Valentine's Day 2014

Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you are the recipient of many hugs and much chocolate. In my life are many prominent couples: my grandparents, my mom and dad, my brother Ace and his fiancee, and my youngest brother and his girlfriend. These couples are horribly sweet, and I love them very much.

That being said, there are some pretty awesome singles in my life too: my three oldest brothers (as far as I know), my wonderful older sister, and some of my close friends. Some of those said friends are rather proud of being single and celebrate the fourteenth of February as Singles Awareness Day. I don't quite think that the word used should be awareness though. Celebration, that works better. Awareness is most often used for diseases. It makes it sound like we're going to die unless we get boyfriends (or girlfriends as the case may be). Please, enough with the melodrama. Being single is actually pretty awesome when it's all said and done.

• All the chocolate you buy can go to you (and deserving friends, but they don't have to know that you have chocolate, and what they don't know won't hurt them).

• So much time is freed up when you don't have to be in contact over text or social media all the time, let alone actually being with someone.

• You don't have to shave (to be quite frank that does apply to both genders).

• Money spent on gifts and dates can be spent another way, say books, video games, car or truck, or even chocolate. (There's no going wrong with chocolate.)

• You don't have to check with the boyfriend before you schedule something. It's really all about spontaneity.

• You can drop off of the grid of communication for a full week and no one would make a fuss. 

• Bacon.

• You can be as geeky or crazy as you want. No one will restrain you.

• There are no friends of the boyfriend that you really dislike that you have to put up with, when there is no boyfriend.

I thoroughly enjoy being single, but I won't bash couples. They have the gift of one another. Please don't complain about them being happy together. That doesn't speak well of you, even if you're otherwise awesome. 

So, happy Valentine's Day, dear couples. Enjoy each other. In your loved one you have a constant comfort and (hopefully) entertainment.

Happy Singles Celebration, dear singles. Don't worry about being a third wheel. Be a unicycle! Those are really cool and take a lot of talent.

Much love,
Kara
 

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.

A Visit to the Bookstore

Early Monday evening I entered Barnes and Noble. The chill from outside loosened its grasp and drifted away from me like smoke. There were more people than I would have liked, but I'm an introvert, and, as such, would prefer as few people as possible. Doing my best to remain invisible, I wove around the bookstore patrons. Despite any discomfort I might feel around them, they were there for the same reasons I was, reasons that were made of paper and ink.

I stopped by the journals first, a habit I had picked up from my mother. Many of the blank books were familiar faces: a leather lion, a yellow ribbon bookmark peering from between pages, and a variety of green leaves. A few that I recognized were the same as some of my mother's. Several new faces murmured their mute hellos as well. I picked up one that I'd inspected before. Its black cover was rough as I traced the clockwork design on the front. Gently opening it, I flipped through the pages, blank save for the black lines, and inhaled the sent of unused paper, the sent of potential.

I moved on to the graphic novels and mangas, taking a few detours to avoid people perusing the fiction and poetry shelves. Peeking into the desired aisle, I smiled slightly and moved on to the next one. The graphic novels and manga had a slightly different atmosphere. In other sections, readers stood back from the shelves or sat in chairs, but here, those who felt quite at home sat on the floor in the middle of the aisle. On days when other customers were few and far between, I would do the same until my legs fell asleep beneath me. Monday, however, I moved on to the other books for the time being. I flipped almost every book over to read the back, occasionally opening them to read the inside of the dust jacket. Cover art and titles are far from reliable in defining a book's worth. Still, only a shelf away from the graphic novels, I could hear the college age boys that occupied the floor. There were a few mentions of characters they all seemed to be familiar with, and then they began to head out.

"What's that one?"

One of them picked up a book and flipped a few pages. "It's about a hipster."

"I don't want to read about hipsters."

I waited a moment and put down the steampunk book I had been holding, moving to investigate Barnes and Noble's stock of graphic novels and manga. My attention shifted from book to book, art style to art style, before I wandered back to the fantasy, where a book of dragon history caught my eye. I smiled. I have a love for dragons. Taking it into my hands, I opened it to the middle and found a copy of Lewis Carroll's Jabberwocky. Eventually, I drifted back to the front to do some people watching. Many in line were adults, more than likely parents. They seemed worn, but perhaps it was simply the effect of the holidays. A pair of girls near the line stole my attention for a moment. They both were shorter than me, likely in high school or early college. The taller of the two had short red hair and wore a black pea coat. She embraced her friend.

"I didn't expect to see you here!"

"I read!" The shorter one replied indignantly. Her hair was dark and fell a little past her shoulders. She wore a dark shirt with a wide, but not low, neck line.

I smiled a little. They reminded me of myself with my friends. It was the clothing styles as well as the fact that I wouldn't expect to find my friends in Barnes and Noble, even though I know full well that they read.

I came home with one book. It was enough. Two days before, I had downloaded ten new books to my kindle, many of which were for free. I have reading material. I go back to work tomorrow. The books not yet read will be a comfort to have ready as well as a torment to ignore, as it is with all books.

Christmas Lights

There's something about Christmas lights that acts as a cup of hot chocolate to my heart. Their dancing brightness in the night is laughter released to be seen rather than heard.

The rides home from relatives' homes were, to my young imagination, strolls through art galleries. Here and there were houses that seemed to be of gingerbread: lights bordering windows, doors, and the edges and corners of the roofs like carefully placed gumdrops. Occasionally the choice and placement of lights created the illusion of glowing icicles. My favorite displays were when I could see the tree lit up inside. These were the houses that seemed the most real, as if the absence of a tree whispered that it was a dream and not a thing of substance.

As is our tradition, my sister and I set up our tree the day after Thanksgiving. Life moved on and we returned to work for a few weeks more. Every morning I woke up and dressed before the sun lifted her sleepy head and dared to open her shining eyes. I curled up in the armchair with a warm cup of tea in my hands and absorbed the sight of the tree illuminating the darkened room. It made a bubble around me, a little world all my own. It was small, but still an early morning sanctuary.

I know it's a few days late, but Merry Christmas.

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.

Sound of Mind

It's looking at me, the blue bug. It glows. That's why they don't ever listen to me. Plenty of things glow. Lightning bugs. Lightning bugs... lightning... bugs. Bugs. The bug is still looking at me, even after six hours. It always watches me after I wake up. Does it watch me while I sleep?

I shudder. It scuttles a little closer. I glare at it. I know this routine, this dance, and I do not like it.

Footsteps. There are footsteps in the hall. I don't break eye contact. It happens more quickly when people are near. The bug doesn't want them to see it.

Voices. Oh no, not voices. I guess it decides it has risked enough for today.

It lands on the inside of my left elbow and burrows in in the blink of an eye. I squeeze my eyes shut and whimper. It has happened so many times; I handle the pain better, but it still hurts beyond belief.

The people in the hall come through my door. They are the ones who don't believe, who never never see.

"I'm just going to give you some medicine to help you sleep, okay?"

I start to cry uncontrollably. I don't want to sleep. I don't... I don't want to wake up.

I am sound of mind. I can operate on my own. I'm normal. Sound. Of. Mind. Sound... mind. The sound in... mind. The sound in my mind... the click click click of the bug...

I'm not crazy.

You believe me.

Right?

...right.

You don't.

My Sunshine

Both of my parents are English majors.They corrected my sister and me when our grammar was less than satisfactory. They did keep in mind our age and how much we could understand at the time; for this I am thankful. However, that does not mean that we did not have our share of grammar blunders or misunderstandings.

Sometimes my mother would put me on her lap and wrap her arms around me, singing "You Are My Sunshine". I'd lean my head on her chest and listen, picturing images of clouds, sky, and rain.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are grey. You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away."

This was all fine and dandy. I thought it was a lovely song, and half of the time I had no problem. It was when she sang the second verse that I hated.

"The other night, dear, while I was sleeping, I dreamt I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, and I hung my head and cried."

I tried to show that I didn't like it. I wouldn't sing along. I held very still. If she ever did pick up on those signals, she probably thought that I didn't like it because it says she cried. A grave mistake. You see, I didn't know the difference between hung and hanged. Every time my mother sang about bending down her head and crying, I pictured her in the closet held up by a coat hanger around her neck, dead.

I joke around with my mom about having been traumatized by grammar now, but, truthfully, it really has helped me to remember which is which. Grammar is truly important in this world of communication.