New Blog

College girl now. I'm graduating to a new blog:

http://shardsofsatin.weebly.com/

:) See ya around.

The Gale

The great gale shook me to my very core. The wild, rushing soul of the wind assailed the surface of the ground with sheer violence, sweeping me flat as if I had been a mere reed. Beyond my fear came an overwhelming sadness as I watched the world I had always known be swept clean and barren. The beauty before me lay raw, the face of the earth scarred and shrieking. The lush grass, upon which my own feet had trod so many moonlit nights, swirled precariously past me as the wind rendered it limpid. With halting determination, I found my footing and lifted my chin towards the sky, the longing to glimpse even a spot of brightness overcoming any other feeling. As I did so, the face of blackness blotted out each last light, and my dalliance with the stars was at an end. Madness gripping me, I swallowed a scream and closed my eyes, feeling the wrath of God pour out around me. Trembling, I waited for death.

August 29th 2014

In A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792) Mary Wollstonecraft states her belief that women of the era allowed themselves to be weakened by innocence, judging naivety and incapability to be synonymous traits. She adds that society, having corrupted young girls with stereotypes and lectures, prepared women to be mindless servants of men for the entirety of their adult lives. 

  I believe it to be true that an innocent woman will face more difficulty in endeavors of profession, education, and life in general. The world is not a place where naivety thrives. Those who are innocent are seen as unprepared, weak and helpless, as Mary Wollstonecraft viewed them, and are nearly always prodded and ridiculed for their perceived softness. Particularly in the media, innocence is portrayed as ludicrous, sad, and pathetically amusing.

    However, I look at women around me today, and I wonder what Mary Wollstonecraft would think upon observing them. With the loss of that “weakness,” that innocence, came also the rampant decay of modern morality. The young women today have been raised in a society that puts tremendous emphasis on the rights owed to women and on the stupidity and animalistic qualities of men. In addition to the movement to hold power over men, women have taken extremist views with the way they treat one another. The majority of women today are often brash, unkind and crude, resorting to share in the qualities of men that they most claim to despise. 

   I strongly agree with Mary Wollstonecraft’s statement that a woman should be respected for her intellect, but I believe that a greater attribute even than her mind is a woman’s character. And it is in this that I think women have done themselves more harm than good over the past few generations. 

   I do not wish to be a woman who is incapable of standing up for herself, but simply to reserve the right not to do so, if that is my desire. My belief in equality is grounded upon my belief in the freedom to choose and to face the consequences of those choices when they come. I accept my responsibility as a  citizen of the world and call upon others to do so as well. If it is my choice to serve others, be they men or women, I do not view that choice as weakness, but rather strength. A women who possesses the ability to put aside herself and give to others, is not timid, weak or put-upon. She is courageous.  

-L

Shards of Satin

  The sand crinkled beneath my feet: shards of satin on a white plain. The softness and the lilt filled my heart with the scent of freedom, and my feet began to dance. Soon I was running---laughing, charging for the water as if it was my last moment on the curve of the earth. The wind and the water rippled brilliantly, and for a moment I was blinded by the flash of the sun as it hit the first wave. Then everything was magic. 

   The warmth and the splash and the gentle crash sent me reeling. After that, the only thing left was peace. I watched the water as it journeyed out to meet the horizon, stretching endlessly into eternity. Looking at the world, I saw that it was good. 

HOPE

"What am I missing?" she murmured. The thrumming of the rain on the window sent an array of shivers through her arms. The world felt cold and hot all at once with the singular intensity that only a summer rain can produce, and this one in particular, for it was a dark day and full of thunder. Outside, steam rose from the bricks. I hunkered down, unsure whether to break the silence. I knew what she needed, but I feared the sound of my voice in the stillness. The heat and the rain and the far off crack of the storm chilled me. 
"What is it?" she asked. 
I hesitated. 

"Hope." I said. " What you're missing is hope."

Oww

This isn't okay.

Why are people so unkind? I hate watching them hurt someone I love. I hate feeling that helpless feeling. This writing is hideous, but at least it's writing. I'm so angry. I'm so tired. I'm so sick and so overwhelmed. I just want to curl up in my mommy's arms and tell her everything's going to be okay and that she's wonderful and beautiful and shouldn't care about what other people do. They should love her. She's strong and kind and funny and intelligent and she deserves every good thing in the world.

It Will Be

I've been waiting a long time for tomorrow. 

  I haven't exactly been stuck in a tower, but after eighteen years in the same house, I can relate to Rapunzel more than a little. I've grown up here. I've danced and played and painted and laughed. My memories are peppered with sweetness and love. In many ways, I don't want to leave. My tower is safe and soft and comfortable: everything a good home should be. But my dream is calling me, and has been for many years. Almost as long as I can remember, Florida has been my dream. And I have to wonder. Now, after all these years, I'm finally going. Tomorrow. My floating lights are about to rise in the sky. And I do wonder: 

   What if it's not everything I dreamed it would be? 

   I have Flynns everywhere telling me that it will be. I'm so thankful for them, and I'm praying that they're right. The fact remains that I simply won't know until I go. Tomorrow is the moment I'll have to live over forever, leaping out the window into the clear summer's day. That's when my life will begin. 

   I'm sure I'll go back and forth between jubilation and regret, in true Rapunzel fashion. But no matter what, I have several things that Rapunzel didn't (her being a fairytale character and all): a family, a God, and a future. 

   Fortunately I'm not the victim of a magical kidnapping, and my parents are loving and supportive. They're my best Flynns. 

And I'm blessed to know that God loves me too. His love reminds me to have faith and jump, for He'll catch me. Always, I have assurance in Jesus. 

   Finally, Rapunzel got happily every after, an end to her story. I won't live happily ever after (thank goodness. How boring would that be?!) but I will live interestingly ever after. I'll have ups and downs, trials and journeys, joys and sorrows. I will continue. 

Life will go on. I'll wait, listen, and dream to go wherever God directs. 

My new dream is to live with joy.

My new dream is to fear less. 

My new dream is to grow in faith. 

My new dream is to  

L I V E     E A C H    D A Y    W I T H   L O V E,    T R U S T I N G    G O D.

Then, someday I will stand and say You were my new dream. And always will be. 

For now, I hope to thrive in this moment, however long it lasts. I've been showered with blessings, swirling all around me. I cannot wait to see what varieties of lights God brings into my life over the course of the next four years, and I am anxious to find and follow the path He has for me. 

"But the LORD stood with me and strengthened me." 2 Timothy 4:17 

And so, goodnight. Tomorrow is finally here. 

Part 1: Waiting without Listening

She stopped, the world whizzing by. The rooftop was silent and set apart from the city noise below. Lights gleamed in every direction, stretching out to the water. It felt distant enough. It felt perfect.

  "I'm here," she spoke softly. The words slipped out, tainted with a hint of fear. No answer came floating back out of the warm night air, as expected. There was nothingness. "I'm here," she said again, still waiting. "I'm ready." Still nothing. She walked towards the middle of the roof and stretched up on tip-toes, face lifted to the sky.

  The sudden screech of a horn from the street startled her. Heart racing, and anger rising, she cleared her throat and spoke a third time.

  "Here I am," she said, altering the phrase. The silence faded and every city noise seemed present again. Honking, music, the blurred rumble of a thousand voices. The purity of the atmosphere was lost as fast as breaking glass. She sighed.

  "Why do you never seem to be here?"

The Map

   "What are you doing?"

   The question came from above, in every sense of the phrase. She was standing on the bridge, looking down and wondering. I was standing in the water, looking down and wondering. I didn't turn my head.

   "Hey, mister!"

   The water slithered around my legs slowly, steadily. Its rhythmic pace numbed me like the cold. Water crept up my legs and through my fingers, deep into my last crevice. I watched the dancing surface as it darkened.

   "Are you okay?" The voice thrummed vibrantly, the color red in a world of grey.

   "Go away," I said.

   "I am away," she said. I turned, finally, the absurdity of the answer diverting me. My eyes quivered and adjusted to the glare of a white sky.

   "What?"

   "I said, 'I am away.' Where are you?" She was a pretty girl, with eyes and lips as vivacious as her voice. She was smiling cheerfully.

   "Lost," I replied. The word leapt into my throat before I could stop it. It was so true, the trueness struck me dumb. I was effortlessly, hopelessly, maddeningly lost. The future and the past were indistinguishable, the present unbearable.

  "Where are you trying to go?" She asked me then, those twitching lips growing solemn.

  "I don't know," I answered, despondent. Her eyes crinkled again.

  "Good. I've a map that leads just there."

A lovely letter from me

To: The very jaunty band of Merry Companions lurking outside my bedroom window

Dear sirs:

Good evening! I'm so glad to know that people today still take the time to enjoy themselves and have a grand old time together, just laughing and frolicking, and you know...screaming occasionally. I'm sure these activities are very healthy and necessary, however I wonder if you might be unaware that after darkness falls, a large majority of the population prefers to engage in a state of temporary hibernation. A further inference would be to suggest that it may surprise you to know that the manner in which a group of individuals, such as yourselves, behaves can actually have an impact on people outside your number. Of course each one of you is no doubt primarily concerned with the good of the neighborhood, and therefore I'm sure the shouts and pounding feet are merely meant as a comforting lullaby. How sweet of you. I'm deeply moved and touched by your thoughtfulness. In conclusion, I would like to thank you for your outstanding consideration.

Get off the street you hooligans, I'm trying to sleep.

With love,

Laura

Draft

"What's up, buttercup?" I grinned, loving the way her skin shone like gold under the day's last sunlight. It was one of those perfect evenings where I was loving everything though, even the simplest thing like the knowledge that my heart was still beating beneath my shirt. She looked beautiful, so much so that it scared me suddenly and I felt shy for the first time in months. 

"Nothing," she answered, and my superb mood quavered just the tiniest bit. 
"Something's always up," I replied bravely, willing myself not to screw everything up by being a chicken at the wrong moment.
Then, with no warning, she unexpectedly lapsed into tears and my good mood nosedived faster than a pelican. I sighed inside, thinking for the millionth time that I really would never understand girls no matter how hard I tried. 

However, I had learned enough about them not to say anything stupid when they were crying. And as I couldn't think of anything not-stupid to say, I did the next best thing and said nothing. It really seemed to be the only decent course of action, although I briefly considered putting my arm around her; but then I clammed up again. Plus, there was no way such a move wouldn't come off as either jerky or overly-ambitious. I couldn't risk either. 

This is nonsense. What are you doing? A voice carrying some semblance of reason rose up to stop my rampant thoughts. 

Panicked, I realized that the girl I was absolutely mad over was in desperate need only a few feet away and I was too preoccupied with my game plan even to notice. She mattered. I didn't. Even if nothing would ever come of it, right now I was her friend and that was the most important thing to be. 

I slipped down onto the ground next to her, sending a little cloud of dry sand flying. 

"I'm sorry," she choked, sputtering a little. I was somehow comforted by the sheer ugliness of her as she cried. She always looked so perfect, like a china doll, only tan. This was something new. Mascara and snot were mingling in ways that made me feel better about the times I'd burped in front of her, or the way my hair stuck out wildly sometimes.

"Did something happen?" I asked. In the back of my mind the snarky, eloquent version of me cringed at the words. OF COURSE SOMETHING HAPPENED, IDIOT.  

"I didn't get my scholarship," she gulped sadly. 

"Scholarship?" (For those of you who haven't read the Guy's Guide to Surviving Conversation, repetition is the ultimate fallback.) 

"Yeah," she said, running her arm across her nose. "It was a pretty big one. I'll still be able to go to college and everything probably. I just won't get to go to the one I wanted to go to." She paused, her voice deepening shakily. "I think I'm just realizing that all my dreams aren't necessarily going to come true. At least not in the way that I thought." 

"I think that happens to everyone once in a while," I said, forgetting about the Guy's Guide to Surviving Conversation and just remembering some of my own crushed dreams. I started to relax, and then I felt bad for relaxing, when she was so upset. I shoved all the other thoughts from my head and said,"There's always a chance for a new dream or two." 

"I know," she murmured huskily. "And I'm sure I'll be happy with new dreams. But new dreams might be littler dreams. I'll probably end up settling down with a nine to five job, and cooking dinner and watching tv. I really just thought I had a chance at making a difference in the world. You know?" 

I nodded, my pulse quickening. I did understand. I understood perfectly. It was a horrible feeling, realizing that reality might ruin all your hopes and ambitions. 

"I think I had it figured that I would get to travel, change people's lives--have adventures. I guess the world is a little bigger than I used to think," she said sadly. The cool breeze whipped through my thoughts, swirling sand, like confetti, all around us. 
"Well, what's wrong with that?" I smiled, shrugging. "You still have two feet. So...you might just have to walk a little faster than you expected." Her brows furrowed uncertainly. 
"Do you think I'm cut out for adventure? Truly?" 
I nodded. 
"Of course. I think everyone deserves at least one adventure." 
Shaking her head, she stared at me. 
"What?" 
"I just don't understand you." 
"Me? What's so hard to understand?" I laughed. 
"Everything," she murmured. "The way I see it, as much as I try not to think this way, the world we live in is full of smoke and traffic and rising taxes. I mean... there's pedophiles out there. And gun violence. And dads letting their kids overheat in cars, and obesity and anorexia and not enough water or pills for sick people in Africa. And there's...hatred; people always angry at each other and arguing. How do you always seem so certain in everything?" Her two front teeth played sharply around her lips, worrying at a scab. Those tortured eyes drilled into me with surprising intensity, daring me to listen for real this time. I looked back at her and focused. It wasn't an illusion. She was real. For the first time I saw her for what she really was, snot and dripping eyes into the bargain. None of that ugliness mattered, just like none of her beauty mattered. She was more terrifying than she'd ever been before because in that moment she was asking me the one question I had always feared more than anything. 

"How do you stay solid when everything else is chaos?" 

It scared me because I knew the answer. Had always known it. But once she knew, everything would change. And then I'd have to face my reality. A reality that would be everything she wanted.

Just without her. 

Philosophizing

"Therin lies both life's sorrow and its joy: that in living, a man accepts shadows and light in one turn. There is no one without the other," he said. I considered thoughtfully for a moment, breathing in his words. Then, with my brows knit closely, I replied.
"In some ways I am thankful. Without the existence of evil, there would be no opportunity to fight for the dominance of good."

Going Swimming

There is a fleeting instant during each of life's most terrible experiences, when time slows and one begins to realize what is actually happening.

I'm drowning, I thought, as the last desperate pocket of air escaped my lungs and drifted out into the void. After discovering the worst about the action, inevitably the worst about the result pops into one's head too.

I'm going to die.

Once this thought enters a mind, it doesn't leave. Ever. For most people, it helps to have that small whisper of colossal knowledge knocking around in the back our their heads, impacting every decision and guiding every mental path. Facing mortality head-on often inspires men and women to change things, inspire others in their turn, and have an affect on the grander scheme.

Others become paranoid.

That day at the lake Uncle Timmy fished me out of the water by my left leg and dried me off, only a few seconds after I discovered that death loomed somewhere on the horizon, maybe sooner than I was expecting it. Uncle Timmy was laughing the entire time he spent wiping the slime from my hair.

"Boy, you were this close to being shark bait," he cackled.

It was my last swimming lesson.

Ouch

Welp, my imagination is officially dead. So long career. Oh wait, I'm going to college for this, to spend a billion dollars. Ha. Ha ha. Ha.

So much deflation.

Ramblings

There was a house at the end of the drive. It was closer to home than the hill, and farther away than the white flowers that grew in the front yard. The pillars in the front were crafted from gray stone that seemed colossal at one time. Those pillars fairly reeked of wealth. It was a mansion in my little-woman eyes. Now the house is just a place I pass on the way to school, on the way to work, on the way anywhere. It used to be a destination in itself--in a way the only thing I truly recognized as a sign that home was just around the corner. Some houses are friends. But the house at the end of the drive was never quite a friend. It called me home with stern stiffness. 

Home is changing now. It seems smaller and more crowded, and deeper too. Things that are said aren't just things to say. Sometimes home feels lonely even when it is full of people. 

It depends on the people. Bibles sit on every shelf, just as they always have, but God never felt so far away. Maybe once before. 

God's still here. I'm still here. But it's that deepness that comes between us now. Home isn't as safe as it once was, now that I can see and feel and recognize: a bitter word is a result, the cause miles away through time's map. There are weaknesses here in my home that I never saw before. Maybe part of it is me, my own silly skin, thinner than starlight. I'm searching. 

Even at home, I'm searching. There's inspiration to be found in the softest sound of a beating heart, or the squawking cringe of an old couch, or the bark of a dog, or the smile of a stranger. I don't always see it at first, but home is a place where stories thrive. Year in and year out, people are crafted in a home, just as hamburgers are in McDonalds. 

I think I'm almost ready to leave. I didn't think I would be, but now it seems like I could actually feel ready. 

The world is out there, and it doesn't scare me as much as it did a little while ago. 

The world is still big, but I'm not as small as I used to be. There's a lot to discover, and discovering things always makes me feel better somehow. After all, something tells me God will be easier to find outside, once everything I know is a little farther away. 

First Day

He finally glanced up at me, his glassy eyes filling with swift recognition.

"How long have you been here?"

I smiled. "A few hours."

His eyebrows puckered. "Really?"

"You were muttering," my fingers traced over my throat as I watched him, the motion carrying my nervousness away.

"What do you want?" This time his voice was a bark, and all the nerves sprang back into view.

"You hired me. Remember?" I asked.

"Of course," he said, the interview returning to him slowly. I watched as his mind spun back towards yesterday. "Well, I can't use you right now. Go home."

Oh, such words of cruelty. My fragile, ambitious heart was crushed in a single instant. The visions and dreams built upon countless hopes fell to the floor in crumbles.

I nodded, gulping. Tears soiled my eyes and I turned away.

7/9/14

Tonight I am a torn apart mess. Half of me wishes to be a little kitten cuddling cozily in soft, squishy blankets with no worries and no hopes and nothing to look forward to but a life of endless security and kitty kibble, sunshine puddles and the occasional cliche ball of yarn to unravel. The other half, however, is desperately craving adventure and depth and something more. More than just existence, so dull and average.

The Mountain

The trees whisper to one another. Their voices are masked by the wind, each drawing laughter and lilt, love and sorrow from a summer breeze. Together they tell the stories of the mountain.

Around me is desolation. Memories linger everywhere, and names are mentioned often, breathing longer life into the memories. The trees remember. They recall the days of slow rebirth, aching pain and ash. The mountain is their guardian, but a fierce one, demanding much and giving slowly. Flowers crawl their way up the dried embankments, desperate to live, desperate to love, desperate to bloom wild, winsome and free. The lakes, like puddles, huddle at the foot of the mountain. They glisten blue and purple in the sunlight, happy offspring of the past destruction.

Memory. It's everywhere and nowhere all at once. Everywhere we remember without really remembering.

I look at the flowers. I look at the lakes. I look at the trees.

I try not to look at the mountain. This is odd; after all, it is what I came here to see. But the mountain is ominous, reminding me of the suddenness of tragedy. While the birds sing and the trees whisper, a deeper voice is heard. Through the beauty of this day, the shadow of another rises up, reminding me, reminding all of what once was.

The mountain is speaking.

Its voice is low, its message short.

I listen well, and remember.

Poetry

1.

But walked she through the forest fair,

Amid the leaves and boughs.

And when the maid that gathered there 

Did chance upon the rose,

She fell into its sweetest blush 

And held it to her nose. 

6/25/14

"Hailey." 

"Hailey, I need you to wake up now." 

I didn't want to wake up. I'd been gone for a long time, after all, at least as far as I was concerned. The voice probing me to open my eyes didn't sound like a familiar one. It sounded cold--metallic. White. Behind the voice was a gentler and more pathetic noise: the sounds of someone crying. The scene playing out was all too cliche. It didn't seem real. Things like this only happened in ABC dramas and bad soap operas, not to me. My name sounded foreign to me as it echoed through the dark halls and empty passageways inside my barely-breathing mind. Everything took effort. Every thought, every motion. Every second I spent alive was killing me. 

Sleep. 

The hundreds of Saturday mornings I had spent getting up early to go running along cold pavement seemed suddenly wasted. Why do such a thing? If only I had rested then, maybe I wouldn't be so tired now. 

"Hailey. Wake up, Hailey." More crying. Somewhere my soul watched and waited as the sounds grew dimmer. I faded. Then, the terror set in. 

What if this was real? I started to feel the pain then, that and the pain of memories as I saw every bad act trickle slowly before my eyes. What was hell really like? 

"God, please forgive me." It was my voice this time, crying out in a terrible scream. The hopelessness made me feel sorry for myself. But almost as fast as they had come, the worries faded, and I felt only a sweet sense of safety billow around me like a fog. 

"Hailey." The call sounded deeper this time, and sweet and sad and very joyful all at once, as if God Himself was murmuring my name. "Wake up, dear heart." He said. 

"Must I?" I heard myself reply. 

The words were spoken in a language I didn't know, yet somehow I understood them perfectly. I began to feel warm, and a strange honey-like taste filled my mouth. 

"Yes." 

"For how long?" 

"It will feel like a long time. But it won't be." He answered me, sounding so lovely. Tears wet my face, but in an instant they were dry again. 

"Goodbye," I said sadly. 

"This isn't goodbye," The deep voice melted away into silence. 

I opened my eyes. The room before me was quiet and warm, and sunlight poured over my face. In front of me a young man I'd never seen before sat staring at me, open mouthed. I felt the warmth of his kiss still fresh on my lips, and frowned. 

"Hailey?" He shook his head and smiled widely. "I can't believe it," he said. I squinted hard, trying to place him, and feeling panic rise when I couldn't. It must have shown on my face because he laughed, "Don't worry, you don't have amnesia."

Thank goodness. That really would be too cliche. 

"Who are you?" I whispered weakly. 

"It was me who saved your life. And then you saved mine," he answered softly. 

6/23/14

I am starting to be gripped by all the frightening reality.

It occurred to me today that a huge meltdown is probably coming. But for tonight I'm going to pretend that it's not and just...rest. I'll rest in knowing that it's all going to be okay somehow. There are some days when I just don't have the energy to care anymore. It startles me, because I used to care about everything. I could not ever not have an opinion about something. Now it just seems so much easier to sit back and choose not to feel happy or sad or angry or anything at all. I like it.

It's strange, but I like it. I love not feeling the burdening weight of emotion. It is delightful to bask in apathy for a few months before I have to leap back into life and figure out just who in this world I'm actually going to be.

So even though I know it's coming, tonight I'm free from worry. Just me being content in the fact that I'm never going to be perfect, and neither is anybody else.

★

Darling don't let your heart be blue
Just wait and see
It's you and me
And all the world is waiting too
Just wait and watch us fall in love
No stopping this
No stopping us
Come on
We're running
Come on no hiding
Come on it's time
It's everything exciting
Darling don't turn back now
We'll be fine
We'll run this world with the way of light
We'll make it all okay somehow
So just come on come on
Take my hand

6/21/14

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said.

"I'm glad you came." The words were spoken awkwardly, as if he hadn't really decided yet, whether they were true.

"Of course I came," I replied with equal awkwardness, but double the sincerity. I missed him.

"How've you been?" The question blatantly ignored my earnestness and dove straight into cordiality, making my inner senses want to scream at him. It was the same old story: all in or fold, there was no in between.

"Fine," I answered. Two can play at the small talk game. I'd make him suffer.

"Cool."

"Yep."

The silence was almost unbearable. Every nerve in my body was riveted in determination, focusing all my strength on keeping my tongue behind my teeth. I would not be the first to speak.

"How have you really been?" He whispered then, sounding like himself for the first time.

Inwardly, I sighed a breath of relief.

"I've been okay," I murmured truthfully. "But not really. You know?"

"Yeah," he said. Sucking in a deep gust of air, he screwed up his nerve and our eyes met. "I wanted to say I was sorry," he rasped lowly, sounding breathless in spite of all that air. "I just didn't know how. I didn't know what you'd say if I called you, and I didn't think I'd make it if you said no. So I just said nothing at all. Now looking back, I don't think anything could have been worse than that, so I'm sorry for that too."

For a long moment I sat listening to him, feeling strangely like a heroine in a really lame, sappy, teenage romance novel and also like a new, unfamiliar version of myself. It felt like a burst of rain falling from the clouds and an eerie contentment all at once. I smiled without knowing why.

"I forgive you," I said.

12/19/14

The most extraordinary thing about her was not the shine of her hair or even the outlandish style in which she chose to dress. Almost from the first, I could tell that what made her extraordinary came from her heart, a place where love and hope lingered, shadowed by the loneliness of a life lived in retrospection. Not every word she spoke was clouded by a desire to do good, but her voice was tinged with spirit, and though she did not often smile with her eyes, I could see in her face the work of the LORD, perfect and pure. She reminded me of something once good that had been lost too long to be quite the same, but which had somehow learned the secret of growth: becoming anew after it had been found.

I was enchanted, not by her, but by the hope she inspired within me.

6/18/14

Everyday you fill my heart 

But I can't feel you

Every moment I sense your call

But I can't hear you

I want to hear

I want to feel 

I want to feel something 

I want to remember what is means to fall in love with something 

It's been a while, but tonight, I no longer feel alone. 

Spirit lead me. Sing hallelujah. Stand with me. Stand for Me. Say the words. Say you love Me. Say "I do." Say, "I will follow." Say, "I will not look back at what was, but close my eyes to what is, and trust that which is to come."

Once.

Once upon a time

I decided never to give up.

The end.

I'm Back :)

Life is funny, isn't it?

Just a few hours ago, I was doing one hundred and fifty crunches, ranting about the perfect abs I'm going to have, and then ten minutes after that I was devouring an entire pie with a spoon. Sometimes I think I'll never get anything done, what with my constant seesawing between left and right.

Like writing. Oh how my soul has longed to write this week; but every time I sat down in front of my computer, an incredible laziness gripped me in this icy death-clench, and I always ended up leaving without even a single word on the page.

Even now, I am spouting nonsense. Why is it that I only think of profound and fascinating things to write about when I'm standing in a McDonald's bathroom with my hands under that stupid, germ-blowing, louder-than-a-broken-vacuum, hand dryer, and never when I actually have a pencil in my hand and paper available?

Even worse than that is the muse that is music. Music inspires me. It makes me want to write something that will inspire the same feelings in my reader as whatever song I'm listening to. But when I listen to music while I write, whatever I write, it always ends up sounding basically like the song. Then I end up feeling as if I've wasted a lot of time and creative energy on something that wasn't really original at all, but rather a bad rewrite of a good song.

Gah. This bothers me.

A lot of things bother me. Right now (and probably for the rest of my life) the most persistently bothersome quandary is that of whether or not I will succeed as a "real, actual writer." It recently occurred to me, perhaps after I realized that my tuition will cost thirty-five THOUSAND freakin' dollars every year, that I'm eventually going to have to get a job doing some actual thing. Not learning about the thing. Doing the thing. It is a truly terrifying thought, when you get right down to it.

I mean, my whole life I've been pretty great at learning about stuff. It's not that hard if you put your mind to it. Literally. That's all it takes: a brain, and a few ounces of dedication.

But this new venture is a different thing entirely. I'm actually going to need to have skills, persistence, commitment and courage in order to pursue what I love doing. If I fail, well then I'll have to settle for my fallback, and marry some really rich man who likes the beach and doesn't mind burned grilled cheese sandwiches.

Because other than writing, there's just really not much out there that I like. Writing is what I love (and hate and then love again.) If I can't be a writer, then I'll have to find some new identity, which at this point would feel like having my heart broken.

I'm lucky in many ways, but especially in that I've never had my heart broken, Not really. Not yet. Not by a person. It's been bruised and blistered, burnt and scarred perhaps, but never really broken.

The world is full of words.

They're everywhere you look. They hurt. They burn. They bruise and blister and scar and even break us. But words...they're hope.

In them life itself is written out. In them we are given a map to the truth. In them we find healing.
Through words, all broken hearts can find themselves repaired.

And that's what I want. I want to share that. I want to tell the world about Jesus, in a way that's beautiful and new, and different and astonishing. I want to deliver one of the oldest and most important messages and still be original. I want to do the impossible.

It feels impossible. And maybe it is. But maybe it isn't. Anyway, I'm going to try it. I may fail, but it would be worth it, I think, to fail knowing I had tried. Somehow that would be better than to give up before I even begin.

Walls

The walls were higher than I had expected.

Behind them was the tree, its soft pink blossoms falling wistfully about the garden. I smiled.

"Do you like it?" He asked me.

"Yes," I murmured. "It's beautiful here."

He took my hand and we strolled together through the garden.

"I've been waiting for you a long time," he said. "I wasn't sure you would remember."

I looked up at him, starry-eyed. "I could never forget you. Not a day went by that I didn't remember and smile because of all our memories."

"You cried often, too," he said. "I'm sorry for that."

As if by magic, a last gentle tear slipped down my cheek and he brushed it away. "Now that you're here, you won't ever cry again. Tears weren't born of this place."

"I believe you," I said.

"Good," he whispered softly. Then he pulled me into the stars, and we said goodnight for eternity. The world fell away beneath me, and I saw the sky growing closer. God's voice called out to us, and our hands parted for the last time. The end had come and gone, and the last beginning was over.

5/12/14

From  a world such as this 

what good can come?

 When the thoughts of mere men stretch out to reach the darkness, what hope is there to be found? 

Only hope is pure. 

And in the darkness, it seems now lost. 

In my own soul, I feel the creeping shadow

In my heart, I begin to find the footprints of weakness

Everywhere 

everywhere there is nothingness

But when we remember Truth

Hope is not lost

And day is coming

Somewhere beyond the mountains and seas

The sun will rise 

And the darkness will die

If only one remains to see it, still it will come none the less

Death shall never take those whom You love

and nothing will defeat Light

When its loveliness is unleashed

The pale morning will become a radiant dawn

Until the stars are drowned out

By the purity of Your Presence 

and nothingness will cease

Only freedom

can endure the coming storm

Death and prison will be forgotten 

And the shining waters will stretch out for all to see, calling out their glorious song

Praising You

Forever 

Me

Once, a long time ago, I was an idealist.
Since, I have become a realist.
I lost my ID, my identity.

The Ghost of Northamber Avenue

   The apartment was small, grubby, and smelled slightly like last week’s leftover pizza, but it had a view, and wasn’t too pricy. And as it turned out, it came with an adventure.

   It was summer. I was twenty-two. The world was a big, scary, expensive place. Graduation toasts had faded completely from memory, and I couldn’t even remember the days when my bills had all been forwarded to my father without the slightest qualm of conscience. In what seemed like a few short weeks, I had gone from a freewheeling college kid, livin’ the dream, to a very poor, very ambitious, very desperate adult, clambering clumsily around the real world with a completely pointless teaching degree, and no survival manual.

   However, I connected the dots soon enough and figured that the most important thing to do was to find myself a job. Once some family connections had been exploited and a place at the high school secured, the next thing to do was to find a roof, preferably one that came with air-conditioning. Enter 3B at 55 Northamber Avenue. The best AC it could offer took the shape of three gigantic fans, but it was well suited for a young history teacher looking to have an enjoyable summer. The former tenant was looking for a sublet, and as I wasn’t too picky about holes in the wall or carpeting left over from the seventies, he thought I would do.

   “Hope you won’t mind the stairs. Third floor and all. You look like they won’t be too much trouble for you.”

   “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I had naively remarked as I made the first of many hikes up the creaking flight that was to be my enemy over the next few months.

   Barry Hamlet, (who was in no way reminiscent of his Shakespearian namesake) a balding, stout man of about forty-five, smiled. He had a deep smile, which made me wonder what his dreams had been before the world had done to him what it had to make him into what he was. Perhaps the smile was one of sly humor at my staircase-innocence. I can never know for sure.

“Well, here we are.” He puffed, arriving at the top. I was proud of myself for not being winded. “Welcome aboard.” Barry opened the door to reveal 3B in all its glory.

  “It looks nice.” I said, generously. Nice was stretching it. Bearable maybe, but not nice.

It had grandmotherish wallpaper of a faded plumb color, comfortable looking saggy furniture and a smallish TV, equipped only with an old VCR. The windows were foggy with dust, but there were a few hundred books encased in a funny, old set of cherry-wood shelves.

   “The bedroom’s back there. And the couch is a pullout, in case you have company. The kitchen comes with a microwave and a refrigerator.” He said this as if it was a big bonus.

   “Wow.” I said, feeling that it was really the only thing to say.                                                        

   “So what do you think?” Barry picked at his index finger. Apparently he was nervous that I would be as critical as the countless others who had turned up their noses at this domestic bounty.

   “It looks fine to me. When will you be back?” I shrugged good-naturedly.

   “Oh, not until October, at least. You can stay until then, if you want. But you probably start school before then. I heard you were a teaching student.”

   “Not anymore. I graduated a few weeks ago.”

   “Got a job lined up?”

    I could see dollar signs lingering anxiously behind his eyes.

   “Sure do.” I said confidently. The thought of my job gave me both a tremendous sense of security, and an uncontrollable stomach spasm at the same time. It was like having a man-eating shark for an anchor: big enough to keep the ship from drifting away to stormy seas, but then, it might end up eating you.

   “Good,” Barry exclaimed, looking relieved. “So will you take the apartment?”

   “I will,” I said, and we shook on it. From what I could see the little place looked alright. And there was no hope of finding anything better in my price range, of that I was sure.

   “Good,” He said again, glowing. “You can move in straightaway as soon as we get the sublease signed. Oh, there’s the question of the mail to be answered though.”

   “Mail?”

   “Yes.” He said nonchalantly. “Your box is number fourteen, but you won’t mind picking up the mail for number fifteen and dropping it outside the door will you? It’s right across the hall.”

   “Sure, I don’t see why not.” I said, readily agreeable.

   “Thanks. I’ve been doing it for years and I think they’ve gotten used to it.”

   “They don’t like getting their mail?”

   “I don’t know. I’ve never seen them.”

   “Who lives there?

   “Don’t know that either. The name on the mail is always A. Miles. Whoever he is, he’s shy.”

   

   Maybe you’re not familiar with the breed of people who become teachers. Generally they are idealistic, ambitious and have good imaginations. They envision themselves changing the world, nay, the future even, through their students. They are affecting the grand scheme, and it thrills them to their core, at least at first.

   But a good imagination is a dangerous treasure.

   

   And if you will but use your own imagination, you can understand that by this point the apartment was starting to look worse and worse. The rent was basically the only good thing about it. I was a flexible human being. I mean, I’d survived four years of college, mostly spent in a clammy dorm room. I could have easily contended with holes in the wall, no air-conditioning and the leftover smells of Barry Hamlet’s raucous, book-worm life-style.

   But ghostly neighbors were a different thing entirely. I had heard this story before, and it didn’t end well for me, in any version, ever. If this had been a movie, I, as the unsuspecting victim, would have discarded the creepy feeling in my stomach as nothing but foolish jitters and gone on with life, only to be haunted to death later. But this wasn’t a movie, and I didn’t have the satisfaction of even one peaceful night in 3B. From that very moment, I began counting down the days to October.  

Ugh.

Oh dear. It's script frenzy isn't it? Ooops. Well for now, poetry.

If I should see
Another day
Where stars shine bright
And doth delay
The coming of
The final vow
I'd fight a thousand years
For thee

Don't tempt me to
Wander far
Don't let me out
Don't let me out upon the hill
For if I but catch wind of such
I'd silence all but dearest trill
Goodnight my dear
I'm lost to all

I'm lost again
And now I'm found
I'm suffering
And blest profound
Weary weak and worn and torn
And pierced by all but sharpest word
Then comes the waking, brighter sun
And all what slept
Is now begun
So hear my voice
And hear this plea
Dearest please don't
Forget me

Sorry I totally had The Parting Glass stuck in my head when I wrote this so the rhythm seems off unless you sing it like that.

April Fools

Well.

Yesterday I dropped a watch in the toilet, forgot about it and later it got flushed. Also, I forgot to write.

I've written every day since September 10th. Every single day. Even the first seven days in November when I was delirious with fever and was clinging to life by a thread (that's stretching things a bit, but it felt that way at the time.) This week has been rotten. And this makes me incredibly sad. A few months ago I woke up late at night, remembered that I hadn't written that day and rushed to record a simple poem. It wasn't much but it was still something. I didn't even do that yesterday. I was too busy watching the stupid I mean Hunger Games. Boy, this has been a lousy, irritating, frustrating week.

Okay, enough of that. Time to be positive again. The sun is out. That's something to praise the Lord for. Other than that I really can't think of much. I guess I should be thankful that even though I forgot yesterday, I can still sit here and write this today. And I can write tomorrow and the day after that, and all the days for the rest of my life if I want. I should be thankful that I learned to write at all. I should be thankful that I live in a place where I have teachers and principals and professors and other students all around me.

I am thankful. I'm done writing now, for today. But I'll be back tomorrow.

System Reboot

I can't help feeling torn apart. Lost and lonely, yet desperately tired of people. People everywhere. They bring their problems and their feelings and they make me afraid. I don't know why. They just do. I guess sometimes it just seems difficult to juggle friendships and school and work and family and me. Me is such a hazard in life. Some days I wish I didn't have feelings and fears and trials of my own, so that I could just make everyone else happy, without faltering or failing. At the end of the day I feel empty. Like I've been used up and can't hold any more from other people. I don't like feeling unkind or unable. I wish I could be perfect all the time. And I can't help wishing that I could just figure things out on my own, without waiting to hear what God wants me to do.

Next year I'll be far away from this place, and although I'm excited for a new adventure, I'm scared of making all the same mistakes that I've made here. But more and more I'm realizing that I'm not afraid to leave, not like I thought I would be. There are so many people here that I love, and I'll miss them. But there are too many things here that I won't miss. I'm ready to start my life. And be me. And remember that it's okay for me to feel things too. I'm allowed to fail. I'm allowed to be moody and frustrated. And I'm allowed to be who I am, as long as that girl is who God's making me.

So goodnight world. Goodnight and sweet dreams. The clouds may never clear again, here in this Northwestern mad land, but planes soar high above the clouds, and for that I am thankful.

System Failure

Well I officially can't write anything of worth tonight, so instead I'm just going to rant about how much pain I'm in. I'm in some serious pain. My legs hurt so bad. Silly legs, they haven't even worked today! I think that's why. They are mad at me for eating chocolate and not taking them to the gym. But compared to most people, I'm probably actually doing okay. I hate feeling sick though. That was rather obvious. I don't think anyone likes feeling sick. Blah blah. Okay I'm done trying to rant. Even my rants are falling flat tonight. It has been a very, very discouraging week. I am feeling like a pricked balloon with nothing left inside of me but some leftover spit. It's gross. Angry, unhappy spit too. Not good, contented spit. There, I finally made a metaphor that I'm happy with. So here's some poetry (aka desperation writing.)

Okay well I wrote poetry. But it ended up being too personal to share. 

Goodnight world. 

You and Me

Tonight 

The stars are friends 

They laugh at me 

Because they know

They get to smile down on us both

And they know 

Everything we don't 

I'm wondering where you are tonight

And if you're thinking about me

I'm working hard and laughing 

In between 

The stars can see 

And you and me

We've got everything 

And nothing all at the same time 

So tonight 

I'll look at the stars and wonder 

Who you are

And who I'll be 

And when I'll find you

Oh you and me

You and me

3/29/14

   The day was growing older. Golden ribbons of light from the setting sun drifted through my windows as I walked in, thankful to be home for another night. I fixed an apple. Somehow the dusk was too beautiful to share with the hollowness of tv. Something about trivial reality shows or even a movie would have spoiled the tranquility beyond recapturing. So I sat in silence, listening to the the nothingness of a spellbound city. Breathless, I watched the sky as it melted into cotton-candy pinks and winsome blues, bathing the city in a glorious, rose-colored hue.
   The beauty made me lonely. It was still too soon for tv, so I turned on my radio. A rich chocolaty voice slithered into my consciousness, bribing me to remember the past. I did remember. The sun sank down lower, and I thought of everyone out walking the streets beneath its blessing. Couples growing old together, babies being born, dreams being met and houses being built to furnish new lives and new dreams as they unfolded.
   But I was alone.
   I pulled out my cell and toyed with it for a moment. If not for the voice on the radio, I would have been safe. But such songs tempt me to live life, not just exist.

I'm tired tonight. But the sunset is beautiful. For some reason, I keep wondering if you're watching it too.

   I pressed send before I could linger another moment. As I did so, the light lessened into remembrance of a day gone forever. And the sun set.

You

Take my heart 

It's yours 

Take me away now 

I'm useless 

Fill me up because I'm hopeless 

You took me broken, bent and undone

You took me when I said I was through 

You took me Home

When I had no words left to say

And You were mine

You told me everything I ever knew

So thank You

A thousand times, thank You

Your love has made me who I am 

And who you're making me 

Help me when I'm caught 

Help me when I'm lonely

Help me when I'm desperate for peace 

Fill me up

Because I'm still broken

Still bent

Still undone

Fill me up with Your love

I've none 

The light betrays me 

Hope eludes me 

Destiny 

Destroys me
But You
You save me.

Just for Tonight

just for tonight
i wish you'd stop being you
even though i love you
i wish you'd stop doing what's right
i wish you'd forget about honesty
and tell me you're on my side
just for tonight

i know everything you say is true
your words are everything i don't need
all i need is you
telling me you love me and i'm beautiful
telling me you love me and i'm safe with you
there's no end to us in sight
please, just for tonight

all i want now is to laugh and just forget
forget about the pain
forget about all of them
just you and me
just for tonight
say you love me like you really do
just for tonight,
say i'm the only one
and you will never be the same again

just for tonight
stop telling me the truth
tell me i'm right
to feel the way i do
just for tonight, let me be free of all responsibility
stop pushing me
just for tonight
let me be me
and just you be you

just us two
just for tonight
pretend you're on my side
then we won't have to say goodbye
even though i know
tomorrow will come and all of this will end
just for tonight
let's pretend

just for tonight
tell me you love me like you really do
i don't want to say goodbye
to you

My awesome chemistry homework part 2

What is pH? 

First of all, it is an example of how ridiculous the English language is. How on earth "ph" and "f" make the same sound, I shall never understand! I vote that we should all talk on fones and that the name Phoebe should be spelled like it sounds: Feebee. HOW HARD IS THAT?

But perhaps more importantly, it is a logarithmic measure of the concentration of H+ ions. Soren Peter Lauritz Sorensen (was he Soarin' over California? Probably not. He was Danish, actually.) defined it in 1909.

pH = -log[H+] where log is a base 10 logarithm and H+ equals the concentration of hydrogen ions in moles per liter of solution. pH is an abbreviation for "power of hydrogen."

What household products can be used as acid/base indicators? 

Testing for acids and bases sounds like a very tasty process:

Blackberries, raspberries, grapes, carrots, cherries, onions, tea, strawberries.

Other not-so-tasty-items that are indicators are:

Geranium petals, ExLax tablets (definitely not something you want to taste), mood lipsticks, morning glories, red cabbage, vanilla extract, washing soda, and about a hundred different types of petals (the best option for the outdoorsy chemist. I will stick with the lipstick and the tea.)

What is a universal indicator? 

A universal indicator is a solution which hasn't learned to be confident with its self image, and therefore caters to the demands of a large variety of pH values by changing colors.

Can you classify acids from their formulas alone?

Because there are very few strong acids in aqueous solutions, it is fairly reasonable to assume that most will be weak acids. It might be helpful to memorize the most common strong acids, such as HCl, Hbr, Hl, H2SO4, HNO3, and HClO4.

If you don't want to do this, you can always order your acids to drop and give you twenty. That should clear up who's strong and who's weak pretty fast.

My awesome chemistry homework

My chemistry assignment was basically a work of art today. I was instructed to answer these questions "in my own words." Let all teachers know that it is very dangerous to give a writer that kind of freewill.

Why are acids called proton doners? 

Acids are nice substances that give H+ ions away to Bases as presents for Christmas and other holidays, such as Pi day and Mole Day. Because H+ ions are really just protons, acids are called proton donors, although a much more creative name for them would be "Base Benefactors." 

Why can't hydrogen ions exist by themselves? 

In short, because hydrogen ions take "sharing is caring" to a whole new level. If water molecules shows up, hydrogen ions get really clingy and want to share electrons with them in order to form hydronium ions, or H3O. However, H+ ions are okay hanging out by themselves in gas form. (But basically everybody would rather be by themselves when they are feeling gassy. Otherwise it's just awkward.) 

Is a negative pH possible? 

Yes. If the molarity of the hydrogen ions is higher than one, you will get a negative value for your pH. But that's okay, even though it seems completely crazy. 


Also, apparently even the strongest acids don't dissociate completely at high concentrations, which is probably the most inspirational thing I have read today. 

How can you tell if a compound is an acid? 

I get asked this a lot. Usually I just tell people, "When you know, you know." with as much of a cryptic aura as possible. But I only do that because I'm embarrassed about my own ignorance. Now I'll never have to pretend again! 


There are a few different ways to distinguish whether a compound is an acid. You can use an indicator, which will change color to expose acids, or you can dissolve some of the compound in distilled water and see if the concentration of H+ ions rises, or you can use a pH meter to see if the compound's pH is lower than 7. 

Nightmare

This is a dream.

It is a bad dream, but it's almost over. In these moments my heart thrums with deadly flickering, as the nightmare grows steadily worse, and worse still. Awakening is heaven, and the dream is a prison. Mascara stains leech down the walls and accusations rise up all around me, currents of hot steam on an icy night. With each day I find my feet heavier. The monstrous slathering of a hound echoes in my ears. He is on my heels and I feel as though I cannot run much longer.

But I know nightmares. Eventually it will be too horrible to be real, and I will awake and be free. I'm close. I can tell. My fingers are shaking.

Today

  It feels so good to laugh again. I'm so thankful for good friends. It is lovely to laugh, to feel like laughing. I love  to forget for a moment, the way my heart beats to the rhythm of chaos.

  This week I felt as if I had stepped from the gates of a golden sea, peaceful and infused with the magic of hope, into a deep pool of life-sucking goo. But somehow today was better. God sent a legion of valiant soldiers to fight for me, even if they didn't know it.

  Joy is an elusive prize, but today I felt it briefly. And last week I felt it bubble up inside me like a spring. Funny, in those glorious moments, you feel as if life had always been that beautiful, and never could be anything darker again. I wish I could savor the serenity for longer than a moment. Tomorrow is a new day. But nothing is too big, not even the vast stretch of time that is a single day in this ordinary madness that surrounds me.

First Installment of Short Story

The first time I met Miss Margie, I was crying.

It was spring, and I had endured an entire autumn and winter of school trials, particularly arithmetic and little Betty Haysmill, who was a monster worse than fractions themselves. I was walking home the long way that day, in order to avoid meeting any of the others along the road, and so I went way out down by the edge of Walker’s Eddy, where the cattails were waving kindly in the wind and the birds’ songs soothed my tattered soul. That is where I saw Miss Margie.

She was standing on her front porch, a saggy affair that had probably been a beautiful old Victorian porch when Miss Margie’s father had first breathed it into existence. Now it was old, older than the hills that cradled it. The whole house was a coffee-stained color, and the front window had a cracked pane. Miss Margie wore a blue cotton dress and had her hair pinned tightly up on her head. She was barefoot.

“Hey there,” She called to me. Wiping my nose, I glanced up at her. I had never seen a woman more wrinkled and tan. Her white hair was the lightest thing about her, next to her eyes which were so blue they reminded me of the island and fishing and too much sun and not enough time to explore.

“Hey,” I called back, not eager to be on my way. I wanted to be well through with my cry before I got home, otherwise my mother would see my red nose and ask me what was wrong, and the others would avoid me all night until bedtime. No one wants to play with a crybaby.

“Was you cryin’ for?” She asked softly. There was a lilt to her voice that made it sound like music, but old music, the kind that would play out of a phonograph, all crackly and distant.

“Nothin’.” I said. I had reached that age of unparalleled wisdom when it seemed to me that grown-ups never wanted anything but to make trouble or spoil your fun if you were having any. In those days kids kept their mouths shut if possible, and didn’t waste words when it wasn’t. At least in front of most adults. But Miss Margie wasn’t most adults—that I could tell even in those first few minutes.

“Little girls don’t just cry for nothing. I was one once, so you can’t fool me. Come on up and have a cookie.” She said, smiling. Her teeth were glaringly white, like her hair.

“Okay,” I said, brightening a bit. I was still wary, but cookies where a rarity never to be passed up.

We sat down on her porch. The chair she offered me was considerably less grand than her manner in pulling it out for me. She sat down herself and wiggled her toes, sighing like all old people do when they settle into a chair after they have been standing a long while.

“I’m Miss Margie Atkinson.” She declared bluntly, sticking out an old, skinny hand. I shook it and mumbled my name lowly.

“Mary Ellen Dewberry.”

“Pleased to meet you Mary Ellen,” Said Miss Margie.

“Nobody calls me Mary Ellen, ma’am.” I said.

“What do they call you?”

“Mickey.”

“Mickey it is, then.” She grinned again, and held out a plate painted with pink roses. On it was a pleasant array of stale molasses cookies. I thanked her and chewed slowly, wondering if my nose was back to its normal color yet.

As if reading my thoughts, Miss Margie swallowed her cookie in practically one gulp, and returned to the prior subject. “Now,” She said resolutely, brushing the cookie crumbs from her hands. There was a pitcher of watery looking lemonade sitting on the table in front of us and Miss Margie poured me a glass while I chewed. “What was it you was crying for, exactly?”

I hesitated. Clearly, Miss Margie was an ally. Everything about her reeked of kindred ambition, but still, she was a stranger, and talking wasn’t my specialty, even amongst friends.

“Betty Haysmill and all them at school.” I finally choked out feeling my eyes begin to burn again. I pulled another cookie from the plate without asking. Something told me Miss Margie would understand.

“Betty Haysmill?” She didn’t seem to recognize the name or the problem, so I sought for more words.  

“She made me cry, Ma’am.” I explained clumsily.

“No, child she didn’t.” Miss Margie laughed, a gloriously rich cackle that filled the air with the smell of hope.

“What you mean?” I was confused.

“Nobody can make you cry, sweet thing. You chose to cry, an’ no Betty c’never make you.”She bit into another cookie, wincing a little at its stiffness. 

I thought of Betty and winced myself. “I can’t keep myself from crying, though ma’am. She tells the other girls I’m ugly. And she’s right.” I admitted sadly.

Miss Margie looked at me closely for the first time and squinted those dazzlingly blue eyes.

“Well, you look alright to me.” She snorted. “Now, look here, Miss Mickey.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“There’s some things you’ve got to know about women, if you’re to survive in this world.” Miss Margie ate another cookie and swept the crumbs from her lap again. I finished my own cookie and mimicked her. She leaned towards me. I leaned back.

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“Women, are at a disadvantage.” She said grimly.

“What’s a dis-ad-van-tage?” I struggled through the large word.

“It means that the world is harder on us than it is on men.” She swatted at a mosquito as it bandied about the mouth of the lemonade pitcher. I pitied the mosquito. Miss Margie’s hand was well trained and looked tougher than leather. The insect retreated to the opposite end of the porch, and seemed to be planning attack strategies. Miss Margie rose to her feet as she went on. She stood with her back to me, and peered out across the fields that must have belonged to her, and out across the street, and the houses in the distance where the town was sleeping in the shade.

“Y’see, Mickey, back when the earth was a whole lot newer than it is now, women was like cows and dogs and land—men traded them back and forth as part of a money-makin’ opp’tunity.”

“What’d they ever do that for?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Because they didn’t know better, I s’pose.” Said Miss Margie. She sighed heavily. “Them was bad times for us women, though, Mickey. Marryin’ was like hiring, except women didn’t get paid to work for a man for the rest of her life, her father did.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” I said indignantly, the plight of the historical female gripping me strongly for the first time.

“No, it don’t.” Miss Margie sat back in her chair, in order to bat away the mosquito as he crept up on her pitcher. Satisfied with his defeat, Miss Margie smiled and went on.

“When the Lord came to the world, He taught men and women that they ought respect one another, males and females alike. Since then things got better. But y’see, that wasn’t good enough for some women, Mickey. Some of ‘em have got the idea that women should run things altogether. Now, that seems to me like taking more of our fair share.”

“Yes ma’am, it sure does.” I nodded.

“But you want to know what I think?”

I nodded again.

“I think those women are still just afraid of becoming like cows and dogs and land again. They’s afraid some man is going to take everything they’ve got an leave em’ in the dust.” She chewed on her lip for a minute. “Tell me, what’s your daddy like, Miss Mickey?”

Surprised, I smiled. “My daddy? He’s tall and he has dark hair—”

“No, no,” She interrupted, waving a hand at me. “What’s he like? He good to you?”

Shocked I nodded emphatically. “Oh yes ma’am. He is.”

“He talk to you?”

“Yes ma’am. Every day.”

“He do other things with you?”

“Yes ma’am. Right now he’s teaching me how to throw a baseball so I can play next year. And he reads to us out of a big book every night. I can’t remember the name though.”

Miss Margie smiled. “Then I think you are mighty lucky.”

“How do you figure that, Miss Margie?” I said with a flicker of sass, scowling. I didn’t think any girl who had been called ugly at school that day could be very lucky on any account.

“Because I don’t think your Miss Betty Haysmill has that kind of a daddy.” She said.

Then for a few moments we were silent, me trying to wrap my head around the thought that Betty had a father at all. I’d never given much thought to it before.

“What’s that got to do with women being like cows and stuff?” I asked. A splinter of sunlight poked its nose around the edge of the house and speared me in the eyes.

“Well I’ll tell you, but you’s goin’ to have to come back around tomorrow an hear it. I think it’s about dinner time, and your mama would be madder than a wet cat if she knowed I was givin’ you cookies. Scoot along home and come see me again after school t’morrow.” I glanced over at the hill, where my house sat placidly among the others, and I could tell Miss Margie was right. Nobody was out playing in the yard, which meant I’d have to hustle if I was to make it back in time for dinner.

“Thanks for the cookies, ma’am,” I said, hurrying to pick myself up. “And it was a pleasure t’meet you Miss Margie.”

“It was fine meeting you, Miss Mickey.” She replied.

I hurried off and watched her wave at me, a solitary figure on that lonely stretch of road. The house seemed even older than when I’d left it, but Miss Margie seemed younger. Her back was straighter than a yard stick and twice as tall.