Saying Goodbye

I'm terrible at saying goodbye. I'm terrible with change.

Saturday was the last show for the seniors in our drama program. They were all there from the beginning. They've seen it grow...they've grown with it...they've made it what it is today.

Before every show, we have I guess what you could call a "love fest." We all gather in a circle and offer words of encouragement. It starts off with our director telling us we're going to suck, just to make sure we don't get big heads before the performance. But then someone always raises their hand and talks about how much the drama program means to them, and before long everyone's raising their hands and sharing stories–personal stories–about how the drama program has saved their life. We talk about how much we love each other. How much of a family we all are. And pretty soon we're all trying not to cry for fear of ruining our makeup five minutes before the curtain opens...it probably would be better if we did these things after the show.

But then again, these pre-show "love fests" are what propel me through the performance. When I'm on stage, I want to make everyone proud. I don't want to let anyone down with lackluster energy. Saturday, I wanted to make the seniors proud.

In our "love fest" on Saturday, we spent a lot of time talking about the seniors, and how grateful we are to them. They have always done their best to make everyone feel included. They talked with everyone, complimented everyone, and made an effort to get to know all of us. They have been fantastic role models, both as actors and just as people.

As I saw them take their final bows on our school stage,  I was at first overwhelmed with sadness that they would never be performing on our stage again. I thought about how different the program was going to be next year. But then my sadness turned to gratitude, as I thought about how grateful I was just to know them. From gratitude, it turned to pride, and I thought about how proud they all make me every time I see them onstage or backstage. And then that pride turned to excitement. They're all going off in their own directions. They're going off into the big world and who knows what is in store for them? I'm not sure what they will end up doing, but I know that no matter what it is, it will be great.

Next year, I will be a junior. A boy in my grade commented Saturday that the seniors this year were juniors themselves when we all met them. I only hope I can make as big an impact on next year's incoming freshmen as this year's seniors did on me.

So as the curtains closed yesterday after the seniors' final bows, I wasn't sad anymore, because I could already see the next ones opening.

Magnolia In Bloom

It's the perfect day for a wedding. The sky is blue and clear, the air is balmy, and our magnolia tree is in bloom.

When my friend and I were younger, we used to marry our stuffed animals under this tree. Teddy and Mocha one Saturday, Blueberry and Choco the next. We gathered all the dish towels and laid out a pathway. As the groom leaned proudly against the tree waiting for his bride, one of us walked the bride down the aisle while the other followed behind, tossing magnolia petals. 

Teddy and Mocha renewed their vows many a time under this tree. They seem to still be going strong. They never argue. Then again, Teddy is quite an agreeable fellow. All the stuffing in his neck went down to his stomach; it's turned him into quite the "yes man." 

With the magnolia tree in bloom, I'm reminded of where I am in my life right now. I see the magnolia flowers, so full and confident. I'm still a bud, inching my way open. One of these springs I will bloom with the magnolia flowers. That will be a glorious spring.

My Brother's Sweatshirt

I don't know why I took off my sweatshirt today to put on Owen's. Maybe it's because Mother Nature once again swept spring out from under our feet and guy sweatshirts are so much better than girl sweatshirts––baggy, warm, big enough to curl up into a ball under. Owen's now big enough that I can fit into his sweatshirts, even though he's younger than me. Maybe it's because he's my brother, and it was comforting. Maybe it's both.

Tonight was one of those nights I love my brother, and I feel like I need to say it because there are times I have to remind myself that I do. Last night was one of those nights, too. The saying, "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em" seems to be written for siblings. I don't know what it was last night or tonight, but I just appreciated him.

I've realized that I like taking care of Owen, but only when he doesn't expect it. I like the mornings when I make him his PB&J on Scali bread with Skippy® peanut butter, sealed in a ziplock bag instead of plastic wrap. Two lemonade juice boxes chilled in the freezer. Something crunchy. Something sweet. Peanut butter crackers or a granola bar if he's staying after school. I like making him eggs at 11:30pm when he's gotten home late from a basketball game. I like when he asks me what sneakers he should wear in the morning, even though I don't have an opinion. Usually, I even like struggling over a math problem together.

I guess what I liked the past two days is that he didn't have any of his friends to act cool around. He didn't have to act like he was too cool for his big sister.

If You Believe

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66º today and sunny. My little cousin was over, and I decided to take advantage of the nice weather to have some quality cousin-bonding time––or maybe just to put off cleaning my room for another few hours. No...it was the bonding time.

She ran ahead and wanted to balance on every curb, pick every flower, and say hello to everyone. She asked everyone their names and then proceeded to introduce herself and me to all those who stopped to acknowledge her chirpy three-year-old voice. She grew tired on the way home, so I carried her. She was fascinated by our moving shadows as we walked under the sun.

"Look, it's us!" she exclaimed. We waved to our shadows and then made bunny hand puppets, narrating as they hopped along.

"I got to go!" she voiced.

"Me too. I need to go eat some carrots!" I said, playing along.

"I need...I need...I need to go eat some carrot cake!" She laughed.

"That's right, you liked the carrot cake Yaya made at Easter," I said.

"Yup. I ate it all up. I want some when we get home."

"Carrot cake?"

"Yeah!"

"I don't think there's any carrot cake at home," I said.

"Yes there is. Yaya gave me some to take home after Easter!" Easter was two and half weeks ago, mind you.

"I don't think it will be there anymore," I said.

"Yes there is. I believe!" she said, throwing her grass-stained arms up in the air.

In the mind of a three-year-old, if you believe hard enough, anything can happen. What a wonderful idea.

Right or Wrong

I went to a talk last week at my church. The man speaking quoted the wise words of his wife, which were that if you find yourself spending a lot of time trying to convince yourself something is right, then you should probably get yourself out of whatever that thing is.

I find I have the opposite problem. I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself something is wrong. If something seems right, then there has to be something wrong about it. There just has to be.

But why? Why can't I just let myself be happy? Let myself enjoy whatever that thing is?

Right and wrong is so black and white. How many things can truly be one or the other?

As Hamlet said in Shakespeare's famous tragedy, Hamlet, "For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so" (II.ii.234-235). It is we who label something as right or wrong, good or bad. As a whole, historically the human race has felt inclined to separate the world into two black and white categories. We've targeted different races as "good" or "bad." We've captured different body types as "desirable" or "undesirable." We've labeled different foods as "healthy" or "unhealthy." Yet, few of what we categorize remains under that label forever. Our opinions change; our tastes change; our scope of knowledge changes. After the Civil War allowed African Americans to be accepted in America, we turned to the Natives; the question of slavery quickly changed to "the Native question." There was a time when a full-figured woman was desirous, but for many girls today, "thin is in." Potatoes used to keep families fulfilled for months, but now it's been blacklisted under the form of french fries and potato chips.

Why do these things change? Is it possible that no race is "good" or "bad?" (gasp.) Is it possible that there's no "perfect figure?" Is it possible that in moderation, potatoes–even in the form of french fries and potato chips–are okay? So, can anything really be labeled as right or wrong? Good or bad? Desirable or undesirable?

I think the reason why we are inclined to put a label on things is because it's comforting. In a chaotic world where everything is flying around us a mile a minute, it's comforting to be able to put something in black or white. Things get lost in gray. I can tell myself, "No. I will not eat those Oreos because the health magazine tells me processed foods are bad for me." Easy. If I want a "good figure", I just have to stay away from foods that are "bad" for me. (Just an example, by the way. I love Oreos.)

But "good" versus "bad" gets even more complicated when it turns into "right" versus "wrong." If there's anything that cannot be cast in black or white, it's emotions. I ask myself on a weekly basis–sometimes daily–if what I'm feeling is "wrong." But how can what anyone feels be wrong? "Well, my religion says this." "My parents say this." "My friends say this."

I need to learn to stop worrying about what everyone thinks. I need to think for myself, and sometimes, just not think. I need to stop labeling everything as "right" or "wrong." I need to just live. And if something feels right, not question it.

A few posts ago I said to never stop questioning the world around you. True. Except your heart. Never question your heart.

The Big Bay Window

My house is the same house my mom grew up in. She says she never really liked the house or felt that "home sweet home" attachment, with its cramped rooms and dark hallways. Out of everything, she most fondly remembers the kitchen pantry, stocked with Goldfish and French's fried onion bits and whatever else satisfied her salty cravings.

She moved away, but thirty years later she is back in that house, with her own family. The dining room is now just an extension of the living room. The wall between the TV room and kitchen has been knocked down, and the TV room now holds the kitchen table and a couch for company, so they can sit and chat while we try to casually carry on a conversation while waiting for the ham we put in the oven an hour too late.

I'm not sure if I feel any strong attachment to my house. It's hard to know because I've never really been away. But I know that when I leave, one thing I will remember is the big window in what used to be the TV room: the big bay window.

I will remember the years Mom decorated that window with phrases wishing passerby the joys of the current season, properly accented with flowers or snowflakes or falling leaves. I will remember the giant ceramic Jack-O-Lantern that smiled at trick-or-treaters from the windowsill. I will remember all the singing snowmen from Hallmark that took the Jack-O-Lantern's place during the Christmas season.

Why will I remember all this? Because the big bay window looks into the kitchen, and it is the first thing I see upon returning home. There is nothing more comforting than when I pull into the driveway to see the kitchen lit up, Mom or someone else standing over the stove. I love to see my dog's perked ears as she stands on the couch, deciding whether or not she needs to warn the house of intruders.

When I come home from college in a few years I will pull into the driveway and see the big bay window, and I will know I am home. Inside a loaf of bread will be in the oven and my dog will greet me with happy barks. At least that is how I will remember it.

What do you remember most–or think you will most remember–about your childhood house?

Hope, Love, Faith

Photo Credit: Madison Busick
My long-time friend and supporter and an amazing photographer! Check out her awesome blog!
http://maddieseeingtheworld.blogspot.com/

I had a particularly religious Easter today, considering I am usually not a very religious person. It is not that I do not believe in God; it's not that I don't pray. Because I do believe in God, and I pray regularly. However, I have always struggled with conforming to the doctrine of a religion. I am Catholic and my grandparents are all religious, but neither of my parents are regular church-goers. I didn't grow up committed to weekly mass; I have never felt a strong connection to my church community.

I wish I did. Some of my friends are close with their youth ministry groups and I think it's a fantastic way to be part of the community. Is there something wrong with me? Is there some part of this whole "religion thing" that I'm not getting?

As I said earlier, I believe in God. But going to mass every Sunday doesn't make me feel any closer to Him...at least not at the church I go to. Good sermons are rare there; it feels like mass is always the same. The preachings feel...outdated. And I can't grasp anything out of the Bible readings because I don't know what to listen for. What are the most important parts?

For whatever reason my body decided 4am was enough sleep for the day, so after an hour of trying to fall asleep, I decided to no longer fight it. What else to do at 5am on a Sunday than read "Les Mis?" 

Still curled up in bed, I flicked on my bedside lamp and curled up with my favorite purple pen to relish one of my favorite books. The chapters I read today were apropos for Easter Sunday. They talked about 19th-century religion, particularly the monasteries and convents of the Bernardine nuns––Jean Valjean hides with Cosette in the Petit-Picpus convent (founded by Spaniard Martin Verga) after rescuing her from the Thénardiers and escaping Javert once again. The nuns living in the Petit-Picpus convent live a strict life, to say the least. They fast several days a week, one nun must at all times be praying for the sins of the world, no men are allowed in the convent except the archbishop of the diocese and the gardener (who the convent makes wear a bell to warn the nuns of his approach), among other things. One interesting custom I read was about the induction of the novices. Victor Hugo described it as the following:

On the day when a novice makes her profession, she is dressed in herhandsomest attire, she is crowned with white roses, her hair isbrushed until it shines, and curled. Then she prostrates herself;a great black veil is thrown over her, and the office for the deadis sung. Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passesclose to her, saying in plaintive accents, "Our sister is dead";and the other file responds in a voice of ecstasy, "Our sister isalive in Jesus Christ!"

In other words, the nuns attempt to make themselves dead on Earth so that they may be closer with God. This idea is difficult for me to grasp. After all, didn't God put us on this Earth for a reason? To live it? To live it in the image of his son, Jesus Christ? 

After pondering these chapters for about an hour, the sun had risen so I went for a run in the trails. I felt like I was being reborn, as if I too had been resurrected. It is times like these I feel closest to God. 

Cutting it a little close on time (as always) my family and I did something we rarely do: we went to church, or rather, we went to the non-denominational chapel my younger cousins go to.  It's an entirely different experience from the sermons I'm used to. There's lots of music and singing––not traditional gospel songs, but more modern religious ones. Everyone is up out of their seats and happy.

But what really struck me was how relatable the pastor made everything. With my good fortune, the sermon was centered around "Les Mis." The pastor cleverly tied in the mourning of Mary Magdalene over Jesus' death–some people theorize that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute and Jesus' lover–with Fantine. A girl of about my age sang Fantine's song "I Dreamed A Dream. "I had a dream my life would be so different from this hell I'm living," she sings. The pastor talked about how Mary Magdalene, like Fantine and like many of us in some point of our lives, had a dream that was different from what her life turned out to be––a life without Jesus. And with this, the pastor talked about hope––how hope is only empty wishing if it lacks reason. Mary Magdalene had given up hope; she believed she had nothing left to live for, so she wept. "Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?" (John 20:15) Jesus asked Mary after rising from the dead. She did not recognize him at first, but when she did, all hope was restored. Jesus was that hope. She clung to him, but he said to her, "Do not hold on to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father. Go instead to my brothers and tell them, 'I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God" (20:17). 

The pastor talked about how Jesus is the hope living within us, because Jesus lives within us. Life does not cease on Earth. When we lose someone we love, we will see them again someday. As Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil write in their musical:

Expanding on the "Les Mis" references, the pastor also talked about how Victor Hugo–the author of "Les Mis"–struggled with religion during his life. He believed in God but disagreed with many of the beliefs of the church. Where did he stand? Who was God to him? This morning I read one of my favorite chapters I have read in "Les Mis" thus far, in which Hugo questions God, infinity, and existence.

Volume II, Book Seventh, Chapter V-Prayer

They pray.

To whom?

To God.

To pray to God,--what is the meaning of these words?

Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite there, inherent,
permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because,
if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent,
since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would
end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence,
while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence?
In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?

At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there
not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an
alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other? Is not this
second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first? Is it not
the latter's mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric
with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also?
Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities
are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an
I in the upper infinity as there is an I in the lower infinity.
The I below is the soul; the I on high is God.

To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought,
with the infinity on high, is called praying.

Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad.
We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed
towards the Unknown; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is
an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown.
Thought, revery, prayer,--these are great and mysterious radiations.
Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations
of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.

The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing
of humanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least,
there exists the right of the soul.

To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law.
Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree
of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars.
We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery
against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject
the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary,
to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion;
to clear God of caterpillars.

With all these questions and with chapters like this, "Les Misérables" is still considered a very religious book. Book Seventh is called "Parenthesis," which many say is due to the fact that Book Seventh does little to progress the plot. This may be so, but it doesn't mean it is "pointless" or by any means "random"; someone as brilliant as Victor Hugo wouldn't put thirteen pages in "just because he felt like it." 

Book Seventh is essential to the plot because it addresses the question of religion, of God, and of faith, all of which are themes that are essential to recognize and to ponder if one wants to read "Les Mis" with any level of depth. 

And shouldn't we all always be questioning? No matter what it is? Maybe we should take a lesson from the five-year-old, who always wants to know "why" (unless of course our parents ask us to take out the trash, in which case it doesn't matter why we have to do it, we just better do it). 

As Claude-Michel Shönberg and Alain Boublil wrote:

I'm not sure I believe God created this Earth and everything on it. I may be a dreamer, but there's also the realist in me that just can't fathom that idea. But I do believe in some higher being. I see God in all that is beautiful and all that is good. I see God in the frosty 7am trails. I see God in my friend who goes out of his way to talk to the shy boy in class. I see God in the big blue eyes of my little cousin as she asks if I can "please the blue egg dye." 

But maybe "seeing God" isn't what I mean. Maybe a more accurate way to think about it for me is to feel God––like I feel God's presence when I'm running on the beach. I might challenge Claude-Michel Schönberg and Alain Boublil and say, maybe "To love another person is to feel the hands of God." 

Yes. Even "Les Mis" can be questioned.

Never stop questioning. Never stop hoping. Never stop believing, whether that be in God, in yourself, in others, in humanity, whatever it is you believe in. And whatever that thing is, believe it with all your heart.

Wishing you all "a heart full of love" in the week to come!