In Which I am (as Always) a Geek

At the beginning of this month, I had the chance to hang out with Christian. When we stopped for lunch, the lady who was our cashier noticed my Spiderman t-shirt and asked if I had seen the new Avengers movie, Age of Ultron. I had not, but that was no hindrance for a conversation about Marvel. She told me about her grandson, who was obsessed with Iron Man. No surprise there. Little boys tend to love him. I think it might be all the cool guns he gets to play with. Make something go boom, and the boys will be fans. She went on to say that they told him Iron Man is Robert Downey Jr. One evening he heard on a commercial that Downey was going to be on a late night show. He begged to stay up to see Iron Man, and they let him, much to his delight. That's the closest many people are able to come to meeting their heroes. I have to wonder if maybe the boy will actually meet his hero in the flesh some day, or if he might step up to the "big screen" and be the Iron Man of a next generation. I suppose I'll never know.

Saturday however, I did finally see Age of Ultron. I didn't wear my Marvel t-shirt--but only because it was in the wash, otherwise there would have been absolutely no question as to attire. As far as sequels go, it was a good movie. I was surprised that I wasn't already aware of very much of the plot, considering the amount of time I end up spending on websites riddled with fandoms. It seems the Marvel fandom is better about spoilers than the Sherlock or Doctor Who fandoms. The after credits scene made me very nearly squeal, so I'm looking forward to the next film Marvel puts out (not that I wasn't already).

After a Marvel movie, the only reasonable stop is the bookstore. There were more people than an introvert wants to find in a bookstore at four o'clock, but books are books and I still had gift cards (how I hadn't spent them already is beyond me, but it's most likely that I couldn't decide which books to spend them on). I followed my usual route, skimming over the new releases before stopping at the journals. I had three blank ones waiting for me at home, but I knew I'd regret not stopping to flip through bare pages and investigate the new designs. One burly leather volume caught my eye and nudged me into a smile. It had no pattern printed on it, only two words: Carpe Diem. Appropriate for a journal, but it also made me think of an English teacher I had, and I made a mental note to mention it to her. She taught us to seize each day and to know the difference between seizing the day and being reckless. Carpe Diem is far more appealing to me than YOLO ever could be.

I kept my visit with the journals short and took my normal path to hunt down the graphic novels. I was a tad surprised when I came to the usual aisle. It had changed, allowing more room for manga and moving the Marvel comics and graphic novels to the other side of the shelf. I was fine with this. I had manga I was planning on taking home, if I could locate them. It seems that the next book I need in a series is always the only one not on the shelf, but Saturday was a good day for me, and I found both the books I had been looking for, despite having to stay out of the way of other readers. Although, this time it wasn't much of a bother. I heard a conversation between, presumably, a father and his daughter in her mid to late teens. Another father occupied the aisle with me, his child, however, was much younger, a boy of maybe eight, wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and talking almost constantly. Weirdly enough, I didn't find it annoying. A short while later I slid into the science fiction section and found the same father and son carrying a conversation that I couldn't help but grin at overhearing.

"That's a TARDIS!"

"That's right."

"The TARDIS is cool." The little one was silent for a moment, contemplating. "I want a TARDIS."

Don't we all?

I could almost hear his father smile. "Me too, Buddy."

"The TARDIS is a time machine."

"Well, it's interdimensional. It travels in more than just time..." He went on explaining the particulars of the TARDIS's traveling abilities to his son, and the boy listened.

I was beaming after hearing them. Be they American superheroes or British aliens, we all need someone to look up to. Nerd parents make me happy, and on almost any day, I wouldn't be able to say why. Today I can supply one reason, if not the whole picture. As opposed to other children, the children of nerds and geeks have special role models, heroes with extraordinary abilities, but it's not the abilities that make the heroes special. Superheroes have failings, flaws. They are aware of these flaws and are constantly working to overcome them. Sometimes the weakness can be an object like Superman's kryptonite, but often weaknesses are as common place as pride; the flaws often found in everyday people are reflected in their heroes. Heroes help us learn to overcome internally as much as externally. Children need that. The little boy is going to grow up, and his interests will change. He may come to believe that he's too old for Doctor Who, but he won't forget the love he had for it. He won't forget the Doctor who saves the universe by solving problems instead of killing, who runs to help no matter what race or species is calling out to him, and who cares about the individual people as well as their worlds. Although, at his age, he probably just likes it because of the time travel and aliens. Who's to say?

The duo wandered off, and I continued my perusal of the shelves. I made a point to stop by the YA books. Most are romance, but there are always a few gems. I am Princess X caught my eye. Honestly, I probably wouldn't have given it a second glance if the cover art had shown a normal high school girl. It didn't. The image was of a blue haired girl wearing a pink dress and holding a katana. But what sold me on it was when I noticed the author: Cherie Priest. That was it. The book was coming home with me.

I poked around in the graphic novels and was again presently surprised. There was Brody's Ghost by Mark Crilley. When I decided to improve my drawings years ago, my friend Maxine was the first person I went to. After she helped me with some basics, she had introduced me to Mark Crilley's drawing videos on YouTube, which have been a major help for both of us. We'd always been interested in reading Brody's Ghost, but we'd never come across it, and there it was in Barnes & Noble. I carefully slid the first book from its companions and added it to my growing pile.

After I checked out, I texted Maxine a picture from Brody's Ghost that I knew she'd recognize and added the caption of "Look familiar?" Needless to say she is going to borrow it the next time we see each other, and seeing as I was not the one driving and the book was rather thin, I read it in the car on the way home. I car sick afterwards, but it was worth it. Before I went to bed that night, I had finished my manga, and the next day I read through I am Princess X. Cherie Priest did not disappoint.

Raining Spring: In Which I Am the Polar Bear

After a few occasions in which the sky dumped snow and the night froze said snow solid for several days, spring may finally be setting in. At least I hope it is. I have woken up to find sunlight and bird song outside my window, only to have it cruelly snatched away by daylight savings. Thus, I am more than ready for spring, for flowers, for tall grass, and even for the allergies that come from all of those blooming plants.

Our last snow and freeze was, admittedly, fun. In many areas of the yard, the ice was thick enough to hold my weight. I located especially smooth areas and let myself be a child again for a little while. Lying down with my back on the glass-like surface and breathing in the cold air, I contemplated the sky of a frozen Faerie Land. Moments later, I was sliding around in little half circles and giggling. There is no point in being grown-up if you can't stop and be a child at times. I also went about on my hands and knees saying "I am the polar bear!" I do not know why. It just happened. Occasionally, I would attempt to find weak spots in the ice and break it by slamming my "front paws" into it, like an actual polar bear might do. This didn't work quite as well as I had hoped, since usually it was my knees or backside that broke the ice instead, at which point my cry was "I am the fat polar bear!" because no polar bear breaks the ice that way.

Children play games where they pretend to be something or someone other than what they are. It's not something they plan out. They just do it. As we get older, we lose this ability. It becomes harder to shed our skins, to simply play. But maybe hope isn't lost for the grownups. Perhaps we can still step outside ourselves; it just takes a little magic.

The snow melt was beautiful. Light reflected off of the remaining sheets, illuminating falling drops and providing contrast to the vibrant green grass slowly being revealed. Taking my freshly charged camera, I set out once more to take some pictures.

Temperatures rose a few days ago. The little frogs began to sing again. Deciding to take a break, I trekked through the still muddy field into the woods. I hadn't journeyed far, when my cat, who had been following me at a distance, stood on her hind feet and stared intently at something over the hill. I had to walk a few yards to see what had attracted her attention, her litter-mate and my sister's cat, Shadow. Once he saw me, he decided to walk with me, which usually means he winds himself tightly between my feet. As I was on a sloping pond bank at the time, it is possible he was attempting to drown me. One can never say for sure with cats. After about fifteen minutes of frantic affection, he decided to follow at a more leisurely distance.

Venturing into a part of the woods I had previously left largely unexplored, I ducked under low branches and wove around fallen tree limbs.

Eventually, I came across a tree with a little well in its base where rain water and melted snow had gathered. It was the perfect size for a cat to drink from, which both Lizzy and Shadow preceded to do.

Finally, I decided to go home. Along my winding path back, Shadow found a stump on which to pose. Cats are fully aware of how beautiful they are and what colors bring that out; Shadow is no exception.

The last day or so, the sky has lazily drizzled rain from above, and the little peeper frogs have been singing contentedly. With God's blessing, this may be the beginning of spring, rather than a small moment of warmth in late winter. I'd like to be able to take more rambling walks with my camera and feline escorts for company in the near future.

Reading Again

I was raised in a forest. Books could be found in almost every room of our little house.

Until I was twelve, our home was a white two story house surrounded by fields. The closest town, where my sister and I went to school, was nearly half an hour away. We grew up isolated, in a way, in our own special kingdom teeming with magic and wonder, two princesses of light, and our parents the gentle English major rulers.

The center piece of our house, as far as I was concerned, was a simple bookshelf. There was a row of books behind the ones that showed and books lying on top of those. I felt I would spend my life reading them all. Every night, my father would read to us before bed: a chapter from the Bible and a chapter from a fiction book. My sister and I would curl up against our mother and listen to tales of Fuzzies, Martian invasions, and water turned to wine. Many nights we begged for just one more chapter, and I remember Dad flipping pages to see how long it would be, if he could manage to read that much more. When he spoke, saying "I think we could," it was a victory, and we would snuggle closer.

When I was a little older, I would select books from the short shelves in my father's study, shelves assembled from bricks and planks of wood. I couldn't wait until I was older, when I wouldn't have to do homework or sit in school instead of reading. Now, I miss those days. Reading what I choose to read is a rarer commodity, precious. This last week, I was finally able to read two books from my own list. It's like stepping back into that house, light streaming through the windows on a summer day. I feel closer to being whole than I have in months.

There is a fulfillment in lifting another beings' thoughts and dreams from paper and ink and making it a part of yourself.

A Letter to Tea

My dearest Cup of Tea,

The water is starting to steam. Soon I will venture back to the kitchen, rounding the counter to reach my destination. A kettle will be lifted, and water will spill forward and down into the biggest mug I could find. Then I'll have to leave you until I wander back again, slightly different from only a handful of passing minutes. Funny how that works, isn't it? I'll be the same person, but enough thoughts will have bustled through my brain to alter my mood, even if only by a smidgeon.

Holding the mug, I will feel the warmth sinking silently, softly, into my hands; skin, and then bone, warming at the gentle and firm touch of palm and pottery. The first sip will be tentative, then grateful. My insides will glow with warmth at your sweet touch. You mend all the wrongs in my little universe, even the wrongs that don't really have names and don't really exist anyway.

I stumble down the hall in the mornings to set the kettle on the stove because I love the process of slowly waking up with you in the early hours of day. When I come home, the kettle goes right back on the stove because you melt the day from me, allowing me to remember who I am, who the girl who roams the woods and fields truly is. She's more than reactions, numbers, and words. She is reflective thought and peaceful moments.

There is a special little gift you give me, my friend. You let me just exist rather than do, allow me to ponder, muse, and dream without the pressures of the world. Thank you for that.

Forever yours,
Kara

Roses

Time, sun,
and we dry out.
Our dreams and velvet patience
evaporate, leaving us
hard and dark, curling up
a little more with each day. We crumble
at gentle touches.

Swept off the floor,
the counter, the table,
we give in to the final fate.

A breeze and we skitter
across the cool surfaces, soft
voices unfurling into stories.

Can it be:
roses do not simply die?
Fragerences last, as distant
voices whisper fading words.

Perhaps,
just maybe,
we still hold worth
to the special few.

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"