Solidify
Blade slashes bag.
Charcoal clouds billow out.
Filling lungs and pockets.
Hose sprays water.
Winding in minuscule rivulets.
Forming muddy clumps.
Shovel mixes.
Liquid and powder unite.
Smooth like an iced chai.
Wheelbarrow pours.
Secret disappears.
Cement hardens.
Fingerprints and all.
Melt
Spring is the best time of year
I trade mud brown Sorels
for indigo leather Airwalks
as the snow becomes slush and then
memory
Men melt
Carrots and coal
remain to testify they were there
The Mississippi swells
It is a dangerous serpent
The hockey rink transforms into a soccer field
A delicate icicle clings
to the white birch tree in the front yard
fiercely determined to endure
the summer
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Monday, October 22, 2012
Short Lines and Long Lines
Victim of Survival
I am crushed beneath the weight of the
World collapsing on me--the sky is falling
Like London Bridge or ashes, ashes, and the
Rubble is my burial mound. I lie beneath it,
Calm. When I'm trapped, no one can expect me
To do anything more than survive.
I could struggle against gravity
But maybe I lack conviction
Or maybe apathy has gotten the best of me.
The loss is an earthquake; it leaves me
Trembling, but breathing. For a moment,
I think I am dead--so I
Write myself back to life, digging with
Words that are shovels, face turned up,
Looking for the light--I can see it, it's
Blinding. The promise of freedom. I can
Taste the air again. I will survive
Despite pressure, loss, and gravity.
Ideas
Ideas drive
Through my mind
Like traffic.
Some race,
Gone before
I can see them;
Others putter along,
Meandering,
Requiring pause,
Drawing attention
With brake light red.
And some ideas
Break down
On the brain
Superhighway--
Stuck, and causing
The entire world
To stop.
I am crushed beneath the weight of the
World collapsing on me--the sky is falling
Like London Bridge or ashes, ashes, and the
Rubble is my burial mound. I lie beneath it,
Calm. When I'm trapped, no one can expect me
To do anything more than survive.
I could struggle against gravity
But maybe I lack conviction
Or maybe apathy has gotten the best of me.
The loss is an earthquake; it leaves me
Trembling, but breathing. For a moment,
I think I am dead--so I
Write myself back to life, digging with
Words that are shovels, face turned up,
Looking for the light--I can see it, it's
Blinding. The promise of freedom. I can
Taste the air again. I will survive
Despite pressure, loss, and gravity.
Ideas
Ideas drive
Through my mind
Like traffic.
Some race,
Gone before
I can see them;
Others putter along,
Meandering,
Requiring pause,
Drawing attention
With brake light red.
And some ideas
Break down
On the brain
Superhighway--
Stuck, and causing
The entire world
To stop.
Free Verse Lineation
I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.
And the cataclysm nears,
Catalyzed by fears and stress,
And oh yes, you my dear.
Internal pressure reaches levels so
High my skin bevels out to
Compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring,
Wearing that tired smile you tried to
Disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door,
But what was inside won't be there anymore
(Weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--
Cliche', I know, and a little lame--but
Being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby? I'd lobby
For you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me
And my voice; all the while they pervade me, pervert me
Into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(Dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel
Like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do,
I know you don't, and that's OK, I'm OK with that--
Did you hear me? I'M OK.
Really.
But I'd be more OK
If I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now
But the bomb will blow
When it's catalyzed again.
I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.
Internal pressure reaches levels so high my skin bevels out to compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring, wearing that tired smile you tried to disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door, but what was inside won't be there anymore
(weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--cliche', I know, and a little lame--
but being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby?
I'd lobby for you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me and my voice;
all the while they pervade me, pervert me into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do, I know you don't, and that's OK,
I'm OK with that--did you hear me? I'M OK. Really.
But I'd be more OK if I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now but the bomb will blow when it's catalyzed again.
The different lineations of the poem feel so different that they are actually two very different poems. The first feels disjointed, chaotic, and urgent. The line breaks are harsh and discordant and juxtapose words and rhymes in ways that I find interesting. The second version is a much smoother read, with more predictable line breaks. It emphasizes the wordplay and internalizes the rhyme. I prefer the first poem as a whole because the short lines create a sharp, violent tone that mirrors the concept my anger makes the end of the world seem comparatively tame.
Definition Poem
A Computer
It turns on,
Loads,
Takes its time.
It connects
To the world,
Collects
Information,
Viruses,
Cookies.
It updates automatically,
Just before you save.
It saves time
And lowers blood pressure
But gives carpal tunnel.
It is your social life--
How many of your friends
Like you?
It glows in the dark,
Keeps you up late,
Until you shut it down
Or it shuts you down.
The computer was designed
To be a tool for us
To use, but we
Are the ones
Being used.
It turns on,
Loads,
Takes its time.
It connects
To the world,
Collects
Information,
Viruses,
Cookies.
It updates automatically,
Just before you save.
It saves time
And lowers blood pressure
But gives carpal tunnel.
It is your social life--
How many of your friends
Like you?
It glows in the dark,
Keeps you up late,
Until you shut it down
Or it shuts you down.
The computer was designed
To be a tool for us
To use, but we
Are the ones
Being used.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
This I Believe
When I was a senior in high school, I found a necklace engraved with Dagaz at the Navy Pier in Chicago. It was mine for a mere nine dollars; it was a favorite souvenir from that choir trip. I had always wanted a fresh start; I had lived in the same small town my entire life. When you're unpopular in a small town, your reputation precedes you. I always thought moving somewhere new would give me the chance to make friends and shed my past like a snakeskin. College was fast approaching, and I knew it would offer me just that opportunity.
During the summer before I left for college, I met a new group of friends while playing the lead role in a play called Groovy. Among these new friends was my first girlfriend, Carrie. She was beautiful. She was also sort of dating Colin. Or she had been. Or she was. It was kind of sketchy. I'm not quite sure how this awkward love triangle started, but what I do know is that one night Colin got really upset--presumably because Carrie broke up with him to date me. He told Carrie he was going to kill himself. She called me, crying. I immediately got in the car and drove thirty minutes to pick up Carrie, and together we went to Colin's house.
Luckily, he hadn't done anything serious to hurt himself. But the damage was done. Carrie and I didn't last much longer. That same night, I hugged Colin and gave him my Dagaz necklace. I told him I was sorry that I had gotten involved with the girl he liked, and that I hoped it wouldn't ruin our friendship. I also told him I wanted us to have a new beginning to our friendship.
Colin and I never really got close after that, and Carrie started dating another friend, Mike. It hurt at first, and suddenly I understood Colin's reaction. But I just told myself that it's time for a new beginning. Being away at college, I got to meet a lot of new people and make some true friendships. Years later, I would get to reinvent myself once again when I started working at summer camp in Massachusetts, and yet again when I moved to North Carolina to teach. I value new beginnings; I believe everyone deserves freedom from the pitfalls of the past.
Each of my tattoos has a significant meaning to me, and the one on my left leg is no different. It is the Norse rune Dagaz, and it reminds me that no matter how bad life may seem, it will get better. I just need to go to sleep, wake up, and appreciate the beauty of the new day.
Monday, September 3, 2012
In Transit
I recently watched Lost for the first time. As I buckle my seatbelt, I have to breathe deeply--my mind has leapt to the illogical conclusion that my plane, too, will crash. Of course it won't, I reassure myself. Just because Jack Shepard didn't make it to his dad's funeral.... Tears replace the end of the thought, an ellipsis dotting my cheek.
The flight attendant comes to the front with her painted face and warns us that we must turn off all electronic devices. (I always wonder why this is important. One time, I realized during a safe landing that I had inadvertently left my phone on the entire time. Oops.) "We are very glad to have you flying with us today." That word very echoes in my mind for the rest of my life, as if she had said, "We are very glad your father died."
The plane begins to shake as it taxis down the runway. Somewhere behind me, a baby is crying. I wish I could listen to my iPod. Instead, I attempt to read. I have limited success. I sleep, also with limited success.
The flight from Charlotte to Minneapolis takes 2 hours and 45 minutes. The time stretches endlessly like a blue sky. Intermittently, I gaze out the window. The clouds appear soft, the way a Minnesota snow looks before anyone has walked through it. This is how I had imagined heaven when I was younger; I imagine my dad as an angel, lackadaisically floating around up here. I almost laugh. I almost cry.
I spend the remainder of the flight in that space just between awake and asleep. The flight attendant announces that we will be landing very shortly. I turn off my Shuffle and try to read. The plane begins to dive, and I find myself a bit disappointed. A crash would have meant that I would never have to work at unraveling the complex knot of emotions that I am feeling.
We land safely. Soon I will be with my sister, then my mom, and then everyone. I will go to the funeral and feign sadness--I'm sure that I am sad somewhere inside. I will act like everything is fine. And it is, mostly. But there is a part of me that is lost.
The flight attendant comes to the front with her painted face and warns us that we must turn off all electronic devices. (I always wonder why this is important. One time, I realized during a safe landing that I had inadvertently left my phone on the entire time. Oops.) "We are very glad to have you flying with us today." That word very echoes in my mind for the rest of my life, as if she had said, "We are very glad your father died."
The plane begins to shake as it taxis down the runway. Somewhere behind me, a baby is crying. I wish I could listen to my iPod. Instead, I attempt to read. I have limited success. I sleep, also with limited success.
The flight from Charlotte to Minneapolis takes 2 hours and 45 minutes. The time stretches endlessly like a blue sky. Intermittently, I gaze out the window. The clouds appear soft, the way a Minnesota snow looks before anyone has walked through it. This is how I had imagined heaven when I was younger; I imagine my dad as an angel, lackadaisically floating around up here. I almost laugh. I almost cry.
I spend the remainder of the flight in that space just between awake and asleep. The flight attendant announces that we will be landing very shortly. I turn off my Shuffle and try to read. The plane begins to dive, and I find myself a bit disappointed. A crash would have meant that I would never have to work at unraveling the complex knot of emotions that I am feeling.
We land safely. Soon I will be with my sister, then my mom, and then everyone. I will go to the funeral and feign sadness--I'm sure that I am sad somewhere inside. I will act like everything is fine. And it is, mostly. But there is a part of me that is lost.
My Alter Ego
He who has Many Gifts yet Desires More.
He with Gifts is kind and patient. He understands that in time, Ice must melt, Rock must crumble to sand (that doesn't mean he accepts this truth--idealism is one of his gifts, too). He can sing, or could, before he let the dust accumulate in his throat. He has a sense of humor and a gift for being serious, but sometimes he wishes for more. He was gifted with a clever mind, but longs for a finer form. He was gifted with the ability to fly, but longs to touch the sun. He is a hazard to himself, seeking perfection in all realms where it can't be found.
He with Gifts secretly desires to be known, loved, remembered. He thinks this will happen if he becomes the best--unforgettable. He fears being alone, forgotten, insignificant. And so He with Gifts is never satisfied. To him, good is mediocre, and excellent is good. He knows that perfect is unattainable. Yet it drives him, that overwhelming desire to control the winds, to escape gravity, to invent dandelions; to be first, best, loudest, longest; to be champion, king, god.
He with Gifts is defined by his desire, his quest to break free of the restrictions imposed on him by his frail human form. Someday, he will be something to someone. Someday, he will find his personal grail that gives his life meaning. Someday, he will realize why he has received an abundance of gifts. And in that realization, perhaps he will find peace.
But I doubt it. He will probably still want more.
He with Gifts is kind and patient. He understands that in time, Ice must melt, Rock must crumble to sand (that doesn't mean he accepts this truth--idealism is one of his gifts, too). He can sing, or could, before he let the dust accumulate in his throat. He has a sense of humor and a gift for being serious, but sometimes he wishes for more. He was gifted with a clever mind, but longs for a finer form. He was gifted with the ability to fly, but longs to touch the sun. He is a hazard to himself, seeking perfection in all realms where it can't be found.
He with Gifts secretly desires to be known, loved, remembered. He thinks this will happen if he becomes the best--unforgettable. He fears being alone, forgotten, insignificant. And so He with Gifts is never satisfied. To him, good is mediocre, and excellent is good. He knows that perfect is unattainable. Yet it drives him, that overwhelming desire to control the winds, to escape gravity, to invent dandelions; to be first, best, loudest, longest; to be champion, king, god.
He with Gifts is defined by his desire, his quest to break free of the restrictions imposed on him by his frail human form. Someday, he will be something to someone. Someday, he will find his personal grail that gives his life meaning. Someday, he will realize why he has received an abundance of gifts. And in that realization, perhaps he will find peace.
But I doubt it. He will probably still want more.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Skin Poems
1.
I wear my heart on my skin
Nervous nails draw lines
Like rose gardens.
Splotchy patches of pink
Caused by stress or chlorine
And no one has the manners to pretend they aren't there.
They plague me, like cockroaches that refuse to die.
This skin is not my own, it is
A malevolent gift.
I wish I were a snake.
2.
Your dark fingers fit
Between mine
The contrast
Is beautiful
Starlight
In a night sky
Onyx
And silver
Ink
On the blank page
You write a poem with your
Soft touch
You tattoo me with words of
Love
I think I've finally found you
3.
Layers of dust coat the floor
Where they lived for years.
Dead skin.
She walks through the empty house
Footsteps echo softly, leaving a trail.
Dead space.
Dust billows as her feet sweep
Across the room, settles back.
Dead again.
She tries to remember how long it's
Been since he left--
Dead. Yesterday?
A lifetime. The dust testifies,
DNA evidence, he's been
Dead. She
Is dying, cell by cell,
The dust accumulating.
Dead skin.
4.
It cuts across skin
Leaving in its wake
A bleeding black line
Carving skulls and snakes,
Dragons and daggers.
Japanese koi.
From flash to flesh,
A transformation.
Metamorphosis.
The canvas
Will never be the same.
I wear my heart on my skin
Nervous nails draw lines
Like rose gardens.
Splotchy patches of pink
Caused by stress or chlorine
And no one has the manners to pretend they aren't there.
They plague me, like cockroaches that refuse to die.
This skin is not my own, it is
A malevolent gift.
I wish I were a snake.
2.
Your dark fingers fit
Between mine
The contrast
Is beautiful
Starlight
In a night sky
Onyx
And silver
Ink
On the blank page
You write a poem with your
Soft touch
You tattoo me with words of
Love
I think I've finally found you
3.
Layers of dust coat the floor
Where they lived for years.
Dead skin.
She walks through the empty house
Footsteps echo softly, leaving a trail.
Dead space.
Dust billows as her feet sweep
Across the room, settles back.
Dead again.
She tries to remember how long it's
Been since he left--
Dead. Yesterday?
A lifetime. The dust testifies,
DNA evidence, he's been
Dead. She
Is dying, cell by cell,
The dust accumulating.
Dead skin.
4.
It cuts across skin
Leaving in its wake
A bleeding black line
Carving skulls and snakes,
Dragons and daggers.
Japanese koi.
From flash to flesh,
A transformation.
Metamorphosis.
The canvas
Will never be the same.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life
L
Laps: Have you ever wondered where your lap goes when you stand up? I have not. When people ask this question, I think they are ridiculous. A lap is the area from the knee to the stomach when the thigh is perpendicular to the stomach. Asking where the lap is when you stand is like asking where the darkness goes when the light is on.
Larry: Don't call him that--he hates it. He's my best friend and my partner in crime. We're pretty much always together whenever neither of us is at work. Larry (hereafter referred to as Junior) and I have all kinds of adventures together. We go whitewater rafting, watch horror movies, and meet professional wrestlers; it's always fun with him. Even though he's my best friend, I won't let him read this. He'll be mad I told everyone his real name!
Laundry: Laundry is a chore that, in general, I don't mind doing. However, I have certain pet peeves about laundry:
Letters: I don't know that I can put into words the way letters make me feel. I associate them largely with my friend Adam who killed himself in 1999. Letters make me really emotional. I love seeing the words someone chooses to explain his or her life. I get the best letters from Gabrielle. She is a letter-writing-ninja. Over the years, we have competed to write the longest letters. I'm not sure who wins anymore. Gabrielle is a pretty special person, and her writing always amazes me. I definitely owe her a letter right now. I promise it's coming soon.
Libraries: My first job was at a library. I have a tremendous respect for books. I love reading and am grateful for the experiences the library provided me as a child. Unfortunately, I think libraries are slowly (or quickly) becoming obsolete. I'm sure there will always be some people who will continue to want to use them, and I'm sure students will need to use them for research; but I think the common person will stop using the library within 10 years, if he or she has not stopped already. Sad, but true.
Life: I'm a pretty big fan of life.
Lifeguard Certification: One of my proudest achievements. I wasn't sure I could do it--I was not the best swimmer, nor was I in the best shape, nor did I have the best vision. After training myself to build up my speed and endurance, I did fine in the lifeguarding class. I showed myself I could achieve any goal. I was so proud of myself. Life was awesome. Until I started guarding (see Lifeguarding).
Lifeguarding: The most boring job I've ever had. It sounds glamorous, but it's not. Scan the water at least once every ten seconds. Don't talk. Hold a big red foam thing. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan.
Light Bulbs: It confounds me that some people have not yet installed energy efficient light bulbs.
Acceptable Light Bulb for 2012 Less Acceptable Light Bulb for 2012
Lingering Smells: My whole house smells like bacon. It was totally worth it.
Lions: Lions don't actually live in the jungle. This is a misconception. Also, I think lions are secretly jealous of how awesomely cool tigers are.
Locks: Ever since I was a pretty little kid, I have always locked my bedroom door at night. I was afraid of axe murderers. My mom told me it was silly; an axe murderer would just chop through the door. I didn't care. It still made me feel better to lock the door.
I think locks give us the illusion of safety. I lock pretty much everything, even if it seems unnecessary. I lock my house even when I'm home; I lock my car even when it's empty. It just makes me feel better.
No axe murderer is going to get the best of me.
Losers: Most of the people with whom I went to elementary/junior high/high school are losers. I'm sure some of them are doing great things with their lives. I don't care. Most of them were mean to me. I was labeled a loser. Now all I do is win.
Losing Weight: For some odd reason, it is much easier to gain weight than to lose it. I find this highly unfair.
Lying: I don't understand the point of prevarication. The truth is so much simpler. People try too hard to overrepresent themselves. Please don't lie to me. I'd rather know who you really are. After all, we are just human.
Lyrics: I am completely flabbergasted by the lyrics to most popular songs. They are either exceptionally simple and shallow or totally cliche. I enjoy music, but sometimes I get sick of hearing songs that are only about love/sex/cheating/money/fame. Music has become nameless faceless drivel, and it makes me kind of sad. It's our society, though. Music is in, and I'm out.
Photos courtesy of Kevin Rector at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CompactFluorescentLightBulb.jpg, Jeff Kubina at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Light_Bulb.jpg,
Laps: Have you ever wondered where your lap goes when you stand up? I have not. When people ask this question, I think they are ridiculous. A lap is the area from the knee to the stomach when the thigh is perpendicular to the stomach. Asking where the lap is when you stand is like asking where the darkness goes when the light is on.
Larry: Don't call him that--he hates it. He's my best friend and my partner in crime. We're pretty much always together whenever neither of us is at work. Larry (hereafter referred to as Junior) and I have all kinds of adventures together. We go whitewater rafting, watch horror movies, and meet professional wrestlers; it's always fun with him. Even though he's my best friend, I won't let him read this. He'll be mad I told everyone his real name!
Laundry: Laundry is a chore that, in general, I don't mind doing. However, I have certain pet peeves about laundry:
- I can't stand when people leave wet laundry in the washer.
- I can't stand when people leave dry laundry in the dryer.
- I really can't stand when people leave lint in the lint trap.
- I hate when people do their laundry when I am in the shower.
Letters: I don't know that I can put into words the way letters make me feel. I associate them largely with my friend Adam who killed himself in 1999. Letters make me really emotional. I love seeing the words someone chooses to explain his or her life. I get the best letters from Gabrielle. She is a letter-writing-ninja. Over the years, we have competed to write the longest letters. I'm not sure who wins anymore. Gabrielle is a pretty special person, and her writing always amazes me. I definitely owe her a letter right now. I promise it's coming soon.
Libraries: My first job was at a library. I have a tremendous respect for books. I love reading and am grateful for the experiences the library provided me as a child. Unfortunately, I think libraries are slowly (or quickly) becoming obsolete. I'm sure there will always be some people who will continue to want to use them, and I'm sure students will need to use them for research; but I think the common person will stop using the library within 10 years, if he or she has not stopped already. Sad, but true.
Life: I'm a pretty big fan of life.
Lifeguard Certification: One of my proudest achievements. I wasn't sure I could do it--I was not the best swimmer, nor was I in the best shape, nor did I have the best vision. After training myself to build up my speed and endurance, I did fine in the lifeguarding class. I showed myself I could achieve any goal. I was so proud of myself. Life was awesome. Until I started guarding (see Lifeguarding).
Lifeguarding: The most boring job I've ever had. It sounds glamorous, but it's not. Scan the water at least once every ten seconds. Don't talk. Hold a big red foam thing. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan. Shh. Hold. Scan.
Light Bulbs: It confounds me that some people have not yet installed energy efficient light bulbs.
Acceptable Light Bulb for 2012 Less Acceptable Light Bulb for 2012
Lingering Smells: My whole house smells like bacon. It was totally worth it.
Lions: Lions don't actually live in the jungle. This is a misconception. Also, I think lions are secretly jealous of how awesomely cool tigers are.
Locks: Ever since I was a pretty little kid, I have always locked my bedroom door at night. I was afraid of axe murderers. My mom told me it was silly; an axe murderer would just chop through the door. I didn't care. It still made me feel better to lock the door.
I think locks give us the illusion of safety. I lock pretty much everything, even if it seems unnecessary. I lock my house even when I'm home; I lock my car even when it's empty. It just makes me feel better.
No axe murderer is going to get the best of me.
Losers: Most of the people with whom I went to elementary/junior high/high school are losers. I'm sure some of them are doing great things with their lives. I don't care. Most of them were mean to me. I was labeled a loser. Now all I do is win.
Lying: I don't understand the point of prevarication. The truth is so much simpler. People try too hard to overrepresent themselves. Please don't lie to me. I'd rather know who you really are. After all, we are just human.
Lyrics: I am completely flabbergasted by the lyrics to most popular songs. They are either exceptionally simple and shallow or totally cliche. I enjoy music, but sometimes I get sick of hearing songs that are only about love/sex/cheating/money/fame. Music has become nameless faceless drivel, and it makes me kind of sad. It's our society, though. Music is in, and I'm out.
Photos courtesy of Kevin Rector at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CompactFluorescentLightBulb.jpg, Jeff Kubina at http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Light_Bulb.jpg,
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Tiny Masters: Personal Essay
Being the front man of a canoe is all about power. When you're in front, you're the engine. You make the boat go. You have to have the strength and endurance to paddle for extended periods. You also have to be good at dipping your paddle straight into the water. Unlike the person in the back, who is responsible for steering and thus must master a variety of strokes, the front man only needs one, simple stroke. The front man sets the pace and must be a leader, a visionary. I like canoeing because it gives me a sense of accomplishment. The ache in my muscles makes me feel alive, and a boat can lead to new and interesting places. I love seeing the sights on the river--turtles, dragonflies, osprey. I love the calm of being on the water and the feeling of being in tandem with my partner. It may seem paradoxical, but the strain that paddling places on the muscles in my arms, back, and abdomen begins feeling wonderful as time progresses. It's very Zen.
I first picked up a paddle and sat in a canoe at Catholic Youth Camp (CYC). I was not a very outdoorsy person at that point in my life; in fact, my mom was shocked when I applied there and even more so when I was hired. Although I wasn't very nature-oriented, I was definitely kid-friendly and was very active in my church. CYC seemed like the perfect way to spend a summer--especially considering I was unable to find a job the previous summer. I had some skills that I brought to the table, particularly in the areas of music, drama, and arts and crafts; however, I had no experience in traditional outdoor activities like archery, fire building, and wilderness survival. Canoeing was one of many adventures I enjoyed that summer. I never really mastered hitting the bullseye, but I became pretty proficient at the straight stroke in a canoe.
In my second summer at CYC, I took on the role of leadership specialist. My main assignment was to work with the Counselors in Leadership Training (CILTs), but one week when there were no CILTs I got to co-lead an adventure trip for some of the older teenage campers. My co-leader was Brenda Davis. She was beautiful and I was a little bit in love with her. Brenda and I were already close friends, and I was looking forward to spending a lot of time in a boat with her. I was also nervous enough that I could have thrown up at any given moment. We were going to be on the Mississippi River for several days, canoeing to a number of pre-determined stopping points. Brenda and I spoke excitedly about our upcoming trip.
Finally, the week of the adventure trip arrived. Our campers got off the bus, and we spent some time getting to know them. We planned out menus; we practiced canoeing techniques. We taught them how to set up tents, to build fires, and to use nature in lieu of a restroom. We spoke excitedly of how beautiful the river would be, how exciting it would be to make this journey. All the while, we knew that weather conditions might inhibit our trip. The river was flooded due to earlier rains; we deluded ourselves into believing it would be traversable.
It wasn't.
The camp directors made the executive decision that we were not to actually canoe down the river, as the higher-than-usual water level made it considerably more dangerous for our teenage charges. As a result, we and our campers were packed into a van and driven to one of the campsites. We took the canoes, too, just in case the water dropped significantly. We spent three days at that first site before the water dropped. It was fun, but it definitely lacked the challenge we were seeking. The campers seemed happy enough, though. When the water leveled out, we were able to get on the river, but it was still too dangerous to travel far. We continued camping at the same site, canoeing for a few hours the next couple days. As for Brenda and me, we had fun, but I sorely missed having the opportunity to prove my virility through powering down the river from site to site. Nothing more than friendship ever developed between us, and my true feelings remained silent, drowned out by the quiet roar of rushing water.
It's not often that I have been in a canoe since then, as the opportunity does not prevent itself that frequently. Nonetheless, I still thrill in getting in a kayak and paddling upstream on the Catawba, or taking the lead in a raft at the Whitewater Center. I no longer have anything to prove when I get in a boat, but the ache in my muscles is a small reminder of that week.
In my second summer at CYC, I took on the role of leadership specialist. My main assignment was to work with the Counselors in Leadership Training (CILTs), but one week when there were no CILTs I got to co-lead an adventure trip for some of the older teenage campers. My co-leader was Brenda Davis. She was beautiful and I was a little bit in love with her. Brenda and I were already close friends, and I was looking forward to spending a lot of time in a boat with her. I was also nervous enough that I could have thrown up at any given moment. We were going to be on the Mississippi River for several days, canoeing to a number of pre-determined stopping points. Brenda and I spoke excitedly about our upcoming trip.
Finally, the week of the adventure trip arrived. Our campers got off the bus, and we spent some time getting to know them. We planned out menus; we practiced canoeing techniques. We taught them how to set up tents, to build fires, and to use nature in lieu of a restroom. We spoke excitedly of how beautiful the river would be, how exciting it would be to make this journey. All the while, we knew that weather conditions might inhibit our trip. The river was flooded due to earlier rains; we deluded ourselves into believing it would be traversable.
It wasn't.
The camp directors made the executive decision that we were not to actually canoe down the river, as the higher-than-usual water level made it considerably more dangerous for our teenage charges. As a result, we and our campers were packed into a van and driven to one of the campsites. We took the canoes, too, just in case the water dropped significantly. We spent three days at that first site before the water dropped. It was fun, but it definitely lacked the challenge we were seeking. The campers seemed happy enough, though. When the water leveled out, we were able to get on the river, but it was still too dangerous to travel far. We continued camping at the same site, canoeing for a few hours the next couple days. As for Brenda and me, we had fun, but I sorely missed having the opportunity to prove my virility through powering down the river from site to site. Nothing more than friendship ever developed between us, and my true feelings remained silent, drowned out by the quiet roar of rushing water.
It's not often that I have been in a canoe since then, as the opportunity does not prevent itself that frequently. Nonetheless, I still thrill in getting in a kayak and paddling upstream on the Catawba, or taking the lead in a raft at the Whitewater Center. I no longer have anything to prove when I get in a boat, but the ache in my muscles is a small reminder of that week.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
My Many Identities
I am.
The Singer. Always in harmony with others, tenor running counter to the melody. I value the beauty of sound. I fear the sour note, the humiliation of tripping on the risers. Love singing solo. I like to stand out, be special. Dream of being a star (just like everybody else). Desperate to be noticed.
The Petty Thief. When I was a little kid, my friend had a box of chalk. We were playing outside and I really wanted that chalk. I think I knew it was wrong--but--I did it anyway. Then I went to Sunday School, and they talked about how liars and thieves go to Hell. I've never been so scared in my life!
The Teacher. Kind of obvious, but it's true. This is the dominant me, most of the time. This me recognizes the power of intelligence, knowledge, wisdom. I think students are the future (cliché, I know) and that I have a responsibility to prepare them for that. Also, to have fun. I fear the direction we are going. State vs. public education and everyone loses.
The Yo-Yo Dieter. So I've decided I want to fit into my clothes again. I'm hitting the gym on a regular basis, and I'm eating a little healthier too. But I don't know how long it will last. You see, this part of me has an archrival--the Emotional Eater. That villain invades my body and forces me to eat everything in sight--orange Hostess cupcakes are one of his particular favorites. I'm keeping him at bay for now--lost 7 pounds so far--but who knows how long I can hold my own against myself? Guess I have to stay happy. And isn't that what I'm seeking anyway--happiness?
The Cook. Some people can walk in a pantry, see a random combination of ingredients, and develop a vision of a meal that is delicious and exciting. Not me. I cook by the book, to the letter. I take a recipe and follow it exactly, as one follows a GPS to a casual dining restaurant. I'm not afraid of experimenting a little, but generally I stick to the plan. In other aspects of my life, I'm not always organized, but as the cook, I plan meals days in advance. I get stressed out when the menu needs to be changed and when I run out of eggs, but most of the time I feel like I'm the king of the kitchen.
The Native Minnesotan. First of all, I'm not a Yankee, thank you very much. According to Wikipedia, the term Yankee refers to "people originating in the northeastern US, or still more narrowly New England." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yankee) No, I'm not a Yankee. I'm a proud Midwesterner. I think Minnesota is a great state, despite the snow piling up in graceful arcs like giraffes' necks. The majority of my values come from my early years in a small town on the iron range, where people view loyalty, integrity, and diligence as the most important qualities a person can exhibit. I fear the ignorance of others who think all Minnesotans speak with the accent from Fargo (which I have never seen--and isn't Fargo in North Dakota?). I love going back to visit, but I don't think I'll ever live there again. Still, I dream of sitting beside the Mississippi River and writing, reading, or meditating.
The Camp Counselor. My alter ego, Dexter, takes over when I am in summer camp mode. I'm famous, of course, for the Moose Song. I'm hesitant to post the link, but Dexter loves any chance to be in the spotlight, so here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgFBy6U1LBk&safety_mode=true&persist_safety_mode=1&safe=active. As a camp counselor, I love kids, but even more, I love acting silly. Singing songs, playing games, dominating in counselor challenges! I will always remember my little Inca Warriors from Camp Mitton. Camp allowed me to become a leader and to become comfortable with myself. I also discovered a passion for nature and for outdoor activities. As a counselor, I constantly worry whether my campers are safe and about what will be served in the dining hall for every meal. Even though I don't work at summer camp any more, I still dream of being recognized for my dedication and passion--I want to be Counselor of the Week, every time!
The Rock Climber. Reaching for that higher grip, I push hard for every goal. I always want to make it to the top. I fear falling, not so much because I'm afraid of heights, but more because I'm afraid of smashing against the wall. I despise the struggle of getting back to the wall and climbing back to where I fell. As a climber, I love striving for the top, attempting new routes, and acting as ground support for other climbers. I dream about finishing a 10-C wall, but since I'm out of practice, it probably won't ever happen. I just want to get back to Inner Peaks and feel the chalk on my hands. If I could climb every day, I would. There is no greater sense of accomplishment than ascending to the top of every new route.
The Introvert. Most days, I'd rather have a quiet evening at home than go out and party. I like to read, play video games, watch TV, or just relax. This part of me wants to avoid the world at all costs. Don't text me, don't e-mail me, and especially, don't call me. I'll ignore you. This is the deep down me from a long time ago, the product of being the social outcast for years and years. Don't get me wrong; I like spending time with my friends. But when I need a break from the world, I'll be in my room.
The Know-It-All. Most people don't like this side of me. Someone once told me I tried to hard to be perfect, and that I should just let it go. I can't. I always want to know everything. I always want to be in control. The know-it-all fears being wrong, but is good at covering his tracks with a "Well actually, what I meant was" or an "Oh yeah, I definitely knew that!" The know-it-all dreams of, well, knowing it all and, more importantly, of being perceived as always being right.
Each of these imperfect shards of a person add up to one me, flawed and imperfect. I got a tattoo once that says "human" in Arabic to remind me that it's OK not to be perfect; it's OK to be me.
I am.
The Singer. Always in harmony with others, tenor running counter to the melody. I value the beauty of sound. I fear the sour note, the humiliation of tripping on the risers. Love singing solo. I like to stand out, be special. Dream of being a star (just like everybody else). Desperate to be noticed.
The Petty Thief. When I was a little kid, my friend had a box of chalk. We were playing outside and I really wanted that chalk. I think I knew it was wrong--but--I did it anyway. Then I went to Sunday School, and they talked about how liars and thieves go to Hell. I've never been so scared in my life!
The Teacher. Kind of obvious, but it's true. This is the dominant me, most of the time. This me recognizes the power of intelligence, knowledge, wisdom. I think students are the future (cliché, I know) and that I have a responsibility to prepare them for that. Also, to have fun. I fear the direction we are going. State vs. public education and everyone loses.
The Yo-Yo Dieter. So I've decided I want to fit into my clothes again. I'm hitting the gym on a regular basis, and I'm eating a little healthier too. But I don't know how long it will last. You see, this part of me has an archrival--the Emotional Eater. That villain invades my body and forces me to eat everything in sight--orange Hostess cupcakes are one of his particular favorites. I'm keeping him at bay for now--lost 7 pounds so far--but who knows how long I can hold my own against myself? Guess I have to stay happy. And isn't that what I'm seeking anyway--happiness?
The Cook. Some people can walk in a pantry, see a random combination of ingredients, and develop a vision of a meal that is delicious and exciting. Not me. I cook by the book, to the letter. I take a recipe and follow it exactly, as one follows a GPS to a casual dining restaurant. I'm not afraid of experimenting a little, but generally I stick to the plan. In other aspects of my life, I'm not always organized, but as the cook, I plan meals days in advance. I get stressed out when the menu needs to be changed and when I run out of eggs, but most of the time I feel like I'm the king of the kitchen.
The Native Minnesotan. First of all, I'm not a Yankee, thank you very much. According to Wikipedia, the term Yankee refers to "people originating in the northeastern US, or still more narrowly New England." (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yankee) No, I'm not a Yankee. I'm a proud Midwesterner. I think Minnesota is a great state, despite the snow piling up in graceful arcs like giraffes' necks. The majority of my values come from my early years in a small town on the iron range, where people view loyalty, integrity, and diligence as the most important qualities a person can exhibit. I fear the ignorance of others who think all Minnesotans speak with the accent from Fargo (which I have never seen--and isn't Fargo in North Dakota?). I love going back to visit, but I don't think I'll ever live there again. Still, I dream of sitting beside the Mississippi River and writing, reading, or meditating.
The Camp Counselor. My alter ego, Dexter, takes over when I am in summer camp mode. I'm famous, of course, for the Moose Song. I'm hesitant to post the link, but Dexter loves any chance to be in the spotlight, so here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgFBy6U1LBk&safety_mode=true&persist_safety_mode=1&safe=active. As a camp counselor, I love kids, but even more, I love acting silly. Singing songs, playing games, dominating in counselor challenges! I will always remember my little Inca Warriors from Camp Mitton. Camp allowed me to become a leader and to become comfortable with myself. I also discovered a passion for nature and for outdoor activities. As a counselor, I constantly worry whether my campers are safe and about what will be served in the dining hall for every meal. Even though I don't work at summer camp any more, I still dream of being recognized for my dedication and passion--I want to be Counselor of the Week, every time!
The Rock Climber. Reaching for that higher grip, I push hard for every goal. I always want to make it to the top. I fear falling, not so much because I'm afraid of heights, but more because I'm afraid of smashing against the wall. I despise the struggle of getting back to the wall and climbing back to where I fell. As a climber, I love striving for the top, attempting new routes, and acting as ground support for other climbers. I dream about finishing a 10-C wall, but since I'm out of practice, it probably won't ever happen. I just want to get back to Inner Peaks and feel the chalk on my hands. If I could climb every day, I would. There is no greater sense of accomplishment than ascending to the top of every new route.
The Introvert. Most days, I'd rather have a quiet evening at home than go out and party. I like to read, play video games, watch TV, or just relax. This part of me wants to avoid the world at all costs. Don't text me, don't e-mail me, and especially, don't call me. I'll ignore you. This is the deep down me from a long time ago, the product of being the social outcast for years and years. Don't get me wrong; I like spending time with my friends. But when I need a break from the world, I'll be in my room.
The Know-It-All. Most people don't like this side of me. Someone once told me I tried to hard to be perfect, and that I should just let it go. I can't. I always want to know everything. I always want to be in control. The know-it-all fears being wrong, but is good at covering his tracks with a "Well actually, what I meant was" or an "Oh yeah, I definitely knew that!" The know-it-all dreams of, well, knowing it all and, more importantly, of being perceived as always being right.
Each of these imperfect shards of a person add up to one me, flawed and imperfect. I got a tattoo once that says "human" in Arabic to remind me that it's OK not to be perfect; it's OK to be me.
I am.
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