I knew it was bad when it hurt to keep my eyes open in class. I've had late nights before, but very rarely in my college career has such a late night produced the burning feeling that persisted in my eyes all the way through my 8 and 9 o'clock classes. I'm feeling better now--I can look at things for more than two seconds without my vision blurring. But I'm slightly concerned that all these 4:30 am bedtimes, preceded by hours and hours of staring at a computer screen, may one day make me blind. On the news last night, I heard a report about computer usage being linked to glaucoma, a condition which can eventually cause blindness if not treated properly. That's where that thought came from.

The worst part of the whole thing is that I spent the last three weeks preparing for this day--preparing my full-scale unit plan, preparing my huge presentation on teen pregnancy--and now it's over. I feel like there should at least be some sort of celebration. Or that people should look at my fabulous tri-fold poster about teen pregnancy for another twenty-five minutes. One class period simply isn't enough time to appreciate all the work my partner and I put into that wonderfully creative and artistically designed monstrosity. And my unit plan--I work twelve hours (four and a half of those late last night or early this morning) creating calendars and appendices and daily objectives and then it's just tucked in some folder somewhere. It's probably sitting on my professor's desk right now. Alone. Neglected. It's so anticlimactic. I feel like I should take my giant poster home over Thanksgiving and ask my mom to put it on the refrigerator.

I suppose this desire for recognition is slightly selfish. Yes, I did do all that work, but that's my job right now. I'm a student. I'm supposed to devote my whole life to the pursuit of producing top-notch education-major projects. It's like the policman pointing out, "Um, hello there. I just gave someone a speeding ticket. When do I get my commendation? Oh, and does it come with a raise?" No--I should just tip my hat and say, "No trouble, ma'am. It's all in a day's work," and walk away as if I didn't do anything worth taking note of at all.

In other news, I'm leaving for Indianapolis tomorrow morning. National NCTE Convention, here I come! (NCTE=National Council of Teachers of English). And it's only 29 days until Christmas. Thanksgiving break is one week from today. I appreciate the here and now, but I'd rather the here and now was tomorrow.

My Grandmother’s Hands

Covering a laughing mouth,
Shaped nails painted pale pink,
Encircling shoulders in a
tight squeeze,
The feel of love in every gentle touch
of paper-thin skin,
Frailty that speaks of strength
not her own,
Fingers once long and even
now bent and rigid,
aged with life’s long labor,
Eager to hold the hands of
another, gone before
and waiting,
Folded in prayer,
a testimony to life’s faith.
For my grandmother’s hands,
Father God,
Receive praise.

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After a little reworking, here is a "less raw" version of the poem I posted last week. I wanted to make it say exactly what I wanted it to, because the whole topic of abortion is one that evokes a strong emotional response in me. For a little background information, I wrote this initially as a response to the Beattitudes in Matthew 5. A class I'm taking on the medieval practice of lectio divina encourages us to journal prayer responses to the verses that we're studying/memorizing/contemplating. This isn't exactly a prayer, but it's what came out after thinking on that particular passage for awhile. I think it had been brewing in my mind for several weeks before I even wrote it, so I can't express how satisfying it was to have it finally on paper.


Three Prayers

Too quickly have I forgotten the
crush of little bones in my hand.
Tiny fingers reaching towards my light,
Grip my scissors,
Grip my knife.
It’s not that I like what I do.
But I am a mercy dispenser.
Mercy for one at the expense of the other.
Harden my eyes.
Harden my heart.
Oh my god.
Have mercy on me.

They are light fluttering wings that I want to
hold in my hand.
Too little, too much.
I’m sorry.
It’s better this way. For both of us.
Cold steel bed,
Cold robotic fingers,
Cold like ice around my heart.
It’s not that I like what I’ve done, both sides of it.
But I’ve been given a choice.
I choose mercy.
For both of us.

I watch with unopened eyes.
My translucent hidden skin,
My blue-veined body will
Grip the scissors.
Grip the knife.
I accept your apology.
Small bones uplifted, washed clean.
Pass over a black bag of skulls.
Father, forgive them.
I open my eyes.
Have mercy,
For they know not what they do.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Matthew 5:7

On a side note...

-Laundry fresh from the drier is one of the greatest things in the world on a cold night.

-Listening to your college choir sing and knowing you can never sing with them again will make you cry.

-Sometimes, pizza is the best thing for a broken heart.

-Making curriculum maps can be fun.

-Songs can be too truthful sometimes. Take "Warning Sign" by Coldplay for example.

-Taking Bowling as a fitness requirement can be good for your health. It can also boost your average score from 32 to 125.

-Sometimes a person just needs a double mocha with whipped cream.

-Research papers on grammar are not stimulating to write or read, unless you use vivid imagery like "toss it out the window" and "pound it into their little skulls."

-Developing callouses from guitar-playing can be cathartic.

I took this in June while exploring the back-roads around the Big Sioux River. Something about the blue roof caught my eye.
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"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where..."

Simon and Garfunkel were a wise couple of guys. Excuse me. Are a wise couple of guys.

"Let your honesty shine, shine, shine."
"Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike, they've all come to look for America."

Recommendation: See Zach Braff's latest endeavor. Garden State is one hip flick. Personally, I'd watch it again just to hear the sound track in THX or Dolby Digital or whatever it is.

"There's beauty in the breakdown, so let go."
"I can see California sun in your hair."
"Wasting my time in the waiting line..."

Definitely some good songs. Walking around campus with these songs playing on my mp3 player, I feel like I've been taken out of the awful rush. It's some sort of transcendence. Not really like what Walt Whitman would advocate, and not be confused with the transcendence of Christ or anything like that. Just floating above the noise. As though it's easier to draw in deeper breaths. Coldplay does the same thing. Particularly the live album.

It's the storm of the century. Well, maybe not quite, but it was raining so hard when I finished with class tonight that I had my roommate come pick me up. She's a saint. It's also storming on other fronts--I'm feeling sorry for my cousin who is in the path of Hurrican Ivan. I'm getting assailed by financial woes--hail on my parade--my car is in the shop and will be expensive to fix, if indeed I do get it fixed. What a conundrum. It's things like this that always start to stress me out, that right when all my bills are due, then I get hit up for more money. I suppose that's why we're supposed to save and not spend it all, but I'm supposed to be saving for a new-to-me car, not pouring money down the endless hole that is Big Bertha. That's when I'm reminded by that persistant, still, small, ever present voice that says, "Trust me. Aren't I big enough to handle this?"

But then I wonder, "Haven't I been a bad Christian lately? You probably won't take care of this out of spite." Naughty me. I imagine the Holy Spirit looking shocked, and then laughing that I would think Him/It? spiteful. Oh yes, I think. That's right. You love me. I forgot.

Inside,
I had been
broken
as with a
sledgehammer.
But
You found
a
piece
of me
that I had
missed
as I fit
myself
back
together,
putting it
just the
right
place,
making me
whole.

It seems like sometimes news organizations can get it just right, and then other times, they can completely foul out. Look at today's news. The coverage of September 11 commemorations is poignant. We should remember. We should think of those people every day, and remind ourselves that it could have just as easily be us. But then look at this mess with the George Bush memos. There's more doubt than belief, even though Dan Rather staunchly backs his story. Something like this pollutes the presidential race; Americans can't vote based on the truth about each candidate. Instead, they're voting based on the way news coverage sways their opinions. I would venture to say that most of the people who will be voting in November haven't even taken the time to understand either Bush or Kerry. They rely too much on what everyone else is saying. We can't trust the media anymore. But what else is there? We could toss out the media, but something else would fill the void. We live in biased times.

School's got me all worked up and panicky. Okay, I'm drifting out of the panicky stage, but I still may hyperventilate if I forget even one more thing for class. I was explaining my absent worksheet to my advanced grammer prof, telling her that when I get busy, I get panicky. And when I get panicky, I get forgetful. Fortunately, she admitted to suffering from the same syndrome and told me I could bring my grammar exercises to class on Friday. It's not that I didn't do them--I actually, in a masochistic sort of way, enjoy doing grammar exercises--I left them in another notebook, and as I raced off to class, I left the worksheet behind. I think part of the reason for all the fluster is that Clint is coming to visit this weekend, and I'm trying to get everything done before he gets here so that we can have some quality time. Quality time is something we are lacking, due to the distance and general hectic nature of both of our lives which prevents us from spending time together. In any case, I've been forgetting so much lately--my worksheet this afternoon, an appointment in the evening, 4x6 notecards for a class, a reading assignment. I'm exceptionally blessed because my profs love me in spite of my flaws and are willing to give me some leeway. This wouldn't happen just anywhere, I realize. Thank the Lord for Dordt College and its great sense of community. But I keep telling myself that I just need to get a grip, that I need to sit myself down and get organized. I've got a break now for a couple hours. I think I'm going to do just what I need to do--no dawdling, no TV watching. Just focus, get the job done, and be rewarded by going to bed on time tonight instead of 1:30 in the morning. And I have to remind myself to breathe. I forget to do that sometimes too.

I just finished watching Love Actually and, as far as love stories go, this one was pretty good. I was a little disappointed because out of the eight or so different threads, one was left totally unfinished and another didn't exactly seem to end on a totally "in love" note. But I liked the way they all strung together somehow, as well as having so many quality actors and actresses in one film: Emma Thompson, Liam Niesen, Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Laura Linney, Roan Atkinson. The music wasn't bad either. But mostly, I liked it because it had shots of all my favorite places in London--the Thames River walk, the Millenium Bridge, Big Ben, Trafalger Square, St. Paul's. I felt like I was there again. Admittedly, there's some language and nudity (although that part is pretty strange), and sometimes I couldn't figure out how all the different people knew each other--somehow they all did. And the idea that love is all around us, particularly at the airport seemed a bit desperate...but I was entertained. And that's the point, right?

spotted: one interim campus pastor on a porch, looked embarrassed after setting off the fire alarm by burning a piece of bacon. as for the crispy pork, he ate it before coming and standing in the rain with the rest of us.

I am missing the newness of spring. These flowers were floating like rosey snow in May. Now the world is full of bolder colors.
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I'm in my apartment RIGHT NOW-- and it's awesome. I'm in the process of trying to move in; it's amazing how much stuff a person needs once they're not living with five other people. I have so many books. Too many. Shelves and shelves. I hope my roommate doesn't need too much shelf-space...

Well, I must be off. I have to re-pot a couple plants.

I will be so glad when I have the internet at my apartment. That's all I have to say.

I slept in today until 11.  That's a new record for the summer.  It didn't help that I was up until 2:30 talking with Clint.  It reminds me of the line from Train's song "Drops of Jupiter"--"can you imagine...a five hour phone conversation"--  I don't think we've ever talked so long.  By about 2 it was getting silly.  One of those moments when everything is funny, even when there's nothing to say.  It's just that I never want him to hang up, as if once we're disconnected, I lose something.  I think I've been living too long alone.  I notice all the small things, the noises, the stillness.  Like the fly buzzing in the light, its last flutters.  The hum, the white noise of the office.  The sound of gnawing in my bedroom wall.  It makes me feel enclosed. 

bored at work.

it's that nebulous time of day-- lunchtime-- when no one is around to tell me what to do next. i'm waiting around for a professor to return from his lunch break and give me more work to do. in the mean time, i suppose i will just stare at the computer and try to think of imaginative ways to kill time. i've debated going home for lunch myself. could i count that as part of my work day? i normally have things that i can do on my own. however, i've recently reached that point where i'm done with my projects, and all that remains is whatever busy work they choose to give me. is it going to be like this for the rest of the summer? i may as well move home and babysit. i could at least see my boyfriend that way. i think my problem is that i'm too efficient. they give me work to do, but i get it done too quickly. sometimes, i try to take as long as i possibly can to finish whatever task is at hand. but it still only takes me a few minutes. maybe i type too fast. who knows.

weekend snapshots--

-me standing under a giant strawberry in the rain. it's raining so hard the streets are flooding.
-some guy's jaw dropping as he exclaims "d---! what's up!" upon seeing us five hot women drive past on our way through backbone state park.
-jasmine and me singing "the love of God" at her church in strawberry point.
-the two of us jamming out to Tonic on interstate 90 and speaking in spanish accents at the barn-shaped rest stop.

I surprised Clint this weekend and showed up at church right before the service started. He looked at me like he didn't really believe I was there but would play along anyway. Then, as I grinned and wrapped my arms around him, he laughed and called me a punk. He still looked stunned after I had taken my seat in the pew. I felt satisfied and happy--more so than I thought I would. He told me later that he was glad he saw me before preaching. "Otherwise," he said, "there would have been a lot more awkward pauses, and everyone would have wondered why I wasn't making any sense." It's nice to know I have that effect on him.

in third person

"They're beautiful, by the way," he said as he grabbed his bag from the back seat of her van. "Your eyes. I thought about them the whole way home from church." Her breath caught in her throat as she felt something flutter under her ribs.
"Thanks," she said softly, and he smiled as he walked away.

in third person

she hung up the phone, her boss's voice still gravel in her ear.
--you plug away on it, then.
the rain was falling steadily, reminding her of heart beats and drum rhythms. her stomach growled, and she eyed the peach. i would need a napkin, she thought, remembering the feeling of the juice dribbling down her chin. staring at the computer, she wondered what to say. writer's block. those words made her think of her sister, of her sister's gift. how can we both be writers, she thought, when we're both so different. the answer, she supposed, lay in the words they wrote, the unique voice they each heard in their head as fingers clicked across keyboards. simple. visual. electric. that was the word her professor had used to describe her sister. that was her, all right, she thought wryly.
--can i be electric too?