Hunting Tales

      Ever felt the stillness of the before dawn air? I'm sure most of you have: riding the bus, perhaps, or driving to some place you must get to at some ridiculous hour in the morning. But I mean really felt it. 
       I remember feeling a rather removed excitement when I ate my scrambled eggs in the dark that morning. Dad was far more fidgety than me--he could barely keep from jumping up and down. My breath steamed as we loaded the guns into the truck. The stars were out, twinkling at us. 
       It was still dark an hour later when we pulled down a winding driveway and set up shop in a little fringe of scrubby trees on the edge of an empty strawberry field. Greg, Dad, Jerry, Joe, and I simply sat, waiting for the sun to come up. The air was so dark, and so peaceful, it felt as though nothing could ever disturb that odd calm. Imagine trying to argue with a tree. Eventually, though, the peace faded away and up came the sun, long heralded by birds singing their morning songs. 
      With the sun came the geese. I'm sure you've guessed it by now--we weren't there just to enjoy the six 'o clock air--we were there for population control. Or to make it sound a little nicer, we were there to bring home the bacon. In feathered, winged form. Eight or nine birds flew in from our right. Greg didn't call the shot, so we let them land among the decoys. Then another flock flew from our right, making an odd picture of stupidity. They came level with us. For a moment, all that happened was the thump-thump of my heart. 
       Greg whipped his gun to his shoulder and fired. Everything Dad had told me flew out of my mind like those birds would if I didn't fire--so I pointed my gun at the flock and twitched my finger. The gun recoiled against my shoulder and a goose crumpled out of the sky with the shot--a hit! I watched the rest of the scene unfold like an awestruck ninny, still jumpy with adrenaline. The guns roared and shot little dots of death into the sky--and plop-plop-plop-plop fell down dinner. The guys did their best to get the whole flock down, but the birds caught on quickly. They were out of sight in a matter of a few frightened flaps.  
       Silence. 
       I felt like bobbing up and down and shouting, "That was awesome!", but of course, I didn't. I didn't fancy being laughed at. Someone said, "Go get 'em," and I walked out with Joe to go retrieve our spoils. But I wasn't quite sure if you picked them up my the feet or the neck, so I dawdled until I could see what Joe would do. Their necks were surprisingly slender. We piled the geese--five in all--in a little heap, and I sat back on my little stool, eyes sparkling. All drowsiness had been long forgotten. In all my life, I will never forget the shock of the gun against my shoulder. 
       Later that day, after we had made our weary way home, and told the same stories over several times, Jerry asked me how many shells I had used on the flock. I gave a little laugh because I wasn't sure what the questions was for, and said, "One."
       "One!" Jerry shouted. "You can keep shootin'. Yeah, definitely use more 'n one shell." He laughed more. I just saw the bird go down and figured that was enough. 
         
        Of course, we got up and did it again the next morning. It was a fiasco, that day was, let me tell you. We got one flock the whole morning and I still felt like laughing. We sat in the little stand of trees until ten or so, just waiting and enjoying the free air. It was so boring, even Dad was up for leaving before noon. Then we heard the honking. Everybody tensed. It grew nearer. Then we saw them--straight over the trees they flew, and then wheeled. Greg had harnessed them with his goosecall. They headed straight for us like little dive-bombers. I held my breath. Just as the nearest two began to land, Greg snapped, "take 'em!" 
       We took 'em, all right. Boom boom ba boom! Noise exploded and so did the flock. Birds fell, some backpedaled furiously, feathers flew. boom! I struggled to reload my now empty gun, feverishly snapping the breach closed. Several of the geese were taking flight. Dad jumped up, complete with some swearing, gun roaring. I scrambled to my feet and fired, the shock knocking my back into my chair. I will never, ever forget that feeling. 
      I will never understand why I enjoy discharging objects by explosion at very high speeds. Perhaps it's in my blood. Perhaps we have a hereditary love of conquest. Or maybe I'm just crazy. My only comfort for that thought is if that's the case, than alot of other people are just as crazy as me. Dad. 
     

Notes of Fire

     Music comes in so many, many ways. This world is wrapped in song. The birds have it, the wind has it, the road has it, the rain, the trees, the city. People make music in hate, love, passion, anger, joy, and in an absence of reality. We listen to music and it makes music inside of us. It brings people close together.
     My favorite part of a race is when the people stand to sing. Whether it be the National Anthem or "My Old Kentucky Home", for those few moments we are one. Thousands of people are brought together because they are all thinking of the same thing. If all those thoughts could be made into a song, it would be more beautiful than anything ever heard, because it would be unison and thoughts that have no malice, no greed, and no superficiality.
     In some ways, music has been twisted and desecrated. But really, all that it is is emotion. Whether those emotions be worthy or not, they are there. And those emotions are passed to the listener. A song that was made with a hearty dose of desperation makes you feel desperate. A song created with joy will pass joy on to you. Music is powerful. Remember that.
    If I could somehow soar to the past and bring back one thing, it would be gatherings where people come together to dance and sing. I wish I had a giant eraser that I could lift it up and wipe away all self-consciousness, so people wouldn't feel scared or awkward to just life up their voices and sing. Together. Oh, what joy that would be.

A sentimental moment

       I sometimes think my pointshoes are my best friends.  Think about it--they've witnessed every blister, every bloodstain, every tear, every hour where I've counted the long minutes to the end of rehearsal so I can run on them to plunge my sweaty face in an icy stream of water. Something in me seems to wilt when we're apart. I worry about them, because if they fail, I fall.
 

       I believe I've heard it said that a woman's shoes were her best friend. This might be more true than many of us realize. However, I tend to be skeptical that any article of footwear could be as intimate as a pointeshoe. Just saying. They are the only kinds of friends that were made to be destroyed every few weeks.

       Well, I'll be glad to have them back. We've been separated for far too long. 

Pinecone

It started with a pinecone. A measly, prickly pinecone. An' it just about killed me.
Now, I'm not sayin the pinecone was the thing that could have killed me. It would take more than that to even put a dent in my hard skull. The problem was, that pinecone fell to the ground, and just had to grow into a pine tree. And then there was a thunderstorm. And...it was partly the dog's fault. He just had to go outside. In a thunderstorm.
The tree fell on me.
Dang.
After a week in the hospital and several months of casts, I came away with a very important life lesson: Never, ever, trust a pinecone.

That was a blurb I wrote last year. Still makes me laugh.

What. A. Week.

     Remember those times where life decides to throw itself on you in it's best attempt to kill you? Yeah. Welcome to my world. 

     The week started just fine. Balmy weather, almost 80, shorts, trees to climb, not too much school to darken the horizon. For a time, I was happy. Sigh. Then, it began to snow. And my world came crashing down around my ears. For three long, sad, days I was cooped up inside a cage of drywall and siding, struggling against a tide of dishes, laundry, and Algebra, stretching out to the light with all my strength. 

     OK. I'm definitely being melodramatic. I know I have something that makes housecleaning and Algebra little ants to be squished ruthlessly. I have assurance that my life will be joyful, loved, and protected. I had nothing to complain of. But it was all I could do to not fall on my bed and sob. Well, that's exactly what I ended up doing. After I had sniffled and wept my way through half a box of tissues, I finished my email to a friend. The message she sent back was, well, a lifeline to a drowning girl. (If I'm going to be melodramatic, might as well commit to it.) What she sent me was a list of God's truths, with bible verses to support them. And guess what. I started to feel better. Yes, God was there, I was not caught in a horrible pit of lightening sand straight from the bowels of the Fire Swamp, and I was ready to ask forgiveness. That's one wonderful thing I've learned about God. He doesn't wait to give forgiveness. You ask, you receive, praise God. 

      I have a bit of advice. I've learned, slowly, that the best way to stay attached to God is to repeat to yourself His word. Here's what Martin Luther said on the subject: "If you grasp hold of God's Word in your heart and cling to it with faith, the devil cannot win. He has to flee. If you can say, "My God has said this, and I can stand upon it," you will find that the devil will quickly leave." And guess what. It works. When you find yourself in a situation of temptation, or doubt, or fear, start repeating God's promises. It's a lifeline to a drowning Christian. 

      My week went from good, to bad, to oh, help! I learned something very, very important, though. Funny how all my bad situations seem to end up good. 

Romans 8: 28
And we know that for those who love God all things to work together for good, for those who are called according to his purposes. 

End of Year Tribute

This year is my last at ESCHEL, the coop I've attended for about four years. Can't say I'm sorry to go. Anyway, all the 10th graders are supposed to write a little end of year note, and I liked mine so much I thought I'd post it here.

       Well, ESCHEL is almost over. That’s nothing new. But this time, it’s the last “over.” Over is for always. And I’m sad. Now, don’t get me wrong. There were those days where slowly burning my assignments in a gigantic bonfire while running around the blaze and whooping like a frustrated Indian sounded pretty good. Is there any sane highschool student who hasn't felt like that at some point between November and April? I don’t think so. But ESCHEL has helped me grow, spiritually and educationally. I've made two of the most important friendships I will ever make. I've learned how to cite APA research papers. I've learned not to puke at a fish’s fermented innards. I've learned that I can write a good essay in half-an-hour (believe me, a two years ago, that felt like walking up Mt. Everest without an oxygen tank). I can’t imagine a better preparation for my life as I enter the new, big world of college classes. So now, as I wave my hand in farewell, I can smile and look back with fondness on the memories I made, and who I am now compared to what I was then. Thank you.         

-Karly Lunda

Psalm 39:7

And now, O Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in you.

Luke 1:37

For nothing will be impossible with God.

The plight of a restless soul, Spring.

    The world waits. The sun shines. The air is a pair of arms, open, sweeping wide in a welcome embrace. Each house has its own shining curtain of water, a private rainstorm. A December world is slowly melting away into April's bubbling laughter. Water, frozen just seconds before, bounds down ditches and off roofs. Widening black earth. Green shoots uncurling into the warming air.

The becoming widens.

    One knows how important this is. All can feel it. The air is welcoming. Swelling . Homecoming.
Of a Joy eternal, sighs the wind. Spring is here. The air so clear, the time of waiting while summer draws near. Ever beautiful.
     Little things are born. Little things stir in the hearts of people, things frozen by a wind that blows not just from the north. Of love and happiness, mirth and goodwill. What a One we have to look to. Who could create such perfection?

     I come back to earth. The ground is muddy, the snow a mixture of what looks like slushy tar and coffee grounds, the buds hanging on to the trees for dear life. Water is everywhere. Creeping into basements, roaring through ditches. Everything is about as wet as the inside of a water balloon.

Do we care? Nope.