursion from the west,

was a Doctor specializing in care of the heart in the chest.

He had a loud, booming voice and urged us all

to eat healthy and lose weight to prevent cholesterol.

He went on about how in the Mall all our walking

would do our hearts good and keep them tick-tocking.

Also along was his daughter, a Student from New York State

named Molly McMuffin, and her grades weren’t great.

The only thing I could tell she had learned

was that she could spend family money that she hadn’t earned.

Finally, Myself, and I’m not exciting;

I was only there because of their pushy inviting.

I had little interest in that enormous, grand mall,

and I was bored out of my gourd after not long at all.

Finally, I shouted, ‘Let us do something fun!

Who can come up with the best tale, before the trip’s done?

If you refuse then you pay for all our expenses!

Come on! Before I go out of my senses!

The winner will get a great meal from us all!

Come on! It’s still so far to the Mall!’

Surprisingly, each one agreed without fuss,

and we did ‘nose-goes’ to see who’d go first out of us.

The doctor’s nose was the last one to go,

and so he’d start it all off as we drove down the road…

Would you believe I got an A+? I even failed to capitalize one of my I's (I fixed it here, but...oops...).

Please note: This is not based on an actual event, but I have been to the Mall of America, and I do pretty much feel that way about it. 

I honestly cannot say if the rest of this will ever be written. 

Composition Essay, Perfect Place to Study

Composition Qtr 1 Week 4 Essay, Perfect Place to Study

            Off into the hidey hole I go.

Somewhere there’s a quiet place. It’s quiet, but not so quiet you feel you’ve been completely swallowed up by your schoolbook and you are now the only human being left in the universe. There is plenty of light to shine through the big window, and outside you can see a weeping willow and a tire swing. Sometimes hummingbirds and butterflies fly past, and when it gets cold, you can watch the cardinals at the feeder while resting your mind and your eyes.

            The walls are a warm, pleasing cream, but not white. White walls make you feel like you’re in a hospital; studying in a white room makes you feel like you’re in a hospital for your brain. But the walls still must be neutral, so you can imagine taking a big, fat Sharpie to them one of these days and pouring everything down on them. Everywhere there is pleasing color, and a beautiful, unique painting or two. Sometimes you need a little bit of distraction; otherwise you’ll lose your mind.

            The floors have soft, thick, deep indigo carpet so you can lay out on it and not get all cramped up as you prop yourself up on your elbows and read ancient Grecian literature. Pillows are strewn about in organized chaos. Little ones. Big ones. Sometimes to effectively learn, you need to build a nest to nestle down in. No bird can hatch her eggs without a nest. No girl can hatch any knowledge without one, either. There is a humongous, very comfortable brown saucer chair, but it mustn’t recline too far; falling asleep while studying is no good. There is a beautiful fireplace and warm blankets and cozy socks because sometimes merely opening up Shakespeare sends a chill up your spine.

            I suppose there must also be a desk, but the rolling chair offers good support, and there is an ottoman to put your feet up on, but it isn’t so high as to drain all the circulation out of your feet and end up hobbling around feeling like little needles are dancing the mambo from your heels to toes. Everything you need is there; paper, pencils, pens, erasers, a computer and printer (complete with access to Google when you get absolutely stuck), and a brilliant and sympathetic scientific calculator named Herv. Herv understands your pain, but disagrees that all algebra books should be burned. He motivates you and is mean when he needs to be. Every procrastinator needs a Herv.

            Finally, up on the wall, right where you’ll always see it, somehow even when your back is turned, is all your inspiration. A crucifix hangs there on the wall, simple yet complex in its beauty and power. It’s easy to forget, but impossible to ignore. When I’m ready to fling myself down and cry simply because I can’t understand, or I’m weary, or I would rather do anything but be educated, I can look up at the cross and find strength. I love you, he silently says. His eyes meet mine, though his head is bowed. He loves me. I must carry on.

            Than out of the hidey hole I must come.

How will we ever learn, if we don’t stop learning for a little while?

Impromptu

On Friday, I had my first Oral assignment for English.

I had to give an impromtu speech, meaning I had 5 minutes of prep before actually giving the speech.

To put it mildly, I bombed it.

Ok, ok....I didn't do that bad. I was passionate about my topic (more on that later), I was fairly confident I could do it, and I didn't stand in front of my mom for an hour going "I don't wanna do this!" which is something done very frequently in the past.

But I had no idea how to end it.

So I stood there for a full minute, floundering about like a dying fish, trying to semi-gracefully bring my thoughts full circle so I could just go cry in a corner already.

My mother was kind...she said for my first oral all year (and considering every other year I've completely copped out of it by doing some form of public speaking to appease Mom), it was pretty good.

I still wanted to melt into a puddle of shame and drip through the floor-boards and escape.

No such luck. The floors are carpeted.

But I lived.

Than, surprise, surprise! The next day, the lady who is in charge of our fundraising for the trip to Rome my youth group is making shows up at my house, informing me that tomorrow, I need to speak in church with another girl about our raffle ticket sales to help support the trip.

*heavy sigh*

I was distinctly reminded of the words 'impromptu speech'.

But I kicked myself in the butt and called Kelsey, my partner in this endeaver. It turned out she had even less notice of it than I did, which made me feel only slightly better.

The next day, just an hour before we had to speak, I showed her the outline for what we needed to say, and we decided who would do what. Because I had already seen it the night before, we agreed I should do all the parts that involved adlibbing, and she would just read off the sheet, which seemed more than fair.

Finally, the moment arrived.

I missed my que to get up there with time to spare, so there was this awkward moment of me walking rapidly up the aisle, my little white heels clicking on the tile floor.

I was praying, trust me.

It went fine. I was shaking for about fifteen minutes afterwards, even though I wasn't actually that nervous, but I guess my body figures public speaking is the equivalent of a near-death experience.

Oy.

Life is annoyingly impromtu.

On my mind...

Today I did history and algebra, which means today was kind of lousy, which means this post will have nothing to do with education (nothing direct or purposeful, anyway), and it will be about something that I would RATHER have been doing when I was sitting there growing more and more irritated with Julian and Valens, or almost broke down crying because of my incompetence at division.

I was thinking about a book idea I kind of dismissed a little while ago, but came back at me with roaring vengeance while I was trying to concentrate on schoolwork (which is when all great inspiration likes to hit).

It involves....

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A Lion (an awesome one...Narnia/Aslan type lion.)

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A small, impetuous Frog (if frogs CAN be impetuous)

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Certainly a Rose Petal or two...

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Maybe Watermelons, but only because they're so darn good (I could probably eat a whole one...)

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But most of all, it's about a Girl, who goes into the Forest she's most afraid of to rescue the person she loves the most.

I shall begin work on this idea as soon as possible, because its a) based on a very little-known Grimm Fairy Tale (which I won't bother to tell you because you CAN'T actually find it online anyway because it's an omitted tale, and it gives me this sick sense of satisfaction), b) totally original, and c) well...just darn awesome!

Working Titles range everywhere from just using the name of the original tale to Tabitha (which I considered for the girls name) or something that involves the name of the missing person, her older brother (working name for him was Toby, but all that is subject to change).

So. That's what I'm thinking about to ignore school.

You?