Sleep.
Even now, the word sounds like a synonym for "heaven."
Sleep.
Oh, Lord I'm tired.
Sleep.
Turns out, forty winks on the curvy part of the stairs is almost as comfortable as my bed. I curled up there today because I didn't have the energy to move. The computer screen is a distraction for my blurred eyes, my confused mind, my shaking legs.
Sleep.
Literally, my legs were shaking. Its a wonder I made it through pointe class today.
Sleep.
Yup. My brain has now died.
Sleeeep....
Friday, April 11, 2014
Monday, April 7, 2014
Follow-up to Good Girl
I've been reading Do Hard Things by Alex and Brett Harris. Well, reading is a bit of a loose term. I got half-way through it on our road trip in January because Iowa was so boring, and haven't touched it until today. This morning, I read a section called "Be Known for What You Do (more than for what you don't)
Let's take a look at what I said in "Good Girl":
Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian...who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents.
In essence, what I said was this: I don't do all these things, and that makes me a good girl. But today, I read this in Do Hard Things: "Being considered a good teen only requires that we don't do bad stuff like taking drugs, drinking, and partying."
Wow. Talk about a jolt. What the Harris's just told me is absolutely true, that teens are often considered "good enough" or even "exceptional" if they don't do bad stuff. I don't do drugs, and somehow that makes me a "good teen?" What the heck! I was falling victim to a ridiculously low standard without even knowing it.
I have a confession to make. This year, I've been able to get straight A's (except in math, but math is evil) in all my college courses. This morning, I got a message from the Dean of Admissions at Concordia St Paul saying that I was eligable for some program that puts me on some list that makes me automatically considered for an academic scholarship. Yes, that made me feel proud. But when you compare the amount of effort it took for me to earn a place in that program, suddenly I don't feel so good about myself.
Getting A's is not hard. At all. I can get A's in my classes with minimal effort and some serious procrastinating. That's what I've been doing this year. And somehow, I managed to get on the "Go Farther" program at age sixteen?
It is SICK how little effort it took for me to reach this point. I'm not being pushed. I float through college courses, get good grades, and am being rewarded for minimal effort? I'll say it again: What the heck! The worst part is: this is nobody's fault but my own. Look, people. Being above average isn't something to be proud of because the average is so low.
I consider myself to be an adolescent. By saying that word, I conform to society's expectations for my life. I've even used the "I'm just a kid" and "I'm growing up" argument as an excuse.
Yikes.
What I'm trying to say is this: I made a mistake. My mindset is still stuck in a rut, thinking that my age is an excuse to not make the hard decision. I need to push myself, and to hell with the "Go Farther" program.
Let's take a look at what I said in "Good Girl":
Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian...who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents.
In essence, what I said was this: I don't do all these things, and that makes me a good girl. But today, I read this in Do Hard Things: "Being considered a good teen only requires that we don't do bad stuff like taking drugs, drinking, and partying."
Wow. Talk about a jolt. What the Harris's just told me is absolutely true, that teens are often considered "good enough" or even "exceptional" if they don't do bad stuff. I don't do drugs, and somehow that makes me a "good teen?" What the heck! I was falling victim to a ridiculously low standard without even knowing it.
I have a confession to make. This year, I've been able to get straight A's (except in math, but math is evil) in all my college courses. This morning, I got a message from the Dean of Admissions at Concordia St Paul saying that I was eligable for some program that puts me on some list that makes me automatically considered for an academic scholarship. Yes, that made me feel proud. But when you compare the amount of effort it took for me to earn a place in that program, suddenly I don't feel so good about myself.
Getting A's is not hard. At all. I can get A's in my classes with minimal effort and some serious procrastinating. That's what I've been doing this year. And somehow, I managed to get on the "Go Farther" program at age sixteen?
It is SICK how little effort it took for me to reach this point. I'm not being pushed. I float through college courses, get good grades, and am being rewarded for minimal effort? I'll say it again: What the heck! The worst part is: this is nobody's fault but my own. Look, people. Being above average isn't something to be proud of because the average is so low.
I consider myself to be an adolescent. By saying that word, I conform to society's expectations for my life. I've even used the "I'm just a kid" and "I'm growing up" argument as an excuse.
Yikes.
What I'm trying to say is this: I made a mistake. My mindset is still stuck in a rut, thinking that my age is an excuse to not make the hard decision. I need to push myself, and to hell with the "Go Farther" program.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Golden Thyme
Golden Thyme
Coffee and Tea
You don't have any room for me
"What can I get for you?
Coffee, light, with room for cream?"
I'll take mine hollow
With brine.
You don't think
Anything of me.
Coffee and Tea
You don't have any room for me
"What can I get for you?
Coffee, light, with room for cream?"
I'll take mine hollow
With brine.
You don't think
Anything of me.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Midas Touch
The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But no heart is left in them.
The Midas touch lies over this land
And has left the people heartless.
The streets and roads
Are paved with gold
But the crude and base
Have not suffered.
Instead, like Jason hunting the Fleece,
The glitter is what draws us
Stalks us
Kills us.
Your other master is left in the dust
And all you have is dust.
With airy smiles
That charm ad beguile,
We ignore the world before us.
Our minds are clouded,
Filled up with lies,
We miss the truth before us.
That Midas dream
Would be filling,
It seems,
But all that is left
Are streets and roads
Paved with gold
With no heart left in them.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Good Girl
I finally relented. After a winter of hinting and winking, I took the leap and bought a skateboard. My brother was ecstatic. A year ago Dj bought a longboard and ever since he's been petitioning for me to get one. Due to my phobia of spending large amounts of money, I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Over spring break, my brother took me to Zumiez. If he didn't consider himself too dignified to bounce up and down in company other than my own, he would have been doing jumping-jacks all through the mall. We looked for a while at the longboards, but my gut told me to go classic. That meant a skateboard. I flipped through the racks of decks, trying to decide. It would be pretty awesome, I thought. And after all, I can pull off anything I want. I can be a skater chick if I want to. I hefted a deck--this one was green with leaves all over it. I like leaves.
"Karly, that's weed." Said Dj.
I dropped the offending deck like that time I threw my knife and grabbed it by the blade. Maybe "Skater chick" was a bit too loose a term for me.
After much deciding, I did go with a skateboard and had one custom built. It's sitting downstairs as I write, the scuffs and dirt a testament to my efforts to not take a faceplant.
The problem lies not with the skateboard, but with the stereotypes that go with it. Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian (boy do I hate that label, but that's a discussion for another time), who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents. A good girl shouldn't ride the streets on her (granted, incredibly cool) skateboard.
I hate labels. I hate stereotypes. I hate that because I've live a certain way I feel like people expect me to be a certain way. I'm not a good girl. Nor am I a bad girl. I can ride my skateboard to church. I can enjoy a day at the gun range and put on my pointeshoes and tutu an hour later.
That skateboard is a testament to my identity. I do not fit into a mold.
And waited.
Over spring break, my brother took me to Zumiez. If he didn't consider himself too dignified to bounce up and down in company other than my own, he would have been doing jumping-jacks all through the mall. We looked for a while at the longboards, but my gut told me to go classic. That meant a skateboard. I flipped through the racks of decks, trying to decide. It would be pretty awesome, I thought. And after all, I can pull off anything I want. I can be a skater chick if I want to. I hefted a deck--this one was green with leaves all over it. I like leaves.
"Karly, that's weed." Said Dj.
I dropped the offending deck like that time I threw my knife and grabbed it by the blade. Maybe "Skater chick" was a bit too loose a term for me.
After much deciding, I did go with a skateboard and had one custom built. It's sitting downstairs as I write, the scuffs and dirt a testament to my efforts to not take a faceplant.
The problem lies not with the skateboard, but with the stereotypes that go with it. Technically speaking, I'm a "good girl." Homeschooled, Christian (boy do I hate that label, but that's a discussion for another time), who doesn't consider "dating" to be something that should happen unless both parties involved are thinking of marriage. I stay out of trouble (sometimes), I don't loiter, and I try to obey my parents. A good girl shouldn't ride the streets on her (granted, incredibly cool) skateboard.
I hate labels. I hate stereotypes. I hate that because I've live a certain way I feel like people expect me to be a certain way. I'm not a good girl. Nor am I a bad girl. I can ride my skateboard to church. I can enjoy a day at the gun range and put on my pointeshoes and tutu an hour later.
That skateboard is a testament to my identity. I do not fit into a mold.
Blue-collar Ballerina
Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Sadly, the fall was all pain and no style. It was nothing serious, but it kept me from dancing for two weeks.
Two weeks.
That's when I start hating myself. Two weeks is a frustrating number when you don't feel bad but know you need to take a break. But in the midst of all that mental stagnation, I started thinking.
Ballet isn't beautiful up close. It's painful. A dancer often looks worse before she looks better. And its stinky--really really stinky. My brother can attest to that.
Ballet isn't always fun. Fulfilling, yes. But it's hard to have fun in the midst of aggravating those blisters over and over again. It's hard to feel happy when you are so ludicrously sore that moving hurts. Everywhere. Even in places you didn't know muscles existed.
I think to myself--there has to be a purpose to all this. There has to be a reason I keep returning. Well, even if I don't fully understand it yet, there is a reason. For now, dance is my calling. My goal is to follow God and bring Him glory through it. But I'm still learning how to put in "Him" instead of "I."
Dance isn't as much for fun as it used to be. It's for work. Glorious work that doesn't reflect on me, praise God. The thing is, with God, joy and work fit together like those heart necklaces that say "Best Friends" on them.
Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Praise God.
Two weeks.
That's when I start hating myself. Two weeks is a frustrating number when you don't feel bad but know you need to take a break. But in the midst of all that mental stagnation, I started thinking.
Ballet isn't beautiful up close. It's painful. A dancer often looks worse before she looks better. And its stinky--really really stinky. My brother can attest to that.
Ballet isn't always fun. Fulfilling, yes. But it's hard to have fun in the midst of aggravating those blisters over and over again. It's hard to feel happy when you are so ludicrously sore that moving hurts. Everywhere. Even in places you didn't know muscles existed.
I think to myself--there has to be a purpose to all this. There has to be a reason I keep returning. Well, even if I don't fully understand it yet, there is a reason. For now, dance is my calling. My goal is to follow God and bring Him glory through it. But I'm still learning how to put in "Him" instead of "I."
Dance isn't as much for fun as it used to be. It's for work. Glorious work that doesn't reflect on me, praise God. The thing is, with God, joy and work fit together like those heart necklaces that say "Best Friends" on them.
Two weeks ago I fell down the stairs. Praise God.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Greater
In a world of prejudice and spite
In a world of pain and horror
In this place of beauty vs. ugly
Kindness vs. cruelty
man against man
woman against woman
Child against child
Where is the place of rest?
Is it found in the trees, the beautiful trees?
Or maybe in the rushing streams along the forest floor?
Could it be--are peace and rest found--
In laughter of other people,
In the presence of other souls,
In the touch of a loved one?
Turn to the child who says
“Mother I love you”
Turn to the dog who barks in happiness
Turn to the joys of something greater,
Of a presence we can’t ignore.
If the trumpeted cry of the mountains,
The pleading voice of the eagle,
The pounding feet of the deer in autumn
Were not passed by,
Perhaps we’d find the Greater Rest,
The presence we can’t ignore.
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