Thanksgiving

I love being around family. I just talked to my younger sister, who is living in Hawaii going to college there. We talked to her through "Skype," which was fun, but I could not help but miss her and feel nostalgic.

This is the holiday that I miss home the most because it is the one that cannot be replicated anywhere except my Aunt Harvey's white columned, plantation home, porch complete with Nana and groupings of cousins, second cousins, family, friends, and that random addition to the circle that I don't know yet. I often recognize faces, but don't know how they are connected to our clan.

I haven't been home for Thanksgiving in over five years, but I can still smell the smells, and every year, I miss the hayride, the cold spread at 1:00, the Styrofoam cups reeking with potent permanent marker. My sister Erica says that she hasn't been back there for Thanksgiving in ten years; so we're trying to do it here. I tried playing "Crack the Whip" with my nieces from the west, but it's not the same as Becca or Diedra yanking our arms out of socket as they run us in circles with the sounds of laughter coming from the two story playhouse sitting in the cold grass and mud out back.

I miss the accents. I miss the off-color comments and seeing my Dad in his element, talking casually and energetic with his people. I miss my Mom fluttering around, helping Aunt Harvey with whatever prep work there is left, or hunting down her cakes that people are trying to steal instead of share. I miss hearing Aunt Barbara ask me, "how are you sweetheart or darlin'?" I miss hiding out with my sisters, watching Luke as he lays on his blanket, playing with my eastern and southern nieces and nephews, and then awkwardly trying to join in conversations with cousins who are my age, even though I didn't know them well.

Being out here in California is great. The macaroni pie is here. Some family is here. I am blessed, but I still feel so far from home. I dream of being back in South Carolina, where I make the annual trip to the tacky bargain barn. Man, I want to buy some cheap lipstick there or get some for free from Aunt Kay or Aunt Harvey.

Working on my paper... You can read it later...

If My Life Were a Soundtrack, It Would Be a Celtic Folk Ensemble

Snowy Snapshots

As I got out of my car at some point during the day, I looked up and saw a clearing in the wispy clouds about the Wasatch front. There was a peak so definitive that from far below I could see individual branches. They looked so perfect frosted in the snowy layers that clung to each pine strand and needle, with the clouds to frame the moment, the blue sky the backdrop, and a moment for me to pause and stare: until I realized I had to go to work. So I walked away from my picture, and its cast now in the brief respite of my mind.

The joy of poetry is that it can bring these eidetic images back to us. I am had the library looking over sample questions for the Praxis II that I'm taking on Saturday, when this poem was listed as part of a question, and it opened my former picture, once again for just a moment.

Robert Frost's Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening:

Whose woods these are I think I know. - A
His house is in the village, though; - A
He will not see me stopping here - B
To watch his woods fill up with snow. - A
My little horse must think it queer - B
To stop without a farmhouse near - B
Between the woods and frozen lake - C
The darkest evening of the year. - B
He gives his harness bells a shake - C
To ask if there is some mistake. - C
The only other sound's the sweep - D
Of easy wind and downy flake. - C
The woods are lovely, dark and deep. - D
But I have promises to keep, - D
And miles to go before I sleep, - D
And miles to go before I sleep. - D

Like Frost, I feel like I have miles to go before I sleep. Miles to go. And many virtues to acquire, patience to be developed, and hope to be embellished by the break in the clouds or in the village. Somehow the snow and clouds, their whiteness, cleans my air and let's me breathe in: small walking moments in the run of my life.

Learning

You can't give learning away. It's an individual effort.

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.