Great Minds Think Alike

Dear Emma,

While some people may think that this title references my sister, it truly is a reaction and personal response to my friend Jane Austen. My roommates and I ate at the Olive Garden tonight, where we were waited on by a British server from Liverpool. Much to our astonishment and dismay, he didn't know who Jane Austen was. After this discovery, we determined to watch Emma when we got home since we have been meaning to for some time. I love this story and find it hilarious that two hundred years after Austen penned this tale of silly girls and their romances, the truths it reveals about women is still true. Almost embarrassingly so. But it is for this reason that we love her stories. A friend asked me why people love her works; he says that they're boring even though he's a fellow English teaching major. While I credit him for not jumping on the bandwagon, I believe that women appreciate Jane's stories because we relate to her characters' thoughts and feel validated that their thoughts so long ago echo our own. Jane's witty character development and analysis are stirring indeed but require patience to get along with her language.

Thanks Jane for a lovely evening,
Sarah

P.S. I am just noticing the formality of my language now; it must be directly related to the fake British accent running through my head as I type this in the good ole Austen fashion. I hope that the old adage "great minds think alike" is true.

Character

Halloween beckons.
It calls to my Inner child,
Which is why today,
four days before the Blessed day,
I am dressed as Nala,
A young lioness ready to pounce and pin.
Nala takes my reserved self and makes it
fiesty,
hearty,
and firesome,
which led me to tomorrow:

Katniss, the firegirl,
Young heroine of my heart.
I'm not the Mockingjay,
but I dream of being
Firegirl.
I can see my arms ablaze with fabric,
my bodice aflamed in
red,
orange,
and yellow.
My hands burning their gloves.

on Friday, I will be someone.
Some identity I love.
People may not
Recognize the
Nala
or
Katniss,
But on the inside:
I am changed.
I am a character.
I see many characters.
I can be many characters,
Characterized and selected
by my
Secular Worship.

FHE-Pumpkin Painting turned to Face Painting for those with a small attention span...

Before:

After:

Basically, after I painted a dot on David's face, he grabbed mine and gave me a mustache, a uni-brow, and a beard thingie. I suppose I should have known it was coming. I love Fall.

Dear Self: A Moment of Honesty

Dear Self,

Once upon a time in my current situation, I spent the day working and studying. I slept in until 8:00 because I was tired from getting up so early on the day before in order to finish a paper before 8:00. I planned; I ate; I sang to myself; and then I left bravely for the day.

By 11:00, I was teaching a room full of silent seniors, who surprisingly were not as excited about Shakespeare's Othello as I was. I asked them questions. I read with them. And I tried to think of anything that would get their interest. On the inside, I was begging the minutes to pass more quickly so that my misery could end. Finally, they passed. And I was able to sit back and readjust for five minutes before my next class came in; I prayed in my heart that somehow I could shake off my fears of repeat and approach the lesson with a few adaptations. My prayers were answered and the lesson went well.

I went grocery shopping, which I had needed to do for three weeks. I came home and worked on reflection assignments. I went to work only to find that I had overlooked some details in helping mentor one of my athletes. It is frustrating to know that I dropped the ball, especially, when as a perfectionist, I am good at blaming myself.

Although there were some fun finds during the day: like a Shakespeare supplementary reading guide and a National Geographic issue to add to my classroom library, I just ended my day with a cranky attitude that no one could please or satisfy. I came here, here to my writing in order to talk myself out of pointless and unjustified angst.

As I just wrote, I realized that this built up feeling at the end of the day isn't uncommon for me these days. In fact, one time I was feeling emotional because of another long day, and my roommate finally and kindly told me what I needed. I said, "what do you think? Don't you have an opinion?" She said, "I think you need to go to bed." When tonight I saw a repeat of said inner crankiness, I knew that she was right that night and her wisdom will now be my answer to my feelings when living on little rest: sleep it off. Some people may laugh when Scarlet O'Hara says that "[she] can't think about it today. [She'll] think about it tomorrow," but I say "AMEN sister!" Sometimes, the world of dreams is the best medicine for moodiness.

And I never fancied myself one of those females, but I'm starting to believe and be honest: women are weird sometimes. And I am woman. What a realization.

Ado, ado.
Goodnight.

P.S. I feel much better. This shouldn't be a post-script, but writing about my answered prayer immediately made the pent-up mood dissipate. Gratitude changed my attitude and threshold. I was immediately calmed when I wrote that paragraph; The Holy Ghost calmed my inner storm.

A New Addiction--Well, a Recognized Addiction

I am addicted to buying books. My new favorite hunting spot is at DI. They have cheap books and since I am building up my classroom library, I am creating a hefty collection that might be a beast to pack as I head off to wherever I am headed next. I wonder where phase five of my life will be.

Paper break!

"Is there someone else?" Frank
"No, but there's the dream of someone else." Kathleen Kelly

You've Got Mail

Teaching People How to Study

How am I supposed to teach other people how to plan and study well if I can't get all my stuff done??

Raw Warning

Raw Warning

Writing and Reading
Not a dangerous scene.
In spite of all our travels,
The dangers are unseen.

Perhaps we think of conflicts,
Of wars about the good.
Of social movements plenty,
Of characters who could.

And then we sit in classes,
We talk and fill the boards.
We turn in all our papers--
Insecurity withstood.

Yet my hands have their scarring.
Like bed sores a la carte
From the computer where they rest
Rubbing raw, from thinking smart.

So English isn't shooting,
But safe I don't believe,
Look at my hands and elbows.
They testify; they bleed.