Girls Can Be Jesus Too: The Archetype of Wonder Woman and Why Girls Need Fighting Jesus

The number one aspect of being Christian is being Christ-like, it's why we take on his name. As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, while not perfect, I am first and foremost Christian. Christianity means a lot of different things to a lot of different people and I'm not about to open that can of worms except to say that Christ loved all people and that's what I'm working towards.

But enough about me and more about Wonder Woman [film and comic spoilers ahead... so...]

From the very beginning of the film, it's made clear that Diana is an archetype of Christ. Let's lay it out:

• Initial, unknown divine origin which she must learn
• Key in a vast plan of God to save humanity
• LITERAL offspring of God
• Loves all people
• Must fight a fallen angel/brother to save humanity from his evil influences

Even Superman doesn't hit all those marks.

Take it from an English major/teacher, (or just go read some books) it is not uncommon to find women as archetypes of Christ, or at least symbols. (I mean, it's definitely more common to find men, but women exist there.) What makes Wonder Woman special is this: she's Fighting Jesus. Most female symbols of Christ are Submissive Christ and rarely people possible to emulate or even desirable to emulate. 

Some examples of female symbols of Christ in other places through the eons:

Beatrice, Dante's Inferno 

One inconvenience given to women as archetypes of Christ is that they can be impossible to emulate in that they are so perfect that the distance between the reader and the pedestal can alter the way she is seen. Beatrice in Dante's Inferno is his muse and guide and is perfect enough to be missing any kind of defining characteristic or personality. It's like trying to be the human version of perfect khakis: sure it's perfect, but it's sooooooo boring. And where would you even start?

Grushenka, The Brother's Karamazov

The other common inconvenience in the female Christ archetype is that she is not someone you want to emulate: she's unhappy and exists solely for the saving of men, not women. Grushenka in The Brothers Karamazov, who is rumored to be a prostitute, is the saving grace of several of the main characters in this book. Grushenka, however, is left without personality or plot of her own. In fact, the book does not even pass the Bechdel test (for those of you unfamiliar with this test, what??? And here's a link). 

Babette, Babette's Feast

Similar to Grushenka, Babette is not someone anyone wants to be: because of her self-sacrifice, she begins and ends in rags and is grossly underappreciated.

In all the examples I can think of in mainstream media and literature, women are the Helpful Jesus, Submissive Jesus and are never the center of their own story (unless you consider Babette mainstream, you hipster).

HERE is why Wonder Woman is important:

Wonder Woman takes her place among Superman, Optimus Prime, Aslan, Harry Potter, The Doctor, Neo and SOOOO many other archetypes of Jesus who fight for good. Christian women and men are told to emulate Christ, but we are shown that it means different things for the different sexes. IT DOES NOT. Men can be submissive like Christ was when he was subjected to the scorn of wise men in his day or prayed for us or took on the cross. Women can be strong and heroic like Christ when he threw out the money-changers or stood up for the weak or like he will be when he comes again. Wonder Woman is important because it breaks through this barrier and shows that there is no one way to be like Christ.

(Sidebar: I know a lot of ladies are crying out there because of this normal portrayal of women, but I got suuuuuper angry with everyone else who hasn't done this already. Like, if it's so easy, wtf Marvel?)

Dandelion Wine

i remember

as a child

plucking dandelion heads

(an untimely demise)

and making wishes while further destroying their fragile remains

with my hot breath.

Even then, it wasn't the end.

Seeds found their way 

to the wind.

Wind found its way

to the ground,

taking hold,

growing again,

like you're meant to.

FanFic the News

I was chatting with a colleague about how silly it is to use creative writing techniques in journalism and I decided to try it out as a little bit of parody. So here it is, a news FanFiction based on Michael D. Shear's NYTimes article today: "Trump Says Transition's Going 'Smoothly,' Despite Disarray Reports." 

Disarray?! He thought. Disarray. Birds chirped merrily outside the 5th Avenue apartment, but he couldn’t get the critique out of his head. The transition is  the most arrayed transition in history. Everyone is saying it. How could they possibly say this tremendous transition is in disarray? His tiny hands raced across the screen, 

“It is going so smoothly”

Donald J. Trump took a long sip of his coffee and thought about how presidential his tweets were getting. 

Days earlier, the golden-haired big wig had watched the map fill with red as his heart filled with pride; America took its first steps toward greatness, a renaissance of glory. But as the news rolled in, so did the tide of presumption and horse-trades. Reporters began to insist Rudolph Giuliani was up for Crooked Hilary’s job and although he had made his career in hiring and firing, Donald J. Trump could feel a great, green lump growing at the bottom of his stomach and he dreaded telling Sean Hannity the bad news. 

“Hey Sean, I know it’s been awhile,” he would clutch the receiver. “Look, about the Secretary position…” Leave time here for dramatic effect, rolling back onto his heels. “No, no, it’s not you, it’s me.” He chuckled at this last part. It totally was Sean. 

Still chuckling to himself, Donald J. Trump sat down in his gold chair, scooted up to his gold desk, picked up his gold sharpie and drew a single, straight, gold line. 

Sean Hannity

Rudolph Giuliani (aka Rudy)

Laura Ingraham (aka Laurie)

Nikki R. Haley (aka Nikki)

Now to deal with the others. He had just begun pinning three pictures in a buckshot pattern on his golden dartboard when “Hail to the Chief” played by a thousand sad Mexicans came blasting through his pocket.

“Vlad! You’re going to be so proud. We won so big, yuuuge…”

His phone buzzed through the thick, masculine accent. He could almost hear the Russian bear being attacked on horseback.

“You are so right. I have a very good brain, everyone says so.”

His phone buzzed again. 

“Look, Vlad, I’ll have to call you back… No, you hang up! No, you!…" The air was thick with suspense "Well, you didn’t hang up either!”

By the time he had hung up he had over twenty texts from foreign leaders around the world wishing him congratulations. Big League. Crooked Hilary didn’t have any friends like he did. The New York Times never saw it coming. This called for a tweet:

“So many calls from many foreign leaders despite what the @nytimes said”

He deleted the neener-neener emoji, the one with the tongue sticking out before hitting “Tweet.” So presidential. Today was going to be a tremendous day. He picked up a gold dart.

Sweet and Sour

Introduction:

I know I haven't told many of you my adventures on the East Coast, but for anyone who has heard anything, you probably know that I LOVE IT out here. This place has everything I've ever wanted! 

There are several wonderful places within a close distance that make it optimal. To list a few: The Library of Congress, The Shakespeare Library, The most amazing little bookstores you've ever seen, and the friggin' Declaration of Independence (a lot about books, wow). ALSO, cherry blossoms, a decent public transportation system that doesn't shut down at like 11:00 on a weekend (I'm looking at you, TRAX), and my favorite thing of all: people from all walks of life. 

Just geographically, about everyone I meet is from a different city or state or country and they're all here because they want the world to be better. AND people almost always look you in the eye and say "good morning" wherever you are. Best. Place. Ever. 

Now, you're probably wondering why I've gathered you all here together today from various parts of the interwebs. The answer is not to rub my awesome life adventures in your face (as if I could compare with all the amazing things you do, I'm serious!), but rather to admit something...

I do miss it. 

I miss Utah and the West Coast. I never thought I would say this, but I miss my mountain-clad, hymn-singing, home of cricket-eating seagulls. At least a little. It doesn't taint my wonderful city-life here, but it opens my heart a little the place and people I left back out there. So much love for everyone!!!

Maybe I've been teaching English too long (haha. 5 months.) but imma boutta blow your mind with my off-the-cuff Shakespeare:

"My only love sprung from my only hate."

BOOM.

Yes, it's true. My realization of love for the Beehive State comes from a place of hate. And here is that woeful tale.

The Woeful Tale:

It all began on a night just like tonight. I was in desparate need of food and the only thing I'd thought to buy last time I went grocery shopping was cilantro (how does this happen like every week???). I had no food. 

In order to stave off the pangs and throes of a quiet death from starvation (and because I'm so lazy I can't even make a grocery list), I found myself turning into the parking lot of a nearby grocery store (at this time, I had no car, so it took a while and my expectations were getting higher with each *click-click* of the stupid fancy shoes I wore to work, so by the time I got there I was craving something extravagent. Like maybe with fruit even, Idk).

I sidled up to a rickety cart and began my quest, pulling slightly to the left and requiring all the strength of one arm in particular just to move forward, and that's when I saw it. The oil. Olive oil. It could have been a sign from heaven, the way the bottle glistened in the light of flickering fluorescent glare, or it could have been my ADHD, but it was beautiful. 

I thought to myself "Self, This. This is what you've been waiting for that whole walk accross the parking lot. And it will be the center of all future purchases." It wasn't. I made many more shopping mistakes that day. I blame it on the tragedy to come.

My natural next thought was "Self, you must now purchase something to dip into the glory pressed from olives and angel wings." And then I had it.

Sourdough bread.

I was a genius. My whole life, I'd grown up with sourdough sandwiches, sourdough toast, and the best thing ever was sourdough with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and I LOVE a good sourdough. 

Filled with hope and anticipation, I scooted, pulled, and yoinked my steel steed to the baker's section and searched in a frantic joy. To no avail. French, french, Naan, challah. No sourdough. In haste, I abandoned my cart. I ran to the sandwich aisle, fearing the worst. *click-click* *click-click* -sliiiide-

I searched through every loaf. I looked up and down and side to side in such a tizzy, the man in the red Safeway vest who had been stocking behind me, decided I was a distraction and swiftly turned around, looked me up and down, and said with a sigh, "Can I help you? Ma'am?"

My words breathless in reply: "Sourdough? Any... have.. any... Sourdough?"

"Right here, Ma'am."

I watched as his finger pointed to something. Something odd. I had never seen anything like it. I reached out to touch it and thought it would reach back, but alas, as I touched the thing, it recoiled. What ho? Soft! I grabbed the whole "loaf" in confusion. Accross the bag printed the words "Peppridge Farm Sourdough" and encased in it's crystal prison was something akin to potato bread. Long, white, and looking just like wonderbread. My body rigid and my hands shaking, it fell to the floor. 

"Is that what you're looking for?" A voice prodded from behind. "Ma'am?"

I turned and stared at this man who must be mad. Eyes wide and heart pumping, I backed away, turned around and bolted. (Okay, I didn't actually do that. I said thanks, put it in my cart and left it somewhere for an employee to find like a decent human being. But, still.)

I left the store that day in the glistening sunlight with new, sad eyes. I looked around at the people going about their daily lives and the masquerade of beauty in this town shattered as I saw them all for what they are: an entire race of people unenlightened. Ignorant of the truth. A facet of life missing. They have everything they think they need and no sourdough bread.

Every few months, I see less frightening loaves of sourdough in the store and I buy them. Some bakery sections have them, Trader Joe's sells something like it. But it's not the same. All soft on the outside and tough on the inside. I sometimes think languishingly "Doesn't anyone here understand?" And let it pass because the truth is they don't. 

And so, I pass on my woeful tale to those of you still in the promised land. Don't let a day pass you by without knowing what you have. Never think for a second that you don't hold the treasure in your hands. And never, I mean NEVER buy the sourdough bread on the East Coast it's seriously awful.

Atonement: A Poem

art is not

 a window

art is not

 a reflection

art 

 

 is 

  not {something so}

   tame. 

words for art: 

labor

pain

bloodbath 

Torture 

teenage torture 

screams, 

cries, 

vows, 

and then (finally)

grows up

but Torture 

spins itself around your heart and tugs

HARDER

drags down to the depths 

of humanity

watches 

a head held just below the surface by 

trusted things 

Torture is not death, but 

too close dreams of too far death

Torture 

turns once happy people artists 

or mad 

but mostly 

both

Yes, but

it is only in desparate spasms of labor that anything new is born

it is only one who has dreamt to die knows what it truly is to truly live

Parenting Done Right. . . and Me

What follows is a list of three case studies in my own family, all taking place yesterday and leading me to believe that I am in a family of wonderful parents, but if nothing changes, it may be good for me, personally, to remain a virgin.

Case Study #1

Transcript from a Phone Call with Mom:

"Follow your dreams, I mean directions. Do you need to get off the phone with me in order to do that?"

In a short interview with the alleged mother, I was informed that it supposedly felt more natural to finish "follow your..." with "dreams" than with almost anything else. Parenting FTW.

Case Study #2

A Convo with Aunt Vicki:

Aunt Vicki heard a loud knock on her door yesterday and after about 15 seconds, she came back walking with a small thing about two feet tall, who wore an argyle vest, small-child Einstein hair, and a scared deer look. The child looked nervous enough to forgo growing up in order to once again use his not-so-big-boy panties. 

Vicki looked the thing straight in the eyes, greeted him like a little adult, and introduced him to our rather intimidatingly large family.

"This is Dean's best friend..." she said, and proceeded to have a nice conversation with the strange little man. 

He calmed down and no panties were soiled... yet.

Case Study #3

Me:

To little deer-Einstein: "Do you want a cookie from a stranger?"

Choose Your Own Adventure: Losers' Edition

Circle the Correct Answer:

Wife: 

Why do you cheer for that (team, guy, side)? You know (they are, he is, it is) going to lose.

Husband: 
You don't know that. (the Chicago Cubs,  Bill Murray, Satan) could win this.

Wife:
Yeah, one round. But you know they won't make it to (first base, first base, heaven). I mean, I can basically guarantee (their, his, its) fans are going to be either really bored or really depressed way before the (playoffs, end of the first half hour, Armageddon). They'll be leaving the (bleachers, theater, world) halfway through.

Husband: 
Well, it's more than just winning and losing. It has a lot to do with sticking to your guns, being committed. It's about loyalty.

Wife:
Or pride.

Husband:
Okay, okay, miss mainstream. Did it ever occur to you that it could be about principles? Shhh! Wait for it, wait for it..... Oh! (They, He, They) almost had that in the bag!

Wife:
I wish you'd just put less effort into a losing cause, it always puts you in a funk afterwards.

Husband:
Aaaaand.... Denial! Honey, did you see that?

Wife:
And during. I mean really. Do you even remember that there's anything else going on? Like that (bake sale, bra burning, bake sale)? It's tonight you know.

Husband:


Wife:
Perfect. I'm glad we had this conversation.

The Best Reason to Not Marry

Just today I was introduced to a book featuring a main character who was also (dun dun DUN) an imaginary friend. While I've never had my own imaginary friend, I was reminded of my last encounter with an imaginary friend.

A few Christmases ago, my boyfriend and I visited some of his close family friends and I should have known from this experience alone it would never work out. 

It all seemed so normal and pleasant. It was dark outside and the woods outside Seattle were thick and quiet. There was a wet, musty kind of smell spilling off the trees and onto us as we walked towards the over-sized, log-like home hand in hand. We were dreaming about families and the social calls we made were almost like a sort of integration ceremony. This one was special. This family had known Tyler almost his whole life and I just knew they would be wonderful. Then...

A red flag.

A red flag that I didn't notice, but wish I'd picked up on sooner.

As we walked into the house, there was a wonderful smell of something cooking, family and friends everywhere snacking and talking and laughing, and a cute little girl with blonde pigtails and a pink dress who seemed to be playing contentedly alone. Sort of intimidated by the family and intrigued by the girl, I walked over and started to play with her. But something was wrong.

"No, Caroline. Go in there!" The little girl picked up her doll and threw it forcibly into a clear plastic box. "You're stuck in there. Without air. Forever." Her curly pigtails bounced and she looked at me with a smile.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Amy." She turned away with her lip curled up just a bit, grabbed the box again very gently, and then, with the strength of a Norse god, started shaking it.

I turned to my boyfriend to see if he thought it was as weird as I did, but he just laughed. "Isn't she cute?"

Cute.

When I turned back to Amy, she'd since thrown the doll and its plastic prison on the ground letting Caroline tumble out into oblivion and moved on with her life. Amy had started playing with her imaginary friends. There were two. Carlos and ... Caroline.

"Someday Caroline and I will get married and Carlos will be sad." Her slightly homophobic parents just laughed and said she didn't understand marriage. I can't help but wonder if she knew more about it than they gave her credit for. When I turned back, Amy had a surprised look on her face, her lips making a perfect "O."

"Uh-oh!" She said shrugging her shoulders like a perfect OshKosh commercial. "Carlos is dead." :)

As Amy skipped away, her parents tried to explain to me how that was normal and that Carlos had already died 5 times that day, but don't worry, he always comes back.

I left that night in a daze, holding Tyler for support. He thought she was cute. We did not get married.

P.S. On the subject of red flags...

Who's that Girl? It's. . . Me. Wait, that's ME!

Once, when I was in 2nd grade, a boy stole my pen. It was a really cool pen that was probably from ancient Rome because it was made of metal and I found it in my dad's day-planner that he didn't use that much. I loved it and it was the only thing I consistently found in the horror of my desk.

One day it was gone. Just POOF. I looked through all my assignments and even ended up with a clean desk to no avail. In despair I began to do my assignment when I looked over and saw Brett Hoffer with the same exact pen and a smug look. I knew I had to do something. I took it to the authorities, but Brett just passed the pen in question off as his own.

That fateful day was my first brush with vigilante justice.

I knew God said not to steal, but what about steal back? That pen was mine (or at least my family's) and I would again feel its cold, smooth presence refresh my senses, inspire my work, and run through my fingers. Just you wait, little pen, I thought, I will take matters into my own hands.

In the dark of recess, I snuck in to "go to the bathroom" and with the Mission Impossible theme song going through my head and sweaty palms going in and out of my pockets, I peaked my head inside the eerie, lifeless room. There was nothing in my way. There it was, like a beacon on Brett's desk. I walked swiftly but quietly all the while looking nonchalant just so I could make sure that if Mrs. Larsen quick turned on the lights, I would have my excuse.

Before too long I had again the pen in my possession. I put it reverently into my pencil box before skipping out triumphantly back to recess. I would using it sparingly from now on, but my triumph would forever be heightened when I would see Brett's face or hear his silence about the pen's absence.

I tell this story because I have, even now, had something stolen from me. But this time I will never be able to get it back.

I've never seen the television show "New Girl." Maybe I should because the main character shares my name, but I don't really watch T.V. Last night, however, after the millionth and a half close acquaintance or distant friend quoted the theme song at me, I decided to watch it.

Yesterday was my birthday and by some trick of the gods the closest episode available was about Jess's birthday and her awesome friends throwing a party. "That's cool," I thought.

The more I watched, the less I was inclined to think that it was a work of art, but the more I realized it was a diabolical circus act with layers like a crepe-cake -- slidey and deceiving. "This," I thought "is crime passed off for entertainment." The list below is of things the show "New Girl" stole from me:

1. My name (duh)
2. My hair. Long brown hair with awesome bangs, anyone?
3. My birthday... weird.
4. My back-story: once upon a time, Jess catches her boyfriend cheating and goes crazy, gets depression and has to start all over again.
5. My job. At the end of the episode, a class full of 8th graders scream "Happy Birthday Ms. Day!" 8th grade English. She teaches 8th grade English.

But wait, here's where it gets crazy:

     *I only just found out I need glasses*

What kind of bizarre premonition is this? Not only is it telling my life story, it's predicting my life. I'm not okay with this. How do I even try to steal that back? Not only does everyone who watches any sort of Fox television know who I am, but they know more about my life than I do! So, if anyone sees her, please conduct a citizen's arrest and kindly inform Miss Jess Day that she is under arrest for imposter and owes me all that money she's made off of my life. 

Also, ask her how it ends...

My Birthdays...

Are like milk.

For the following reasons:

1. They are very very very white.

2. They make some people uncomfortable.

3. There is that fateful day when, without warning, they go from fresh to disgusting and everyone's so intrigued by how appalling it is, they wave it in the air and ask you and everyone else to smell it about a million times.

That day has magically arrived for me. 

I'm not old. I'm not even close. In most places, my life hasn't even started yet. Here at BYU, though, to have gotten to this age and be unmarried is... well, an anomaly. My mom called me today and told me she found a bowl my Grandmother wanted me to have for my wedding and did I just want it now? 

I guess 24 is the age at which Mormondom relinquishes hope of your ever being married. . . or it's a rite of passage.

The first thought I had was obviously a little harsh. "Looks like I'm done here, time to start picking out cats and making them dress up and reenact my favorite scenes from Pride and Prejudice," but no. I feel like a grown-up! I feel like I'm being taken seriously and I even have a real resume. That was maybe the scariest realization of all: my resume could be taken seriously. It has all kinds of things like a foreign language and a graduation date and complete lack of babysitting.

I AM JESSICA: THE ADULT.

I have my own friends and credit cards and keys and I'm here kick life's butt.

Listicle

In my recent writing class, we discussed genre, one of which was something called a "listicle" or an article in list form. I thought the topic was so fun I decided to create my own. Here is my listicle. Enjoy!

A Short List of Things I Lost From ADHD

• About 2-3 books I swear I used to own
• One sweater
• 3 pairs of misplaced pants
• One shoe. WTF?
• Around $58.72 in varied currency... some of which is (was) foreign...
• Friends
• The first 5 minutes of everything I've ever gone to
• Bobby pins and hair ties
• 5 retainers
• Countless homework assignments that were completely finished
• The last half of every thought I've ever. . . 
• Tofu

A Short List of Things I've Gained from ADHD

• About $35.87 most of which was loose change in odd places I was staring at too hard
• Intrigued followers
• One shoe. WTF?
• 20-27 books whose owners now stand forgotten
• Really nasty looking bobby pins and hair ties
• A billion really amazing unfinished projects
• Much time spent daydreaming or eating (usually during the first 5 minutes of something I'm supposed to be at)
• Enemies
• Tofu

To those of us who contemplate our comma in the sentence of eternity,

For each breath in, take two breaths out
And slowly fade away.
Your burdens will get heavier
Day by painful day.

You give your food to others who
would have you starve as well
Gray gets only grayer in
the very depths of hell.

Search, contemplate your dark abyss
You'll find no sure way out.
Life lived in colorless expanse
Is worse than death or drought.

Though leave you can't, you'll comfort find
In echos or the hand
That reaches in and hold your heart.
And maybe then you can

At least exist. At least go on.
At least for one more day.
You're stronger than you were before
So [slowly] wend your way.

Light ahoy? Perhaps it's still
too early to be told.
But light I'll find, I'm sure I will.
At least I can grow old.

There's something about not only knowing where you are, but having the comfort that others know as well. It makes the ignorance we suffer feel less catastrophic. It makes us feel we are valid WITH trials we face. The moment we allow ourselves to have problems is the moment we can remove the weighty label of guilt on our already heavy, mortal baggage. It's the moment we stop looking for a non-existent exit, all the while cursing the pieces of us that get in the way, and turn instead towards accepting what we have and doing what we can: moving, however slowly it may be.

After all, when looking back on someone's life or even while they're still alive, we rarely define them by what they have failed to accomplish. When asked "Who is she?" we never say "Well, she's not a pianist, she's never hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro, and her name isn't and never will be Suzie." With a few exceptions, we define people by what they are accomplishing or have accomplished. "Well, she's this awesome girl who's studying English Teaching. She speaks Chinese and has the coolest family ever and the most awesome friends. She's an artist, musician, writer, runner, and super nerdy. Although she's vain enough to write paragraphs about how great she is, she's pretty cool."

Be

Philosophy for the day.

Today while coming home from work I found myself humming one of my all time favorite songs from Donavan:

Happiness runs in a circular motion

Thought is like a little boat upon the sea

Everybody is a part of everything anyway

You can have everything if you let yourself be.

In the original version, the last word is "see," but my mom always sang it "be." I was struck by the last line by seeing things a way I never have before. I've always read it as "You can have everything if you let yourself be happy," but I think a more powerful way of reading it is this: "You can have everything if you let yourself alone."

There's a lot to be said about letting yourself be happy, about not stressing about the unimportant things. However, the way we do that is never something easy to find. The way we let ourselves be happy is to let go of ourselves. Let your life be about what someone else needs and your needs will be drastically less remarkable to you.

In sticking to the original "see," see the world around you. Don't think about yourself in terms of one. If you allow yourself to see others and be a useful part of society, you can have it all. By having a hand in the lives of others, you become a part of each other. The more you help and the more you give, the more you are fulfilled and the more you receive.

The Nature of a Poem

A poem is a silly thing

It’s made straight from emotion.

Not really words, not really form

It’s something like an ocean.

A poem is a vastish thing

And yet it is so tiny.

It means so much in one small life,

But on the page is finey.

A poem is a fiercish thing

A nail made of words.

Tis true it’s small, but when it pushed,

The point comes through in thirds.

A poem is a growing thing

What comes out comes in.

It’s meant to let emotions out,

But that is what it brings.

Reflections on Age

It is a supreme goal of mine to absolutely never become old without first obtaining and maintaining a convincing, if not tried and true, English accent. Somehow, you can't really be decrepit then. I've been spending a lot of time where you hear people get so old that they start over-pronouncing their "r's" so much they sound like they're not only really close to dying, they're also extremely uneducated. They could be talking about the historiographical morphology of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and you still think to yourself, "Poor old guy. It would suck to lose your mind like that." If, however you happen to have a high English accent at around 87, you're suddenly the Queen. Then, you could tell people that Swiss cheese is the new California State Flower and people would admire your grace and elegance instead of realizing what Swiss cheese has to do with flowers or California and why in the world that could possibly be the Queen of England's business. Yes, it's much better to be a respected idiot than a forgotten scholar.

Prelude to Poem

I went for my first bike ride of the season yesterday; Mother Nature's been pretty brutal up until now. I went over this little bridge into a park and found an arch of trees with a tinsy little path going through it. I followed it in, and just as I suspected: it was a portal into a fairy kingdom! It had a stream and small paths and some lovely benches. And best of all, everything was green and alive. And secluded. It was like a little room of living green. I sat there for a while and knew I had to write a poem when I got back. So here it is!

To the Trees

I remember the trees

and their canopies

heaving with breathing.

Flecks of skyblue

glittered

through the leaves.

God was everywhere.

I try and remember now

as I sit on the floor

heaving and breathing

my quiet (despair)ation

As I eat my

small single serving

I try to

Remember

what it was.

What was it to breathe like trees?

Can you close your eyes and feel your own song?

Can you close your I's and hear its duet?

Can you follow?

Little robin sings his own Search Song.

All. Throughout. May.

He lives

(and sings)

And breathes

(and sings)

He lives alone

(but sings)

Courageously:

He is.

I am.

We are.

Intro

This blog was created under the pretense of being for you. It's not. Not really. I'm not saying I don't hope it can help you, but it is initially mine. Hope is the medicine of the miserable (Shakespeare, Measure for Measure) and the wings to the grounded. By recognizing and appreciating it in my own journey, I plan on capturing it and making it my own, winged bottle of spiritual aspirin. It will be like the point in Jane Eyre, when a ray of hope is found glimmering in the wreck of ash and ruins and Jane says to herself "I breathed again." My life is far from ruins, but not everyone's is. I hope my small words can find a home in someone's heart. I think that mostly I just want to write down everything that makes me happy and see if it spills out anywhere.