The Hero Of My Own Story

[Gandalf] "I am looking for someone to share in an adventure that I am arranging, and it's very difficult to find anyone." 

"I should think so - in these parts! We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures.  Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things!  Make you late for dinner!  I can't think what anybody sees in them," said our Mr. Baggins, and stuck one thumb behind his braces [suspenders], and blew out another even bigger smoke-ring.  Then he took out his morning letters and began to read, pretending to take no more notice of the old man.  He had decided that he was not quite his sort, and wanted him to go away.  But the old man did not move.  He stood leaning on his stick and gazing at the hobbit without saying anything, till Bilbo got quite uncomfortable and even a little cross.  - The Hobbit

            

I've always nursed a secret longing for adventure, as I think most people who were once children have. Ah, how many stories have I imagined myself in the hero's place and wondered what I would do in the same circumstances.  The best part about a book is that it allows you to go on an adventure, and if it is a well-written book, you'll find yourself feeling and doing all the same things as the hero.  I can't remember a time when I was without the longing to do something great, to make a difference, just like all the heroes in my books.  And yet, I seem content, you know, to sit at home, blowing the proverbial smoke-rings and snapping my suspenders.  

So here's my question: What kind of story am I writing?  What kind of adventure am I living?  What kind of Hero am I being?  Being of the literary type, I've always tended to see my life as a book, as a story, and well, frankly, at the moment, it's a pretty boring one.  I look for adventure in my books, in my movies, and in my world, but when change comes knocking, I turn it away, drawing my armchair closer to the fire.  I want to be comfortable.  I want to be happy.  Because the realist in me knows I will never go on some grand adventure and change the world, I tend to be content doing nothing. 

Is that so very wrong?

Maybe.

I think everyone has deep inside of them two conflicting values.  One is the longing to do something great, make a difference, and be well-known.  The other is the longing to be comfortable, happy, and alive.  In most 21st century Americans, our longing to be comfortable, happy and alive is significantly stronger than our longing to be the mighty hero of our own story.  I know it's a tad cliche, bu this is my thought for the day.  It seems we often respond to change like Bilbo did to Gandalf.  We say, "Thank you very much, but I'd rather not do something worthwhile.  I'm quite content to spend the rest of my life being comfortable." And we miss a chance for adventure.

There's nothing wrong with being comfortable, but isn't life more than that? Isn't it? Am I really content to simply shove in a closet my desire to do something worthwhile?  I don't remember God calling me to puff smoke-rings in the shire.  I really don't.  I do, however, recollect Him telling me that following Him would be dangerous and uncomfortable.  In which case, why the heck isn't my life an adventure?  Here am I, the "hero" of my story: yet what kind of tale do I have to tell?

Not saying that I'm suddenly going to become a magnificent hero in a fabulous adventure, but having recently spent some time reading about fabulous and meaningful adventures, I'm feeling a little inspired.  Inspired to be the hero of my own story.  I don't pretend to believe that my Hero's Tale will be as magnificent or inspiring as the books I read, but if I never leave my hobbit-hole, I can be certain that the story I write will be about as entertaining as a tub of dishwater. 

It's true, not everyone can be the hero of every story.  But you always have the option to be the hero of your own story.  And believe me, I'm the first to tell myself, "You can't be a hero, you're not special enough." 

It's true, heroes are generally something special.  They usually have something about them that makes them just a little different from the rest of the world.  Most of the us read that and think, "Good gracious, there goes my hopes to be a hero.  I'm nothing magnificent at all." 

But if there's one thing I've learned from my books, it's this: A hero isn't necessarily someone who is really smart or talented.  A hero is someone who knows what is right and does it, no matter how painful it is at the time.  And that's what makes them different and special when compared with the world. 

1. And really, isn't that what God has called us to anyhow? 

          

1. 
   
2. Galadriel: Why the halfling?
3. Gandalf: Saruman believes it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps because I am afraid, and he gives me courage.

A Short Post About The Difficulties Of Blogging.

I don't know if you realize this, but writing a blog is really quite a pressure.  I mean, it's like, "Is your blog going to be as awesome as everyone else's?? Huh? Is it?"  and pretty soon you're thinking, "Wow, I really don't have many deep, profound thoughts like other people's blogs...maybe I should read more C.S. Lewis and Oswald Chambers."  or "I don't have an incredibly interesting life to relay to the world like other people's blogs...maybe I should move to Africa" or "Wow, I don't have some uncontrollable life struggle I'm going through or physical illness I'm enduring to blog about...maybe I should go dive into a kiddy pool."

However, I've got to stick to the "How do my make my thoughts and life experiences interesting" blog.  In view of my particularly mundane life, making sure my blog posts are at least minorly entertaining is a struggle.

Really, you should be glad I chose a relatively boring blog over the potentially exciting and inspiring I-dove-into-a-kiddy-pool blog.  

Star Poetry

Life in the suburbs ensures you see only the very brightest stars.  Even on clear nights, the sky looks painfully sparse.  Last week, while driving back from my grandparents, I happened to look out the window.  It was almost midnight and there wasn't a city for miles around.  Astounded by the unexpected clarity of the skies, I suddenly wanted simply to lie on the side of the road and find the big dipper.  I wanted to stare at it forever, unsure if I could hold it in my mind once the clouds came again.  Scrambling, I searched for words, sentences, feelings, something to describe what I saw.  Poetry seemed appropriate. 

I love poetry, but I don't usually write much myself.  However, occasionally, when I'm feeling some emotion more intensely than normal, I find there's nothing I can do but write a poem.  Sometimes just writing only confuses things.   In a poem you can leave holes here and imply things there and bring ideas and feelings to mind and do it all in a way that's beautiful.  I love the rhythm and cadence of poetry, though I can't always get it right myself.  So, in desperation, I tried to capture the skies in rhyme.

I can't pretend like I succeeded, but here's the result of my efforts:

Star Gravity

The Gravity presses down
Upon my outstretched hands
My eyelids close and i spin
To meet the night's demands
I'll wrap my fingers 'round the grass
Lest I float away
For lidless stars are calling
From beyond the milky way
"Come and join the ranks of light
Leave the ground behind
The earth has lost its grip on you
And star bound winds are kind."

Oh Smiling Moon I can ignore
Your luminescent face
But tingling stars reach down
And make it hard to stay in palce
Tomorrow I'll re-tie the stone
Rub raw the callused scars
But tonight I'll lose the knots
Feel the gravity of stars

As I reread it now, it seems woefully lacking in what I'm trying to say. I wish I could tell you how I felt the night and loved the stars and drew the constellations in my mind, but I can't.  I wish I could make you see how they reached down and grabbed my hand, how they stole my breath and squeezed my chest, but I don't know how.  I wish I could describe the feeling the welled up in my heart, but there aren't any words for that. It was something like satisfaction, joy, peace, love, fear, amazement, longing and emptiness all mixed into one.

I just...I just...no matter what metaphor I think of, no matter what adjective comes to mind, no matter what analogy creates itself, I just...I just...I can't get it right somehow.  It doesn't seem there is a way to properly describe the night sky.  I have yet to find enough words (at least in my vocabulary) to sum up the expanse above or even just the feelings within.  Yes, God's creation is beyond me.

I'll just have to write another poem. 

An Update On My Emotional Health

Yes, yes, I realize that only a few months ago I was complaining about being alone all the time, but some things have changed since then.  I still do like to be with people; that will never change.  But I've also regained my love of solitude.  These past weeks have made me realize just how much I love those lazy socialize-with-myself, do-nothing-with-friends sort of days.

I've busier than normal with homework this week, so I had significantly less time to spend with myself.  Today I totally made up for that.  I actually had fun with myself.  In fact, I'm still having fun.  In a summer of go go go, I'd forgotten how fabulous it is to simply be with myself.  That sounds completely prideful, as if I'm spending the day looking in the mirror saying, "Hey, you look good today *wink*", but that's not what I mean.  

It's like this.  Earlier this summer I hated being alone because I always felt lonely.  There was an indescribable emptiness that welled up inside every time I met my eyes in the mirror.  Being in a room by myself was something to avoid, and I distracted myself as much as possible.  However, these episodes of loneliness have gradually become less frequent over the past month or so.  I guess you could say I've kinda renewed my relationship with God, and ever since, that uncontentment and fear has slowly been fading, replaced by  new confidence and happiness.  I've recovered the pleasure of loneliness and the joy of solitude.  

Today I had a blast.  By myself.  A unique feeling accompanies the knowledge that no one aside from God can see you right now.  When it's combined with a computer, music, a book, and a mind busy with thoughts and time, you've got a perfect day in the making.  There are a lot of things that are always better done with someone else, but several things are always the best by yourself.

Lately I've been looking forward to time by myself.  Relaxing by myself after a long day of school.  Not to say that I no longer enjoy a good time with friends, but that I no longer fear a good time with myself.  I've found this unexplainable joy from not being busy.

I'm not sure this is coming across the way I mean it, but in short, life is good and Saturdays are BEAST. 

Life Would Be Easier If I Always Said the "Right Thing", But Then I Wouldn't Have This Blog Post, Would I?

The dangerous thing about speaking is that occasionally your mouth gets ahead of your thoughts.  And as you watch, frozen with realization, your naked words show themselves to the world, oblivious to their bare behinds.  Now that you have spoken aloud, there is no going back.  You cannot herd them back inside your mouth, nor can you deny their existence.  You said it, and everyone around you heard it; that sentence, however ugly, deformed, or false, is parading au natural before the whole world.  

Your only hope is to add to it.  However, as is often the case in embarrassing moments, your addition only makes everything worse.  Sentences and phrases, jumbled together in the mess, stumble over your teeth as they shield their eyes from the offense words.  Desperately, they attempt to nullify their brothers, throwing blankets of air into the bedlam.  But naked words have no shame; they hurry to all corners of the room, expertly avoiding your attempts to catch them.  It doesn't take long for you to realize that the explanation erupting from your bloodless lips does nothing but overflow the air in an suddenly crowded room.  

So in resignation you keep the rest of your pointless excuses inside, filling up your cheeks like so much water.  But even silence does not calm your thoughtless sentence, which still scurries around, knocking into your audience and laughing at your distress.  Eventually someone, pitying your awkward predicament, ventures to change the subject.  An invisible sigh cools the room, and the group, relieved, take hold of the welcome topic.  Finally calm, your unclad sentence congregates in the closets of the mind, forgotten until spring cleaning.

I feel like my words constantly deceive me, slipping past my tongue before I even realize that they're there.  But at the same time, maybe that's what makes life so satisfying.  I suppose it's sorta like the name of my blog.  If we always said the "right thing", careful not to offend anyone, never making anyone uncomfortable, we might never say those true words, the ones that really mean something.  Maybe if we never had those awkward situations, ripe with embarrassment and political incorrectness, we would never have those meaningful situations where surprising words are spoken and you are challenged and inspired.

And perhaps, if we're lucky, something good might come of those painfully bare words we try so hard to hold in.

Joy I - Books, Dreams, and an Unsatisfied Desire

I love stories.  Now please don't take that lightly; I'm not saying this the way I say "I love ice cream".  When I say "I love ice cream", all I really mean is that I think that particular food tastes exceptionally delicious.  Nor do I love stories the way one loves a person; I'm not in a romantic relationship with books.  I don't know if I can even put into words what I feel when I read a good story, but I think it must be a form of joy.  I've been reading C.S. Lewis's "Surprised by Joy", and this passage stuck out to me as a good explanation:

"It is difficult to find words strong enough for the sensation which came over me; Milton's 'enormous bliss' of Eden (giving the full, ancient meaning to 'enormous') comes somewhere near it.  It was a sensation of course, of desire; but desire for what? ...Before I knew what I desired, the desire itself was gone, the whole glimpse... withdrawn, the world turned commonplace again, or only stirred by a longing for the longing that had just ceased...an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.  I call it Joy, which here is a technical term and must be sharply distinguished both from Happiness and Pleasure.  Joy (in my sense) has indeed one characteristic, and one only, in common with them; the fact that anyone who has experienced it will want it again.  Apart from that, and considered only in its quality, it might almost equally well be called a particular kind of unhappiness or grief.  But then it is a kind we want. I doubt whether anyone who has tasted it would ever, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world."

When I finish an incredible book, I feel "an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction".  Before this moment I had no name for it, but now I realize good stories bring me joy.  It's like inhaling outside on an exceptionally freezy winter day.  The air is so cold it hurts as it brushes the back of your throat, and your teeth throb; yet I always relish that first breath.

Books are entertainment.  Some are good entertainment, some are lousy.  I've read all kinds of books, some mediocre, some bad, but only a few really good.  My favorites are either beautiful in ideas and writing, or they are an exceptionally well-told story.  A kind of Joy can hide in both kinds.  Some books are so well-written that I read them just so I marinate in a well-worded thought or an unbelievable description.  Some books I love only for the Hero's story.  The Lord of the Rings is the prime example of that; a story which, in itself, inspires me.  After finishing both types of stories I am struck with the desire to read it again, if only so I can feel that feeling I get at the last sentence.


Last year for school I did my research paper on what makes a good story.  It was, of course, divided into "character, plot, and writing" as the three main things that make a good story, but in reality, that wasn't what I thought of when I thought of a good story.  A good story resonates with me. In the last paragraph of the paper I tried to grasp this feeling:


The world overflows with beautiful things- many which we look on with awe, and rightly so.  However, a story is one of the most striking things I know.  Not every story.  Not even most stories.  But good stories.  Ones that grab a hold of you and don’t let go.  They aren’t just stories, they are words that dig deep inside of you to touch one gentle finger against your beating heart.  Long after their covers are closed, you are left shivering from the little mark they left behind.  It is when I feel these melt against the warmth of my core that the longing comes over me to hear it again, to find another book as glorious as the one I’ve just finished.  I desire to find words that describe the heart so clearly and letters strung together so perfectly that when my thoughts stop whirling around I am left with more than a dull ache.   I am longing for something that reaches beyond simple writings, unremarkable characters, and an ordinary plot.  I am longing for the extraordinarily beautiful; a good story.  

Do you understand now why I say I love books?  Because I've found in them a satisfaction I have yet to discover in most other areas of my life.   One thing I know, Joy is much more than a good story, much deeper than well placed words, and a lot more complicated than I understand.  I'm just attempting to show you why I read so much, why I go to the library. Partly because I love words, partly because I love stories, and partly because I'm looking for a distraction, but mainly because I have a good aftertaste in my mouth, and want just one more bite.

It's funny because I can never actually catch this Joy. I can only capture the feeling that it's been here, and wish that it will visit me again.  And so I'm left chasing a dream, or perhaps only a dream of a dream.  And occasionally God, in his grace, grants me a taste, and if only for a moment, I'm content, satisfied, and something better or worse than happiness.  But then the dream ends and I wake up alone and breathless, longing for something that was never really mine. Yes, I love stories.

*to be continued in a later post

The Rime of the Lonely Homeschooler

Often people wonder if homeschoolers have friends.  Truth: they do.  They simply don't see them very often. Last year every day of the week I had something; I went somewhere that I saw people.  This year (or at least so far this year) not so much.  I feel more and more like a socially excluded homeschooler every day.  The olders have been gone, and the youngers and parents have been busy, leaving me. Alone. In the house.

Three times today I caught myself laughing at some stupid thought I'd had or some stupid thing I'd done.  Aloud. By myself.  In an empty house.  Sooner or later, I'm going to start talking to myself.

Times of Day When I See People: Breakfast, Lunch (sometimes), and Dinner.  You see, everyone else in my family (when they're home) spends the day upstairs, where it's sunny and happy and loud and crazy.  Thus you realize why I cannot be there.  I spend the day downstairs sitting before my good friend Dellbert 2 (the computer) in quiet, solitude, and an air of general industriousness.  You might understand why it's wednesday and I've got all my Spanish and Composition done for the week and with enough time left to waste the afternoon.  There's no people here, and apparently I'm not interesting enough to distract myself.

Days of the Week When I Go Places Where I See People:  As of right now, just on Sundays, but eventually it will be Tuesday nights for Bible Club, possibly Wednesday nights for AWANA, and Thursday nights for bible quizzing.  Every other second of the week it is a 9 out of 10 chance that I will be sitting right here staring into Dellbert's Luminous Little Face.  Although I suppose it is a possibility that I will have gone to the library.

Frankly, I think I'm going into shock after being so busy all summer.  Since pretty much the moment that school let out until now, I have been with people constantly.  I have spent 5 weeks working at a christian camp, one week attending a different camp, one week helping at a VBS, one week with my cousins, one week at a family reunion, a different cousin was at our house for around a month, at different times two friends stayed a week, and then I had about 2-3 weeks where I must have had 3-4 sleepovers and spend lots of time catching up with friends I hadn't seen over the summer.  These past three days are probably the longest time I've spent with myself since early June.

But here's the truth, I really do like being alone.  It's not that I'm sad that I have to be by myself; I rather enjoy listening to music and typing happily away.  I would much, much rather be alone all day than be at the highschool.  I guess adjusting just takes some time; I'm sure that in a few weeks I won't even notice the fact that I never see anyone ever.  It's just, these first couple days have been kinda depressing, a little long, and sorta lonely.  I'm pretty sure I've gone through almost every playlist in my grooveshark account, and I've been journaling long drawn out entries about nothing in particular.  I've never thought myself a people person, but maybe after so many weeks of this and that and general busy-ness and activity, I'm finding it a little harder than usual to settle back into my normal introverted school year routine.

So I obviously, I blog about it.

Speaking of which, when did "blog" become a verb?  Creepy.

But to return to the topic at hand, in honor of my endless hours at the computer and general wishing-I-was-with-people-instead-of-electronicsness, I will conclude this post with a brief poem about my unpeopleness inspired by a portion of the Samuel Taylor classic, "The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere" (He certainly took liberties with spelling, huh?)

Anyhow, my version: (be sure to read with plenty of dramatic flair)

Day after day, day after day
I'm stuck with Delbert 2
Staring at an glowing screen
And occasionally using the loo

People, People, everywhere
Yet none to talk to, i think
People, People, everywhere
I'm lucky to have enough to drink

THE END

Inspiring, no? I think I've found my calling in life...

Our Educational System and Suggested Amendments

I stand only inches away from my junior year of highschool.  Or my first year of college.  Whichever way you prefer to think about it.  PSEO complicates everything.  Personally, calling it highschool is a good deal less intimidating than saying it's college.

The very word "college" gives me far off visions of a world where bedrooms are replaced by "the dorm".  At this magical place, teachers no longer teach you things, but professors profess their views on physiology, psychology, sociology, biology, and numerous other topics that also flaunt the suffix "-ology".  As if that isn't confusing enough, they recycle the terms "freshmen, sophmore, junior, and senior" from highschool.  This reincarnates variations of the following conversation throughout all of highschool and college:

Stranger: "So how far along are you in school?"

Poor Victimized College-Goer: "I'm a sophmore"

S: "In...highschool?"

PVCG: "Ahh, no, in college."
S: "Ohh...haha, ok..."

Two things result from this conversation.  First of all the Stranger is afraid that he's offended the College-Goer.  Secondly, the college-goer is offended.  Obviously, someone wasn't thinking when they suggested that both highschool and college use the same terms.  Who knows how many awkward conversations and needlessly injured feelings blossomed from this negligence? Do they honestly expect you to add "in college" at the end of your sentence every time you proclaim "I'm a freshmen/sophmore/junior/senior?"  This, my friends, is nothing more than ruthless victimization of college students.  And though I be but a humble highschoolian, I believe in justice for all mankind.

Something needs to be done about this situation.

I suggest a change of names for the four standard years of highschool, leaving college with "freshmen, sophmore, junior, and senior."  In the light of not totally confusing everyone, I suggest a simple twist on the original terms such as the following: "newhuman, plushyabundence, aprilior, and sawior".  (If you carefully compare these to the originals, you will notice the terribly clever changes I made <insert sneaky wink>)

With these beautiful terms, you could announce with confidence:
"Hello, I happen to be an aprilior just beginning PSEO online."

Now doesn't that just sound better?

Maybe I'm ridiculous, but I feel that there might be a future in this.

Time and Other Inevitables

The most obnoxious thing about life is that you can't stop time.

I distinctly remember the first time I realized this.  I was thirteen at the time and visiting my grandma.  It had been a busy day, though I don't remember exactly where I'd been or what I'd been doing.  Night had come and as I lay in the dark a thought suddenly came to me. "I can't stop time."  Now this seems like a silly thought, and I suppose I did already know it, but I'd simply never taken the time to actually think about it.

Then I cried.

It makes sense really.  Think about it.  I realized that I had no choice.  I was going to grow up.  And not only couldn't I stop myself from growing up, I couldn't reverse anything.  As soon as a second has passed, it's gone.  I cried softly, realizing that every moment, every second that I cried would never be returned to me. It no longer felt like Life was something to be lived. Life was now a Being, this ever existing, ever moving Thing I was chained to.  As this Thing moved, I too moved, a helpless victim of Life itself.

I could do whatever I wanted, and Life would still go on.  I could disobey my parents (An unbelievable thought at the time) and Life would drag me on.  As a relatively responsible girl, my parents had put a decent amount of trust in me, and for the first time I realized how easy it would be to do whatever I wanted without my parents knowing.  I understood that though my parents are in charge of me, they couldn't control my attitude, my thoughts, or my behavior.  I contemplated all the terrible things I could do, and how my parents couldn't stop me.  Life would still be dragging me on, and nothing could stop it.  It didn't matter what I did, I was forever chained to Life.

I felt like I was in prison.  It wasn't that I didn't like my world, it was that I couldn't escape it.  For the first time I realized why some people might commit suicide.  Perhaps they had this same feeling.  Maybe they thought that by killing themselves they could escape the one thing they couldn't get away from: Life.  That Being forever propelling me forward.

But even as I thought about doing what I wanted or escaping the prison of life, I realized I  would never do either.  Precisely because of Life and Time.  If you only have one chance at each second in life, why waste them?  Why cut off what the short supply of time that you have?  That was my reasoning before I fell asleep that night.

However, looking back on the event, I understand a lot more.  Life and Time are two things that you can't escape.  But that shouldn't cause me to despair.  It should wake me up.  It should make me think back on the things that I've done in my life thus far.  What have I done with my time?  Am I bringing God glory?  And in those times when nothing seems worth it anymore, it's a reminder that this second only happens once.  Will I be proud to show my work to God at the end of the day?

I am a Pseudonym

Today a beautiful word appeared in my mind.  One so marvelous that although I have known its meaning for some time now, I have yet to master it's pronunciation (or its spelling).  That word is Pseudonym.  Not only is this word hard to pronounce (and spell), but it also looks pretty awesome.  These three combined place it pretty high on the "Spectacular Word Scale" (Around the placement of ennui or supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, which, though long, can be sounded out rather easily).

But it was not for these worthy qualities that the word came to mind.  In fact, it was because the meaning of "Pseudonym" applied directly to my life at the moment.  In case you aren't familiar with the meaning of the word, I have had the forethought to paste the Dictionary.com definition here (a website which, if you are in need of pronunciation or spelling help, is an excellent resource)

pseu·do·nym [sood-n-im] noun - a fictitious name used by an author to conceal his or her identity; pen name.

Pseudonym.  Sood - n- im.  It was exactly the word I was looking for.  Words have power, I know that, but I like to think this one has just a tad more than the others.  This word lets you tell the truth however you want to, say what you think, and show a part of you not usually shown without letting anyone know who you even are.  You can tell just one or two others what your Pseudonym is, or maybe you just let them try to figure it out on their own.  Either way, it gives me a sense of freedom that I don't usually find.  I'm not going to use this blog as my journal, because I already have one of those.  No, this is going to be something different, better, unknown even to me at the moment.

Melody Nechum.  That's me.  Or kinda me.  Maybe a half me, maybe a real me, maybe a fake me, but somehow a part of me that doesn't get out very often.  As a result, she's a tad pale, a little weak, but  ready to get a tan, or even a burn.

So there you have it.  This is my pseudonym and my blog and I don't care whether or not people like it or even read it.  I'm not promising great writing or content.  But it's gonna be me here, soaking up the sun.
Hello Mr. Sun.