The Church of Dance

         The tiny, crumbling, vine-blanketed church off of Middle-of-Nowhere Street seems out of place. Obviously, it's been years since a sermon was ever held there. The sanctuary floor has probably forgotten what the tread of serene sunday morning church-goers feels like. The creaking stairs certainly haven't known the steps of energetic altar boys for ten years or more. Why, then, has this little building survived the constant barrage of years?
         Now, over one hundred years since the church was built, something else lingers in the halls. Music echoes once more in the chapel, and vibrations shake the ivy-covered bricks. Thud thud thud. Thud thud thud. A torrent of noise--voices, laughter, music--reverberates through the entire structure. Thud thud thud. Footsteps that are more like gunshots ring where local farmers used to walk reverently. Children crowd the chapel, raising their arms, lost in a simple progression of seconds. Five and six and seven and eight. The church has been transformed by life--It vibrates with energy.
         On the front lawn, sheltered by two ancient pines, stands a simple wooden sign. It reads, "St Croix Ballet" in hand-painted purple letters. If you get to the church early enough, you might find a pair of turkeys scratching among the pine-needles for their morning meal. The ancient graveyard out back serves as a place of quite solitude for deer, or birds, or whoever seeks peace. But to find the magic saturating this building, so humbly labeled, we must follow the much-worn sidewalk to the heart of the church, up the stairs into the sanctuary.
         No pews stand under the stained-glass windows. The great chandelier still hangs, dusty, yet proud. The alter remains, complete with the communion goblet, but no pulpit stands before it. In the choir loft is a pile of tulle tutus, thrown haphazardly over the railing until they are needed again. A distinct scent of sweat lingers, a perfume to those who who smell it daily. Now the frequent inhabitants of the chapel are those who seek beauty and receive joy. This is the St. Croix Ballet.
         The church is more than just a studio. Make no mistake, the nature of the building hasn't changed. It is a sanctuary of beauty, nobility, and friendship. Here tiny feet pound on the floors, there students slump, exhausted, onto sagging leather couches.
     
I had to stop there. No description will ever do the studio justice. The harder I try to show you what this strange church-turned-studio is like, the more I know I'll never be able to. The English language can only carry me so far. Imagine, then, how a sanctuary of dance must look, and know that a church is a fitting place to dedicate to learning beauty.

Eye Spy

In a cage made of smiling faces

Of polite salutations

Of tense undertones

In this cage of smiling faces

I sit in fear of eyes.

Eyes.

Meaning that if you find some you must react

Eye.

I.

Eyes are the window of the soul, I've heard tell--

It’s true.

The eyes that seek to look away,

The eyes that boldly go

Where no man has gone before

All these eyes and so many more

Are windows of the soul.

It rapidly becomes clear

That Eyes are dangerous things,

For the one who smiles and yet shrinks

At the thing that eyes mean.

If Eyes were rarer than the gems of the earth

Or were merely pretty pieces of glass

Then we might look more boldly into their frightening depths

But still we fear the simple clause

Cause and Effect

Look and React

Smile, then talk.

Eyes are the window of the soul.

You know what I mean. There is nothing more frustrating than polite conversation (cage of smiling faces) and Eye contact is more scary than the threat of rain on a beach day. You know.

On Books and The Fault In Our Stars

     I've been reading quite a few books lately. I'm working my way through the Search For Significance (A wonderful choice, thanks Ashley), which has been wonderfully helpful. (That is a discussion for a much more solemn post). I just finished the second to last book in a series that deal with the question, "If all of the extraordinary minds (People like Tolkien, Verne, Poe, Tesla, Richard Burton) from the past gathered together in one room in an imaginary world, what would happen?" Short answer: Mayhem, murder, the end of the world, war, death, and some very witty humor. It makes quite an interesting read. But as nothing could ever be simple with that many deep thinkers trying to work together, the series is so confusing I'm going to have to re-read the entire thing.
     I've also been catching up on my history with a little of Stevenson's Kidnapped, an excellent book that doesn't receive as much notice as it should. Come on. Who wouldn't like pirates, swashbuckling, and flight through the Scottish highlands with a somewhat crazy (If they ever remake the movie, David Tennant should play Alan) Scotsman? Why Treasure Island got more notice that Kidnapped I'll never know.
      There are probably more, lying on the floor of my bedroom waiting to be noticed, but I'll skip to the last one. The Fault In Our Stars. As you might know, this book is making something of a tidal wave in the teen community right now. People rave about it--it's humor and pathos, warmth and darkness--but I think if you stripped away the pretty words and fun, lovable characters, you'd find something a little less pleasing to read.
       John Green's words are soaked in a kind of bravado, that even though life is pointless and we are all just "side-effects" on a randomly spinning globe, we (humans) face death and refuse to sink into nothing. Not bravely, but at least with more attention on living than dying. Now, I'm only six chapters into the book, so any assumptions I make are likely to be blown to bits by the end. But I think I'm right in one thing--John Green is an incredibly skilled writer--so skilled that his opinion seeps off the pages and onto you without realizing what he's saying. He writes with such eloquence that the concepts he presents are pleasing to agree with, even if you actually don't. Impressions are so easy to come by.
       Now, I don't believe in a pointless existence, but it was only due to the comments made by my friend that kept me from accepting what Mr. Green said.
       It's a little scary, when you think about it. If I, who thought myself sceptical enough to disagree with an opposite worldview, really wanted to agree with Mr. Green, how many other books have I, or you, read and absorbed that distracted from truth?

Food for thought.

A Post About Nothing Much in Particular, or, The Essence of Summer.

       Funny how when after school has finally run its annual course, you find your brain suddenly freed up but have lost the will to think. Even remote thoughts like, "I think I might clean my room today," are unwelcome.
It's a lovely feeling. I've enjoyed it so much that even writing a little blog post happens only when I'm not basking in the warmth of nothing-to-do. I have a great deal less pressing thoughts all clamoring for attention, cluttering up my brain-attic and bickering amongst one another.
       This is summer. To us Minnesotans, that word means warmth, mostly. Now that our finicky globe has turned towards the sun we poke our pale faces our of our houses (they feel more like caves, and we like hermits), blinking in astonishment. What is this lush, green world? Have we been transported to a different planet?

       I've run out of words. All my description of the bliss of summer seem to fall very, very short. Maybe I should stick to poetry. But I find poetry lacking something, even if I can't decide what. Perhaps if I had something to rant about....but no. Not today. Not when the sun is so clear, and sky deep and wide and blue. I think I'll just sit and breath. 


                   

Time

The Man with clocks in his eyes came to me

He streamed tears of blood and smiled at me

“Time!” He sobbed, “no time to play.”

The man with clocks in his eyes staggered down the street

Unaware that his body was dying and couldn’t carry on.

He looked straight ahead and didn’t stop to smile

And the people with sunshine in their eyes recoiled

for the man with clocks in his eyes couldn't see the passing time.

The Man with clocks in his eyes

Heard the bells of a new age dawning

Heard them tolling into his ears.

The man with clocks in his eyes heard the bells tolling

And the man--

Just a man, after all,

Curled up in the gutter.

The man with clocks in his eyes cried out for help

He sobbed tears of blood that marked his cheeks with helplessness.

The man with clocks in his eyes

Cried into his suit

The perfect black tie

And shiny black shoes.

The man with clocks in his eyes finally knew

His eyes, so perfect, he thought,

Couldn’t

See

Time.

What If

It's the end. Again. 

Fancy that! 

Sometimes I think...

I think...

Think I, 

That it never ends.

That I have wasted half my life

In comfort and complacency.

I worry that,

Think I,

That I will not rise to the challenge,

When the time comes.

Think I, these things. 

I, a worrier, will never restful be, 

Unless the peace of God

Be in me. 

What if!

What if, 

Think I,

What if!

What if the earth comes crashing down!

What if I shame myself!

What if I did something wrong!

What if, if, if,

IF the sky were to fall, could I hold it by thought?

IF I a mistake did make,

Could I then, by turning my thoughts backward,

Change the past?

IF I had done differently, Think I. 

What if is a disease

That preys on the roiling mind

That preys on my joy.

What if,

What if I, 

Think I,

Chose to 

What if the if away?

What if I,

Stopped iffing and put

the f on faith instead?

What if?

What if I stopped iffing and listened to the truth around me. 

Think I, these things. 

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.

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.

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.

Music.

Standin' in the rain

With his head hung low

Couldn't get a ticket,

It was a sold out show.

Heard the roar of the crowd

He could picture the scene

Put his head to the wall

And like a distant scream

He heard one guitar

Just blew him away

Saw stars in his eyes

And the very next day

He bought a beat up six string

In a secondhand store.

Didn't know how to play it

But he knew for sure

 That one guitar

Felt good in his hands.

--Jukebox Hero, by Foreigner.  

That one guitar. The roar of metal and noise and vibration that reached to the man's heart. Stars in his eyes. That one guitar, like a distant scream. Just blew him away.

Absolutely spectacular. 

 Jukebox Hero makes me remember how music reaches to the very soul of the person listening. It makes me remember how the fierce, aggressive, passionate style of rock is an amazing work of art. The power of one sound changed the man's life--his whole life. That is awe-inspiring. Music brings me such joy--often I'll listen and that one guitar will suddenly penetrate my heart. My head will go back and I'll laugh in pure ecstasy. Music. 

What a gift. 

When I am down, and Oh, my soul's so weary;

When troubles come, and my heart burdened be

Then I am still and sit here in the silence,

Until you come and sit awhile with me. 

You raise me up, so I can stand on mountains

You raise me up, to stand of stormy seas

I am strong, when I am on your shoulders

You raise me up...to more than I can be. 

--You Raise Me Up, hymn

I don't understand it. How mere sounds have the power to make people laugh, cry, dance--it will always be a mystery. I just know what is. And I see a stunning tableau of light fighting dark, joy conquering sadness, and the human heart bursting. Someday, someday, this battle called life will be over. Then we'll see what true joy looks like, and it will resonate in our very souls like the notes of fire we call music. 

I guess I was feeling philosophic. Hope y'all don't mind. 

What next?

       In reality, I am a little girl wearing pigtails that clings to her mother's hand in fright. I pretend to be mature, strong, independant, but...some things have to be a pretense before they become reality. I won't say I'm unable.
       This whole college deal makes me feel like a twelve-year-old who walks into a bar and orders a drink. Very small, on that barstool of life. But I can't pretend--I just have to believe in myself. And that (for me, at least) is akin to climbing mount Everest. With no oxygen tank. But...I won't have to do it alone.
       I fell out of my mother's nest rather suddenly a few weeks ago and began to enter a stage in my life with absolutely no supervision. "FFREEDOOMMM!!"
That was the jist of my thoughts. Heh. I squeaked it with eyes wide with fright, as I boarded the bus headed towards independent education. Frankly, I'm scared. The responsibilities and experiences of adulthood are in view...just not at hand.
       So. What next? I have so many dreams piled up in my heart, and yet I know most of them will be thought of fondly and then put aside for later. I have already had to chose between dreams, and I have come to terms with it. But...I still dream of being able to follow all my dreams. What's going to happen? Where will the Lord take me? I can say with an excited whisper, "I...don't...know." I'm just a fledgling, with wings not yet tried, still clinging to a branch and looking out onto the most beautiful thing--the world spread beneath my feet. But soon, very soon, I'll feel the wind on my face, lifting under my wings, and I'll fly to places I've never dreamed of. With a guiding hand in my own, loving family gathered around me, and friends to share in my escapades, I sit on that branch. Turns out, it holds more scrapes and adventures that I thought.
       What Next. 
     
     

Follow-up To A Moment of Love

I wanted to add to yesterday's post, something crucial that cannot afford to be overlooked: It is not always us being "beset" by evil--sometimes we are to blame. Sometimes we act in ways that have no justification. This is crucial to understand--you cannot fix a problem until you admit you have one. Over and over in the bible, God makes it clear that humans sin of their own accord.
Perhaps something that is even more important to understand is this. Ephesians 2:8-9 says, "For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not of your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast."

"it is the gift of God, not a result of works." Boy, is this one a ego-crusher and bubble-burster. I know many people who would reject this completely. It has a tendency to deflate any pride I might have, which I count as a good thing. But it has taken me a long, long time to understand and fully come to embrace this. It increases my awe of God, for it says this: I loved you so much that I am giving you this gift of salvation even though you deserve punishment. God's love awes me. "And this is not of your own doing, it is the gift of God." A moment of Love.

A moment of love

Today is being...interesting. I woke up with all these good intentions, and now I find myself, after snapping at my mother and mentally tearing myself down as a result, writing this post when I should be doing something constructive. For that reason, I'll keep this one short.
     Mainly, all I find myself thinking, "What is wrong with me??" Why can't I act in a way that would build people up and not bring them down? Why can't I remember God? Well, I know the answer. I just don't particularly care for it. For some reason, I do not feel like praying. Algebra, emails to colleges, and thank-you cards are not the highlights of my day. In fact, I seem to be finding every excuse possible to not accomplish what I need to. What is wrong with me?
      1st Thessalonians 5:16-22 says, "Rejoice always; Pray without ceasing; in everything give thanks; for this is God's will for you in Jesus Christ. Do not quench the spirit; do not despise prophetic utterances. But examine everything carefully; hold fast to that which is good; abstain from every form of evil."
      As I'm writing this, I think I realize that we, everybody, need to hold fast to everything that is good--cling to it with every fiber of our strength, because if we do not we are beset with evil. Whether it be anger, a bad attitude in my case, discouragement, or hate, many things. God, help me now to cling to all that is good, to cling to You. Please forgive me, God, for my pessimism, my anger, my hate. Forgive me.
      I forgive you. My love, little one. 

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.

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.

   

Morning Thinks (thoughts)

     Well, we're halfway through winter. And what a beautiful winter its been. Have you thought, "I wish it was summer!" yet to yourself? Ha. Silly question. I'm learning, though. There's so much to be joyful about, even when its so cold your boogers freeze the instant you step outside.
     I feel like this winter, I've lived a lot more than I ever have, because I've been able to let my dreams and desires guide what I do. And in many ways, I feel like I've missed out on life. I remember those fourteen hours a week I'm not dancing...and I think, "EEK!"
     But I'm not here to be melancholy. God's been perpetually trying to cheer me up, which is one interesting thing thats been happening to me lately. I think God wants us to live in a state of constant praise. That was a foreign concept for me two months ago. But now I see how it is not only possibly, but highly desirable.
      And fun.
   
      On a less philosophical note, I've gotten ensnared in Once Upon A Time. Again. *rolls eyes*
      But what can I say. Its captivating! And surprisingly moral. Their principals aren't all mixed up, and...well, just plain wrong, like some other shows I've seen. Like this one guy (who was married) was having an affair with this other girl, and they actually put aside how "complicated" the situation was and said, "Hey, this is wrong...we have to stop seeing each other." And I was like, "YES!"
   
     I am in a happy place. I have God, a puzzle, and a treadmill. *contented smile* And now, I'm off to go watch Once Upon a Time, run on that treadmill and fold towels.

Not all at once, obviously.

Dance follows me everywhere. No matter how hard I might try to escape, it chases me. Many people are incomplete without it.

Most people who dance know that you cannot run. It has been ingrained in your nature, somehow, and no matter what happens you will never shake the longing. 

It exposes your soul, rips your heart, sits at the deepest part of your desire. To fly. 

           And I think, "Why God? Why did you create this desire?"
           The yearning is not something to run from. It shines glory on God.

So don't run. Shout and leap and dance for Him. As I learned last night, full enjoyment is not complete until you have praised that which gives you joy: God.  It shouldn't become work. He is a joy. There is no such thing as sad joy or annoying joy, is there? So praise Him, people.               

                            

The fundamental rules of fantasy stories

1. When in doubt, blow something up. (Thank you, Alison)

2. Don't be afraid of blood.

3. Scaring little children is ok.

4. Making people cry is AWESOME.

5. Add beauty and hope

6. Don't get so sucked into making a cool villain that you get good and evil mixed up. Keep very clear distinctions between moral actions and evilness. Try to keep the lines between the two crystal clear in the character's eyes. 

7. Be willing to accept that you will ruin several people's lives. 

8. And kill several people too. 

9. GOOD ALWAYS WINS. 

10. Emotional strife keeps the ball rolling

11. Nothing is more annoying than an annoying main character. 

12. Know the right times to be extremely descriptive and the right times to make the reader guess.

13. Laugh at yourself

14. And don't be afraid to go back to the drawing board time and time again.

There.

The Alps of Minnesota

     What is so fun about riding up a ski lift in six-degree weather, with thirty mph winds blowing you back down the wire? It would only be fun if you were with a friend.
     I've never had an experience quite like the one I had last night. I'm sure you all heard what the weather was like--nasty, to sum it up in as few words as possible. But beautiful at the same time--the crisp, clear, painful beauty of winter. The hills at Afton Alps were completely iced over, with drifts of powdery snow lying where the gusts of wind had gathered it. Every time we rode the lift to the top of the hill, my hoodie would freeze over my mouth. Falling was inevitable: at least, it was for a person of my tipsy nature--that is, tending to fall down while standing still. At least I provided Ellie with a source of amusement, flopping around on the ground, struggling to get my skis under me, all the while sliding further and further down the slope. Humph.
     The Afton Alps Ski Patrol is a great group of people. Even from my brief contact with them, you got the impression that they love the work they do. You know, it is hard to be grumpy after being out in the wind and sun, saving lives and flying down steep hills for the greater part of the day. If more people would experience the outdoors and the satisfaction of returning to a warm building at the end of the day, we'd all be better off for it.
     The patrol room is small, but homey. The patrollers gather around the long table in the center, often with their families in tow. First Aid equipment, skis, and bags line the walls. Smells of hot chocolate, melting snow, and musty indoor air waft around the room. Conversation is usually lively and good natured, disrupted by the buzzing of the radios as help is needed on the hill.
     Now comes for my rating. Afton Alps is an awesome place for people of all ages. It is family friendly, complete with several restaurants and a rental shop. The Patrol is active, efficient, and devoted. Now, I would probably tell you that any skiing experience is simply awesome, but at Afton, it was one of the best expeditions I've ever been on. I would recommend it. There is nothing more satisfactory than braving the elements and coming back to home base hungry and sweating. Tired, but happy. (Interesting how those words--tired but happy--always goes along with exercise. Think about it.)