As Christians, we have an obligation to take care of the earth. Read a poem like Robert Hass’ makes me sad to think that we have let the world come down to such a low state. At the same time, in his poem we can see how there is still beauty all around us.
One of my favorite lines from the poem says,
“What is to be done with our species? Because we know we’re going to die, to be submitted to that tingling dance of atoms once again, it’s easy for us to feel that our lives are a dream—as this is, in a way, a dream: the flailing rain, the birds, the soaked red backpack of the child, tendrils of wet hair, the windshield wipers, this voice trying to speak across the centuries between us, even the long story of the earth, Boreal forests, mangrove swamps, Tiberian wheatfields in the summer heat on hillsides south of Rome—all of it a dream, and we alive somewhere, somehow outside it, watching.”
Sitting in the park after the rain and just feeling the wind blow and the sun dry up the water reminded me very much of these lines. There was a hat that must have been forgotten by somebody and a broken bottle on side of the path right before the boardwalk. It made me think how we all leave some sort of footprint behind that is going to affect somebody else.
When it was time to do the quiet time I sat out on the end of the boardwalk. I couldn’t help but notice the earth has a sort of rhythm to it. Not to say that there is a deity commonly known as “Mother Earth” but everything still has a flow. You can see how God works just in the way the fish swim in the lake below or how the alligator sitting near the shore on the other side waits for his next meal. There is so much to be found in the beauty of the earth, and it all reflects our beautiful God.
Still?
There is a brisk wind blowing at my back
Making my hair blow into my face;
My feet dangle precariously over the rail;
This place is teeming with life
Even in the middle of this suburbia.
The wind is stilled as I catch my breath,
Looking down I admire the fish swimming below me;
Though the weather is mildly warm
I know the water below me is frigid;
Even still I would like to go for a swim.
The sun is starting to lower in the sky
And thoughts enter my mind about leaving,
But it is so hard to do when I am surrounded
With the very breath of life itself
How could anyone look around and not give praise
The wind picks up again, this time with more authority
I hop off the rail and lay on the wooden planks to look up
At first, with lids closed, I listen to the secret language
Between the water and the waves.
I smirk as I realize the affair I am witnessing.
A few mosquitoes have decided to have an early dinner
So I reluctantly stand to my feet and stretch
I realize there is never a single moment of silence
There is never a time when the world just stops
Be still and watch what you are missing
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
State of the Planet by Robert Hass
This poem is, on a shallow description, the story of a little girl who is waiting to cross a street on a rainy day. She has a book in here bag called Getting to Know Your Planet and the poem goes on to say what the book describes inside. Hass goes beyond that though and explains what should be in the book too.
It is clear throughout the poem that the author is addressing environmental issues, but it was in an unexpected format, at least for me. It doesn’t seem like he is talking to the reader, but to an outsider, a visitor to Earth; I do not mean in a weird “Area 51 alien” sort of way either. There was very much a tone of melancholy throughout the poem that is infective. Hass seems to be mourning over the treatment of the planet (which he has every right to do so) and over the ignorance of the inhabitants. We are doing things that destroy our planet and we know they do (cars), but we also have things that not everybody realizes cause harm, so it is considered accidental (refrigerators). We selfishly exploit this beautiful gift not realizing the beauty it already possesses.
I like how he adds the part in about everything seeming like a dream. It doesn’t seem like it is real, like the earth cannot be going to this sort of state. If it gets too bad surely we will wake up. Sadly this is the view of a lot of people; some of them may not even realize it. People think the things they do don’t affect them, so why should they care? This poem sends a reality check out to everyone: it is easy to just tell ourselves what we want to hear to make everything have a happy ending, but the truth is it still does not change reality; actions do have consequences.
It is clear throughout the poem that the author is addressing environmental issues, but it was in an unexpected format, at least for me. It doesn’t seem like he is talking to the reader, but to an outsider, a visitor to Earth; I do not mean in a weird “Area 51 alien” sort of way either. There was very much a tone of melancholy throughout the poem that is infective. Hass seems to be mourning over the treatment of the planet (which he has every right to do so) and over the ignorance of the inhabitants. We are doing things that destroy our planet and we know they do (cars), but we also have things that not everybody realizes cause harm, so it is considered accidental (refrigerators). We selfishly exploit this beautiful gift not realizing the beauty it already possesses.
I like how he adds the part in about everything seeming like a dream. It doesn’t seem like it is real, like the earth cannot be going to this sort of state. If it gets too bad surely we will wake up. Sadly this is the view of a lot of people; some of them may not even realize it. People think the things they do don’t affect them, so why should they care? This poem sends a reality check out to everyone: it is easy to just tell ourselves what we want to hear to make everything have a happy ending, but the truth is it still does not change reality; actions do have consequences.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
"This Blessed House" by Jhumpa Lahiri
In this story we see two people, Sanjeev and Twinkle, who seem very different. Sanjeev seems like the kind of guy who is very straightforward about doing things. He seems like he tries to play the “tough guy” sometimes, but he really is a nice guy. He works hard for what he has and would like to live a simple, uncomplicated life. His wife, Twinkle, seems like a free-spirited woman. She has also worked for what she has, but she seems more like the party girl. She likes adventure and doesn’t fancy the traditional role of being a housewife to stay home and cook all day. These two seem like an unlikely couple: they were married after only knowing each other for a few months. Sanjeev even talks in the story about how Twinkle used to have such good taste and he wonders what has changed. They don’t seem to have known each other very well. Nonetheless, I think they have a unique relationship that has a key in it that other relationships today seem to be lacking: respect. Not to say they don’t have arguments or anything of that nature, the point is even after these things, they see what really matters. Sanjeev really would have taken that yard ornament to the dump if he had no respect for his wife’s feelings. Even Twinkle, although rebellious and still much like an adolescent in some ways, tries to respect her husband on some level; she cooks him dinner one night that he is thoroughly impressed with.
I think what makes these characters so real is that they are not perfect. They don’t have that classic fairy tale ending, they don’t have to have the perfect marriage or social skills, and there are so many other reasons that make them imperfect. The fact that they have so many flaws, I think, comforts the reader not because it makes the reader feel superior, but that it lets them know they are not alone. It is almost essential to have a character that has a flaw or they won’t seem real; if they aren’t real, chances are the reader won’t connect with the characters.
I think what makes these characters so real is that they are not perfect. They don’t have that classic fairy tale ending, they don’t have to have the perfect marriage or social skills, and there are so many other reasons that make them imperfect. The fact that they have so many flaws, I think, comforts the reader not because it makes the reader feel superior, but that it lets them know they are not alone. It is almost essential to have a character that has a flaw or they won’t seem real; if they aren’t real, chances are the reader won’t connect with the characters.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Character-based short story
They told me the house was abandoned. And besides, I had to go in if I wanted any chance at joining in their circle. So I did what any new girl would do, I went up to the house.
Halfway up the sidewalk I heard the group snicker, but I only heard a few of the whispers that were passed between the four of them, not friendly words either, “crazy…haunted…loser…ditch…”
I knew this was a joke on me, that these weren’t really my friends after all, but I would prove to them I wasn’t afraid anyway. I would still walk straight up to and go inside that house.
Stepping onto the porch I turned back to give a final glance, but they were already running down the street. As I turned to face the door again I noticed a lithe shadow in the window pull back. Pausing for a moment, I still decided to reach for the door handle just in time to have it pulled away from me.
Looking up, my surprised eyes met a startlingly composed pair of round green eyes, much like two clumps of moss hanging suspended in pearl orbs.
“Uhhh… I was just—“
“I know what you were doing. Why don’t you come inside with me and we will have a little chat.”
Taking one last glimpse over my shoulder for any of my so-called friends, I reluctantly stepped past the lady who now, impatiently tapping her foot, stood to the side holding the door open.
The house had an old, artsy feel to it; it was one of those houses that when you walk in you know it is inhabited by somebody who has really lived life to the fullest. She had pictures hanging on the wall surrounded by frames of delicate filigree, little trinkets from every corner of the world, even the furniture had a foreign luxuriousness air to it. Only then did I stop to actually look at the woman who was leading me, her thick, wavy silver hair was the same color as fine china, her wardrobe made of material that seemed so fine that it couldn’t possibly be from this world. I even marveled at her bare feet treading across the hardwood flooring. The woman herself was, albeit slightly aged, a fine beauty herself. My fear left with my jacket in the coat room, I followed her into the kitchen with a sudden curiosity welling up inside.
Motioning for me to have a seat at the small round table in the corner of the room, she pulled two tall glasses from the cupboard. Setting them down on the table, she continued to walk to the refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade; all the while I noticed that, despite her age, she didn’t tremble, pause, or have a limp in her gait, she seemed as healthy as myself.
After filling both glasses, she finally has a seat in the chair opposite me.
“So what is a girl like you doing trying to bother an old woman like me?”
“Honestly it was all a mistake and I am new and I just wanted to make some friends and I didn’t realize they were that kind of group and I was told it was empty and—”
“Okay, okay, calm down sweetie. Kids sure haven’t changed one bit. Sure the styles and technologies have, but deep down inside they are the same now as they were when I was your age.”
She wasn’t upset over the matter, she just didn’t want another kid to end up in the wrong crowd. That afternoon we finished the pitcher of lemonade while she talked about her travels of the world. She never married she said, but she had lovers in abundance. Nevertheless, she was a dignified lady and maintained a proper reputation. She traveled by train, painting the countryside and selling the canvases every time she went into the city. She never really settled down until her father died, and then only because he had left her this house. Certainly it wasn’t much to look at on the outside, but she preferred it that way, “to shy away unwanted guests,” not referring to me necessarily, though.
Looking out the window I realized the afternoon was over and that it was even nearly dark. Reluctant to leave, I stood up from the table and went to retrieve my coat and said goodbye. Walking down the sidewalk I reached into my pocket to find a note written in fine, elegant cursive. Looking back she gave me a knowing wink, smiled, and then closed the door. Inside the note it read:
“Live while you can to the best of your ability in every moment. Every breath is a gift.”
It was unsigned, but I knew who left it there. That moment, as the streetlight above me came on, I realized today I had come to this house to make a friend, and that is exactly what I did, however unusual a method it was.
The next day I went over to see her again, hoping to have another conversation, maybe about her travels more, or her childhood, anything was possible. I stood knocking on the door, and after nobody came I knocked again. There was still no answer. I went around the side of the house to see if I could see is she was home through the window. As I pushed the tiger lilies away from the window, a neighbor walked up behind me.
“She’s not in there,” he said matter-of-factly. “The ambulance was here last night. Said she slipped on the stairs and took a bump to the head. Always kinda wondered what kinda woman lived in there. ‘Guess now we’ll never know.”
Shocked, I stood like a deer in headlights. This couldn’t be true. I ran home and sat in my bedroom with my back against the bed the whole day. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed her note sitting next to my jacket. I pulled it down and reread it to myself. And I read it again. And again. Her words rang so clearly in my head. I could hear her voice speaking it to me more clearly each time. She had a point. You never know when your breath is going to be your last.
Halfway up the sidewalk I heard the group snicker, but I only heard a few of the whispers that were passed between the four of them, not friendly words either, “crazy…haunted…loser…ditch…”
I knew this was a joke on me, that these weren’t really my friends after all, but I would prove to them I wasn’t afraid anyway. I would still walk straight up to and go inside that house.
Stepping onto the porch I turned back to give a final glance, but they were already running down the street. As I turned to face the door again I noticed a lithe shadow in the window pull back. Pausing for a moment, I still decided to reach for the door handle just in time to have it pulled away from me.
Looking up, my surprised eyes met a startlingly composed pair of round green eyes, much like two clumps of moss hanging suspended in pearl orbs.
“Uhhh… I was just—“
“I know what you were doing. Why don’t you come inside with me and we will have a little chat.”
Taking one last glimpse over my shoulder for any of my so-called friends, I reluctantly stepped past the lady who now, impatiently tapping her foot, stood to the side holding the door open.
The house had an old, artsy feel to it; it was one of those houses that when you walk in you know it is inhabited by somebody who has really lived life to the fullest. She had pictures hanging on the wall surrounded by frames of delicate filigree, little trinkets from every corner of the world, even the furniture had a foreign luxuriousness air to it. Only then did I stop to actually look at the woman who was leading me, her thick, wavy silver hair was the same color as fine china, her wardrobe made of material that seemed so fine that it couldn’t possibly be from this world. I even marveled at her bare feet treading across the hardwood flooring. The woman herself was, albeit slightly aged, a fine beauty herself. My fear left with my jacket in the coat room, I followed her into the kitchen with a sudden curiosity welling up inside.
Motioning for me to have a seat at the small round table in the corner of the room, she pulled two tall glasses from the cupboard. Setting them down on the table, she continued to walk to the refrigerator to pull out a pitcher of lemonade; all the while I noticed that, despite her age, she didn’t tremble, pause, or have a limp in her gait, she seemed as healthy as myself.
After filling both glasses, she finally has a seat in the chair opposite me.
“So what is a girl like you doing trying to bother an old woman like me?”
“Honestly it was all a mistake and I am new and I just wanted to make some friends and I didn’t realize they were that kind of group and I was told it was empty and—”
“Okay, okay, calm down sweetie. Kids sure haven’t changed one bit. Sure the styles and technologies have, but deep down inside they are the same now as they were when I was your age.”
She wasn’t upset over the matter, she just didn’t want another kid to end up in the wrong crowd. That afternoon we finished the pitcher of lemonade while she talked about her travels of the world. She never married she said, but she had lovers in abundance. Nevertheless, she was a dignified lady and maintained a proper reputation. She traveled by train, painting the countryside and selling the canvases every time she went into the city. She never really settled down until her father died, and then only because he had left her this house. Certainly it wasn’t much to look at on the outside, but she preferred it that way, “to shy away unwanted guests,” not referring to me necessarily, though.
Looking out the window I realized the afternoon was over and that it was even nearly dark. Reluctant to leave, I stood up from the table and went to retrieve my coat and said goodbye. Walking down the sidewalk I reached into my pocket to find a note written in fine, elegant cursive. Looking back she gave me a knowing wink, smiled, and then closed the door. Inside the note it read:
“Live while you can to the best of your ability in every moment. Every breath is a gift.”
It was unsigned, but I knew who left it there. That moment, as the streetlight above me came on, I realized today I had come to this house to make a friend, and that is exactly what I did, however unusual a method it was.
The next day I went over to see her again, hoping to have another conversation, maybe about her travels more, or her childhood, anything was possible. I stood knocking on the door, and after nobody came I knocked again. There was still no answer. I went around the side of the house to see if I could see is she was home through the window. As I pushed the tiger lilies away from the window, a neighbor walked up behind me.
“She’s not in there,” he said matter-of-factly. “The ambulance was here last night. Said she slipped on the stairs and took a bump to the head. Always kinda wondered what kinda woman lived in there. ‘Guess now we’ll never know.”
Shocked, I stood like a deer in headlights. This couldn’t be true. I ran home and sat in my bedroom with my back against the bed the whole day. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed her note sitting next to my jacket. I pulled it down and reread it to myself. And I read it again. And again. Her words rang so clearly in my head. I could hear her voice speaking it to me more clearly each time. She had a point. You never know when your breath is going to be your last.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
1. The reiterating descriptions are especially effective for portraying the meaning
a. “I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.”
2. The entire story is filled with so many descriptions that appeal to the senses. It is very “VAKOG-ian.”
3. It is really interesting how the narrator sees the child in everyone. He makes many references to children, whether it is children in the present playing on the playground or how a weathered woman used to be so youthful and vibrant, even referencing himself and his brother and the environment they grew up in as children. This could represent many things (e.g. everyone is essentially the same inside always, the innocence of people and how it can be so corrupted through life…) or it could be nothing
4. I noticed he repeated certain images, one being the mentioning of a cloud of smoke (from cigarettes (pages 386 and 398). This can be particularly useful for recognizing a theme or meaning in the story. It could even allude to the drug addiction (i.e. drugs put you an a hazy state)
5. There is a lot of passion in this story. Passion between brothers. Passion between father and son. Mother and son. Husband and wife. Man and music. Just passion in general. We see them risk their lives for what they love, to feel loved, and just to make a difference.
6. There are several themes in this story, almost like threads that make a blanket. One of these threads is a theme of independence. We see the brother of the narrator trying to find his place in the world, even if that means joining the navy to see the world. The narrator leaves his mother to start his family.
7. It is interesting to see how the two brothers ended up leading two completely different lives even though they grew up in the same household. Many things affect this obviously (age difference, genetics, etc) but they were very different, even more than I expected at least.
a. “I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work.”
2. The entire story is filled with so many descriptions that appeal to the senses. It is very “VAKOG-ian.”
3. It is really interesting how the narrator sees the child in everyone. He makes many references to children, whether it is children in the present playing on the playground or how a weathered woman used to be so youthful and vibrant, even referencing himself and his brother and the environment they grew up in as children. This could represent many things (e.g. everyone is essentially the same inside always, the innocence of people and how it can be so corrupted through life…) or it could be nothing
4. I noticed he repeated certain images, one being the mentioning of a cloud of smoke (from cigarettes (pages 386 and 398). This can be particularly useful for recognizing a theme or meaning in the story. It could even allude to the drug addiction (i.e. drugs put you an a hazy state)
5. There is a lot of passion in this story. Passion between brothers. Passion between father and son. Mother and son. Husband and wife. Man and music. Just passion in general. We see them risk their lives for what they love, to feel loved, and just to make a difference.
6. There are several themes in this story, almost like threads that make a blanket. One of these threads is a theme of independence. We see the brother of the narrator trying to find his place in the world, even if that means joining the navy to see the world. The narrator leaves his mother to start his family.
7. It is interesting to see how the two brothers ended up leading two completely different lives even though they grew up in the same household. Many things affect this obviously (age difference, genetics, etc) but they were very different, even more than I expected at least.
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