I'm Leaving on an Jetplane

Hey, this is just a quick post to let you all know I'll be absent for the next two weeks, probably. I had hoped to get a normal post in this weekend, but everything kinda went downhill in the past few days. I'm leaving late tomorrow night (I've decided already that red eye flights might be the worst idea in the entire world. Stupid, optimistic, November 2016 me)  to fly to visit my friend (wrote a blogpost about my friendship here) in South Carolina, but so long as sharks don't get me, I'll be back.
Here's a question: how come 'vacations' end up being so stressful? Mostly it's because I'm just super busy in late Spring and early Summer, and I'm leaving all my responsibilities to other people which is also kinda worrisome. Also, we've been taking care of a baby squirrel (will post pictures of that when I get back), and since I'm leaving soon I took all the night shifts. It's an awfully cute critter, but why this week of all weeks?
Anywho, I'm mostly all packed. Packing isn't such a hard thing for me, but the part where I'm trying to get everything done at home before I go is difficult. *continues post next afternoon*...On a high note, I get more done during this time than on a normal basis. Like...this morning I spent two and a half hours at my Grandma's planting her flowerbed full of flowers, and I was there last night till 9:30. At least it saves me from being a basket case. I'm trying not to freak out, but this is the first time I've flown alone...or gone on a 9-day trip like this by myself...But hey, I'll be fine.

You guys have a fantastic week and try not to go too crazy.

The Garden

    

          "A little chaos is good for a garden," And she smiled as she surveyed what once I proudly called my garden.
          I frowned.
          It wasn't much of one any longer. The weeds towered above the seedlings, and in many places, a visitor couldn't differentiate between the two and so left footprint craters in the rows. Still instead of withering and dying like any self-respecting plant would do, given the conditions, they kept soldiering upward toward the sun. I had planted them; the least I could do was give them a chance, but time - time was always my downfall.
          "A little chaos is good for a gardener."
          "How's that?" Nothing good existed in my garden. Nothing good existed in chaos.
          "A little chaos is good for the soul." Her smile only grew larger, showing her teeth, as I scowled harder.
          "I don't feel good about this. I feel awful...and guilty. That probably sounds stupid - they're just some plants." The Bok Choi's leaves were yellow - maybe from lack of water or lack of nutrients or too much of one or the other. One row of the purple Kale was actually growing while the other, Ragged Jack variety, couldn't even be seen above the weeds.
          "How can you say any of this is good?"
          "Because I am in the business of seeing potential --every gardener is; though a heart can become discouraged -- it's the curse of perfectionism in a very imperfect world. It is order that causes a plant lover's soul to tire and lose optimism."
          She seemed to have followed my gaze to the drowning Kale, and she moved in that direction, sidestepping each byword plant. She lowered herself down beside the row and used both hands to jerk dandelion, wild lettuce, and cheat grass from between the plants.
          "If order and perfection were achieved, what then of striving and dreaming and yearning? What of surprises? Surprises are the best part of gardening."
          "I don't like surprises."
          "Don't you?" She lifted her head and gazed about. She must think it to be a strange place for a garden, surrounded on three sides by wild terrain and thirsty dust. Everyone else had their little plots in luscious corners of their yards where they were protected and where they perhaps had a chance.
         "I think you do. I think you've just forgotten. Surprises to us were planted - hmm - long before by our Creator. What of the Sunflowers? Did you plant them?"
         I wandered over to where she was, almost stepping on top of my own garden rows, and peeked over her shoulder. Those. They hadn't miraculously disappeared yet.
          "No. Why would I plant them in my German Giant radish row?"
          "What about the wildflowers? I know you've noticed those."
          Who couldn't notice those? They were everywhere, flawless in their beauty and placement. Irritating, almost, because regardless of how hard I worked, my garden would never be as beautiful as when the high-elevation desert awoke in Spring.
          "Those are surprises. You are blessed much to have let a little chaos thrive because it's in that He lets the surprises sneak in. Most people are so concentrated on perfection and order that they never realize what unexpected surprises hide in the soil. These are reminders that we don't have everything under control."

An Odd Writer

Hypothetical situation: What if you were a writer who didn't like to read? Is it possible to be a writer who doesn't like to read?

I can already hear thoughts on this: "Are you kidding me? Who doesn't like to read? Isn't being a writer mean you love reading? Isn't there some sort of major contradiction in being a writer who doesn't like to read? Whoever this writer is, she be major time crazy."

Confession time: I might be that writer.

It wasn't always like that. When I was young (since I'm ancient now), I gobbled up books. The whole reason I started reading was because my older brother wouldn't read more than one chapter a day in a book we were reading together. It annoyed me to no end...so I started to read. And I read. I read a whole lotta books. The original Boxcar Children series, Enid Blyton books, anything on our immense bookshelves that mom would let me read. She always said most of the books I liked to read were 'fluff' at that point so I would have to supplement my reading with the 'We Were There...' books or the Signature books (both historical fiction). Sure, those were a bit tougher, but I read them all the same.

And then high school happened and added responsibilities. Added passions.

I couldn't hardly bear to sit down to simply read. My legs couldn't stand to be still. The stories no longer were engaging enough to relax my muscles and stop time. If I read, it was 'dry' books. Books for high school credit (G.A. Henty. Walter Scott. Histories. Etc.) I hardly read anything for fun. If my mom or someone else said I should read something or gave me something to read, I read it. I read to read, but I didn't enjoy it any longer. And at that point I couldn't see the profit. All my other loves had something to show for at the end of the time spent, but reading? I didn't see the point anymore since I read more books that were simply full of words than ones which awoke adventure or courage or love or yearning.

But that didn't mean I lost my love for story. Maybe I turned more to books for entertainment while growing up because we hardly ever watched movies or television, and then at a certain point, I was watching movies and television shows with my brother every weekend. And these were easy stories. I fell in love with characters. I was in awe how people could create these compelling storylines. These heartbreaking scenes. These humorous exchanges. I let visual arts fulfill my love for stories, even as I continued my fight with words. And maybe that's part of the reason my attachment to books have waned over the years.

I never lost my love for words either. It was still there. There is a magic to words that leaves me in awe. Poetry captures my heart. Depth in song lyrics (Sleeping at Last, anyone?).  How the simplest phrases can leave you with different feelings in your heart (Pinterest definitely helped my love of words).

So maybe it was my expectations that changed. I still wanted to be charmed by magical stories like I was when I was a little girl. I wanted to be enchanted and entirely captured. I wanted to read a book like The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe where when I was told the Lion died, I didn't want to read it anymore because I couldn't bear the sadness. Perhaps that isn't me anymore. Perhaps that isn't even possible. Books with all their wonder cannot meet my expectations or create in me the sensations that other people get from them.

Or maybe it's simply the books I'm reading. Maybe I haven't found the books I need to be reading. I've read a great deal of Historical Fiction over the years, not because I am interested in those types of books that much, but because those types of books have fallen into my lap. Now I realize if I want to be a published writer, I need to know what kind of other books are in my genres of choice (Fantasy or Sci-Fi. Speculative fiction, in general). Maybe if I read more Fantasy, I'll find the magical stories that will charm me because if Fantasy doesn't have magical stories that charm me, what genre will?

Or maybe I should just go back to reading children's books, and then I'll remember. I'll remember what pleased my little girl heart. I'll remember because the whole reason I started writing was so I wouldn't grow up, so I wouldn't have to stop pretending and imagining and creating stories.

Now here I am, trying to refind my love of reading, trying to get lost in the pages of a story enough to find myself in another's shoes, trying to find new favorites because I want to. I really do. But
what if I'm a writer who just doesn't like to read? Is that even possible? Is that alright?

I found you there.

Right where I never thought you'd be.

Near to my heart,

Making it hard to breath,

And I wondered just how long

Since you crept so close,

How long since your hands

Began to patch up all my holes

Because I must have missed you

All these hours, days, or years,

Because I never saw you.

It never occurred to me that you were already here.

Now I can't say,
"Come in and make this your home."

Your hut outside my wall

Is where you've picked to dwell,

Close enough for me to eventually feel

But not close enough to invade my space.

I don't care about those things -

My heart, my self, my space -

Least not anymore

Since I've found your hiding place

- No, this isn't where you've hid.

This is where I have made you stay

Because my heart is not completely home

To anyone other than my selfish self.

At least come in for a meal.

A simple meal is nothing for me to fear,

Except I find your presence perplexing.

When your eyes met mine,

I can't seem to worry

Or wonder about another time.

My heart is better when you're here,

But at the end, I let you disappear

Beyond my heart's high walls

To your hut in some other's field.

At least move in a little nearer;

So I can see you when I hope

That somehow I will be better

And call across to you,

"Besiege this heart now

And take your rightful place.

I cannot stand not to be close

When my heart yearns

For what your heart makes."

So Long April

Here's an assortment of photos from my phone taken during the month of April (You're very lucky. I limited myself to only ten. Plus, there's a whole lot of gorgeous Spring photos going around, and I tried to pick the ones that featured flowers uniquely to my area.  Also, I realized I took most of my wildflower pictures in March...).

To start out the month, we had two Great Danes wandering around our neighborhood. They looked thin and old and tired, and they kept showing up for two days. So I ended up coaxing them home and putting them in an extra kennel we had. We kept them for the next three days. It was a very interesting experience. I've never been around Great Danes before, but I rather like them. There's something quite satisfying about huge dogs, and the Mr. was very ferocious in his barking. They were both old and very sweet (and had very good manners). Since we had to put down our thirteen-year-old dog, Frodo,  last Summer, I haven't really been around a dog where you could safely sit down beside them and just pat them (Cordelia is not that dog). It made me miss Frodo so much. We managed to find their owner which was good because I don't think Great Danes would fit into our lives at the moment, regardless of how sweet they were. As soon as their owner stepped out of the car, they ran over and jumped on him, knocking off his hat, licking his head, and ruining his glasses. Ends up that the Mr. was 9-years-old (6-7 years is a normal Great Dane's life span) and the Mrs. was 6. They were very loved and missed. Made the inconvenience so worthwhile. These are the things from God that really stop my craziness and help me just sit and breath. <3

Just an old building on the property. I've consistently taken pictures of it through the years in every season. I even won best of class once at the fair with one of the pictures.

Up that way is Cowiche Mountain. It isn't really a mountain. It's just a ridge that is behind our house and heads West to the foothills. Those yellow flowers (balsamroot) are all over the place. I wish I could teleport you here because pictures don't do the place justice. Can you believe that hill was burned in a wildfire 7 years ago? That's a crazy story I'm not going to get into. Once, when my siblings were younger and still at home, they went up there to slide down when it snowed (flawless plan, right?). Ended up that my sister got turned around and went down the other side of the mountain, two of our dogs accompanying her. She went to the right house, though, where the older couple were home, and the woman was making fresh cookies.

Another wildflower. Phlox. They grow around the base of the sagebrush bushes. I've always been fascinated at how the buds are before they bloom. The petals are all rolled up neatly.

Another wild flower. Shamefully, I don't know the name of this one. I feel like I should since I've lived my whole life in the neighborhood, but there are just so many wildflowers. And a lot of yellow ones.

Growing up, my grandparents lived right up a path that ran through the sagebrush, cheat, and eventually, wildflowers. We used to always pick bouquets for my grandma on the way up the hill.

I just took this last night as I was working in my garden - isn't it a grand view? I stayed out till about 8:45 because I couldn't bear to come in. It was too beautiful. One of those perfect evenings without wind (which we've been having a lot of lately). Even thought it had to be only 50 degrees, it really didn't feel that cold, but then I was busy hauling around compost and that sort of stuff.

Today I was hankering after a sandwich and ended up finding out there wasn't any bread. So...I made four loaves. I don't know how many loaves of bread I've made in my life. I started when I was 11. We used to go through four a week. Nowadays I don't usually make bread every week.

Well, the fourth loaf  kinda decided it wanted to be cinnamon rolls instead, and I really wasn't going to argue. Cinnamon rolls happen to be one of my favorites, and using the bread dough actually works really well. Probably some of the tastier ones out of all the recipes I've tried.

So awhile back, I set up a greenhouse and was so happy about it and thrilled and overjoyed. Then it blew over in our bad wind. I haven't put it back up because the wind keeps blowing, but I started these seeds indoors with the intention of sticking them out as soon as the seeds germinated. Since that hasn't happened, our window sills are full of little plants. They are actually the most impressive seeds I've started indoors. Except the Broccoli. The Broccoli (the closest plants) got a bit dangly in the search for more light. I'm hoping to get the greenhouse back up before this season is over.

In April, I added an additional twenty-something hours of work per month. It felt a little crazy at first, but it's a good feeling to know you can support yourself. I still have a lot to figure out, though, with the additional work. Mostly how to make sure I take advantage of all the time I have and not get swallowed in some bottomless pit. There's a lot of things I feel need my time, but at the same time, I feel like I'm not giving them enough to actually succeed; so not only do they take my time, they are also eventually part of my discouragement. It's a really hard thing. I can't do everything. I keep telling myself that, but it doesn't stop me from seeing everything that needs to be done.

I've been reading more lately. I'm currently reading 'Unoffendable' by Brant Hansen (Really good. Very convicting), 'A Novel Way' by an assortment of Christian authors, and 'Dune' by Frank Herbert. I've been searching for Sci-fi and Fantasy books to read (and like) because that is what I want to write eventually. So far, I haven't been very successful in the liking front. 'Dune' is the best Sci-fi I've read so far. Can you write in a genre where you haven't found a book you actually like in it? Do you guys have any Sci-fi suggestions? I don't really like the hard-core Sci-fi. I'm searching for stories that are based on characters, rather than inventions or planets. I want more of the magic and mystery of different planets and space ships, not the how.

It's almost 1 in the morning; so I think I shall tie this post in a knot and send it out. Hope all your April was wonderful!