The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Several years ago, I remember watching an ad on TV showing an energetic parent dancing down the aisles of Office Depot to the Christmas tune, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year." Two sulking kids, around 10 years old or so, followed in their father's wake, heads low and faces drawn into deep frowns. I used to feel this way. It usually happened around the end of July. The beginning of August was the unofficial month to mark every office and school supply 20-30% off. Suddenly, swimsuits, shorts, and beach bags were sent to the back clearence racks and sweaters, jeans, and turtle necks were in the forefront of every display. Buying new school clothes was an amazing deception. One could buy an entire wardrobe of woolen, long-sleeved items in the midst of an air-conditioned store, believeing they could be worn the next day while the highs were still in the 90's.

But, to be honest to myself, I was one of those kids that dreaded the beginning of school. Not because I was opposed to new clothes, shoes or pencils... but I hated change. I hated going to a new classroom with different kids and decorated walls and I felt homesick. The beginning of Junior High was the most appalling change I ever endured in my education. Short, chubby, and terrified, I was shoved up and down the hallway, knowing how powerless I really had become upon turning 12.

College was probably the easiest and most welcomed change. It was like High School except, one could choose to go to class or not and no parent was required to give written consent. The first day I sluffed Beginning Badmitton to study for my history test, I could barely sit still. I felt like I had broken some unforgivable rule. When I dropped the class out of convience, no one argued with me. I was paying for school and I owned my decisions.



Going to college became so comfortable, I took my time. In fact, not only did I not want to leave, but the music department seemed to do whatever they could to prevent me from graduating. I am happy to say I am a college graduate, English major, music minor and all. But, I can't say I feel too fulfilled. Why is that when I walk into a Target or Smith's Market Place and see walls of school supplies on sale, a lump catches in my throat and I suddenly feel so sad? Many would say I am a masochist. I would have to disagree. I loved school. I loved my major. It was like one big book club. We all read the same books and shared everything with each other. The only formal part was putting it all in writing, which was something I rather liked since I needed the practice. However, no matter what I say here, nothing captures how I felt except something my professor said to my class.

By the end of my education, I was left with one class to take the fall of 2005. One literature class... Russian literature to be exact. It turned out to be one of my favorites. One day, my professor reminded those of us who were graduating that semester to get our proper papers in on time. Then he sighed and said "those of you who are graduating will have a hard time. You will have an identity crisis and begin to doubt who you really are." He smiled afterwards as we laughed at him. Something on his lips told me he was telling the truth. I swallowed hard. I couldn't think about that. I had spent so much time trying to organize myself and I was already graduating about 2 years after I should of. I needed to focus forward. But, I can't begin to tell you how true his words were. It all comes back to fear of change.

I had spent most of my life being a student. I never took a break. I knew if I stopped school I wouldn't go back. So, I kept going. It wasn't hard when I majored in what I loved most. Reading, writing, and singing everyday was far from a punishment. I kept going and then, one day it ended. I kept my part time job after my lofty plans of grad school fell through. Then I tried to take another job with full time benefits and it was horrible. I wasn't happy. So, I took a different full time job that was easy and relaxed and that is where I have been eversince. Floating. Comfy in my cubicle, looking all around me, but never straight ahead. I didn't want to see.

Now the sweaters are emerging again and I am feeling a need to buy pencils and paper. It is time for the rest of the world to return to school. I am feeling like it is time to make a change. Time to take a journey. September was also the time Bilbo and Frodo left on their journey. in Tolkien's "The Fellowhip of the Ring." Frodo doesn't want to leave. He knows he needs to leave the Shire, but he is scared. I want to go back to school, grad school. I don't want to return to school because I am homesick. It is that I figured out what will make me happy and now, it is up to me to make that change.

I am scared. I hate rejection and I hate not knowing anything for sure. I really hate change... feeling like that chubby 7th grader again, being pushed around the halls by people who know what they are doing. I know all too well the power fear has to paralize and leave us with the worst punishment of all... regret.

Ray Bradbury wrote a book called "Something Wicked This Way Comes." It is all about the Autumn People who are drawn to those who live in misery. They feed off of the regret and pain of others. The end of the book is all about lifting yourself from the chains of pain and regret. Courage comes from action. "The witness only comes after the trial of your faith."

So, now at work, in my comfy cubicle... I quiz myself with words from the GRE like "abscond" and "alacrity." I revise poems and read novels and write stuff like this to remind myself no one ever got anywhere who stayed in their living room, watching out the window.

a poem in the meantime

This is me. I am trying to post this as my profile picture and I hate computer language!!!!! But, oh well. Here is a poem to enjoy in the meantime.

Girl at the Sea Line

“It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me, I would shine.”- Billy Collins


Her blood reels,
while each pore’s
tiny mouth
swallows salt.

Waves press towards the shore,
loosening her balance.
She falls onto her knees
and slices her calf against a rock.

The blood—
dark and cherry,
curls through her reflection.

Her white hand,
palm down
dips deep
under the surface,
and draws back
spilling with light.

Fiction

Last night, after I had been branded with the Dark Mark and bought myself an honest to goodness wand and waited for over two hours to be sorted by the local sorting hat, I found myself standing in one more line. This line was long and thick with people in pj's spanning the complete width and length of the Walmart in Layton Utah. It was probably around 1:30am when I drove home with my very own copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.


Now, be assured... this blog has nothing to do with the Harry Potter book or its story (especially since I am a slow reader and KNOW someone will spoil the ending of the 7th book for me sooner or later). What I wanted to address, was the passion we have for fictional characters. What is it that makes us stay till 3 am in a one stop shopping center waiting for somone to hand over our own copy of the last installment of a story? Why can't we wait till the next morning? Why did I wait on my feet and end up paying a woman for one of her extra books, rather than wait six hours and pick up a book for myself the next morning? Why do I NEEED to get home and see what Harry is going through?

I guess we care about these characters. We care about what they choose for themselves. We care about what they teach us and we want to know about their lives. In fact, most people have felt this for more than books. Did you ever wonder what would happen to Frodo and that blasted ring? Or, what would Mary Jane say when Peter Parker told her his BIG secret? In fact, we follow this fascination all the way through TV. We worry about Jack Bauer and we scream at the TV when John Locke screws up AGAIN and prevents people from escaping that ridiculous island!!!


My only answer to this is that bottom line: Fictional characters feel real. That is what makes good writing. But these stories are not just vain attempts for us to live the lives we lack, they are bits and pieces of each of us. Something tells me that J.K. Rowling has a lot of love for her Harry Potter and has probably put a lot of herself in him and Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley etc. The first rule to writing is" write what you know." And we are attracted to what we know. I love Harry Potter because his reactions to even the smallest adolescent moments have reminded me of my own life. It is those moments when I put the book down on my lap and laugh out loud because I can say, "Whoa, that sounds familiar!!" I suddenly don't feel so alone. We are really on our own when it comes to this life. Things get hard, but writers are a special breed. They are the wide-eyed ones. They notice and absorb what we all feel and jot it down somwhere rather than disregard it. They are the people with tiny books and notes stuffed in pockets filled with tiny phrases birthing ideas. The writers spin it all out using half imagination and half experience and hope someone can relate.

So, what is it that makes reading and charaters in movies and tv so attractive? Well, I believe a big part of it is that we know in our hearts it isn't real. In life, we have to deal with reality. With broken conversations and explanations. We are flawed... but the ficitonal character can have a perfect conversation with a significant other, because the writer has crafted and molded it for months. Oh, the joy!! What would it be like to tell someone how you feel and not drive home later that night, cringing to yourself when you remember what you have said?!

All in all, the fictional character is each of us, but without strings attached. We trust the writer. Even when everything goes insane, we KNOW the writer will bring us back to the doorway we started from. We might not even get closure, but we will be taken to our destination and we will arrive in one piece.

So, this blog is really a salute to ficiton. I salute the writers who create worlds and characters that resemble each of us, yet still have the power to remind us, it is fiction. It isn't real. No one died in the making of this movie or the writing of this book. But, what power! That still, we dress and talk and laugh like the characters we love so much. That when someone dies in a book or a movie, we cry real tears and experience the same emotions we would if that person was truly gone. How lovely to flip back to page one or reset the DVD... and start all over again.

The Bird Refuge

Being a writer, it only seemed natural to blog. I keep a regular journal but never for the public to read. This will be a new experience, but if it gets me to consistently write without fail, so be it. I could only think of one name for this blog. It had to be named after the place I have found my most humble peace. So, for this first entry, let me introduce you to my refuge.

I must have been no more than fifteen the first time I set eyes on the refuge. My friend and I drove as west as possible, leaving our huddled city at the base of the mountains. Seated in an old blue ponitac with a digital speedometer large enough for the elderly, I watched the landscape dissolve into nothing but flat lake and flat farms. We slowed to 30 mph as the road thinned out to dirt. It made me think of our family trips to Yellowstone and the unfinished roads that led us to our little white trailer overlooking Henry’s lake.

We drove under large power towers humming low over our heads. The road twisted past long stretches of cattails and beautiful birds dipping and soaring over the patches of marshes. Strong on the air was the smell of brine shrimp, horses, and salt.. We passed a few park signs describing the common breeds of birds found at the refuge. But, I loved the large white sign claiming this land to be a “Waterfowl Rest Area.” At the end of the road, a small hill slid above and into view. I didn’t know then the hill was known as Goose Egg Island and was an overlook point for bird watchers and others who needed perspective.

Ten years later, I held my breath and listened to what I first heard at the refuge… simple peace. Stillness. The freeway was a million miles away, lining the valley with busy people. My home was swallowed up in the static that surrounded life as a single working woman.
It was here I’d spent hours with my best friend and her dad photographing this landscape in the dead of winter, watching eagles cluster in the tops of crawling trees. It was here I stood in rain, taking notes for my first creative writing class in High School. It was here I watched the sun fall low and overturn itself in the dead lake, the shore lined in salted carp. It was here I fell in love first and lost my first love.
This tiny place, lined with wide-faced trees, birds changing quick pace mid-air and animals crawling through the marshes, gave itself to peace. To a higher power above the deadlines of rushed life. No man-made sound existed, but my own breath moving the space I filled. I could turn 360 degrees completely and see the valley from every angle, its colors melted. It was mine. This refuge is my slow poem read over and over. I could feel life. It was alive as I was alive.
Everyone needs a place to fall and feel alive. I decided to name this spot on the internet after my refuge. I will post what I write and hopefully, someone may find some peace and perspective here as I have in my bird refuge.