To be what I want to be. . .

There is so much between me, right here right now, and me, two and a half years from now on my graduation as a Journalist that anything can happen. I am currently procrastinating on two papers I have to write to write here, but I need this little break. With Jack Johnson on my earphones, I am writing really mellow papers anyway.

I love writing. In High School, I used to like writing essays--even though I said I didn't because no one else did. Now I look back and I know that I was lying. John Steinbeck puts it best in East of Eden when he notes that all writers are liars. We like to lie and hope we get something out of it. When I told this to my friend Brianna, she replied that (paraphrased) it wasn't true because things that we write have symbolism, which represent true things. I replied that we are master liars then, because the best type of lies are half-truths.

Apart from my ability to lie on paper, there is some truth to the lie that I disliked writing essays. Halfway through any essay and the play and two books I'm writing I get the feeling that I don't want to write anymore, that it's too much. Somehow I picture myself in fifty years or so filing for retirement with Huck Finn's closing words about writing books (applied to being a journalist): ". . . if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it and ain't agoing to no more."

Shellshocked (or, Random Rant II)

In the Hot Zone: One Man, One Year, Twenty Wars, by Kevin Sites. Finished, 11.23.11, 11:48 AM.

I really don't know what to feel. I don't know what to think, really. This book will haunt me for a long time, and will end up in my library once I get money to buy it since the copy I have is borrowed. Mr. Sites' experiences really did fuel my want to go out there into the real world (which is found right out my front door) and see it all, stop being so whiny about trifles. Here I am, Thanksgiving eve, with all the feast almost ready. Am I really going to enjoy this gluttonous holiday? I don't know. I'm not sure I want to eat until not one more bit fits when there are many out there who do not have anything. If anything I learned from In the Hot Zone is that really I live in a "wealth of information and a poverty of knowledge." After I see that in the Democratic Republic of the Congo one military life is lost to sixty-two civilian lives. Like Kevin says, "War poses as combat but is really collateral damage." Thanksgiving, that I don't have an idea of what problems are. Maybe this Thanksgiving I won't be so gluttonous; maybe I'll be more thankful.

A Veggie Pizza and a Side Order of Perspective

It’s the second time my dad has tried. Last time, the only thing that grew was a strange, tall plant which he claims he never planted. It took a while for him to realize that the plant was not giving any fruit that resembled any of the pictures in front of the many seed packets he had used. In his (paraphrased) words, he was taking care of a child which was not his. While that in itself can be a story, I am not writing about a strange plant today. No, I am writing because this time around, there were no strange plants growing. This time, the picture on the packet of seeds suddenly had replicas of itself growing on the many shrubs and vines that had sprouted. My dad’s first harvest was that of a miniature tomato, a miniature bell pepper, and a miniature zucchini, enough for a miniature veggie pizza. But what enthralled me the most was not the harvest, but the harvester.

                What is harvested in the family orchard is invariably eaten. The plants have started producing larger fruits, and just the other day we had the first cucumber, although it went sour in a few minutes. But it all goes back to the harvester. He did not start off as a harvester; rather he started off as a dreamer. What others saw as a patch of earth, he saw as a dinner-growing vegetable patch. But it started off as a dream. Had he not seen the fruits in his head he would not have bought the seeds. He also had to have a purpose for these veggies because taking care of plants requires money and time—especially money and time. Money to pay the water and fertilizer. Time to water the plants—done in the mornings when the average person is still hitting the snooze button for the third time. Watching the plants grow, guiding the vines, trimming this wayward branch, killing bugs--it’s not an easy task. It occurred to me that if I ever wanted my dreams to come true I would not only have to work on them when I like the results, but especially when things go bad. I’m very sure that my dad sometimes questioned his drive, the reason for these veggies. But it was all worth it in the end.

“A miracle happened!”

Pizza toppings? It’s more than that in my father’s eyes, because he was able to reap the benefits of what he sowed all those weeks ago. To me, he was the agent in another work of creation from God, and why can’t all our dreams be just that? Be the agents of the hand of God, even—especially—when things don’t go our way.

The melon never satisfied, and the pineapple never grew. But my dad still went out there every morning. Even if the melons and pineapples didn't come out, his time was not wasted; those miracles just might end up making him happy in more ways than one.

Random Memory with a Moral...

It was getting close to Christmas-time and I must have been in fourth grade, if not younger. My family has never had a huge extravagant Christmas, and I am glad I never did (just so much easier on the wallet there...). But this once my mom decided to have us pick out our gifts. So she packed us up into the van and took us to the nearest clothing store. Now, before I go on, I'd like to say that my parents are really smart--actually, that's an understatement--and my mom had something up her sleeve. She told us that at the school where she works there were little children--one in each of mine and my sibling's classes--who were really poor and they were not having Christmas that year, so each of us would pick a gift for them. Immediately, a person I knew was poor and had siblings in my sibling's classes came to mind. However, I didn't really like this kid because he made fun of me, so I immediately found the ugliest shirt I could find, gave it to my mom, and didn't think much of it afterwards. Now it all worked out that the boy and I wore the same size clothes, and somehow my mom got me and my siblings to get clothes of our own size. Lo and behold, Christmas Eve came, and to the Hispanic culture we opened our presents at midnight. I got the usual sweaters from my grandparents, a cool something from my "rich" uncle (I saw him that way in those days....), and clothes from my parents. But what struck me was my mom's box. Inside, there was that ugly shirt I picked out.

Playing Captain Hindsight over here, I realize that that is true humility. We can only be Jesus followers when we give to others that which we would give ourselves, if not better. This is true Christianity.

A little homesick...

I was skimming through my high school pics, and I see a really skinny me smiling around with people who I thought I would be friends with forever. But man, I have only kept in touch with a handful of them, and sometimes even Keene seems like it is a town I don't fully remember, it has changed so much.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days when "shut up" was a bad word.
When, after a fight, everything would go back to normal by the next day at the latest.
When popping a weelie ("did you see it?! I went like two feet on one wheel!") was the ultimate test of manliness.
Sometimes I wish I could go back to the times when the hardest decision I had to make was whether to get a cheeseburger or chicken nuggets at McDonald's.