The Most Wonderful Time

Dear Readers,
It has been a long absence. I wake up every morning with the intention of writing letters, of finishing that book sitting on the dresser, of writing in my blog. And yet, so far none of that has happened. Its like my motivation has become frozen with the weather; all I want to do is sit on the couch and waste away into nothing staring at facebook. Actually, that's not what I want to do at all, but yet I let myself get mired into the murky bog that is the internet.

After all, I tell myself that I am supposed to be relaxing. And laying on the couch all day is relaxing. I take walks. I go out for groceries. Sometimes I open up a can of bean soup and cook it for my sister who has a cold at the moment. And its true that my legs have felt like jello for over a week, and it takes me a long time to get around. Yet, I was much more fulfilled in Italy when I didn't go out of the monastery for weeks; maybe it was being around people all the time. I think this "resting" has been good in a way, but its also made me best friends with my computer. Which is not optimal.

So I did something productive today: I helped my mom pack Christmas presents for our relatives. It was really fun! We listened to Christmas music and bagged nuts, then taped up the boxes and addressed them. I felt like I was part of something bigger, which hasn't happened in a while. I can't help missing Italy, especially with the last week where everyone came together and put on the most amazing Christmas concert. But I've decided that home shouldn't be a place of mourning for that, but a place of respite where I can do all of those little tasks that always build up when you have no time to spare.

Next up: writing some awesome letters.

Italy Post #26

Dear Readers,
I've been avoiding you. Not because you smell, or make bad comments or anything like that. No, readers, something much worse than that has caused me to evade and stutter and close the computer before writing you.

I'm going home early.

Next week, to be particular. And I'm sure you can guess the reason why: I'm still not feeling great. The nerve pain has been reduced to a dull ache; whether that's the medicine or the disease dying down is anyone's guess. But I'm still afraid of doing more damage to my nerves. Italian doctors are an option, but not an option at the same time. Yes I could find a doctor, but the problems that come along with finding the right doctor, namely a neurologist, then getting over the language barrier, then being re-diagnosed and getting an Italian prescription. Basically, its not worth it. Then I always have the option of staying and risking more damage. But that's not worth it, not in my mind. I'm not great at listening to my body, but I know when too much is too much. And the risk of staying outweighs the benefits of a chilly month in Italy taking a class I don't really need.

And readers, I'm sad to leave. But, at the same time, I feel like I got a good dose of Italy: 3 months. I know the language now, at least enough to get around. I can walk safely on cobblestones. I know the best cappuccino in town. And that's all I really wanted. I get the Italian credit out of it I needed. And I get a nice long break in which to see doctors, rest, and re-orient myself to American life. And maybe lose a few pasta-pounds. Plus, EVERONE is in the choir now!!! We're having our performance next week, which is going to be awesome!

But the thing that reassures me is that I'm at peace about the decision. And that's really all that matters.

So if you live in Oakdale, give me a call; I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to hang out. Maybe write me a letter. Lets keep in touch.

Italy Post #25

Dear Readers,
I walked around outside again today! It was glorious!!! Italian weather is so strange; it has been completely rainy and cold outside this whole week, but today and yesterday were like glimpses of paradise. And finally being able to move without large amounts of pain was an added bonus. Today was my search for the perfect pen. Italians have a lot of quirks, and selling very particular things is one of them. They really like stationary and pens, complete with leather-bound notebooks and hand-made paper. Its big business. And I wanted in on some of it today, so I went out before lunch to search out the perfect pen. After a few stops, plus a run to the grocery store, I ended up with cookies and pasta but no pen! So I waited again for the shops to open after riposso (the "nap time" of Italy, usually from 1-4), stopped at Montanucci's for a cappuccino and some Dante, then went out again in search. Success! I found a little store on the corso that wasn't too pricey, and now I am the proud owner of a calligraphic fountain pen. Which I'm hoping will feed my letter-writing obsession. Heh heh.

Italy Post #24

Dear Readers,
I have an obsession here. And no, its not gelato (although that comes in a close second....) Its mail. Receiving mail, sending mail, decorating my letters, picking up bits of Italian paper and writing letters on them. And readers, I haven't gotten anything in the mail for a WEEK! While this seems like a travesty to the rest of my.....monastery-mates (?).....since I seem to get the most mail out of anyone. And I know that I do get a lot of mail; but here's the thing - I love writing, its a way for me to express myself through words. But writing also allows me to reassess myself, to take a good look about how I really feel. Sometimes I discover myself in writing. And I think the fact that I've been cooped up for almost a whole week with nothing but my bed as company hasn't helped this desire for some distant communication.

But readers! I have exciting news as well!!! I went outside today! For the past week, I've been living as a cloistered nun, with only the window as a connection to the outside world since there was no mail for me! Yes, the air was even sweeter outside than I had remembered. And the gelato tasted delicious! Italians really like to celebrate the seasons and come out with tons of seasonal treats to try to help you pass the cold of winter. Vendors roast chestnuts in the streets. The supermarkets are stacked from floor to ceiling with seasonal cakes (which are delicious, they taste like light sugary butter). Orvieto is strung with Christmas lights all over the place, between the alleys and buildings. Even the gelato has new flavors - my favorite so far: marron glaces (chestnut). Its a very festive town, even though there is no Christmas music yet, although that should be remedied with the choir! yay! I love Christmas! And walking outside!!! Double bonus!!!!!!

Italy Post #23

Dear Readers,
I want to be honest in this post. Completely honest. There are things that don't come easily to me: triathalons, handstands, giving good advice. But there are other things that I have complete control of that sometimes I just don't want to admit to myself. Its not a power thing; I don't think that admitting I am in incredible pain right now is making me doubt my own abilities. Just sometimes I feel like I whine a lot. And I don't want to be a whiner.

But readers, I'm in pain. My dad says its an inflamed nerve in my left shoulder. It comes and goes. A lot of times it makes it hard to walk, and the pain doesn't reside until I lay down. So I haven't been out of the monastery in days; I haven't played piano this week; I don't go to lunch or dinner any more. I'm confined to my room and the sala, with an occasional trip to the library for class. Its miserable, and yet its a good reality check. I may not have been taking care of my body in the best ways this semester, and now I'm suffering the consequences. And I have to get better. And there is hope of that too; I'm already able to walk all the way down to the first floor without doubling over in pain.

I wanted to let you all know so you could pray. And maybe write (I've had a craving to write letters like no other now that I'm mired to my room), and maybe even send a box of junior mints if you're so inclined. I'll be in touch.

Italy Post #22

Dear Readers,
I have exciting news!!! I've started a Christmas choir! Yes, I know, its so daring of me to take on this risky enterprise, but I'm willing to sacrifice countless hours of shuffling sheet music, the comfort of my comforter to sit instead in the cold by the piano plunking out notes, and maybe even my voice for this group of people who have pledged the same things to me. Its actually been one of the best experiences here so far, dear readers. I find myself singing Christmas songs to see if they would fit into the program, dreaming about the organization of the songs, spending extra time in the chapel to go over melodies and harmonies. Plus I feel like the choir is giving me the sense of community that I have been missing here for so long; so many people are excited about it, and while I don't have 100% participation, the people involved are 100% dedicated to making the choir as good as possible! Its just a good feeling to be surrounded by friends who love the same things you do, and respect you for the effort you're putting in.

I know I talked a lot about fall in my last post, and I still miss it, but I'm also starting to see the beauty of fall here. Its colder for sure, which is not a requirement to an amazing fall, but I'm starting to find a joy in the routine here. I think this feeling might come from this past weekend when my friend Kelsey came and visited. She's on Europe semester and came down here for the 4-day, so we got to have some good quality time together. I think I was getting mired in my loneliness here, which is weird because I'm not alone. Actually, I'm never alone! But I have felt isolated in the community for a while; she reminded me of the touchiness of social dynamics, the way things can take a while to click.

And that was what I needed. For, dear readers, things HAVE started to click and its great! I still don't feel like this is as comfortable as home, but there is a sense in which I have become more of a part of the group. And I think one of the best answers to this mystery is singing!

Italy Post #21

Dear Readers,
Most of you know that my sister is home right now. If not, she's home right now. Anyway, there is a sense in which I'm jealous of her. Or maybe just envious. I miss home; not even Westmont, but actually Oakdale. The way the leaves would change colors all the way down the driveway, the bite that is in the air if you get up early enough to catch it, the comfort of sitting on the couch with a hot cup of tea and a good book. Fall is definitely here, but its not a comforting fall. It creeps in through the walls and floors and staying your bones. I'm even cold right now. But its not even just the cold; its the feeling of fall. I can't help missing it: fall is my favorite season. Pumpkins! Pumpkin pie, pumpkin seeds, pumpkin muffins. They don't have pumpkins here. There is also a missing sense of rejoicing, that feeling that keeps you going until Christmas. The feeling that rejoices in the coolness of the days. Here everyone just bundles up and keeps their head down, as if they want to live in summer forever.

But what am I saying, dear readers? I live in Santa Barbara! I don't like the cold! But there is a part of me that misses being home in this moment. And maybe its the fact that I miss the people there as well, the comfort of being around people who know you intimately and care for you even more. Letter writing has kept that feeling alive in me, but the quick comfort of crying on the shoulder of someone who loves you is absent here. But what can I do? Eat my fill of roasted chestnuts (they're really into that here) in some wind-sheltered alley among the cold stones? NO! I choose to live vicariously through the visits of friends and family: Kelsey for sure on Sunday (yay!!!) and then maybe KiKi and Julie on Thursday! While I know its not quite home, the presence of people from California will hopefully give me a new perspective.

People from the program has described this feeling as the end of the "honeymoon" stage of Orvieto living. I know this town pretty well, and its not quite as romantic as I first thought it. Yes, its still just as beautiful and I could sit and stare at the duomo forever! But, in the same way, there are things I just don't like about Italian culture. They don't have sidewalks. People never smile at you; actually, they talk about you freely behind your back. Everything is more expensive, except cookies. I'm so glad I came here and was able to spend time getting to know another culture, but in some ways that has made me appreciate America so much more. I still will always hate strip malls and chain stores. But if I could trade my cappuccino maker for a chai tea latte from Coffee Bean in this very moment, I would probably do it.

But watch: when I get back from Italy, I'll be dying for some good pasta and olive oil and won't be able to keep to the sidewalks. I'm expecting it. And I guess that is why I'm still carrying on here and making the best of my time: its growing ever thinner as the weeks and months pass.

Italy Post #20

Dear Readers,
We've reached number 20!!! How exciting! Well, dear readers, its that time again. The time when the clock starts to move faster, the rain seems to fall a little harder, the colors on the chrysanthemums don't look quite as bright. That's right, its finals week. I have: 1 poem due tomorrow, 5 revisions due Thursday, and a banquet to follow it all. But don't feel sorry for me; think of the poor drawing students who have to work outside in the freezing cold, drawing straight lines with wobbly fingers. heh heh

Its been a pretty uneventful week though, sorry to say. Oh, although there has been one bright spot: I'm going to Ireland!!! yessss! I'm so excited! Even just today I read some Eavan Boland and my heart fluttered with joy at the thought of being in the green fields and blue skies of the island. Now, just to get through the next week.

In other news (sorry, this is a bunch of random thoughts): I'm going to Padua this weekend! The past few weeks have been a bunch of disappointments: first mom and Kiki couldn't make it out, then Bailey cancelled on me (both for good reasons, but still...). I didn't have any plans for this weekend, but then suddenly my whole weekend was made free so I was kinda left in the lurch. But the drawing students are so wrapped up with work that they didn't make plans either, so I'm either making just a day trip there, or I'm going on Friday to Padua and then to Cortona on Sunday. There is apparently a great chocolate festival in Padua and I have a friend in Cortona.

So, my friends, do not fret: my spirits have been lifted. Sort of.

Italy Post #19

Dear Readers,
I want to talk about the weather. Not because I don't have anything else to say, but because I'm finding that Italian weather is very different. First of all, Orvieto is built on a mesa. While this is the coolest thing EVER, it also creates strange effects with the weather. Because the landscape changes so drastically, Orvieto gets rained on a lot. The rain also seems to have a mind of its own, waiting until you're about half way from the convent to the corso to downpour. Another strange thing about this place is that the weather has suddenly dropped. In a bad way. Tuesday I was walking in the sun in a t-shirt and jeans; Wednesday I was wearing my pea-coat and scarf like they were an extra skin. Seriously, I've never seen the weather decide to change so drastically, but maybe that comes from living in Santa Barbara.

Well, everyone in the poetry class was fearing going to Rome yesterday because the trip spanned the whole day: 6:15am departure, 8:30pm arrival back. I opted to dress lightly, and froze until I got on the train at 7 but after that the weather was beautiful. It was probably in the low 60s, sunny and brisk, perfect for a fast walk around Rome. Some highlights from the trip include seeing Raphael's School of Athens/the Disputa, the Laocoon, and the Sistene chapel, but my favorite was 3 paintings by Caravaggio (the calling/inspiration/death of St. Matthew). The chiaroscuro technique that Caravaggio used is breathtaking! I came away from Rome with this desire to see more, so I might be making a trip back to wander around and see more of the city....we'll have to see :0)

Newest poem - you should look up the painting to go along with this one, the assignment was to write an ekphrastic poem about a contemporary piece of art; the title is the work of art I chose.

Up in the Studio, 1965 Andrew Wyeth

She sits quietly, back straight, hands resting
on top of her knees - knees that have often bent
to kneel at the dim altar in the church downtown
onto the slick velvet carpet, or to help carry

her groaning father across the splintered wood
to a bed braced with pillows. She catches rest now,
bathed in the thin light struggling through her favorite
window. She can hear the whistling of wind around barren

trees; it is always like this in winter. She has watched
this floor become the color of the many shoe soles
that have walked upon it. You would think she likes
that color - her jacket is the same trampled brown -

but in reality it is a deep green, the color of the winter
weight of pine and mistletoe. It is what she looks on now,
her one break in the day between cooking and cleaning
a house that isn’t hers for a father too decrepit to hire

a maid or nurse or even supply an artist’s easel -
for that is what she really wants to do - paint -
paint herself a room with walls the color of lemon
curd, where light reaches its warm fingers into every

corner and children’s bubbly laughter is audible
from the open windows hung with white lace. Winter
would remain only in the trees scattered outside
the window. I want to be in that picture too.

Instead she is here, uncomfortable in a Quaker
chair inherited from a generation that wanted
to punished themselves with the harsh white light
reflecting off the snow drifts, resting in the only

part of the day where the forest outside becomes
a living painting for her to watch as the seasons
erase then redraw the leaves on the trees and the only
sounds she has to hear are the whoosh of the wind

outside her window and the gentle squeak of the rocking
chair as she slowly pats the floor with her worn feet.

Italy Post #18

Dear Readers,
Its that time for another update I think. Although I love providing snapshots of daily life, the little things that I find fascinating or the things that interest me, sometimes the dryness of a play-by-play is good just for orientation. And I want to keep you oriented readers.

Life here has been pretty regular, which is not a bad thing. I have a schedule for each day, usually starting out at around 7 with a cappuccino and a good read or some singing in the chapel (have I mentioned that the acoustics here are AMAZING?!). Class goes pretty much the same way every day, split equally between a discussion of the reading (which I excel in) and a critique of the poetry (which I fail in). I find it much easier to discuss the reading, probably because literature classes have been my main focus up until this semester. Its so hard to have my poetry critiqued, to have people tear apart this work that I've spent so much time on. I've gotten a little more used to it, but it still is hard. Lunch is next, which has been going pretty good; they serve amazing pasta, usually followed by some sort of meat and veggie course. Not bad, right? This is where the variations come in: after lunch, each day includes different activities, which are sometimes mandatory (eg. Italian class). It just fills up my day, but not in a bad way. By the time dinner is ready, I've made a good use of my time, writing and reading in the breaks in my day, usually with a warm glass of tea by my side. Its quite enjoyable.

Florence was AMAZING! I couldn't believe how daring I was: getting on a train for the first time by myself, venturing off into a foreign city alone with some sketch plans to hopefully meet up with Jenny. But it all worked out in the end, we met up and ducked into a cafe for some lunch since it was raining and got to catch up with each other. All in all it was a great time, plus I got to get a TON of christmas presents for people :0) And the best part was that I walked into dinner late that night back in Orvieto; everyone was sitting down already and saw me walk in and they were so happy to see me! I just felt so welcomed, it was great! Then we all went back to the monastery and played 3 games of Werewolf (like Mafia, but horribly inferior). Fun fun fun!

Italy Post #17

Dear Readers,
As of this afternoon, I booked my train ticket to Florence! Yay! This will be the first time I'll have travelled all alone in Italy; yay? I'm pretty scared, especially since I don't speak much Italian, but the train goes directly. Also I will be traveling part of the way with two of the students who speak lots of Italian and fluent Spanish who are going to Pisa.

Things to do in Florence:
-Visit Jenny!
-look for Christmas presents, especially a cameo for JuJuFruit
-buy lots and lots of scarves
-gaze at the Arno
-visit the Boboli Gardens

Newest poem:

Beneath arches of tufa

When I recall those days of August heat,
the blind light of summer streaking through
beams of brick and stone around the patio
where I played with mud and sticks as a child,

the problem of pain and understanding sinks
beneath my realm of comprehension, losing
itself in the days and weeks and months
where walking became a tear-stained memory

and nights were tormented by muscles like scissors
tearing up my back. I didn’t want
home to be the place to rest, but there
I found myself, wrapped in the old worn

blankets of my childhood while
my mom poured her love like olive oil,
thick and rich, upon the scars and wounds
that had built up like a crust over years.

Rest never came to me there, where
love grew in the shadow of daily
life, and time was clogged with stress and school.
Bible studies were the only place

where we met in love. I could use it now.
The mother of my savior meets my gaze,
flocked by angels and saints of ages past.
I couldn’t reach out to her in moments

of pain or trial. No, that is not
my Mary. The Mary I like to think of
rests beneath faded arches of tufa,
tucked away in an old church where

the altar, clothed in light and lace, takes
the place of honor. A veil of cobwebs graces
her weathered head, which doesn’t bend
to peer at you; no, she is focused

on her son, broken and bent at
her knee, his arm extended across her lap
like a rod. There they sit, forever
silent amid the musty pews and dwindling

parishoners who come each week to cast
their worries and burdens and hurt aside at
the feet of their savior who accepted the pain
and suffering and understanding of humanity

to show the compassion of a loving God,
a God who chose a single mother to bear
the good news of a child who would one
day grow to be the man who needs her balm

of love spread across his scarred back,
for her to hold him and support him even
when the nails are driven into a plan
that takes the pain and comprehension of

a good God to understand.

Italy Post #16

Dear Readers,
What I've learned in Italy:

-Rain comes unexpectedly here, often in big drops.
-Stink bugs are abundant.
-Walking along the road is a guarantee for danger.
-Cappuccino's are a necessity to life. In general.
-The duomo provides endless inspiration.
-A small felt topcover is not enough to keep you warm at night.
-Not slipping on wet tile is an art form.
-Rusty old pianos sound better over time.
-Acoustics in a monastery can't be beat.
-Small children who love green and pirates are lots of fun!
-Taking shots isn't so bad.
-Hymns are the greatest thing EVER!
-The chocolate cake from Montanucci's is to die for!
-Cobblestones and wedges do not mix.
-A tiny kitchen is a recipe for disaster.
-The law of entropy double and triples when there are two or more people around.
-Cafe Barrique has the best view and the most comfortable seats.
-Almost everywhere is accessible by train.
-Orvieto Classico is the best white wine. And the cheapest.
-Almost everything here is more expensive. Except, oddly, cookies.
-Cookies here are delicious and often eaten for breakfast.
-Scarves are a must for every woman's closet.
-Every street eventually leads to the duomo.
-The Catholic mass is more beautiful in Italian.
-Puzzles make my life worth living for sometimes.
-The best thing they serve at Locanda del Lupo is pasta. And lasagna.
-Italians don't dip their bread in olive oil.
-Having the hope of visitors from home can pull you through a terrible week.
-Getting mail has never been so precious.
-The placemats at Locanda make excellent paper for letter-writing.
-Men are sketchy. Especially the old men.
-Poems can be difficult.
-There is such a thing as a Charismatic Catholic.
-Cobblestones are slippery when wet.

Italy Post #15

Dear Readers,
I want your honest opinion: do you like reading my poetry? Since taking this poetry class, I've had to write a lot of poems, some I liked and some I wanted to ground up in the garbage disposal. I like to post my best ones for advice or comments, both positive and negative. But no one seems to comment. I've constructed 2 possible answers for this situation: 1. No one actually reads my blog and just follows it to seem like they are good friends/family. 2. Everyone is shy of commenting. But, here's the thing readers: I LOVE comments! When I see that 3 people have commented on my blog, I get this warm bubbly feeling inside, like my heart is growing in size just a little. Its so exciting to hear what you guys have to say, plus it makes this blog into more of a conversation than a monologue.

So, let me know what you think of my poetry, whether you'd like to see more or less. Or what I should write about if not the world around me as I see it. Its yours to comment on.

Newest Poem (a sonnet):

The Annunciation

It must have filled her with terror to see
him towering there, white wings spread against
the star-clothed sky. She did not ask or even need
a sanction of divine favor, the recompense
for a plan nailed into place long before
her eyes had first fluttered. The situation -
a name ingrained in her flesh - whore,
adulteress. Angels waiting in trepidation
did not know what they asked. Gabriel paced
the shimmering air; time came in bated breaths
from her quaking lungs. Finally a word braced
the night with slender sound, a quiet “yes”
following cracks of thunder - he was gone
leaving her to decide if she chose wrong.

Italy Post #14

Dear Readers,
I've become addicted to writing villanelles. A villanelle is a very frustrating formal form of writing that actually originated in Italy (explanation for my obsession perhaps?) that doesn't really allow the poet to go anywhere. The movement of the poem is repeatedly stopped by the form of the poem itself - a turning in. The first and last lines of the first stanza are repeated numerous times throughout the poem, making it difficult for a progression of thought. One of my classmates described them as "utterly worthless". Yet, villanelles can be quite endearing, which is why I'm attracted to them; with modern poetry pushing its boundaries, the villanelle has been given a little room to grow. I'm also quite inspired by Elizabeth Bishop's "One Art" (look it up if you don't know it!), which is a villanelle that has such passion and poignance in it that I felt inspired to write not one villanelle, but two. Tell me what you think of this one; I may be submitting the first one for our next assignment, which is to write in a classical form.

The Annunciation
Had you refused that fateful night
said No, that is not to my liking and gone
to sleep, would the world still be under the plight

of generations living and breathing with no light
nor hope in their lives, barren of promise
had you refused that fateful night?

Could it have been at the fright
of golden Gabriel that you refused
to submit, the world still under the plight

of Adam’s curse, the world made right
only with a sacrifice on your part, unless
you had refused that fateful night,

gone against a God who just might
have nailed your future into his plan
to save the world with his son’s own plight?

And could you resist the glorious sight
of a future wrapped in tinsel and misteltoe -
No, you couldn’t refuse that fateful night
to show a world about hardship and plight.

Italy Post #13

Dear Readers,
I have one word for you - VENDEMIA! No, its not something violent or even remotely painful. Unless you get stung by a bee. A vendemia is the Italian grape harvest, where for one day people get together and go out into the vines to cut off the grapes to make wine. Its a festival in a sense, but more people take it as a great tradition that celebrates the end of a good year.

So, Saturday we woke up very early for a Saturday and took the train out to a little area called Volpara (or "little fox"). Albert and Inga (our lovely, very Dutch wine-makers) met us at the train station and wisked us off to their vineyard. Actually, only 5 of us got to ride in the car (me included because of my legs), but the walk for the rest wasn't very far. The vineyard was situated on the peak of a small hill that looked on to the valley; Inga's erratic driving took us up the hill with a few jolts and a lot of swearing, which I thought was hilarious. But finally we reached the top, which gave a glorious view of the valley. Their house reminded me of a fairytale cottage, it was small and compact. Very cute. They took some time to tell us what grapes to pick, how to cut the stems, and encouraged us to have as many grapes as we wanted. I definitely took that idea to the max, eating all of the grapes I wanted but I ended up getting soooo sick of them! Each bunch that didn't look perfect or that was smaller than the rest needed to be taste-tested to see if the grapes were sour; I tested almost each bunch that I picked. That adds up to a lot of grapes! These grapes were also smaller and more concentrated in flavor and most had 3 or 4 seeds in them.

Not the best for eating.

All in all though, it was a wonderful day filled with eating, laughter, grapes and seeds, and bees. Lots of bees. Plus the satisfaction of having picked hundreds of grapes off of a vine that would eventually go into a high-quality wine that people would eventually drink. How cool is that?!

Italy Post #12

Dear Readers,
I really do like to write poetry. If you follow my blog in any way shape or form you should know this. But really readers, I do. I love the way words can wrap themselves around images, the delicate tendrils of sound and rhythm. I've never taken a poetry class. Before this semester (cue evil laugh). Yes, I'm hoping for a lot of things this semester, but one main goal is to completely get outside of myself and write poetry that I would have never thought of writing. Example one - the poem I wrote today. While I didn't quite take myself out of the poem, I never thought I would be cool enough to write a monologue, and while it may not be the best monologue EVER, it is a monologue. With meaning.

So, let me know what you think! Its due tomorrow, so feedback will probably be a little past the fact, but I'd still love to hear your thoughts/comments/critiques. I also should tell you all that the context for this poem is a little strange: we are supposed to take a figure in a painting or decoration from the monastery and write from their perspective. There are these weird little faces that decorate the cupola on the second floor and I've always found myself looking at them. So I decided to write from one of their perspectives.


On Stopping Underneath the Cupola

Would you place, dear girl, take me
from this chilly white wall where I have rested
so long in a frozen smile, the last
thought of an artist whose hair was greasy
and hands were careless as he moulded
the everlasting features that I have stared
down through the centuries with while
nuns with downcast eyes never cared to
grace me and look up, and new students
have done nothing but shun me.

Take me out into the garden,
rich with a painting of purple and
green. . . .

NO! Do not remind me of what I am
missing, flesh-colored stone grown to
life, dark stones beneath my feet, yellow
walls sprayed with bouganvelia and tormented
by bees. Do not talk of these things.

Does the sun still shine as bright as it did
back then, when golden light pierced the sky
with intent. . . .

Why does no one look? Does no one see
my cold features, staring from up above with
disdain, stuck inside the ninth level of Hell
with the betrayers. What was my sin, sickening
girl, with breezy curls and wide blinking eyes?
Tell me!

Wait, do not go at the beckon of those living, breathing
bodies you call friends! They will all leave you, just
as I have been cast aside into the dim light
of a dingy cupola to forever stare into the patterns
of the red tiles and count the dust particles that fly
like eagles in front of my stone cold
eyes.

Italy Post #11

Dear Readers,
I apologize for the length of time which I will term my "absence". Yes, yes, I know the story, you waited by your computer every night this past week in anticipation only to be let down, yet again, by my lack of communication. Believe me, I would have rather been on my computer, pouring my heart out in electronic text to you all than studying for finals. But alas, this was my fate.

Yes, it was finals week last week. I can say that cheerfully at the moment because it is over and done with, but at the time I felt like I was slowly traveling through Dante's Inferno. Let me just rant a bit: Weds was a memorization test (80 slides with name, date, artist, location, and medium), Thurs was a group project (we got the worst one - Renaissance Humanism, which is wayyyy too broad to cover anything), and Fri was the individual paper (mine was on Fra Angelico). Blah. It was horrible.

Yet, as I was strolling the streets of Orvieto this morning without the weight of homework strapped to my back, I felt the joy of taking one class at a time. Yes, there is a period of crunch time once a month; but this is balanced with the fact that there is only one subject to focus on. Its quite comforting. And I get a great period of rest in between. For instance, I woke up this morning at 9:30, leisurely made my way around the market at 10:30, and sat at a cafe reading Dante until 12:45. It was fabulous. I can do whatever I want for the next day and a half because I have no homework clouding my fun.

Its great. Buonissimo! And the next break I have to look forward to is only in a month, and hopefully will be filled with people that I love who made plans to come visit me in this little walled city on a cliff. In conclusion - this is great!

Remembrance

About what we don’t learn - this is life,
the worn slacks that belonged to you, packed
away between crates of pantyhose and Christmas
decorations; I didn’t realize their impact

until you showed me the importance of
remembrance. Oma - the name I repeated
as a child, the trips to Delaware with air you could
slice with a knife and hanging gardens of succulent

life ready to be plucked; this is what I remember.
Those old photographs - can’t you see them -
dusty, yellowed moth’s wings screened with an ink
from the past and the bleary eyes that stared back

from them. That was a time apart from mine,
calloused with the scraping of pennies against
palms. You must have worried back then.
I worry too. The fingers of time push hard against

my back, propelling me into a cobwebbed future.
How do I chisel a life for myself out of a block
of stone? Michaelangelo had a vision; all I see
is a white marble slab before me, with nothing but a few

veins of promise running though its rough surface.
To give breath to Pygmalion. To return to the past.
This is our task - to share the remembrance of
worries, the way breathing begins to hang like ivy in

the blue night. The chrysanthemums bend to
listen. And suddenly, a clear shot in the darkness,
icy fresh as the past overwhelms me once more in the
soft leather couches, holding rusty picture albums as

your weathered hands sift through the moth wings you
call photos and the presence of home slaps me in
the face with the realization that
remembrance is my heritage.

And you are with me.

Italy Post #10

Dear Readers,
I'm supposed to be in Florence right now. Probably sitting by myself in some cafe somewhere a few steps from the river Arno, sipping on a sugary cappuccino and sketching in my moleskin.

But I'm not. I'm in Orvieto. As always.

It was the great debate last night as to whether I would go or not. I've been feeling under the weather (and apparently the elements have decided to make that a reality - its been raining for the past 3 days). Not sick; no stuffy nose, no sore throat, not even a small cough or two. My MS has been acting up, making my feel numb and my legs heavy, and that's something I can't cure with a couple of ibuprofens and a hot glass of tea. Unfortunately.

So this morning I woke up after 6 hours of sleep, ate breakfast, packed my bags with every intention of getting on the train with everyone else; I almost made it too, if only Christine (our wonderful RA) hadn't caught me taking the elevator down instead of walking the steps. She questioned me as to why, and when I explained that I didn't feel safe because my feet are numb and I have balance issues, she expressed her concerns with me walking in Florence. I have to admit though, I completely agree with her. MS is always a guessing game - how much should I do, how far can I walk, will this hurt me in the long run? I don't want to miss out on the rushing waters of the Arno (and the Orsanmichele, monastery San Marco, the David, Boboli Gardens, etc.....you get the picture) but I also don't want to end up hurting myself more. Its such a delicate balance that I'm still trying to figure out.

But, as to not add to the seeming dire-ness of this situation, I AM in Orvieto, sitting here at a cafe in the twilight, sipping on my creamy cappuccino while sketching the cobblestone streets and the ancient buildings that surround me. Its wonderful! I could stay in this town forever, but I always think I would feel like a tourist. The people know each other here better than any community I've ever seen. Even the few Italian friends that I've made here (the nuns, Alessandro - our Italian teacher) I can find out and about, always ready to stop for a kiss hello and a few Italian pleasantries. It's so intimate.

(LEXY ALARI: Don't read this!!! I wrote you a letter all about it!) Finally, before my internet time runs out, Story of the Week: last night I decided to take the scenic route back from dinner, which takes a loop up the corso (main street) and around to the duomo, then turns back toward the Monastery San Paolo. I was sitting, staring at the duomo as usual, when the front doors, which must be around 30 ft. tall, opened! I couldn't believe it! So, being the curious pumpkin that I am, I walked inside. Turns out there was a free concert that night that I'd stumbled on to. It wasn't very good, but I was just so excited to participate in something unusual for me, but completely usual for the people of Orvieto. I guess it was the kind of great community-building experience that I was in need of, to remind me of the differences between here and home. And make me grateful for being here, even if I'm not in Florence.

Italy Post #9

Dear Readers,
Yes, this is the 2 week anniversary of my journey to Orvieto. Exciting, no? Well, to celebrate, I'd thought I'd let you all in on a little bit of normal Orvieto life just to get a feel for the program. The directors and many of the teachers advocate a pseudo Catholic/monastic life here. No, they don't cloister us (I know that's what you were thinking) but they do encourage us to spend more time than usual in contemplation, in church, in regular daily activities that constitute a very steady life. A monastic life. Sort of.

So, here's the basic schedule of events in the day of a pseudo-Catholic/monastic student:
7:30 - Anna wakes me up
8:15 - Optional prayer and praise in the chapel
9:00-noon - Class, right now a Renaissance art history course which is turning me steadily more Catholic
12:45 - Lunch at Locanda del Lupo
2:00-8:00 - Free time; exception: Weds. Italian class from 2:15-whenever Alessandro stops talking

All of this time is peppered with breaks and the occasional cappuccino (which I can make now!!!). The people on the program are all pretty motivated, and its a nice change to have a whole environment dedicated to a steady stream of events. I'm also beginning to learn the quirks of this place. For example, the best gelato in town can be found in the piazza of the Duomo and the park right down the street has a secret fig tree where you can go when you're hungry. I know there's lots more to discover and learn about this place, but for now I'm taking my time to do it. One of my favorite things to do so far is to go to the refectory and play the old, beaten down piano in there (seriously, the thing is SO out of tune); its not the greatest sounding thing in the world, but the acoustics are amazing and the whole fact that I'm in a monastery singing in a great room just makes the whole thing that much better.

Well, that's all for now. Classes are going moderately well, we only have one more week after this of the Renaissance class. The homework load is a lot though for something I don't care that much about; it's a great subject and its great to learn, but there is a part of me that just wants to save my energy for the poetry class......

One more thing: I'm so sorry about this, but I don't think the picture posts are going to be happening. The internet is sketchy as it is right now, and I don't think that an hour would be enough time to upload a few photos. You'll all just have to come visit me once I get home and I can tell you ALL about them!!!

Love!

Italy Post #8

Dear Readers,
Today has been the first restful day since I left my couch in Oakdale. It seems like every day has been loaded with something new and exciting, which in reality means that it has been entirely draining. And wonderful. But that’s beside the point.

Don’t get me wrong - I’m absolutely loving it here; I know this semester is exactly what I need, to figure things out, to get back to a good place in my life in general, to think. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But at the same time, I’m exhausted. I’m adjusting to a new way of life, new food, new friends, new routines and schedules, and an art history class that seems way too hefty to fit into 3 weeks. All of that on top of a schedule which looks like its had one to many plateful of pasta the way its spilling over its belt. The one thing consoling me at this point is that Matt, Christine (the RA) and Dr. Skillen are super-attentive. In a good way. They meet with me frequently about my symptoms, exhort me to tell them in what ways they could help and if I’m having any more problems. Dr. Skillen has even given me permission to miss a few classes if I’m having too many problems. The care they show me is something I’ve never experienced. They’ve also encouraged me to share my disease with all of the students at the meetings we have daily; I’ll be the first to share (we all have to do it). While the community here sometimes seems too small, its going to be great to have everyone know.

I stayed up late last night; Orvieto had something like a fair called “Shopping under the stars” where all of the shops stayed open later than usual and about 30 bands were dispersed all over the city in the various piazzas. So I woke up late today; we usually don’t have class on Fridays, but the rest of the group went to the scheduled activity for the day. It was hard to say no to a trip to Siena, but I decided for the first time in a long time to listen to my body. So I slept in. Then I got up and made a HUGE cappuccino for myself. It was great! The rest of the day went much the same way, some cleaning, some laundry, a lot of resting.

I think this is going to be one of my focuses for the semester: listening to myself. I often put my own body by the wayside for my own wants, whether that’s running the extra mile or laying on the couch for one more hour. I’ve trained myself to get what I want, not what I need. And then all of that stress and fatigue builds up until my body fails, just like it did this summer when I couldn’t walk. Or sit up. So I’m going to pay attention and do something good for myself - rest.

Italy Post #7

Dear Readers,
I cried in earnest today. Not for the first time either, sadly. Its not that I don’t want to be here. Its not even that I’m homesick, although I do find myself missing Westmont. Or maybe just the community at Westmont. I’m disoriented by my place in this small group of people; I’m not the chapel band singer, the Writers’ corner tutor, or even the English major. It’s terrifying to stand on my own again, without any labels to back me up, no activities to prove my worth in this place. I’m finding it difficult not to refer to the things that I’m known for at Westmont, whether its chapel band or chamber singers; I can’t avoid these labels, but at the same time I want to distance myself from them, to be known just as Erika.

I posted earlier that I was surprised to see how close everyone was getting. I don’t regret that post, and I don’t want to make it seem untrue. I’ve made great friends here already, and I hope that in the end I will be friends with everyone here. Yet both my roommate and I have noticed that the Gordon people are starting to become a clique - they sit at the same table every meal, they include each other exclusively in their outings, they talk amongst themselves with no extra effort to include others. Its not frustrating because I’ve definitely found good friends among the people on this program, but it still gives me a lot of sadness.

Which leads directly into why I cried tonight. Its been so frustrating being here and having MS. At Westmont its not that big of a problem - if I’m having symptoms, I deal with them directly, whether that’s sleeping more, choosing my classes wisely, or even just walking a lot slower than everyone else. I can’t do that here. We all take class together at the same time, from 9-12. There are also a lot of trips involved, which usually include a rigorous amount of walking; its not quite ideal. While I’ve come to realize the drawbacks with this program, I’m also in a controlled community - there are 24 of us. Matt and Dr. Skillen want me to present my situation to the whole group (everyone has to do something like this, so its not weird); that would mean my entire community would have that knowledge of me. No more explaining, no more awkward absences - everyone would know.

But not only this medical concern has been on my mind - Dad has. I can’t help it - I worry. I worry that this trip was the wrong thing, that I’ll regret not having stayed home for the rest of my life (melodramatic yes, but still...), that I’ll be missing out on some precious time. I know life is tempermental and we have that enduring hope in the return of Jesus. But I still worry; I can’t help it. And I think that’s the thing that really hit home tonight - when I found out Dad was alright, all of those worries rushed to the surface of my mind, while before this time I had been restraining them in the interest of my own health and the trip.

So I bottled it in. I didn’t cry, I just went back to the sala and studied. Dinner came around; people gathered in groups and left for the Locanda del Lupo. I ran back to my room for a jacket and followed another Gordon student into sala to wait for any other stragglers who might still be around. After a few minutes of sitting in silence, the Gordon student got up and left for dinner without a word. And without me. I think that was when I really broke down. I realized that in this moment, in this culmination of emotion and sadness, I have no one around me who knows me, who could talk me through it and comfort me.

So what’s the rest of the story? I walked to the restaurant in tears, arrived on the brink of breaking down, and finally my friend Becky took me on a walk so I could regain composure. I ended up making it through dinner without another episode, then went to the duomo by myself and cried. And cried. Then I came back to the monastery and cried. I’m crying right now.

And I think its OK.

Italy Post #6

Dear Readers,
Its surprising how close I am to people already on this trip. Yes, there are people who came with good friends, and yes they do seem exclusive at times. Yet there is this sense of togetherness that our group has already embraced, a sense that we are all in the same situation. I feel comfortable talking with every person on this trip. Even though I gravitate to particular personalities, there is no one particularly intimidating.

We had our first chunk of free time today. There are so many things I want to do in this town that it was hard to decide on one, but I concluded that a relaxing walk to the park would fit the mood of the day the best. As I was walking out of the monastery, I came across a friend who was also going out; we decided to go to the park together. We talked for a couple hours; I couldn't think of a better way to spend an afternoon. The park was on the edge of the cliff (which really isn't very far anywhere you go here) and we sat on a bench overlooking the surrounding valleys and talked, talked about ourselves, our beliefs, our struggles, our hopes for the coming semester. I don't often feel recharged by people I don't know well, yet this long conversation gave me such an excitement about my time here in Italy. These people are my companions and my friends for the next 4 months. I think I'm starting off pretty well. :0)

Rome update: It was amazing and exciting and tiring and beautiful. The whole city is a collage between the ancient and the modern. Basically, it stunned me with its simplicity and its energy.

Italy Post #5

Dear Readers,
I’m learning each day how much there is to learn about Italy. And how much I don’t know. The past few days have been filled with long lessons about the people of Italy, the town of Orvieto, and Gordon’s place in it.

Italy is so much different than the states in both good and bad ways. People dress up (like, really dress up), they don’t have air conditioners in their homes, they eat carbs. A lot of carbs. Each day is like a new adventure into the culture of Orvieto.

I went on a walk this morning. I woke up at 5 and couldn’t get back to sleep, so at 6:30 as the sun was finally coming up over the hills, I stepped out of the iron gates of San Paolo to walk around the base of the cliffs of Orvieto. No one was out; I had the whole city to myself. As I made my descent from the cobblestone streets to the dirt path that wraps around the “tufa” stone that gives Orvieto its unique-ness, I encountered another culture in the rock and cement. Orvietans take care of the place they have been given, using modern technology to solve ancient problems. They inject cement into the soft rocks that are the base of the cliffs to make the city more stable. They chop down invasive trees to protect the view that the city provides. They create paths and walks around the city to further enrich the experience of living in Orvieto. Even the Duomo is being cleaned at the moment, a routine event that keeps the cathedral out of harm’s way. The city has found ways to work around its space issues, revering its medieval roots, yet not shunning technology.

Of course, the town isn’t perfect. And is there a possibility that I’ve romanticized it? More than a possibility, I’d say. But, I think that speaks for the time I’m having here. Each day is filled with a routine, but a routine that varies so much that it doesn’t feel old. I don’t think I could ever get used to the beauty of this place.

Off to Rome tomorrow!!!

Italy Post #4

Dear Readers,
The purpose of this blog is to record the daily realizations that I come to, the small yet necessary decisions and revelatory epiphanies that make up my life. Italy has already shown me so much in the ways I need to change and the ways in which culture can organically shape a nation. While the experience has been disorienting, it has also shown me a side of humanity that I never would have seen before. I want to write about the changes I see in myself and the world around me, to record the most intimate details of my experiences and comment on the landscape and culture in which I live.

But I realize this is also a travel blog, at least for the next 4 months. Which means if you are reading this, you want to know what I’m doing. So this post is going to be an update. Ready for this? You may want to prepare a little, get a glass of water (or vino perhaps), bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies.....

OK, here we go: The past 48 hours have been filled. Filled to the brim, maybe a little bit overflowing if you asked me. But they have been amazing hours, each one filled with something more exciting than the last. We arrived in Rome at 8:30am. That was horrible. Seriously. I had actually dozed for about 2 hours on the plane ride over which was better than nothing and much better than a lot of other people had fared. Matt (our director) was there to pick us up and insisted on keeping us up as well to help with the jet lag. So we immediately got on the bus and traveled to Orvieto, playing cards and watching the grape vines and olive orchards fly by.

My first view of the town can only be described in one word: breathtaking. Although I don’t have a picture to show you (yet), I can tell you that the town is set on top of a cliff. The whole city rises from the plain, adding to the surreal-ness of this whole experience. The duomo (cathedral) is your first sight as it dominates the city with its vertical height and the incredible size of it. We drove up to the base of the city and walked our bags the rest of the way to the monastery which was a lot of physical exertion for so much sleep deprivation. After getting partially settled, we had a series of meetings and tours around the monastery and a small walk around town to orient us. Lunch was amazing - huge salads and endless bowls of home-made bread. Dinner was just as delicious, especially because it was followed with a trip to the gelateria. I think it hit me then that I was in Italy, as we sat on the steps of the duomo and enjoyed a true Italian treat.

I woke up today rested for the first time since I was in Oakdale. It felt wonderful to enjoy myself here; I guess it felt more like I was living in this town today. We started today off with a walk around the bottom of the cliffs of Orvieto, then made our way into the town and inspected the duomo for a while. All the while Matt would stop us and talk for a while, explaining the Italian way of life and the ways in which we should be exploring and questioning ourselves and the places we have lived. This was all summed up by a very intense walk up to the top of the bell tower which is the center of Orvieto and provides a completely panoramic view of the whole countryside. It was amazing. Lunch followed, with conversation among our group centering on the importance of art and theater in life. Then another meeting, and now, internet time.

This trip has been completely amazing so far. Even though its only been 2 days, I feel at home in this small town yet terribly out of place. I don't speak Italian. I don't understand the ways of life in this place. I don't feel comfortable as an American in this foreign place. But, I'm hoping this will gradually fade as I get more used to navigating the streets, speaking the language, and interacting with the town and the people. Matt and the other directors are doing an excellent job of integrating us into the town - for example, tonight we're having a get-together with the nuns who share this building with us, and tomorrow we're having families from around town host small groups of us in their homes. I also learned today that there is a church where we're encouraged to join the choir. I feel like I'm definitely going to be fitting in here sooner than I think.

Italy Post #3

Dear Readers,
The past 24 hours has been a time of first impressions. A first impression can only carry you so far, yet in that small time span of measurement, calculation, and judgement you can make certain assumptions and predictions. The first person I met at the airport in DC was a girl from my program; her name is Jodi and I happened to bump into her. Over the next few hours, several of us accumulated into a mass of people. There were a lot of introductions, some hesitation, and certainly a willingness to get to know one another.

I mentioned in an earlier post the anxiety I felt over the strain of getting to know new people. There is a certain vulnerability in that situation. You have to put yourself out there, let people judge you on your presence (or lack of it), make sure you don’t misrepresent yourself. Little things like the way you eat your food or that small scar underneath your left eyebrow become the way in which you are perceived. It’s frightening and exhilarating at the same time.

I can’t say that I’ve had the best time so far in Orvieto, what with a 5 hour flight to DC then a 7 hour flight to Rome. I’ve been up for almost 24 hours straight right now, my eyes are slightly starting to cross and I feel like my head is filled with 5 extra pounds of weight. Meeting up with the entire group for the program was disorienting in itself, connecting with so many new people, trying to figure out their life stories, their situations, their goals for the program. My mind was stressing out just trying to figure out how the group dynamics would work. But we got ahold of ourselves as a group. Its only been 24 hours and I feel like I know this small collection of people intimately; we’ve all shared the same experience of traveling and playing cards on the bus, from hiking up the hill to the monastery with all of our luggage to the amazing salads we had for lunch. We are all united in the surreal-ness of the situation, the reality that we’re actually here walking the cobblestone streets. That might have partially come from the sleep deprivation though.

I remember telling one friend at Westmont that I didn’t think I was ready to go abroad until this year. As a senior I’m coming with more experience than most people in the group, but this experience comes with a sacrifice: one half of my last year at Westmont is taken. I can’t help wondering what it is like there at this very moment, if my friends are missing me, if chapel band and choir will be the same when I come back. I wish I could put the world on hold while I traveled. This trip is for me; its for my growth as a person academically, spiritually, but mainly socially. I don’t think I’ve ever had the confidence before to throw myself into a new situation, a strange environment where I would be uncomfortable and maybe even miserable. This trip is partially to tell myself that I can do this, I can live on my own and make new friends and experience new things all by myself.

Italy Post #2

Dear Readers,
I finally have my address! It is:

Erika Olson, Gordon College
Monastero San Paolo
Via Postierla, 20
05018 Orvieto (TR)
Italy

So here's the deal: you send me a letter and I will send you one back. There are many benefits to the situation. Not only are you sending me your love and support which I greatly appreciate, but there is also the fact that you also will receive a letter back from me (100% guarantee) which will have cool Italian postage and stamps on it which will in turn make you look and feel more awesome because someone cared enough to send you something from Italy. Sweet stellar action (this is for you Kelsey).

Please please please write me!

Italy Post #1

Dear Readers,
I never thought this time would come. I remember in February I would sit at the reference desk in the library, lonely and bored, and dream about being in the Italian countryside. I never thought I would make it to this time; my last semester at Westmont obscured any reality of the summer or even the next semester. I'm through that fog now. And I'm looking at an unfamiliar place, filled with unfamiliar people who speak an unfamiliar language. It's a bit daunting.

There is some part of me that wants to just be there at this very moment. I think its the uncertainty of this whole situation that is making me the most nervous. I don't know what to expect. I don't even know what really to bring and what to buy there (although there has been some help in that area, thanks Allyson!). I don't know what life will be like, if there will be a schedule and a routine, or if every day will be completely unpredictable. I'm hoping for the routine.

But, with only 9 days to go, I'm starting to become nervous and excited at the same time, like the two parts of my emotions are converging into this one jumpy feeling towards Italy that I hope will fade once I get there. I'll find out soon enough.

Lessons from today

I retired my old pajamas today. Burning,
trashing and recycling all came to my mind
for the disposal of this old friend, but I decided
to keep them hidden away in the back recesses
of a drawer, among all the other worn-out refugees
from my past. Maybe, I thought, some day I'll

take them out when I have learned to sew from all
of the patched knees and ripped socks of my
future, when children tangle my legs and crying
becomes my alarm clock, when soccer practice
and ballet class become my schedule and dinner
time is the one moment of the day where

I can sit and watch the future unravel before
my eyes as the high chair is replaced with
a booster seat and I time my day with the
honk of the school bus and the swimming
lessons that come right after the last bell rings.
Maybe then I will go to that obscure drawer

and pull out the old brown moth-eaten pants
and think back on the time when life didn't
rise above me like floodwaters, where toys
never were a concern and the only responsibility
I had was my own.

Inheritance

Grandpa Charlie, my mother would tell me, used the earth
as his trash can. I can see them now on those long
trips to Michigan in the power-blue '69 chevelle,

rushing past the saturated plains of golden
leaves and sky-blue lakes to a dingy
vacation trailer and a swarm of

relations. Smoke rose like incense
in that car, creating a carcinogenic fog
to accompany their entrance. I can still

see Grandma Helen sitting on the porch,
surrounded by a cloud of white exhaust.
We breathed in the same smoky haze,

the distinct perfume clinging to our
clothes with each expiration. She had the same
attitude about our world as she did back then.

But its now my world.
How could our generation not see
the signs of a burdened inheritance,

the reckless spending and waste
of the years gone by, a consumer
culture raised in terms of economics

and exchanges, not in responsibility?
How can we abandon this place, our
birthright, to become a wasteland? -to turn

our eyes from the only home we have
been given? When land is laid on the operation
table while men tear open the veins of the earth for his own

benefits, we have lost all right to an
inheritance. We have sold it to our younger
brother, for the meager price of a quick

satisfying pleasure.

The [Bucket?] List

Dear Readers,
I'm feeling old this morning. Not old in the sense that my bones creak when I stand; old in the sense that I've lost something which can't be regained. Being home is hard: I have conflicting interests here. I want to be the mature, sensible young woman that I know I am in Santa Barbara. Yet, I find sometimes that I revert to the teenager that once lived here. It haunts me sometimes; my mannerisms come back, my attitude changes and I can't get over the fact that I should have homework. Instead of my life spreading out before me, I see the walls closing in around me.

So, in lieu of this feeling, I've decided to create a list. A list of things I want to do before I die. And yes, I know that's (hopefully) a long ways off, but I also know that time stops for no one and I don't want to look back on my life one day and have one more dying wish that will remain unfulfilled. This list has a few things already covered; they've been marked by an x.

One last disclaimer: this list isn't complete. These are just the things I've wanted to do up until this very moment. Some dreams may drop off the list and others be added; some will take lots of time and might go unfulfilled.

Let's hope not though.

-Write a novel and have it published
-Sponsor a world vision child continuously
-Write a book of poetry and have it published
-Get a higher degree of education than a Bachelors
-Fall in love (this one is optional)
x Be published
-Sing in an opera (also optional, because unlikely)
-Go to an opera
-Go on a sailing trip
-Take a backpacking trip
-Go to the British museum/Llouve
-Decorate a home
x Be in a band/be recorded
-Continue to sing after I graduate
-Be completely surprised
-Visit the cathedrals of Europe
-Live in another country (Italy!)
-Learn another language
-Live all on my own
-Have a pet that's not a beta-fish
-Mentor someone
-Be mentored
-Live differently

-Not let my life pass me by

That which comes upon us in sudden moments

-the instant realization that life is
fragile, the necessity of suffering and
joy in equilibrium - this is my study.

But I cannot focus. The light bursts into
the room where I wait, anxious at the prospect
of waiting for my mom to come out of the drug-
induced coma. Nothing stirs outside the

windows lining the waiting-room, the cars
even seem sullen for their tasks. The world
gasps. And yet my memory rifles through the
years, where moments become pages in

my memory, all that time wasted which stares me
in the face like an old crippled man.
The air shutters. And yet nothing
changes. Conversations bubble over the

room where we are all kept awaiting the
fate of a moment in time. Carmina Burana
marks my time spent here, creating a
musical limbo for my eyes. I close them.

And wait.

Poetry and God

Dear Readers,
It's hard writing to poetry with any religious tint. Yes, references and allusions are acceptable and even can enrich poetry, but any poetry written directly to God seems old and out-dated, or even just simply over-played. The songs on the Christian radio stations sound all alike (although I can't make much more of an argument for pop music; they just focus on a different subject). Christian poetry isn't any different. We have the whole book of Psalms; how could you beat that? Then there's the fact that every writer of Christian poetry wants to slip into using the dozens of cliches that have developed over time. For example: "struggle", "wrestle", "joy", "peace", and "speaking to me" are all words or phrases that I have heard a thousand times. They have become meaningless sayings that people rely on to get their point across. My problem with them is that they don't convey what I'm trying to say, but they're easy to use and Christians react to them because they are similar to what everyone else says. Maybe its the fact that these words unite the whole Christian culture is why they are so popular.

One conversation about poetry that has impacted me was with the director of the Phoenix this year. I was asking her about the kind of poetry submitted; she said that a lot of it was directed as praise toward God. That surprised me, although maybe it shouldn't have. A Christian school should have tons of students writing poetry to praise God. The problem was, they were relying on the phrases and cliches that every Christian uses to explain their life, situations, and faith.

So I've decided to make my Christian poetry decidedly different. It may not be good, technically or creatively, but its an attempt to break away from the formed rhetoric of faith and to forge a new path ahead into the pagan culture that surrounds us. I don't want to forget my Christian roots, but I don't want to make them blatantly obvious. I think that my poetry is trying to be a meditation on the words that God has given us instead of a song to God, which is comforting to me since I think that faith should be based on the mind and not on emotions. Which is definitely hard for me, since I'm a feeeeeler.

Purpose

Esther 4:14

White buildings burst from my spot
on the porch, covering the city in red
roofs and winter leaves. Peace surrounded
that place, where the Bible and hot tea

met like two long-lost siblings to convince
me to believe. Does everything happen for
a reason? If we hadn't been caught in this
fin-de-cycle of broken promises between the

faith of science and the matters of man, the
assurances of people who are only guessing,
maybe I could be convinced of certainty.
But I can not be. Thread is woven and becomes

unravelled, cycles of time turn in a widening
gyre. Hearing becomes hard. The written words
age over time, voices of the past become distant,
and still we wonder if there is a purpose to

all this madness.

The Sadness of the Soul

Dear Readers,
I always take sickness as a personal affront. Yes, it is an extremely intimate experience; at the moment my white blood cells are fighting off the virus that is making me feel like crap. I've always seen sickness as a good time for me to get some (usually) much-needed rest; its a good thing that forces me to slow down and take time for myself.

Maybe that's the irony of this situation: I've done nothing but rest all month. The fact is that my ms has just absolutely wrecked my body this past month. I went home in early July because my back had a nerve right under my right shoulder blade which was giving me a dull aching pain. I couldn't balance, which resulted in me barely being able to walk. This was helped along by the fact that my legs felt like lead. I lost all coordination in my right hand. I could barely walk, barely sit up, couldn't write. I lost all function, all way in which I could live a normal life.

So maybe right now I'm just a little angry about having to sit here sick. I've been sick long enough. I just want to live.

For the Love of God

Matthew 22: 36-40

White buildings shot up from the
pavement, scraping the sky in an attempt
to challenge wind and earth with
their skeletons of steel. We walked

along the gray pavement, turning our
eyes from the Babel towers emblazoned
with the pagan designs of commercial
manufacturers. The heat rose from the

streets in waves of liquid light. She
must have been hot in those black
clothes, hair knotted in an act of
disobedience while the plastic crucifix

bounced against her chest as if it wanted
to break free. Just another street-walker,
begging for money. She told us she was
hungry, her own body odor making our stomachs

do somersaults. Those rotten teeth
made us wonder if a crunchy taco would
crack the fragile remnant of what once was
tiny white child's teeth. How did she make

it this far, begging for food or
working low-end jobs to gather a pitiful
sum to hoard and save in order to
live better than the animals which

she lives among now. A hug goodbye,
the purifying water that now can
wash me clean of her signature scent,
like so many others like her.

How could I forget the greatest
commandment, and the outpouring that
should come from a love of God which
shows us the despair of the uncleanly?

The Delicacy of Healing

Dear Readers,
My mom is a huge proponent of miraculous healing. At least once a week while I'm having symptoms (which I have been for the past month) she sends me some kind of link or offer to go and "get healed". Usually these things are at revivals involving hundreds of charismatics who get taken by the spirit and do who knows what. I'm not quite a skeptic, but I'm definitely bordering the boundary. This isn't helped by my mom's insistence on the subject; sometimes I just want to be left alone with my disease. I feel like a healing should come from someone I know and trust, not as one of the hundreds who have come blindly with a hope of getting a fresh set of eyes, or a healed back.

I know that I don't put lots of stake in dreams, but sometimes they actually speak to me. In this dream I was back at Westmont for the summer; I wasn't in school, but they were having some kind of event that I was invited to on Kerwood lawn. My dad showed up in his workout clothes to embarrass me (this isn't TOO far off either). But, I think the most important part of the dream was me: in the middle of it, I looked down and noticed that there was a small hole in the middle of my chest with a delicate sprout growing out of it. It was kinda pretty, but I had this urge to pull it out at the same time. I asked my dad about it, and he said it was a disease I had to get rid of, but I had to be careful about how I took it out because I needed to remove the whole thing.

I often feel like my MS is a lot like this little plant. It gets worse and worse inside of me, yet I need to remove it delicately; I can't have someone else rip it from me. The fear of getting more symptoms will always be with me, but I can't just let someone I don't know lay hands on me and take this disease from me. It's my cross to bear until the Lord gives me someone to remove it from me.

Dear Readers,
I hate being considered a kid. In every church/workplace/family reunion/etc. that come along, older people have a hard time relating to me. It's like they have all made this assumption that I would rather talk to no one than to them. If I'm in a place with no other young adults I'm shoved into the "young" category all by myself, stuck in a place where I have the intelligence to reply, but am never asked to.

Right now I'm on the annual Olson family reunion. The two sides of my family combined create a continuum of ages. My twin sister is the youngest on my mom's side (oldest is 28, not tooo old) and I'm the oldest on my dad's side (youngest is 3). While Julie and I have each other, we get lonely being on the outskirts of the spectrum, either too old or young to want to/actually participate in what the others are doing. I'm barely 21 and still am not considered an adult at this family reunion, left to try to construct relationships with my 15 yr old cousins.

Which is why I'm getting used to making my own fun. Like this blog for example, is one of the activities that I can perfect in my free time. It's an exciting life.

Dear Readers,
I am a bad traveler. Not only do I get super stressed out by the process of packing/getting to the airport, I don't feel like the ratio of enjoyment on the trip outweighs the costs of actually getting to the vacation. I hate the box seats in airplanes, waiting in those endless lines to just get rid of that overpacked suitcase which contains way too many shirts and shorts for only a 7 day trip. The whole process seems worthless to me, and although I realize its necessary, I can't remove this bad feeling I get whenever I'm on the shuttle approaching the airport.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to admit this hatred of traveling; I feel like I should be cool enough to see the joy in an unexpected situation. It's taken me a long time to actually realize the regularity of my life. I ate bean soup at least 5 times a week for the whole month of May; I wear the same pjs every night; I get enjoyment out of watching the same movies and shows over and over again. There is a part of me that is scared to venture out into the unknown, to step out of my comfort zone and explore the world around me. Sometimes I'd much rather stay in bed....or at least in Oakdale.

Which is precisely why I'm so frightened to go to Italy: not only is there a new routine to get used to, but a new language! But in proportion to my fear of the unknown is a desire to explore outside the boundaries I've set for myself. I have an acquaintance who was raised to work; that's all he does. He has never traveled for fun....ever. And I fear turning into him. He has a lot of the same tendencies I do, but exaggerated because of a family that hasn't pushed him to step outside his routine. That is maybe one of my biggest fears: to miss out on an opportunity that would possibly be life changing.

Italy here I come!

The Dream

Dear Readers,
I was baptized at 11 days old. I left the same church at age 18. Before I came to Westmont, I hadn't ever had to make a new church family; it was built into my life. I knew everyone, especially since church attendance barely ever topped 100 people. The parties, the fundraisers, the music, even the functioning of the church service was held up by my family, and other people in the church had their own roles. Every family was vital.

I guess that is what I have missed the most about leaving my home church (which has fallen apart since I left home, thankfully not from my departure....). There has been no place in Santa Barbara that has replicated the family aspect of St. Matthias, nor has there been any church where I felt I could help. Reality is huge; Montecito Covenant has it all together; Ocean Hills has plenty of servers. There is no place where I am needed.

I had a dream last night that got me thinking about all of this. I was in church, singing a solo when a family came in that obviously didn't belong. There was a girl who was not dressed appropriately for church, who I had the impulse to make a connection with, and I remember going with her into the courtyard and giving her a massage while she cried. I woke up feeling like I had been meant to be in that situation, to help someone who felt out of place, maybe by even just being there to rub her back. That familiarity, that sensitivity and love is something that I have missed giving and receiving from churches in a long while.

The Fall

I almost tripped and
fell
Into a life that wasn't
mine,

an era filled with
work
and endless hours of
sun.

That's not the life that I want to
live,
a place with no
hope

of returning to the past,
of returning to the present,
of carrying on to better
things.

My Future Husband

Dear Readers,
I can't wait until I have a husband (if ever). Yes, I know what you're thinking (Kelsey!): "Why are you thinking about marriage, especially when you don't even have a boyfriend". Alternately, you could have thought: "You don't need a man in your life". And I believe you are right. In every respect, especially since I don't see a man in my future. But there is also something intrinsically imprinted within me that desires someone who is so close that I can tell them anything about me and they will respect it and value it and try within their power to make everything right. And I want that, that closeness and proximity that comes with a spouse.

And yes, I know its not a fairy tale, and I know that there are times when my (insubstantial) husband will not want to listen and vice versa. But there is some part of me that wants to let a person who loves me for all my faults and lackings come into my life and listen to all of the ways in which I fall to my faults and deal with my lackings.

I guess I'll have to settle for a cat. Or a very understanding roommate.

Why awkwardness is a detriment to society

1. Awkwardness leaves no closure. You sit there and wonder what that comment could have meant, what the other person thought about that awkward silence, if you are friends or not, ect.

2. Awkwardness makes friendship hard. I could never be close with someone who is always awkward because it would stress me out a lot. There is point where awkwardness has to dissolve or the friendship won't catalyze.

3. Awkwardness leaves you in relationship nebulous. Are you friends? Are you not?

4. Awkwardness is a barrier to true conversation. It sucks it dry and leaves a bunch of long pauses in its wake.

5. Awkwardness always occurs with someone you would rather not be awkward with.

6. Awkwardness leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

7. Awkwardness is so traumatic, there are some people who resort to using useless hand signals to designate the awkward moment, thus aggravating the already awkward situation.

8. Awkwardness is why there can never be world peace.

9. Awkwardness is the reason I don't have a 4.0 gpa.

10. Awkwardness will never die. And that sucks.

Meh!

Dear Readers,
Sorry, but I just had to write about this. A guy who I want to get to know better just asked if I wanted to play volleyball later this afternoon. Poo! I can't!

Meh!

Oh well, I like to swim anyway, and I brought my suit and towel today so maybe I'll just take my time and lay out a little and read before I get into the water. That sounds good, especially after a long day of staring at a computer screen, trying to keep myself occupied....oops, phone! Got to run!

The Dilemma

Dear Readers,
I've been experiencing symptoms. Yes, I know, its horrible and I wish they would just go away, but I have to face the facts and just admit that my legs are numb and that I have a hard time just balancing when I stand, not to mention doing more athletic things like run! Meh!

I just feel so anchored down by this stupid disease. I remember being thankful when I got the diagnosis because it explained a lot of things, why I didn't feel energetic (ever) and my balance issues. But, this is getting more and more annoying. I have a huge weight on my shoulders of keeping stress down, which is totally stressing me out!

I want to go to Yosemite so badly, but I know that my desire to hike will remain unfulfilled - I'll have to sit at the campground and read. And I get paid for sitting and reading here already. I guess I just have a decision to make, but the stress of that is putting me off, so maybe I'll wait another day or two before I decide what the hell I'm going to do.

Sorry dear readers, this post was more of a rant than anything, but sometimes I just gotta let it all out.

Crystalization

My newest poem:

How can you sit there
calmly
and talk on about the red wine you
spilled on my favorite purple shirt,

or the plants you have been growing
in the faded white boxes
that I have seen you clutch to your chest
as if they were your children?

I sit here, a wreck at the sight of your
messy hair and stained t-shirt that
wouldn't even be sold at a thrift store.
We gave you a name, a code that I

say lovingly whenever I'm pretending
that I'm angry at your constant presence,
and the way you saunter back into my
life like I was put on hold for you at

the grocery store. You don't know any of it,
the sleepless nights, the haunting dreams
where you are out of my reach
and glad to be there.

So I keep it inside, like a bottled memory of
coke that fizzes when opened.
And still I sit here, a nervous wreck, and wait for you
to reappear the next day with your

white boxes and stained shirt
so we can continue the conversation of
your project, and my love for you
that I can see slipping through my

fingers as the summer nights
grow colder and the sky gradually
fades into
night.

The Never-Ending Paper

Dear Readers,
AHHHHH! I'm sure this has happened to everyone who has written a long essay - it just won't end! Unfortunately, due to a series of events beyond my control, I ended up taking an incomplete in one of my classes. While it was a God-send at the time (6 extra weeks to finish up any homework that I didn't complete in the semester), I have been plodding away at this essay, chipping away piece by piece, sentence by sentence the page limit. I have 8 pages; I need 10.

I don't think I've written a harder essay in my life. Hopefully I won't ever have to again.

Dear Readers,
This is an unusual post for me. I decided when I started this blog that I would put out each post with a purpose, and this is what I have tried to accomplish with each post. Each has a resolution, a point on which I've focused or a note of hope to end on. Which is where I've differentiated in this post: I have no point, just a bunch of feelings wadded up inside me like a discarded rag.

I focus way too much on the past. I find this much easier than focusing on the future, because the future is an uncertain gray space in my mind; the past is vivid. I find myself going over things I could have done better in the past, those moments when I should have (or shouldn't have) said something, the things I wish I could erase and rewrite in my own colorful language. Then I find myself wishing I could rewrite myself. There are moments when I want to be the shy wallflower sitting in the corner or the first one to make an impression. I wish I had more imagination, less social restrains, and a bigger sense of my own impact on those around me.

So, no, I don't have a moral for this story; but I'm finding out that life doesn't have a moral to its story. So, that's the moral for today: no moral.

Poetry

So a good friend of mine asked me about any recent poetry I have written, and this is the first poem that I have worked significantly on. At the moment I'm trying out new ways of poetry; while I emulate the poetry of Eavan Boland and Seamus Heaney, I want to see what different subjects and voices feel the best. I wrote this poem thinking about the 2 months I spent living on the Sea of Cortez on my uncle's boat. He cleverly named his boat "Odyssey", and I took this theme a bit further, especially in the last lines of the poem.

I guess you could say that this poetry is my attempt at being mysterious and ambiguous, but I really enjoyed writing the imagery in this poem (but maybe took it a little too far...?). Let me know what you think!

We Cut Through Waves of Glass

We cut through waves of glass, letting
the sprays of crystal liquid grow around the prow
like shimmering baby’s breath in the morning
light. The blue air rose from the water,

Biting our exposed skin, while the liquid velvet
underneath beckoned us into its silky

Depths. Dawn dispersed the siren’s cry
as the blushing clouds above us became
varnished in gold and the sea submitted
to the color of the sky.

The chains rattled in your hands,
groaning about their disturbance as rivers

poured down their caked sides, rumors of
lotus on their lips. We revolved around
the table, stringing coordinates and
compasses together to form a journey.

Do you remember it? The air blocked
our passage, the sea mirrored the deepest

fears of shadow, broken only by the
sound of waves across the water. You
found peace among that black liquid, a sweet
drowning in the silence; I lost you in that

instant, saw you fade away to only an echo.
The mountains tore the horizon.

The ocean swirled in circles around our
ship as we pierced through the glass to
make it home to a wife and son long
lost in the midst of all this.

[no title]

Dear Readers,
I have never written poetry before...that is, before tonight. I was hit with a moment of brilliance while I was at work tonight: I wanted to write a poem. Why? Well, my main motivation was to get it published of course! At Westmont there is an organization called "The Phoenix" that celebrates the fine arts by publishing/recording original works in the Westmont community. I thought it would be a great opportunity to see if I could get something published, so I wrote this poem for the event. Now, here is where you, my dearest readers, come into that equation: I want your feedback! So, either email me or comment on this blog how you liked the poem and if there is anything I should fix. Please keep in mind that it is due Jan. 30 (3 days away), so hurry with the feedback/suggestions/comments. PS, I also need a title.....


Fall reminds me of my home,
dead dry cracked skeletons hanging
lifeless from tree branches,
as if a sponge has gone and soaked
up all the moisture in the air.

Where I come from is hot and dry,
Barren hills of fruitless wheat
meet the eye in pure cascades.
They call it golden summer grass,
But I know better than that.

I would always wonder on
the winding roads and turns,
dodging trucks to Sacramento,
how long it takes to climb
those dehydrated hills of windblown weeds.

It didn’t seem so steep at first,
the peak barely scraping the sky.
I was confident then, my dad
more cautious of the climb.
Fractured land, taut and red,

Crumbled beneath my eager feet,
broken by gray bones, the stepping stones.
I reached the top in no time
at all, the earth below a sea
of gold. The hill swelled in

Seconds, piercing the cerulean sky.
“One foot in front of the other”
my dad would mutter: determination
made it to the top. Thorns and briars,
ticks and sticks all came home with us

That night, a membrane of memories...... (see below!)
that can’t be scrap-booked. Fall remains
in me. Dry weeds and atrophied
earth stay at home, waiting for my
return.

......(alternative ending) That night. The membrane of memories
converges and in an instance,
the golden sea swallows me whole.
Fall reminds me of my home,
the brittle leaves crackling under
my feet.

The Agony.....Or the Ecstasy?

Dear Readers,
There is nothing like a good night's sleep. Yes, it is raining outside and I am trapped in the library right now, but I'm absolutely OK with that because of one thing: rest. Which is the reason I'm writing this: I'm in a good mood at the moment.

This semester has dragged on and on for me; all two weeks of it. Really, right now I just want to be off-campus, preferably in Italy (where I am applying to for the fall semester!).

I'm closing in on my third year here at Westmont. These years have been the most productive, stretching, and enjoyable years of my life; yet, there is still a part of me that wants to get away, to experience the world outside of Montecito. I really have nothing to complain about: my semester looks great this year, I have an amazing schedule, I'm involved in countless activities around campus, and I feel like I'm still learning at an exponential rate. But, for all of this, I want to leave. Its the strangest thing knowing you should love and appreciate the place you are at, but still long for a place far away. I don't want to go home; I want to go around the world, although not quite in 80 days.

So, what can I conclude? This semester is shaping up for me nicely so far, but there is still that longing, nagging feeling that I should be across the globe. Maybe I don't have a conclusion for myself: sometimes we have to live with the uncomfortable, to bask in the ambiguity, to wade into the unknown. And that is what I hope to accomplish this semester: become comfortable with the uncomfortable.