In Which I Am Simply Human

Wind and leaves sway their lullaby above my head as I slowly wake up. The cygnets have drifted back to their mother on the island in the middle of the pond, no longer waiting by the fencing that encompasses their world for me to hand them clovers that grow out of their reach. I hear them faintly muttering to their mother and other siblings as I stretch a little, eyes still closed. Music continues to play through my earbuds, one of which has fallen out of my ear and into the grass I rest on.

The kingdom of the morning star
can pierce a cold and stony heart. 
Its grace went through me like a sword 
and came out like this song. 
Now I'm just waiting for the day 
in the shadows of the dawn.

Gray Havens' "Shadows of the Dawn." It's just after the song I was listening to when I drifted off. But has it only been the length of a song, or have I been asleep the whole album and it started playing again? I put the question from my mind and inhale deeply, the grass, dirt, pond, and gentle summer air, smell like sweet colors that fill my mind. The grass murmurs as someone leaves the concrete path and approaches. I know this pattern of steps, the soft chuckle.

I stretch, smiling, and open my eyes. Seeing him smiling down at me, my own smile broadens. "Hi."

"Hi." The laughter gracing his shining eyes tickles his voice as well. "Were you asleep?"

"Not just now. I was thinking."

"Sure you were."

"I might have been sleeping for a while beforehand."

He chuckles again, pulling a leaf out of my hair. "Let's get going, Silly Woman." Taking my hand, he helps me to my feet.

---

Evening autumn chills have wrapped themselves around my fingers like strips of cloth as I leave him at the door, worry prodding my heart with icy fingers. He's sick. Just a cold, but I still feel lost, unable to help him recover. Instead of going straight home, where I can make cocoa and wrap myself in a blanket, I wander along paved paths while the chapel bells sing songs. Eventually I make my way towards the glowing sunset. An illusion from the distance told me the sun had set the fog to a red glow, but no fog exists to greet me when I reach the cliff's edge. I lean on the fence and gaze down at the water, its strange surface a mix of dancing textures, waves that dissolve into the shore and ripples that resemble the wrinkles of a fluttering silk cloth.

I drift away with the breeze, back up the path, leaving behind the people hammocking, chatting among themselves. When I am behind the library, I pause. We've sat in the grass here together, he and I, talking about various universes. This evening, I see something I have repeatedly overlooked when the grass was green and vibrant: a well worn path. Without consciously coming to a decision, I find myself following it. I place one foot at a time, not rushing myself when it's even a little steep. I've learned caution from a childhood of running through fields and walking along ledges beside creeks. I gently lower myself down large rocks similar to the those at the cliff point I just left. At the end, I stand on a flat slab that overlooks the lake below. I feel different here, more myself than work has allowed me to be in a while. There is no fence here. No fence to protect me, but none to confine me.

I sit down, alone but for the occasional owl call and cricket symphony. The sun continues her near completed journey, settling ever so slowly behind the tree blanketed hills in the distance. As I trace senseless shapes and patterns in the red clay dust that covers the stone, I study the almost twinkling cities in the distance and the reflections of lanterns on the lakeside docks. Watching the water so late at night, I understand the writers who came back again and again to ink. It's so dark I can hardly imagine ever seeing through it clearly, but even as I accept the obsidian depths, remembering my mother's inks and pens with which she does not write, but draws, the words to paint the universe, I cannot help but notice how much clearer the reflection is in this black mirror. Eventually I take my camera out and try to capture a fragment, but none of the pictures satisfy me.

After a while, I return up the path again, find my way to my room, curl up with a blanket, and make cocoa for my roommate and myself. The night passes gently, and I fall asleep in a deep pile of blankets.

The next day, I wake in a cocoon of warmth but manage to force myself to get dressed and out. I see him at lunch, still miserably ill. He eats quickly, and I walk him back to his place again. Again I wander to the cliff behind the library. Today, I notice a path that enters the trees. Curious, I follow it until I find a place to sit. There I build a small fairy house in the base of a tree. Inside, I place a sun-bleached snail shell. The rest of my time on the path, I take pictures. There's something about light that touches the human soul. So many stories from all around the world, and light is almost always a force or symbol of good.

Before I go back to my room again, I sit on the stone slab for nearly half an hour, staring out at the lake and surrounding countryside, far away but somehow close enough to see. Despite the chilly weather of late, I am warm in the sunlight, warm and content. Absentmindedly, I reach up and touch my hair. My fingers encounter a stowaway there, a yellow leaf. Its edges are jagged and must have caught in my hair while I was hidden away along the forest path. Although I am not certain why, I give it a gentle kiss before I return it to the trees.

Standing, I stare out one more time at the vast segment of the enormous garden I am a part of. It's not the perfect garden, the Garden of Eden, but it's still a garden, brimming with life, beauty, and the fantastical. How wondrous. I brush the dirt from my jeans and sigh happily.

Night Pondering

What lingers in the dark?
What muffled horror?
What passing chill?
What monsters stand
and wait
and listen
for coming feet?

Warm breezes pass through screens.
This, a whispered calling,
a gentle summons,
peaceful, humble,
brings me,
camera in hand,
out.

Far from fields of barley,
late night coyote calls,
star freckled sky,
and solitude.
"Safety"
I exit
and on sidewalk step.

No roaring night life here,
no drunken people,
no speeding cars.
Slam on the brakes.
Stumbles,
not of feet
but souls.

I wander,
pause,
and breathe.

A yellow lamplight stands,
glowing of long past,
sad memories
for which I was
absent.

Lens open,
I gather together
stray pieces of light,
parts of shadow,
and dissmissed colors.
Now still
memories
trapped
within.

Illuminated trees,
reflections on water,
a lonely wooden bridge.
How different
the world is
in obsidian hues
with the faintest
kisses of light.

I pause and
breathe,
wonder.

In the darkness of night,
when fear writhes in hearts,
fevered nightmares come
from within me.
Streetlights
and
glowing stars
light the way
Home.

Of Weather, Piano, and Accidental Caffeine Dependency

A year ago, I was a polar bear sliding across the icy terrain of my yard. This year, the weather has been just as temperamental, alternating between the usual freezing temperatures of early March and the warmth of late spring. I prefer the latter. Walking to work in the cold is never fun for me, but I do recognize the beauty of the cold, for if not for red tipped noses and ears, I might not remember to love the kiss of the warming sun on my cheek. On the days when the weather has been pleasant, I walk for about an hour. It's a learning experience in some ways. I'm able to examine myself apart from the constricting world of concrete and right angles, where I am just me. I have learned and been reminded of the following.

• Wild flowers in late winter make me laugh with joy.

• I have a habit of addressing the animals I talk to as Beautiful. (No. They do not talk back.)

• Finding an armadillo makes me ridiculously happy for some unknown reason.

• Downhill was made for running down with reckless abandon.

• God's magic and miracles are everywhere, from the enchanted threads of spiderwebs to the ground that supports the weight of my overflowing heart.

• Outside heals wounds I don't remember I have.

When I'm not outside, I tend to be easily found near a piano, having finally begun learning to play this year. I've been a singer for years, but the piano has always held an enchantment for me. When I was a child, my mother would play piano in our house very rarely, but every time she did, I would hurry over to her as fast as my little legs would carry me. Sometimes, I would sit on the piano bench next to her until I couldn't make myself hold still any longer, but more often, I would dance, imagining a prince or just spinning in endless circles to the point that I either sat down or fell over from dizziness. She would play more often at my great grandmother's home, or my aunt would play. After they left that piano, I would scramble onto the bench and try to play like they had, my feet swinging in the air. Short, disconnected melodies would stumble from my finger tips, but as time went on, I seemed to create more dissonance than harmony, and I eventually left the piano to itself. Even my attempt to teach myself to play when I was in junior high was short lived.

This past fall, I was brought back to the piano, largely by Wolfe. He was a new friend who one day mentioned that he was going to go practice piano, and on a whim, I asked if I could come listen. Eventually, I would regularly join him when he went to practice. As he learned on YouTube to play new pieces of slowly increasing difficulty, I sat on the floor in the corner of the practice room, my head leaning back against the wall, and the piano wrapped me in its familiar voice, singing its ballads and lullabies. Wolfe has told me that he probably would have eventually stopped practicing if I hadn't been coming to listen. Without him, I likely would never have considered trying once more to learn the songs of the piano. Currently, we're taking a beginning level class together, and I am loving it. I find myself increasingly fond of three four time, waltzes in particular, but other pieces as well.

I have officially fallen in love with the piano once more. My sister was apathetic as to this development. However, once I mentioned to her that I was hoping to eventually be able to play theme music from our favorite anime (in particular Mikoto Suoh's theme from K Project), she took a sudden interest in my progress. I look forward to being able to play it for her eventually, but also to be able to play it myself, feeling the motion of the sound and letting it flow through me like electricity through wires.

Also of recent interest, I ran out of my usual morning herbal tea in early January. Mornings, cold ones in particular, tend to be rather hard to face without a warm cup of tea. In the face of the void my herbal left behind, I utilized a box of black tea for the rest of the month. It wasn't too different until I simultaneously ran out of the black tea and gained more of my usual herbal. The Monday I switched back was merely groggy at first, but eventually I became convinced that either my skull was attempting to liquefy or some kind of heavy gremlin was doing its best to wrap its jaws around my head. By evening, I had a low level migraine that was barely fended off by the caffeine in soda. The next day was marginally better, but still painful. That Wednesday, I decided that if my skull was going to throw a temper tantrum, I was not going to give it what it wanted. Thus, I have quit caffeine all together, including black teas and most sodas. I'll likely return to my previous ways in a few weeks (oh how I miss my usual dark sodas and the occasional black tea), but I don't plan on drinking black tea every morning anymore. Coffee is an absolute no. I refuse to start that habit. No matter how lovely it smells, I cannot abide the taste.

Warriors

Last month, I was sitting outside enjoying the warm weather, when a spot of color on the grey rocks caught my eye.

Most of my friends consider wasps to be generally evil and best dead or non-existent. To a point, I understand them. The stings are painful and being allergic would make the matter even worse. As for me, wasps have never bothered me. I respect them and leave them alone, and they return the favor. One journal entry from my junior high years details a class period in which I did my best to dissuade a wasp from flying through an open window, lest he be slain by my excitable comrades (I had named him Charles), and in some ways I am quite the same as I was then.

This wasp in particular was rather calm, choosing to walk rather than fly, which allowed me some interaction. I sat down and placed my hand beside him. He slowly crawled onto one of my fingers, crossed to the next, and then disembarked, a quiet and peaceful greeting. I pulled my camera out of my bag and took a few pictures of him as he roamed the rocky expanse. He was not threatening to me, physically or mentally, so I lay down on the ground watching him walk, the movement of his feet, the tilt of his wings, and his restful pauses. When I was forced to leave and continue my day, he was still there, and I cannot help but wonder what he might have told me if I could have understood.

Nearly a week later, I was lost in a train station of thought, not quite ready to board any train in particular. Contemplations, ideas, and dreams bustled about me, pushing, ambling, or simply standing in place as I was. A pondering waved as it passed and, not seeing where it was going, crashed into a rushing thought. The two of them fell over on top of memories of the wasp, which had been sitting cross-legged staring at the ceiling. My love of watercolor stopped to help them up, and there I was able to focus on the four of them, follow, and board the same train. The destination was an image and the desire to paint it.

I worked on it on and off for about a month, not because it was overly difficult or large, but because I was occupied with other activities as well. When I finally finished, I was excited. Yes, I messed up several times in several places. I almost gave up when I was working on the fire. But my wasp is so close to the image I had in my head that I don’t mind the smudges, smears, and regretted decisions as much as I might otherwise.

A flaming wasp in the rain to “cool,” but "cool" is not my intent.

A wasp is more than an annoying or even threatening bug to be slain on a whim. Sometimes, such actions must be taken, but not always. What is it like inside one's head? I imagine that sometimes a wasp must be awfully afraid. They live in a world so much larger in comparison to them than we do. How can such a small creature hope to survive in an existence teaming with giants and ogres? But wasps continue anyway, even striking fear into the hearts of their enemies. They are natural warriors with armor and weapons that they are never physically able to set down.

Humans really are small too. On some scales, we make about as much difference as wasps do. So why bother? Many people don't, but there are a few who are born warriors, much like wasps. They put their hearts on the line every moment of every day to push back the Darkness, everything from their own rage to the all too real nightmares of others, and they burn; they burn with a stunning light. The light and fire they carry within them has immense potential for destruction, their own as well as others', but they choose instead to protect. However, burning and fighting with such intensity wears on them, and often they long to stop their flight, to land, but the armor is part of their DNA, an exoskeleton. Even when they land, feet on solid ground, they can never take that armor off. So they fly, they fly through the darkness, inner light burning brilliantly, even when the sky lets loose torrents of rain, even when they feel infinitely small.

These are the Christians who pull us back on our feet when we fall, look us in the eye, and tell us it’s not the end of the world. They’ve been where we’ve been, and they’ve helped so many people before us. They remind us that sometimes we do have to fight.

I am not a wasp as much as I am a bee: fluffier and less likely to attack. Not everyone was designed to be a wasp after all, but we can still make a difference in our terrifyingly large world, even if that difference is only to a single flower.

Merry Christmas.

I’m so grateful for all of you, warriors or not.

Love,

Kara

Amber

In memory of a dear friend. For her, those she touched, and those like her.

I'm beautiful
you tell me.
I am your dream,
but why am
I unable to sleep?

You want me near
you all times.
I haven't seen
friends or close
relatives for a while.

It's safe inside
where others
can't see me or
hurt what's yours.
You say I'm your princess.

You never mean
to hurt me.
You wish I would
understand.
I think I'm scared of you.

Maybe I do
deserve this.
Surely I am
the reason.
This is for my own good.

It's love?

If I let you beat me,
will you be satisfied?
If I do all you say,
will you stop hurting me?

Pain.
Screaming.
Broken skin.
Fresh, dark bruises.

Please let me rest.
I promise
you can proceed.
I beg you
a moment, please, of rest.

You fell asleep.
And I knew
If I stayed here
I would die.
I had to escape this.

No more.

I have turned my weakness
into strength,
My running blood
to amber,
gem of courage.

Because I was broken
I can help
heal those like me.
I reach out
into darkness.

They are lost in the dark
as I was.
I bring them home,
back to light;
they aren't alone.

I touch lives and change them.
Whole classrooms.
Individuals.
Forever
taking new course.

From weak to strong,
I am anew.
My Father calls.
"It's time to rest.

"Come Home."

It's Late

Well, late to be writing a blog post, anyway.

I should be going to bed, but my thoughts won't quiet down. I need to ramble, pick apart words and put them together in different orders again. I suppose that's where I find myself, in the space between reality and dreams, sitting in a dewy meadow under a vast universe of stars, tying daisy chains with clovers.

I'm messaging with Christian at the moment. I am truly blessed to have him as a friend. We talk about things that matter and about nothing at all. It's good to be able to have conversations about things that really matter on the inside. Sometimes we get lost in a world so focused on surfaces that we lose the way back into our hearts, and we can't find who we are anymore. We become mirrors that stumble along lanes of superficial social conformities, only reflecting and never projecting anything that isn't already packaged and labeled for our society. If everyone is a mirror, there is nothing to reflect.

Are we truly that afraid of ourselves? Are we truly that afraid of what we can do?

In a world full of mirrors, those who choose to become lights shine all the brighter.

Thank you, Christian. You are a light.

Let Us Shine

I have a special love for stars. They shimmer in a blue dark enough to pass for inky black, fragments of some glistening magic from afar raining down gossamer kisses. They beckon me into contemplation and enshroud me in comfort; they call me to open my eyes and dream.

They have inspired writers and other artists for ages. Shakespeare's "Sonnet 116" describes love as "the star to every wandering bark" (line 7). It doesn't really surprise me that he chose a star for his analogy. Sure, it makes sense logically, but it's also emotionally fitting. I look up into the night sky and I am awash in Abba's love. It's like He's taking my hand and pulling me into a dance, laughing.

"But when I look at the stars,
when I look at the stars,
when I look at the stars I see someone else.
When I look at the stars,
the stars, I feel like myself."

Switchfoot "Stars"

Everything has an end, right? Even stars die. The thing is, starlight continues on through time and space, continuing to affect us. Oddly enough, we're like stars in that respect. We live and we die, but there's more to us than that, to which we are often blind. Each motion, each word, is a spark, the tiniest of lights in a vast darkness. Together these sparks define us, combined to make vast stars. We are seen within our solar systems, our galaxies, our universe. Even after we die and our bodies crumble into dust, the our lights continue on through space and time. Maybe in our writing, our art, our music, or simply the memories of others.

There is a long history of using stars to navigate. This also applies to us. We use stars like the disciples, saints, writers, and musicians to help us redirect ourselves to Christ, to stay on course when we can't see the shore. All of whom will continue to inspire others long after they die, whispering Father's love into hearts that are battered and torn, for all hearts are.

"Your love will lead us through the fight
Like stars in the night"

Tenth Avenue North "Stars"

He took him outside and said, "Look up at the heavens and count the stars--if indeed you can count them." Then He said to him, "So shall your offspring be." Genesis 15:5

We are the descendents of Abraham and children of God, and we are stars. We are more than innumerable; we are lights in the darkness. We light the way long after we have gone.

"This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine"

Our Call to Regift

It is Christmas eve. Well, it's not evening yet, but let's ignore that for a moment. Colorfully wrapped presents repose beneath a shimmering tree. Go ahead. Take a picture of the momentary splendor. In a handful of hours, the paper will be strewn across the floor, several of the candy canes will have mysteriously disappeared, and the spell of the unknown will be dispersed. You may receive clothes, books, games, and maybe even that new CD you've been dieing to get your hands on. Some of these  may not be quite to your taste, and that's okay, right? You can always regift it next year, and doesn't your cousin even have a birthday next month?

For the last few weeks, we've been hearing sermons about Jesus being sent to us as a child so that He could die on the cross, the perfect lamb, to save us from our sins. It's the ultimate gift, a Savior who loves us without restraint. What do we do with a gift like this, a gift that is valuable beyond compare? Many of us accept it gratefully, place it on the mantle, and gaze at it fondly from time to time. Being a Christian would be far easier if that was all that is required of us. Neither are we only called to be His servants. Christ is a Christmas gift like no other. He is a gift we must pass on with jubilation. In our culture, we regift what we don't want and greedily cling to what catches our fancy, but instead, Abba would have us give our greatest gift to others. In doing so, we do not lose it; rather, regifting the love of Christ enriches our lives as Christians. Not to mention, it's the best gift you can pass along, even if it isn't immediately received from your friend, family member, or acquaintance.

In this holiday season, we are called regift Christ, to share his limitless love with others.

I know this post isn't very long, but it's something I've been wanting to post since the fourteenth. Maybe it's something one of you needs this season, maybe not. Regardless, have a safe and merry Christmas. You are loved beyond comprehension and compare.

A December Update

This is not going to be one of the stunning posts, just a warning in case you read through this expecting an astounding conclusion and, in your bitter disappointment, decide to revolt.

A few days after Letter to Green Bean Casserole, my mother decided to make a green bean casserole. I may or may not have consumed roughly half. It was glorious.

I've been rereading George MacDonald's Phantastes, and, as I also recently watched the Jim Henson movie Labyrinth, I'm toying with writing a research paper on Fairyland being a medium for growing up in stories. It's an exciting proposition. I could use Phantastes, "Goblin Market", The Chronicles of Narnia, Peter Pan, and other wonderful works of literature. That may not be until the summer, however. And speaking of papers, Ace informed me that he fully intends to post the paper he mentioned in his last update. It is on the topic of sexism in video games, and while I don't game myself, I am interested in the topic. 

Recently, I widened my internet presence. I decided to use the name Onevartist, for the simple reason that it will be easier to find than Kara Smith (apparently there are a lot of us). I have a deviantArt and a Google+. Yay. I have a YouTube as well, and I'm hoping to post bible study videos in a few years, with the help of my friend Christian, but as of yet I haven't posted anything there.

Well, I do believe I have exhausted my supply of relevant information. Stay warm this winter. I'll do my best to post again later this month.

Thanksgiving Again

It snowed today. I woke up to see huge, fat flakes meandering their way down. This lasted for two or three hours before it promptly melted. No winter wonderland for exploring just yet.

In a few hours, it will be Thanksgiving. There aren't really many songs for this holiday, except the few designed for elementary students. Why? Because it's hard to sell products on a day when we are to be thankful for what we have. Why else does Christmas music invade our homes earlier and earlier? Anyway, it has been a while since my last list. I am a blessed child of God, and I will not turn a blind eye to the blessings he bestows upon me.

1. Amazing parents who have raised me in Christ's ways and who love me dearly
2. Being near my big sister after a month of her absence
3. Being able to talk to my sister with nothing held back, just like when we were little, despite the little time we are able to spend together these days
4. Staying up late with my sister last night
5. My close friend Christian and his amazing taste in music
6. The music Christian gave me on a flash drive that made my day last week
7. My Lizzy kitten (Lil-Bit) who curls up with me every night, sometimes even under the covers
8. My church family
9. Being told by one of my church members that when she looks at me, she sees my great grandma (who was an extraordinary christian woman)
10. Big brothers who treat me like their own blood
11. My visit with Ace and Kirito yesterday
12. The christian webcomic From Nothing
13. Hugs
14. Music
15. Books
16. Naps
17. Art
18. Chocolate
19. More chocolate

Tomorrow, I will visit with family and celebrate the many, many blessings my Lord has showered on me and mine, but in the following days, I won't forget my blessings, and I will continue to try my best to be a blessing to others and show them the love of the King through me.

Happy Thanksgiving, and have safe travels.

A Work of Art

All across the country, students are gritting their teeth, rolling their eyes, groaning, and generally doing decent zombie impressions as they begrudgingly return to school. The little ones seem to enjoy the entire education process more than about sixth grade and up. This is partly because so much of what they are exposed to is new and partly because they want to see their friends. They don't get to see their friends nearly as often during the summer as they do during school.

I have never quite fit into the "normal" category. In my beginning years of grade school, I was friends with almost everyone, but I would spend recess walking around the playground singing to myself. I was happy to be my own person by myself. Whatever factors allowed me to be that way (more than likely the A+ parenting I received) also allowed me to befriend all of my teachers. It was probably the end of my first grade year when I realized that I wanted to give presents to them before school let out. There were a few days left, but it was the last day that I would have art that year. When my teacher blew the whistle to summon us to our line that would dismally trail behind her, eventually being secured indoors once again, I quickly bent over and scooped a few pebbles into my hand.

After recess, we wound our way through the white washed halls, past cells in which crouched exuberant kindergarteners and world weary second graders. We were a prison line of excitement, a snake of wildly separate individuals. The art room door loomed above us all, and through it was a haven. Yes, we were still required to sit in our seats, raise our hands, and not scream, but it was here that our individuality could shine, even when we were told to do the same project as all the others. I adored the teacher. She had short white hair, but somehow we never saw her as old. My mother said that she had taught my uncle. It would not surprise me to learn that it was that endeavor which turned her hair white. Still, she always had a smile in her eyes. She loved art. More than a teacher, she was an artist. She ran an art studio, and still does, that my mother took my sister and me to once. No one else was there other than my teacher. She welcomed us in, gave us each a can of soda, and showed the two of us (my sister had her classes too) to a table where we could draw. The windows had art pieces standing in them so that light could shine through. I thought that it was one of the most beautiful places I had ever been, and entering her classroom for the last time as a first grader, I felt a full appreciation for her efforts with the snot nosed young of the human race in our little town. I waited until the other kids were busy with their work, then went up to her desk.

"This is my favorite rock, and I want you to have it." I handed her a little brown pebble, one of the few I had picked up only moments before on the playground. It was of an oval persuasion, brown and smooth. I told her it was my favorite because I wanted it to have the meaning for her that I intended for it to have. I felt horrid for not telling the truth, even if I had a good intention behind it.

Second grade started, and I was excited to see all of  my friends that I didn't really talk to all that much. The first day of art, I claimed a seat by myself and blissfully started on my assignment. Not long after, the art teacher walked up to me, smiled, and placed a gift on my desk. A sun-catcher of sorts, it was constructed of metal that had been melted and left to set around shards of glass.

Glass and metal, not unlike those large panels in the windows of her art studio. Here was a little piece of her that I would treasure for many years to come. I took it in my hands and felt all the changes in texture. There was a sea shell on the right side, just thin enough to let the light illuminate it the smallest bit. And then I noticed it. Above the shell was a smooth, brown, oval pebble. I had given it to her, and she had turned it into art.

She was the art teacher for elementary and the Jr. High. I had her for many more years, and she was always a friend. She didn't talk to me any more than the other students, but that was how it was with all of my teachers, all of which I considered friends. One year, I developed a loathing for water colors. I didn't have the control that I wanted. She introduced me to water color pencils, which fascinate me. She retired when I was in Jr. High. After she left, I didn't have time in my schedule to take art again until high school, so I never met the new art teacher. Art remains a releasing of energy for me, a directional flow.

The pebble is, in some ways, quite like my heart. It's a little thing, pretty in its own simple way. When I gave my heart to Father, He took it and polished it until it shone in the beauty He had always intended it to have. What is more, is that He set my heart in His plan, His plan being the most beautiful of all. Some days, we forget that, leaving it on the wall and allowing dust to slowly blanket the shimmering creation in our eyes, yet all it takes is the slightest glimmer of sunlight to remind us just how truly lovely His great art, His plan, really is.

Beautiful Encounters on a Walk

The weather has finally reached my favorite temperatures, mid-seventies to mid-eighties, with gentle whispers of wind. Windows are open throughout the house, and the area that I sit in is almost always caught in a pleasant cross breeze. I love early summer. Nearly every other day, I climb over the fence and walk in the field behind the house. The grasses reach my waist and brush against my wrists as I meander here and there. It could almost be a setting for one of those commercials that feature such settings, usually advertising hair products. However, low lying black berry briars, burrs, snakes, and other agents of nature make wearing skirts, shorts, sandals, or flip-flops horribly impractical. On one point I do have to agree with advertisers: a field in the summer is certainly beautiful.

I've started to take my camera with me almost any time I go outside. As a result, I have a lot of pictures, most of which are from Friday and Sunday. I generally go straight to the larger of our two ponds, take some pictures, and sit and think for a while. There is always a chorus of little frogs making big noises, a dance of water bugs and dragonflies, and the fleeing of tadpoles. When I was little, we lived in a house with a clear, shallow creek on either side of the property. I would wade in and catch tadpoles, feeling their slippery skin against my fingers before letting them back into the creek when the water ran out of my hands. Tadpoles give me a sense of calm, one that I can soak into my heart as I sit on the pond's bank, so, late Sunday afternoon, I decided to go to the pond again. Before I even left the yard, I came across someone who had visited the driveway that morning.

He was a particularly fearless three-toed box turtle. He had gone straight up to one of the cats and then my bare toes before changing directions in favor of a worm that was trying to keep from drowning in the light rain. The turtle was also munching on the dried out worms that had died a day or two before. I had always imagined the dried ones would be something like bacon bits but with more protein. It's actually surprising that I never tried eating them when I was little. When I saw him again that afternoon, he was on the other side of the yard

Looking up from visiting with my reptile acquaintance, I saw that my trip to the pond would be delayed. I had set out later than usual, and the cows had beaten me to my destination. Since they were there first, I sat on the fence for a while and took pictures of them with two of the cats nearby, one of which was my sister's cat, Shadow, previously referred to as Insta-purr.

Eventually, I hopped down on the other side and explored a part of the field that I had previously been uninterested in. The difference now is that the thistle there is in bloom. A large, yellow butterfly was perched on one of the blooms, and I was hopeful that I could get close enough to get a picture before it left. Because of the distraction tactics of Shadow and Sparkle, one of the sweetest felines I've ever come across, the butterfly was long gone when I reached the thistle. However, I did get a few good pictures of the two cats.

Taking pictures and playing with the cats, I realized that when I sat down, or even crouched, the grasses came up past my head. A field is a wonderful place to hide in the summer, so long as one keeps an eye out for cow patties.

Although the butterfly had left the thistle, two fat bees were busying themselves there when I arrived. They buzzed and hummed around the purple blooms. Bees really are such pretty insects; sometimes I am baffled by the fear held by many who are not allergic. The thistle was beautiful with or without bees or butterflies.

When I finished with the thistle, I went and sat on a part of the fence that overlooks the road we live on.  On the other side of the asphalt is a wood. There are pale trees that speak of age with their cracked trunks and reaching branches. I would hardly be surprised to learn that the door to Fairy Land was there. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there was a door in our woods either. All forests and woods have a degree of magic to them. Why else would so many fairy tales from so many different countries take place in forests?

When the cows left the big pond, I scurried to its rocky banks. Most of it is surrounded by a steep incline that levels off at the top. On one side is the pond and on the other is the woods. 

I like to sit there and think or just listen to music. It is a safe place, a place where I can fill the sky and fields with thoughts and musings. I took some more pictures and mentally noted places that would be nice for pictures of people. I don't often get human subjects to work with, so I do my best when they are available.

Satisfied with the pictures I had taken, I left the pond. It was getting relatively late, but there was still enough light that I loathed the idea of returning to the house. Instead, I made my way to the smaller pond, following trails of trodden down grass that the cows had left behind. At one point I had to stop to pull a bur out of my sock. I reached the bank and plopped down. Unlike the larger pond, this one has hardly any slope to it's bank; the ground is almost level. I looked at the edges of the water and saw little black water snails moving about, climbing over each other and searching for food. It was then that I realized that someone was sitting next to me.

He was a little western ribbon snake, black with yellow stripes. Having grown up in the area, I knew he wasn't venomous. I slowly pulled my camera from its case and turned it on, careful not to startle him. He held perfectly still. I took several pictures of him, each time expecting him to dart to the water. When I finished taking pictures, I tried to encourage him to run away. I lightly touched the tip of his tail a few times, but he only curled the tip away a centimeter or two. Carefully, I stroked his middle, smooth scales sliding past my finger. He still made no move to leave. If he wanted to stay, I wouldn't argue. Turning my gaze from the sweet little reptile, I looked out across the pond.

I love reflections and light. The pond was quite simply lovely to see, and there was a slight breeze. An orange image of a battery blinked at me from my camera's screen. I had taken several pictures in the last few days, so it wasn't any surprise. I took a few more pictures and looked back at the snake. Slowly I reached toward him where he could see me then took pictures as he sped away across the water full of clouds, little head held high.

As I waded through the tall grass on my way home, I thought about Father. He takes such care with every little detail: each of the snake's scales, each whisker on my silly kitties, and each breath that I take. He doesn't do all of this out of obligation. He does this because He loves so entirely and so vastly. More beautiful to me than that which He creates is His love.

This morning, I looked up the western ribbon snake and something caught my attention: the eyes of the adult snake pictured. They were small in proportion to its head compared to the one I sat with on Sunday. I checked and there was the text to confirm my new suspicion. "The young are born from late June to September... At birth, young western ribbon snakes are from 230 to 250 mm (9 to 10 inches) in length." That was the right length and relative time of year, and it would explain why he has such large eyes. He's a baby. He didn't run from me immediately because he hasn't learned to be afraid of me. People are wrong when they say that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is only frustration and uninformed mistakes. Innocence is bliss.

Masquerade's End

The room stands gracefully full.
Bright colors swish
against slender ankles.
Ideals dance with dreams,
stepping in perfect time
around the ring, casting a spell.
Take care to not be caught.

Laughter finds an echo
in the gentle cacophony
and ricochets off a single heart.

There is no comfort here.
The food does not fill.
The spell is only an illusion.

A hand reaches up,
unties the chains.
The mask falls,
shatters.
Strewn glass and gems.
Far gone feathers.
The metal frame contorted,
bent grossly out of shape.

Stand.
Perfect.
Whole.
Cast aside
the glamor.

Olympics, Singing, and Life

I generally curl up with a book if someone decides to watch sports. They bore me for the most part. However, I do have a love for the Olympics, winter and summer. I'll cheer for pretty much any country, especially the Europeans and Canada. It's not the competition that draws me to it. If that were the case, I'd like the usual sports more. It's the athletic heights that the athletes reach, their amazing ability and grace. I love it.

My favorite winter Olympic sport is figure skating. I've loved watching it since I was little. The skaters are so graceful. There's something in a skater's posture and face when a routine is done well, something that beams a mixture of excitement and relief. I've always thought it was one of the most beautiful parts.

As a high school student, I would go to choir competitions. I liked listening to the sound of a choir wash over me. I especially enjoyed listening to solos and small ensembles. There, like in the Olympics, I could focus on an individual. At the end of a song well sang, the singer's shoulders relax and a small smile emerges. It reminds me of the skaters, their excitement and relief rushing out and blending together.

Occasionally, I'll even listen to the reporters during the Olympics. Sometimes you hear them say that an upcoming part is difficult for the particular athlete. When I heard them say that about one of the skaters this year, I realized that in a way singers are more like traditional athletes than we tend to think. There's always that one part of a good song for a singer, that one part that is tricky, a jump in notes or change in rhythm. Sometimes we mess up obviously, even enough for those who don't know the music to tell. Just like the figure skaters who fall, we have to jump back in and finish like nothing happened. It's a lot like life too, now that I think about it. Figure skating, singing, and living are all art forms. We push the boundaries that we think are there. We break the mold and shine, just like Christ intended us to.

Happy 115th Birthday

"What are you reading?" I looked up at my mother, blond hair with touches of brown brushed my shoulders. I was maybe four or five, perhaps six, but I had already been filled to the brim with an appreciation for books. I also knew that it wasn't likely that she'd even hear me ask. Books would do that to her, pull her from herself, leaving her deaf to the world. It wasn't so today.

"It's about a man who goes to another planet where sin doesn't exist, and he has to keep that world's Eve from sinning." She looked down at me for a moment before falling back under the waves of the story her pages held.

My mind was filled with images of a star traveler on a barren wasteland of a planet, perhaps Mars. To his left I could see an Adam, Eve holding his hand and standing slightly behind him. Miles past them were buildings where civilization had sprouted. To the traveler's right was a skinny little apple tree and a snake. I was sure it would make a great story and promptly forgot about it.

Last year, I picked up C. S. Lewis's Space Trilogy. I hadn't ever really been able to stay focused when reading the Narnia books, but these three books were a far different story. I devoured Out of the Silent Planet and started on Perelandra. I don't know how far I was into Perelandra when I remembered a short conversation with my mother what seemed like ages ago.

Before last year, I firmly believed that such a thing as a favorite book was impossible (excluding the Bible). I liked Out of the Silent Planet very much, but Perelandra made me want to scream, cry, and throw up all at once. Since then it has been my favorite book, and Lewis my favorite writer.

C. S. Lewis was born one hundred fifteen years ago today. Seven days ago was the fiftieth anniversary of his death. His death was overshadowed by American President John F. Kennedy's assassination, which happened the same day.

Happy birthday to the writer that made such an impact on my life and my religion.

Spider Slayer's Log: Kara Smith

Day 1: Preparing for rest, a nemesis was discovered about a foot from the end of the bed. After the initial shock, he was smashed with a flip-flop, which was left beside the bed in case of other emergencies.
Total Spiders Killed: 1

Day 2: Around midday, as I was folding laundry, a spider had the guts to dash into a folded towel. While my sister found it humorous that I would have to refold it, I had no qualms about shaking the spider out and unfolding the towel in the process. I crushed the exoskeletoned offender with a coaster and refolded my towel. He wouldn't have the guts to do anything again, especially since he doesn't have guts at this point.
It was in the evening. Jake had come over to visit and was getting up to leave when I saw another one. It was a big brown grass spider, not far from where Jake had been sitting. Jake, being the brave older brother that he is, hurried to the next room and left me to kill it with his shoe. It's odd sometimes to be reminded that he's more scared of them than I am.
Total Spiders Killed: 3

Day 3: I was in the bathroom around seven in the morning preping for a shower. I didn't notice it until I almost stepped on it. It was a brown recluse because what else would it be. I darted to the sink counter, where there were a range of bottles and jars that would do very well, but by the time I had a weapon, it had crawled down the heat vent. However, while it did scare the wits out of me, I must have stepped on it a little because it had left a leg on the bathroom floor.
Total Spiders Killed: Not enough, not nearly enough

Day 4: No spiders encountered. They're plotting. I know it.
Total Spiders Killed: Unchanged

Day 5: About two in the afternoon, I set out to make chocolate pudding. I took a mixer thing out of the bowl, so that I wouldn't pour milk and powder all over it, and grabbed the whisk. I was about to put the whisk in place when I saw him. He was big, and he was a spider. He was also a brown recluse that couldn't climb back out because the sides of the bowl were too steep. I was in shock and completely terrified for a moment, but a song poped in my head, and by humming it, I was able to calm down enough to think clearly. I was not about to put my hand in there with it, even on the premise of killing it. Instead, I sprayed poison on it, in the bowl I was about to make pudding in, and waited for it to die. Once it had stopped twitching, I dumped it in the trash and set about washing the bowl. It was about then, as I was scrubbing like the bowl was coated in spider webs, that I realised which song had been in my head. Lead Me To The Cross by Newsboys. It was from the album In The Hands Of God. That made me feel happy. My Father and Lord loves me and reminded me that he wouldn't let anything hurt me if it wasn't part of his plan by putting a simple song in my mind and heart.
On another note, the pudding turned out great.
Total Spiders Killed: 4

Day 16?: I was in the bathroom, about to brush my teeth, when a spider apeared beside my bare foot. It was a brown recluse, and it was missing legs. It had three on one side and two on another. I'm fairly certain that he was the one that menaced me on day three. I crushed him with a can of hair spray. It was fairly satisfying. I wiped him off the floor and the can, and felt a small sense of closure.
Total Spiders Killed: 5

Siblings' Day 2013

Tada!

It's a blog post! In for-warning, the writing may not be like most of my posts. I normally make a point of not listening to music while I write. It messes with the rthym and emotion of my words. However, my brother, Ace, is listening to his music audibly, and if I must have slightly off writing, I'd rather have it because of my music. We have different tastes. While he likes much of my music, I don't really like a fair amount of his. It's the same way with my sister. I love all her music, but she doesn't like Owl City or Tenth Avenue North. While we all have our individual tastes, we still claim each other for whatever reason. Well, in my sister's case, we don't have a choice, but I think that if we did I'd still like her. What her choice would be is debateable.

Today is Siblings' Day, so I figured I would write about my sister. I might write about my brothers in following years. Ace would certainly be an interesting entry, but on to my sister. It's hard to think of what story to tell. When she possibly saved my life? When she almost killed me? I don't think a story is right for now.

She was my example growing up. I aspired to be as smart and beautiful as her. I'm sure she hated that, even though she did use it to her advantage since I could get away with more things than she could. She's three years older than me, and I bawled my eyes out once she was out of sight on the road to college. In a sense, she's a part of me. The reasonable part that has a few odd but much loved quirks.

So happy Siblings' Day, big sister. I love you, and your cat misses you a lot.

Readers other than my sister: Go. Go give a hug to your brother or sister. Hold him, her, or both close and apologize for that argument last week. If you don't have a sibling, hug a pet or your parents, your kids, your spouse, or even yourself, if you live totally alone, because time forces us all apart in one way or another, but we'll all meet again at some point.

Take care,
Kara

Improving The Day

Work has not been that great today. In the last two hours or so, I just wanted to throw things at my coworkers, preferably bananas. I fall asleep for ten minutes after my shift is officially over, then leave for home with a red shape on my forehead where it had pressed against my desk. I toss my paraphernalia on my bed, pull on my jacket, pick up my camera and mp3 player, and slip out the front door. It feels like October. The air is cool and lightly numbs my cheeks. I sit under the walnut tree and think. Tenth Avenue North drifts around in my head. I get so stressed sometimes. A breeze plays with a few loose curls, and I stand up. It isn't really blue today, the sky. It's more of a subtle grey, a calm neutral without the sun glaring at me. I step onto the path that encircles the lawn and runs alongside the fence and start walking. Lil-Bit dances in front of me, beside me, behind me. The silly little kitty won't let me pet her, but doesn't go far. Soon, Spirit, Sir. Sir-A-Lot, and Sparkle Spit join her. There's always one in sight, usually two or three. It's like they're watching me, making sure nothing happens to me. It reminds me. It felt like there was no control at work, no rules, just chaos, and that's never really true. There's always a steady hand that I can trust to lead me. I just have to reach for it and not let the world around me force me to let go, even for a moment. Christ is my corner stone, my foundation. This is a beautiful world, I just have to open my eyes and see it.

I took this the eleventh of February. I stepped out that morning and was entranced by the dark shadow of trees in front of the sun. I took the picture, but was a little surprised by the circles of color that the camera captured. I think it's pretty though.

On Prayer

I'm sitting at my desk, comfort songs playing from my speakers, as darkness tries to push its way into my room. I should, probably, log off my computer and curl up with a notebook and pencil and write something, but something tugs at the back of my mind. No. I won't get off yet. I need to write something, not anything, but something. I've read through the posts of the blogs I keep up with, and one whispered in my ear. I have no idea what it whispered, just that I must write. The blog was My Faith Journey. I need to write out some of my thoughts, and my journal isn't where this needs to be right now.

I am me. I'm not special, I'm not particularly pretty, I procrastinate far too often, and I don't have one specific talent, one specific gift, but you know what? I can make a difference. I can be the difference. I'm not talking about in the lives of others, although that is important. I mean the difference in my own life, my own world. It's not much, but it's a start.

I don't have complete control over what happens in my life. There is no way for me to completely eliminate the falls I take, but I can stand back up, with help. Every single time I fall, Christ is there to lift me up. All I have to do is turn to him and ask for help. We often forget that prayer is so needed, so important to our spiritual lives, even though much of the music we listen to (okay, that I listen to) reminds us.

"When your heart breaks, He'll hurt for you. Dreams are out of reach, He'll pull you through. When you lose hope all you gotta do is get on your knees again."
Newsboys, On Your Knees

"Oh I'm on my knees, so I'm on my knees. It's a battle that we can fight."
Manic Drive, Mountains

" 'Cause I'm on my knees, begging You to turn to me! I'm on my knees. Father, will You run to me?"
Tenth Avenue North, Hold My Heart

But it's not just in music and Christian literature that we find reminders that prayer is how we reach out and ask the Lord for help, it's all over the Bible. I really like Psalm 142.

1 I cry aloud to the Lord; 

I lift my voice to the Lord for mercy. 

2 I pour my complaint before him; 

before him I tell all my trouble. 

3 When my spirit grows faint within me, 

it is you who know my way. 

In the path where I walk 

men have hidden a snare for me. 

4 Look to my right and see; 

no one is concerned for me. 

I have no refuge; 

no one cares for my life. 

5 I cry to you, O Lord; 

I say, "You are my refuge, 

my portion in the land of the living." 

6 Listen to my cry, 

for I am in desperate need; 

rescue me from those who pursue me, 

for they are too strong for me. 

7 Set me free from my prison, 

that I may praise your name. 

Then the righteous will gather about me 

because of your goodness to me.

It really strikes a cord in me. David knew how hard it was. A lot of the time, we just read through the Bible and think that he had a perfect life, but this really shows that sometimes he felt alone and unnoticed. I have several Jr. High/High school journal entries that echo verse four, and I honestly believe that we have all had times like that, but then we have verse five. It's a surge of strength. Here David turns to God to lift him up and hold him, which is what we all need to remember is one of the wisest things we can do.

There you go. When you feel like giving up, falling down in tears, turn to the constant, to God. It actually helps to do that before the tears part too.

Remember: He has a plan, and He loves you.

Good-Night Moon, Good Morning Spider

The summer before last, I became very good at sleeping for twelve hours. When I woke up, I would lay there and look at the Lady of Shed-lots. She has always been my bossy, little guardian. When I went to bed each night, and the blankets settled on my legs, triggering thoughts of spiders crawling around on me, she would be there next to me, giving me a look that clearly said I was imagining it. She gave me a sense of safety.

One morning I woke up as I always did, but a few moments after I opened my eyes, I felt something. It was most definitely not the settling of blankets. I could feel the fall of several individual little legs on my left thigh. I froze, except for my heart, which inevitably quickened its pace. My arms were outside the covers, and I cupped one hand over the spider, keeping the blanket between it and my hand. It couldn't run away now. Arachnid and human stayed still, so that, for a moment, I wondered if it was really there, but no. The feeling it's legs coming down on my skin had been far too real. Beside me on the bed, was the Lady of Shed-lots. I felt a pang of betrayal as she gave me the same look as always. She was supposed to protect me! Although, in truth, a cat outside the blankets could be of little effect against a spider under the blankets.

Without much reason, I somehow made a quick movement and ended up out of the bed, whilst leaving the spider behind. I grabbed something, threw back the covers, and smashed the little abomination. Within my memory, those last two sentences are a swift blur, but the moments leading up to it, an eternity. I picked up the remains in a tissue and dropped it in the trash. I went to my mother and told her what had happened. I'm not sure if she really believed me at first, especially since when she asked what kind it was, I was unable to tell her. I left and returned a few minutes later, with the dead spider bits in tissue. She identified it as a brown recluse, and it had been a rather big one, before it was rendered in the two dimensional.

By all reason that spider should have bitten me. It should have bitten me when I trapped it on top of my vulnerable skin. It should have bitten me when I was asleep. That night I had gone to bed in a night gown. What if it had been on my leg, and I was in full pants? What is the probability that I would go to bed in the only sleepwear that this could have happened with? The only reason I have ever been able to come up with is the only reason I will ever need. It wasn't in God's plan for a brow recluse to bite me on the thigh that morning. As the lions did not harm Daniel, the spider did not harm me. For some reason, He wanted to scare me, and putting a spider in the bed with me was a pretty good way to do that. He kept that spider from biting me, just as He put it there. Things have changed a little because of that too. I tuck in one side of my covers under the mattress so that the blankets don't touch the floor to provide easy access for spiders, and I don't trust the Lady of Shed-lots to keep me safe anymore. His plan is a mystery to me, but I'll continue to trust in him.