Snowzilla: Playtime

Snow time: Grace in her new snow pants and snow boots; Laura in her snow sack. Shenanigans!

That is Will's car. So.

Our neighbor shoveled a pathway for us since I couldn't get out of the house safely, and I hired a man to clear the rest of the pathway today. We apparently got 31" of snow; once Will gets home, we'll have to dig his car out! Till then, I've requested cheese sticks and cough drops from one of Grace's therapists coming to the house tomorrow.

This is Will's last week away; we're both ready for him to come home.

"Separation" by W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

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Snowzilla: The Wrath of Jonas

We didn't know what to expect when we woke up. So, we came prepared.

We checked outside: not bad, not bad... probably should have brought everything inside, but oh well. 

Then the real fun began. 

THE SNOW FLURRIES.

No precious snowflakes, no sir. Real bonafide blustery snow-filled winds. Mama sips her coffee and ignores, "Out? Snow!"

We also did chores, which reminded me to look for a smaller broom set for Grace. Afterwards, we went to Laura's room, cleaned up and out clothes (I am purging!!) and fixed up a little play fort with the toddler mattress currently not in use. The girls love it, and I am pleased too! 

The snow continues - 10" by noon, with an expected 6-10" more today. 

View from our kitchen window

Will worked a 24 hour shift in the PICU and refused to stay another minute; alas, another resident could not get in, so he worked another 2 hours before a 20 minute drive. Fortunately, it seems everyone is staying off the roads, more or less - in their cars. Everyone loves walking in the street already, he reports, and even more so with snow! He is grateful that I made him take our Honda, because his light Toyota would never have made it. There it is in the driveway, where I had him park so the house wouldn't look empty. Mistake, I guess. That's his driver's side mirror and door handle sort of visible.

The roads are cleared hourly... if you can tell.

We watched our neighbor shovel his sidewalk for a bit, the birds outside, played, snacked a few times, and organized.

Laura is walking around the downstairs using the wall and furniture, so I'm ecstatic! Plus, she's the cutest little bear. 

And now the snow is up to the door on the porch. Stay tuned as I decide what to cook for dinner!

Where are you camping out? Any snow adventures? Or sunny skies?

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Oh, sNOw!

Here's to hoping Phil was right about an early Spring...

"Winter Remembered" by John Crowe Ransom

Two evils, monstrous either one apart,

Possessed me, and were long and loath at going:

A cry of Absence, Absence, in the heart,

And in the wood the furious winter blowing.

Think not, when fire was bright upon my bricks,
And past the tight boards hardly a wind could enter,
I glowed like them, the simple burning sticks,
Far from my cause, my proper heat and center.

Better to walk forth in the frozen air
And wash my wound in the snows; that would be healing;

Because my heart would throb less painful there,

Being caked with cold, and past the smart of feeling.

And where I walked, the murderous winter blast

Would have this body bowed, these eyeballs streaming,

And though I think this heart’s blood froze not fast

It ran too small to spare one drop for dreaming.

Dear love, these fingers that had known your touch,

And tied our separate forces first together,

Were ten poor idiot fingers not worth much,

Ten frozen parsnips hanging in the weather.

No man's wise without his share of winters in the world

from "The Wanderer"; translated by Greg Delanty

The loner holds out for grace
--the Maker's mercy--though full of care
he steers a course, forced to row
the freezing, fierce sea with bare hands,
take the exile's way; fate dictates.
The earth-stepper spoke, heedful of hardship,
of brutal battle, the death of kith and kin:
"Often at first lick of light
I lament my sole way--no one left
to open my self up to wholly,
heart and soul. Sure, I know
it's the noble custom for an earl
to bind fast what's in his breast,
hoard inmost thoughts, think what he will.

For sure, no man's wise without his share
of winters in the world. He must be patient,
not too keen, not hot tongued,
not easily led, not foolhardy,
not timid, not all gusto, not greedy
not too cocky till he knows life.
A man should take stock before a vow,
brace for action, be mindful
of the mind's twists and turns."

So spoke the wise man from his heart, musing apart.
Blest is he who holds true. No man should openly bare
his heart's hardships unless he knows the cure,
that is his great feat. It's well to seek solace
from the Maker, out only security.

I had a different poem lined up for today, but H/T to Davey for blowing me away with this translation of the olde epic classic. Here's audio of Michael D.C. Drout of Wheaton College reading The Wanderer out-loud in the Anglo Saxon, which is pretty cool. Here's a comparison of the Old English and modern English versions-- the poem is only 115 lines and is important in poetry canon.

Happy Thursday!

The Wind it was Howlin’ and the Snow was Outrageous

Everyone and their cousin Bob has today off in the Midwest, except for Cincinnati, which had ice yesterday and a bit of a snow flurry today.

Here's my contribution- The White Stripes' cover of Bob Dylan's song "Isis," which is where the title of this post comes from:



Enjoy!

Today is also Candlemas and Groundhog's Day. Punxsutawney Phil says... early spring! Hooray!

Two Sides of A Coin

"Two Davids" by David W. Landrum

Michaelangelo's David is too smooth and fair
and too Italian--too much like a boy
who'd stand with a mandolin beneath a stair
and serenade his girl; who would enjoy

good wine and food and music and would dress
in fashion, go disgusted to carnival,
study Castiglione and play chess,
greet friends at the rialto and the mall.

Coifed hair and slender build can't represent
the boy who shivered under naked stars
or sat nights by a watchfire, vigilant
for wolves, his legs and wrists circles with scars

from grappling with wild beasts, his hands calloused
from handling rocks and strong from hefting sheep
onto his shoulders when they were hurt or lost--
his nurture of the flock he had to keep.

Bernini, rather, caught the boy we see
in First Samuel: he grasps the leather sling,
fitting the stone in, aiming angrily
at blaspheming Goliath, tensed to fling

death at his forehead. The rough sheepskin pouch
that held the five smooth stones is crude and plain.
The zeal for God is etched into the crouch
of his body and he can hardly contain

his anger at the curses, at the scorn
the Philistine has flung against the host
of God. He frowns. Tomorrow Gath will mourn.
Goliath's pride will be an empty boast.

ADVENTure is out there!

Let me begin by saying my car is old. Let me follow this fact by saying how much I love my car. My father bought it many years ago with the intention of letting me drive it when I got my license at age 16 and, thus, buying himself a chauffeur to carpool his five younger children around.

I drove it for two years in high school and then left it at home for college, taking it back with me only two of my eight semesters. Once when my sister was driving it, a little gravel flew up and hit the windshield while she and my brother were leaving the boat house after practice. The front window now has a nice scar across the lower part of the window. I think it gives it character. When I graduated college, my parents gave it to me as a graduation gift since I was not living at home at the time and would need transportation for my reporting job.

Today is Day 2 of my car being completely frozen shut. Not only am I not amused, but I am sad. I miss my car. I have to drive to work with my Dad, which I don't mind, but on Thursday he is going to Illinois for business and then I will need my car to open sesame or else ...I may not be able to get myself to work! I don't mind snow or cold but ice is a whole nother monster. I had to salt the back steps last night after work because I didn't want my mother coming home from work at the hospital only to return as a patient. (Or anyone, for that matter!)

Today is the feast day of St. John of the Cross, a mystic and Doctor of the Church, who came from poverty and suffering, learning to love God through hardship, and thus finding beauty and knowledge. His most famous book is Dark Night of the Soul, is a Christian classic for good reason. It is the treatise he wrote based on a poem he also wrote, of the same title, about faith in God when one is feeling loneliness, despair and spiritual dryness. St. John of the Cross argues that it is the very hardships one experiences that brings one closer to God and helps one grow in spiritual maturity. In it, he wrote, "Spiritual persons suffer great trials from the fear of being lost on the road and that God has abandoned them… Their soul was taking pleasure in being in that quietness and ease, instead of working with its faculties."

Well, I can relate. I am not going through a "dark night of the soul" by any means, but it is the third week of Advent and I am feeling a lull. Perhaps it is because I am always cold. Perhaps it is because I now have a cold. Or perhaps this is what it feels like no longer living like I am trying to do all my work in a 24 hour period.

Either way, I am learning more and more in these post-college days not to rely on only myself and my abilities. I come from a family who values independence and I've lately been worried I find more certitude in me than God. St. Augustine said to "pray as if everything depends on God, and work as if everything depends on you." I've struggled to trust God these past few weeks. I'm leaning more towards him now, but perhaps too eagerly, trying to discern his will. I am still puzzled at the clues. And that's okay. I don't really want to know, it's more a curiosity. I like praying for all possibility to delight me. Like learning a foreign language, patience and persistence is key with prayer.

Winnie the Pooh Bear Wisdom

I just realized I forgot to post the Thursday poem of the week. Compliments of B.P.

"Teddy Bear" by A. A. Milne

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at;
He gets what exercise he can
By falling off the ottoman,
But generally seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.

Now tubbiness is just the thing
Which gets a fellow wondering;
And Teddy worried lots about
The fact that he was rather stout.
He thought: "If only I were thin!
But how does anyone begin?"
He thought: "It really isn't fair
To grudge one exercise and air."

For many weeks he pressed in vain
His nose against the window-pane,
And envied those who walked about
Reducing their unwanted stout.
None of the people he could see
"Is quite" (he said) "as fat as me!"
Then, with a still more moving sigh,
"I mean" (he said) "as fat as I!

One night it happened that he took
A peep at an old picture-book,
Wherein he came across by chance
The picture of a King of France
(A stoutish man) and, down below,
These words: "King Louis So and So,
Nicknamed 'The Handsome!'" There he sat,
And (think of it!) the man was fat!

Our bear rejoiced like anything
To read about this famous King,
Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat,
And certainly the man was fat.
Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt
The man was definitely stout.
Why then, a bear (for all his tub)
Might yet be named "The Handsome Cub!"

"Might yet be named." Or did he mean
That years ago he "might have been"?
For now he felt a slight misgiving:
"Is Louis So and So still living?
Fashions in beauty have a way
Of altering from day to day.
Is 'Handsome Louis' with us yet?
Unfortunately I forget."

Next morning (nose to window-pane)
The doubt occurred to him again.
One question hammered in his head:
"Is he alive or is he dead?"
Thus, nose to pane, he pondered; but
The lattice window, loosely shut,
Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"
Our Teddy disappeared below.

There happened to be passing by
A plump man with a twinkling eye,
Who, seeing Teddy in the street,
Raised him politely to his feet,
And murmured kindly in his ear
Soft words of comfort and of cheer:
"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."
"Tut-tut! A very nasty fall."

Our Teddy answered not a word;
It's doubtful if he even heard.
Our bear could only look and look:
The stout man in the picture-book!
That 'handsome' King - could this be he,
This man of adiposity?
"Impossible," he thought. "But still,
No harm in asking. Yes I will!"

"Are you," he said,"by any chance
His Majesty the King of France?"
The other answered, "I am that,"
Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat;
Then said, "Excuse me," with an air,
"But is it Mr Edward Bear?"
And Teddy, bending very low,
Replied politely, "Even so!"

They stood beneath the window there,
The King and Mr Edward Bear,
And, handsome, if a trifle fat,
Talked carelessly of this and that....
Then said His Majesty, "Well, well,
I must get on," and rang the bell.
"Your bear, I think," he smiled. "Good-day!"
And turned, and went upon his way.

A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at.
But do you think it worries him
To know that he is far from slim?
No, just the other way about -
He's proud of being short and stout.

My friend Will took this sweet picture of an icicle formation. He showed it to me last week when we were working down in the Lane Lab; it is seriously awesome!

Yet another Yankee eccentricity

This is who greeted me this morning as I ran out of Kappa to get to my 8 a.m./ print off my midterm paper due today. Oh, hello Mr. Snowman. You used to be in the front yard.

What you see walking up to Kappa: Oh, hey!

The view of up the hill from Kappa's porch. :) and a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Rachel Phillips! Much Kappa and snow love to you on this blustery day.

One more paper down. Sometimes I think I am a glutton for prose. The paper turned out really well and Dr. S gave tandem arguments to mine today in lecture, so that was reaffirming. The title was changed to "Fighting the Good Fight." I'm interested in seeing how Dr. W likes my paper; it will definitely give us things to talk about. Did I mention I love being an American Studies major?

I like this poem, especially the last two stanzas. No implications intended, just enjoy the poem:

"Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

Also:

Walker Percy, great Southern writer and Catholic, got the Laetare Medal at ND in 1989, and made a wonderful speech. I especially like the Flannery O'Connor quote at the beginning: "All literature must draw attention to meaning beyond the moment; to man's eternal destiny." (Isn't that so great?!)

K to the A to the P-P-A

For those of you who have never been in a sorority, recruitment is the few day period in which mostly freshmen girls go through the sorority houses on campus, getting to know the girls if they do not already know, before the mutual process of elimination starts. It can be stressful, but this one is going extremely well and efficient, with the house in relative tandem.

Saturday was the first day of formal rush, which means it is Open House. Yesterday was Skit Day; tonight was Formal Desserts and tomorrow will be the Preference Party, followed by Bid Day. Yep, in less than 24 hours, we will have new members. It's a good thing I like to smile and talk, but it's always an active love for the girls to stand in the cold snow to sing goodbye to the rushees while still smiling (and in heels).

I read a great article which contained an equally wonderful and encouraging quote by Blessed Mother Teresa: "Smile," she replied, "for the smile is the beginning of love."

Today I registered for classes, finally paid off my library fine (and the rest of my tuition), bought the remainder of my books, and killed off a section of the rain forest with the amount of printing I did for my poli sci class' extra reading posted on BlackBoard (which is slightly ridiculous, since we already had to buy 12 books). I'm not complaining too much though, because it is going to be an amazing class. Lots of Hayek reading! Tres bon.

I have lots of pre-school meetings, too. I forgot how busy I get with meetings alone. One meeting I am quite excited is for The Tower Light, the literary publication on campus. I was asked to be one of the assistant editors for the Spring edition, which is going to be fantastic. My advisor sent me an e-mail, inviting me to attend his honors seminar, which I'm sure sounds like unnecessary extra reading, but I'm excited and it'll be solid.

My last semester's class schedule: Faulkner and 20th century Southern Literature, Western Heritage: Revisited (seminar), The Conservative-Libertarian Debate, The History of Science and Christianity, Thomas More and thesis.

I got edits back from my AQ article tonight and am trying not to be irked over it. I knew going into writing the piece that they wanted something very specific, and since my first final copy was sent to them before I went to Florida, I've since had to partially re-write the article again because the editor said she liked it, but she wanted more information. So I gave it to her. When I got it back tonight, I saw that she pulled a Faulkner and cut my darlings. My roomie says I need to get over it and give them what they want. I had a feeling that was going to happen, but I also feel like the article loses an essence.

Writing reflects on the writer as well, and without certain parts, I feel blah about it. I talked to a few of my sisters about it tonight, and they just teased me, the conversation ending with Betsy telling me I shouldn't be a journalist because I care too much about my words and I replied that is exactly why I should be one, and how that kind of attitude leads towards sloppy writing. Then they laughed at me and I smiled and let it go, sort of.

If there is one thing Kappa teaches you, it is to be a servant leader. Sometimes, even if it's not your job, you just need to step up and take care of it. I read this and though it was beautiful.

"We are unprofitable servants" by Blessed Teresa of Calcutta (from her book 'A Simple Path')

Do not worry about why problems exist in the world – just respond to people's needs. Some say to me that if we give charity to others it'll diminish the responsibility of government towards the needy and the poor. I don't concern myself with this, because governments do not usually offer love. I just do what I can do: the rest is not my business.

God has been so good to us: works of love are always a means of becoming closer to God. Look at what Jesus did in His life on earth! He spent it just doing good (Acts 10,38). I remind the sisters that three years of Jesus's life were spent healing the sick and the lepers, children and other people; and that's exactly what we're doing, preaching the Gospel through our actions.

It is a privilege for us to serve, and it's a real, wholehearted service that we try and give. We feel what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean, but that ocean would be less without that drop.

Off to see friends; even if it is late, and cold, and I'm exhausted, it's always good to see people dear to me.

SNOWMAGGEDON!!

Today was a snow day for Pacelli, Walnut and St. X. Cincinnatians freak out about snow. They called it "Snow Death" on the news, which really ticked Dad off because he grew up on a farm in NE Ohio near PA and he experienced serious snow. Hillsdale would not give this snow a second thought, but people here in town go to the store and buy enough food to last them the winter. It's a little funny.

Need to get back to packing. Dad and I just got home from visiting my aunt at the hospital. Back to school tomorrow. I can't believe it! I feel like I just got home, only more rested. Heidi is sitting on everything clean. Supposed to see Beslini again tonight, but she lives a little far to drive in this weather. I have a Waugh short story I want to finish reading too, and some more edits to more finish. Let's not immanentize the eschaton, here! Kate and I are leaving at 8 am-ish (too early). My last formal Rush starts Saturday. I'm officially a second semester senior once I pay off my library fines from last semester. Yeah!

I'm thinking about dubbing Thursday as poetry sharing day. (Lame title, I know. I'll think of a better one soon, promises.) Not that other days won't necessarily have it, but Thursday will be set aside and dedicated mostly to iambic pentameter and otherwise this semester. To kick it off, I'll share two I read recently:

"Guinea Pig" by Julie Cadwallader-Staub

As if your cancer weren't enough,
the guinea pig is dying.
The kids brought him to me
wrapped in a bath towel
‘Do something, Mom.
Save his life.'

I'm a good mom.
I took time from work,
drove him to the vet,
paid $77.00 for his antibiotics.

Now, after the kids rush off to school,
you and I sit on the bed.
I hold the guinea pig, since he bites.
You fill the syringe.
We administer the foul smelling medicine,
hoping the little fellow will live.

admitting to each other:
if he doesn't,
it'll be good practice.

and

"Looking at Pictures to Be Put Away" by Gary Snyder

Who was this girl
In her white night gown
Clutching a pair of jeans

On a foggy redwood deck.
She looks up at me tender,
Calm, surprised,

What will we remember
Bodied thick with food and lovers
After twenty years.

Happy Thursday!

Apple Cores and Notes in the Margins

Bianca is my oldest friend, the one I still sign my letters "your BFF," like we started doing when we were 8 or 9. She's the farthest right one in the blue shorts, black and white socks. I'm the farthest left in the number 10 jersey, black shorts and white socks. We met at Cardinal Pacelli grade school in kindergarten. (Cardinal Pacelli was later Pope Pius X, the pope during WWII, for those interested.)

Her family ended up moving to Kentucky after first grade because of her dad's work. We kept in touch throughout grade school by writing letters and summers spent between our houses and camps in South Carolina. Technological additions (cell phones, cars) helped enhance our communication throughout high school and college as well.

We talked on the phone today for the first time since before Christmas. It was not on my to-do list (the odious reminder of things I have yet to accomplish), but I am glad we chatted. She helps me focus my priorities and if we have bona fortuna, we might room together after college! I don't know why that minute detail of my future plans has been bothering me the past few days (I have to get a job first, apartment second); I even started heckling the twins last night.

Home is snowy and comfortable. I hung out with Heidi for most of the day, or she with me, as I did work. The editor at AQ really liked my article, but she wants me to add more to it. I am mentally done with it, so I'm finding it cumbersome. Therefore, I've been working more on my thesis.

I'm trying to get a survey of current black inmates who did not grow up in a two-parent home. They do not collect that information on a local level (I've been in contact with the Cincinnati jails, not exceedingly nice people), but my cousin said there should on a state or federal level, so there's more information to track down. My sister-friend Vivian is finishing college with an easy semester and said she would help me if I needed it. I am seriously considering using her research and clerical skills. I would normally bake her cookies or something to say thank you, but she wants to go to culinary school and is a tad better at cooking than I am, so I'll have to think outside my traditional baked good offering.

I found two books to review for the coming semester: "Intellectuals and Society" by Thomas Sowell and "Twitterature" by Alexander Aciman and Emmett Rensin. I've contacted the publishers; the books might beat me back to school!

The best part of being home is hanging out with the siblings, only today it was mainly the little kids. I helped Katie move into Theta on Sunday and we saw The Young Victoria with our cousin Sarah yesterday (very good!). Mike runs his own show, but he ate the dinner I made tonight (salmon, mac and cheese, green beans), so I was quite pleased with that.

A lot can be learned from having younger siblings. For example, John came home tonight from sledding with his leg banged up from getting swiped at by a dog and it's a roll with the punches kind of situation (once a phone call to Mom confirmed he is up-to-date on all his shots), with me cleaning of the wounds and an applying the band-aids and neosporn. Or when Marianne asked me who my favorite Enlightenment figure is, it's interesting to hear her tell me her teacher does not like Montesquieu but rather favors Rousseau. The key is to tell her my reasons for liking him while allowing and wanting her to make up her own mind, so as to not mimic my thoughts. (Muff likes Voltaire's wit.)

I am impatiently a-waiting books in the mail for this coming semester. This has been a book-buying intensive semester and I hope they get here before Friday. I bought half my books on-line and the other half will be bought at school. My parents are very slow about mail, though, which worries me if they do not arrive in a timely fashion, i.e. before Friday morning, when I am heading back to school. I might have to see if Sam or Jim can bring any late books, since they won't have to be on campus early for sorority rush.

I think it's still early enough in 2010 to post "This Year":


My sentiment exactly, compliments of The Mountain Goats.

Start of the final stretch...

Trace Bundy plays a great 'O Come, O Come Emmanuel' with Josh Garrels:



A poem in honor of it being the second to last Saturday in Hillsdale...

"Desert Places" by Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Spending the day in Kay Kay Gee 11 with the Bear

Today is the day of reckoning. I'll pull my final graveyard shift (of the week) in order to finish my Birzer and Wenzel papers. At 4:35 a.m. this morning I finished my paper on William F. Buckley. It should not have taken so long, but I was simultaneously editing pages for the Forum, which is going to press soon. Currently holed up in Kappa, listening to Christmas music and doing work with my roommate, whom, if you were not aware, I call Bear (or Bear-Bear). Now you do. Outside still ridiculously cold; the wind was a horrible and biting companion this morning on the way to class. More fluffy snow, on the bright side.

While looking for my annotated bibliography, I stumbled upon this essay, my final paper for Prose Style. I don't remember the prompt, but I am sure it had something to do with what we thought were the most important rules of writing. I turned it a little over a year ago and thought I would share it now. I broke up the paragraphs a little more to make it easier to read in the blog format:

Julie Robison
Prose Style
Tracy Simmons
December 9, 2008

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!
Yes, into Life's deep stream!
All forms of sorrow and delight,
All solemn Voices of the Night,
That can soothe thee, or affright, —
Be these henceforth thy theme.
—final stanza of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's "Voices Of The Night—Prelude"

Looking into mine heart

Writing begins with a pace. Back and forth, back and forth; if I am not literally walking in circles, then I am sitting in front of my computer, thinking I should be doing something besides tapping the resident yellow pad of paper with a twice-sharpened pencil. I am frustrated because the ideas nor the writing are coming easily; even with my journalism training and my vast experience with working against deadlines, it may still take hours upon hours of writing drafts of anything remotely connected to the topic before my prose takes shape. I can write all day and not write one decent sentence.

At this point in the process, my sentences are sad, and I fear will this piece will end badly. I envy many of my fellow writers, those who are patient. Ideas come to those who wait for them. Those writers do not write until they have something to say. They sit in their chair and let inspiration hit them upside the head, and then, upon seeing stars, they write. I do not like waiting. I like finding ideas; around handle bars of bicycles, hiding behind corners of magazine pages, or in a glance out the car window. Then, upon catching it, I scribble it down into place and so hold it there until I am able to develop it more fully.

Writing is the art of ignoring time and learning patience. It also composed of three Golden Rules, the first being the practice of keeping my worst enemies close to me. I have been writing since grade school, and whenever I’m feeling particularly dry on ideas, I go to my closet, where there are many boxes. A few are labeled accordingly for high school memories, and others indicate grade school lies beneath, but I opt for the one box labeled ‘Writings.’ Inside is years upon years of drafts: essays I had written for school assignments, descriptions of people and places on loose sheets of paper, short stories, old clips, inspired ideas on scraps torn from an unsuspecting source, and my many attempts at poetry.

It is humbling to see how horrible your best writing used to be, and yet I know how proud I was of it at the time. I wonder momentarily if I will look back on my writing now, the same work I admire with mother's eyes, and shake my head in despair. Julie, I think, you were so young. The box serves as a reminder to never, never, never stop writing; only constant vigilance and the belief that, if I were to ever cease, my work would descend into metaphorical madness and be thrust into the cardboard darkness, keeps my hand moving.

The second Golden Rule of becoming a better writer is learning not to take rejection personally. Rejection does not just mean having a publication cross your “little wonder” off their ‘To Publish’ list at present. It also means learning to take rejection of ideas or words, and accepting criticism from others. I myself, although a mostly tough-skinned journalist, felt the sting recently when my thirteen-year-old sister, another aspiring writer, read a piece I gave to my father to critique and called me up to share her comments. To say I was not amused is an understatement. My father turned a deaf ear to my complaints and told me to think about what she said before I became critical.

Time did, eventually, show me that she made a few solid assessments, and I was forced to admit even a person without formal training is able to recognize faults in another’s work. Recognition of faults, a sub-category of Golden Rule number two, is necessary to any writer who wishes to improve, because having a critical eye towards one’s own work will save much heartache and many postage stamps in the years to come.

To advance in one's writing style, it is important to sample the goods. It is not possible to write well if one does not read well. The mind imitates what it sees and picks up on certain turns and phrases, unaware perhaps of how words coil themselves around the mind. The third Golden Rule, therefore, is to read, and to always be reading. The first place to start is newspapers, and then onto magazines and journals, before delving deeper into books. Writers should keep a diverse reading palate if they are to improve.

In the spirit of high school guidance counselors everywhere, it is important to be well-rounded in one’s reading tastes. Prose and poetry are necessary elements for any writer, because they both use words differently, and so I read when I do not write, and take notes and underline favorite passages, only to see another writer emerging from me when I later sit down to collect myself and my thoughts.

And so I compose myself, and shake off my self-doubts. It’s time to write, I think. I crack my knuckles before getting back to my work, and enjoy the rhythmic clicks of my fingers hitting the keys. Something I had written out earlier has caught my eye, and I am beginning to smile as I write more and more, taking sheer pleasure from being able to express myself semi-coherently.

It’s going to be okay, I think, this piece will be just fine. I feel like I have successfully navigated through the wrecking yard; I have scrapped my writing for parts and found success. I will keep the other writing for another day, but now I am focused. I will most likely not leave the area for hours, but I do not mind because I see now how my piece will end—not with whimper, but a bang.

Blizzard Aftermath

Up the hill! A glimpse of the quad from outside Lane. There was a huge snowball fight up there last night, when the snow was really great packing consistency. Now it's more rainy snow. If you look carefully, you can see the salt scattered like birdseed. People were around and hurrying to class, but they were passing me on the right and therefore not pictured. I snapped this right before my Frost seminar.

Front of Kappa this morning! The snow is at least half of what it was last night. Not pictured: now lopsided snowman built by three KKGs last night.

Editing Hf pages tonight, going to press tomorrow! Finally!

Currently looking for good F. O'Connor letter to share with epistolary seminar--we have our last meeting today! Matt wanted to eat lunch at Saga today, but Dr. Wenzel is buying our lunch from Oakley's (a really good local sandwich shop, which I like despite my overall unfondness for sandwiches), so I had to take a rain-check. I'm finishing up my personal letters now; I'm mailing eight today! To keep my mind working this weekend even when I was starting to get burned out, I would write a letter to a friend. I love writing letters, even brief ones, to drop people a line and friendly "hello."

Lacking sleep, but doing well. I think my body and mind are simply resigned to this week being over-worked. In Frost, we got a handout and when I passed it to Heather, she said "You taint these by your cheerfulness." I know she was teasing me, but I think it's rude when people take out their bad sleeping habits on other people by being crabby. When I do get crabby, I prefer avoiding people and sleeping, running, reading or praying off my irritability. I believe it's important to keep a genuinely happy exterior--you may make someone else's day better, which is more satisfying than being like Melville's Ishmael, bringing up the rear of funeral processions and methodically knocking people's hats off when I'm having a "damp, drizzly November in my soul."

I'm particularly enjoying "Christmas Carols Radio" on Pandora, but am feeling nostalgic for home of late and therefore have been intermittently listening to the Clancy Brothers as well. Nothing like Irish ballads to lift the spirits! I hope my wake is just as fun as Tim Finnegan's--no crying now; wakes are for remembering the good times and funerals for praying for the soul. Tears should be saved for scraped knees and broken hearts, not death. Death should be laughed at, since people don't really die, whether or not you believe in a Christian afterlife. A good reading of Dante's three-volumes of the Divine Comedy gives one a nice perspective on that topic.



The Gospel reading today is from Matthew. Quite appropriate, I think:
"Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for your selves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light." -MT 11:28-30

Happy Wednesday! Snow flurries are picking up again.

BFFs, Chicago-style

My best friend this weekend! Ours is a fickle friendship, but I let her live on my desk and she's always there when I need her.

I'm thinking about making cookies this weekend as well for a study break since exam season is coming up and 'tis the season to get stressed! I'm leaning towards chocolate chip. I'll definitely be sending some to Bianca in NC and maybe a few other far-away friends as well as feeding the Hillsdale masses. Or I could make them for the Hillsdale Forum Christmas party next Friday afternoon!! Yay!!

If all goes well this weekend, my Robert Frost and James Otis papers and presentation (for Frost) will be done come Monday.

My poem selection of the day: "The Sound of Trees" by Robert Frost

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.

In other news, both Texas and D.C. have snow but not Michigan. I'm not upset or sad at all about it since, after Christmas break, the campus will resume its re-enactment of Narnia before the White Witch was killed--completely covered in blankets of snow, harsh winds and ice covering the trees and sidewalks alike. On the plus side, I look forward to awesome sledding!

Update: Four snowflakes spotted! We'll be looking for the fifth in the next hour...