Silence

On Wednesday, a woman in Barnes and Noble recited this poem to me. And I cried.

Silence
by Edgar Lee Masters

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea,
And the silence of the city when it pauses,
And the silence of a man and a maid,
And the silence of the sick
When their eyes roam about the room.
And I ask: For the depths
Of what use is language?
A beast of the field moans a few times
When death takes its young.
And we are voiceless in the presence of realities -
We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier
Sitting in front of the grocery store,
"How did you lose your leg?"
And the old soldier is struck with silence,
Or his mind flies away
Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg,
It comes back jocosely
And he says, "A bear bit it off."
And the boy wonders, while the old soldier
Dumbly, feebly lives over
The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon,
The shrieks of the slain,
And himself lying on the ground,
And the hospital surgeons, the knives,
And the long days in bed.
But if he could describe it all
He would be an artist.
But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds
Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred,
And the silence of a great love,
And the silence of an embittered friendship.
There is the silence of a spiritual crisis,
Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured,
Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life.
There is the silence of defeat.
There is the silence of those unjustly punished
And the silence of the dying whose hand
Suddenly grips yours.
There is the silence between father and son,
When the father cannot explain his life,
Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.
There is the silence of those who have failed;
And the vast silence that covers
Broken nations and vanquished leaders.
There is the silence of Lincoln,
Thinking of the poverty of his youth.
And the silence of Napoleon
After Waterloo.
And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc
Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" -
Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.
And there is the silence of age,
Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it
In words intelligible to those who have not lived
The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.
If we who are in life cannot speak
Of profound experiences,
Why do you marvel that the dead
Do not tell you of death?
Their silence shall be interpreted
As we approach them.

A Short Short, Written September 13, 2007

The last time I saw him, I knew that I would never see him again. He looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Lola, you are on your own. Have a nice life." And that was it. He just turned and left, walked down the sidewalk away from me, not even once glancing back to see if I was crying. I wasn't crying, of course. Crying is for the weak. I am strong. People have left me before, and I've found my way. I don't need anyone to babysit me.

When he left and I couldn't make him out in the crowd, I turned to walk the other way down Dogwood Avenue, passing the stores and restaurants, hearing people talk and laugh, ice chiming in tea glasses, but I didn't turn to look. Not once. I wasn't even walking with my head down. I held my head high, my back straight, and I walked that avenue the way my momma taught me, like a WOMAN. And a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, so the song says. I'm no fish, but I'll admit, a bicycle would be nice right now.

Poem Written Three Years Ago, and I Still Like It

addressed

i did not think
you would let me
in, that it was

too late
to stop by; so i
wrote you this letter

slid into a
cream
envelope with an

almost cabbage,
bittersweet seal.
there is not much.

this letter is
addressed to you
who did not want

noise, you who believes
apologies like roots
grow deeper than

this blueberry ink
could sink, deeper into
more than this cream-

colored paper. it is
not enough. but see,
i give you

paper moons
and scissor stars
slipped under your door

word constellations
in a bittersweet
envelope.

Rain

I heard the rain before I saw it. I was lying on the futon in me and Mel's apartment when I heard the hammering of rain beating against the roof. I got up and walked outside and stood underneath the overhang for as long the rain lasted, just watching, listening, and smelling the rain. Being quiet.

I have a lot of rain memories. Walking in the rain. Running in the rain. Standing in the rain.

I think one of my favorite rain memories happened a while back when I was still a camp counselor. Every night, we counselors led devotions with the girls. One night, the rain starting coming down, and I decided to take the girls out on the porch to watch the rain. As we watched the rain come down in silver sheets on the dark green mountain, I read to them the story of Noah's ark from the Bible. When I was done and Noah and his family had seen the rainbow, my girls and I continued to watch the rain in a hushed quietness. We all sat, hugging our knees, watching, listening, smelling that rain.

She Beat Me To It

I once told a friend of mine that I had met someone that reminded me a lot of her. She replied, "It's always fun/interesting to hear that there is someone else out there in the world that reflects you in some small way."

So, browsing through my music tonight, I stumbled across this video of Imogen Heap, who is my musical heroine. She is so cool, and I feel like she is everything that I would want to be as a musician. The way she dances reminds me of myself, although she looks way cooler, and I love her voice. If I ever did a music video, I would want to dress up like her.

Reflections of the people we wish we would become are somehow reassuring and frustrating simultaneously. Check it out, one of my favorites, the ultimate stalker song:
Goodnight and Go

Doodles

So, I found these doodles of mine from three years ago. Funny how some things never change.

A poet who knows it

When I got back from the most wonderful retreat of my life on Sunday, I checked my email to view an email from poetry.com. This is the bulk of it:

Dear Mary Rodgers,

I am delighted to inform you that your poem "June, July, Mostly August, 2004 (Common Era)" has been awarded our prestigious Editor's Choice Award because it displays an original perspective and unique creativity -- judged to be the qualities found most in exceptional poetry. Congratulations on your achievement!

I laughed when I read this. I mean, really? Really? And the thing is, even though I posted it on poetry.com, who is poetry.com anyway? Who is this Editor?

Now, you might be saying, Kat! That's awesome! Why aren't you stoked?

Here's why:
Of course, the rest of the email informed me that if I wanted to buy a copy of the book it was to be published in, I could. How many of these Editor's Choice Awards are awarded? This is the skeptic in me talking, which rarely speaks up.

And yet,

To be a poet. For my livelihood. For my life.

I'll take what I can get. Someone (poetry.com) is publishing my poetry, and even though it might be a joke or a way to get money from me, part of me still lights up at the idea that someone is reading my poetry and saying, "Promising."

It's like that bubblegum song by Mandy Moore, "And now I'm ready to be extraordinary." And I think I just might be.

There are so many extraordinary people in my life, for which I am so thankful.

Extraordinary

Tonight I find myself on the futon, sitting next to my beloved roomie, reminiscing on life and its weirdness. I stumbled across an email I wrote someone last year and found that it still spoke to me. Maybe it will speak to you too.

Dear Blankety-Blank-Blank,

So, it didn't even dawn on me that I'd like to share this with you tonight at y'all's killer party, but since this was something we had talked about a while ago now, I thought I'd update you.

So, I have cried almost everyday this semester so far. Don't feel bad for me because really this is a good story. Last year, as I recall telling, I began praying a really, really stupid prayer, that God would make my life extraordinary. Now, when I was a junior in high school, I prayed an even stupider prayer, asking God to test me. Well, God tested me. God stripped my life away my senior year, and then my freshman and sophomore years of college, God put me in the fire. As He promised, He was with me and He grew me. It was hardest time of my life. I've never felt so much pain before, but now, on the other side, I rejoice and I give thanks for what He is doing.

It occurred to me today that God is taking me up on my prayer from last year, which is just like God. When I started praying this Extraordinary prayer last year, it was about that time that I began to have my doubts about the School of Education. Finally, by the end of the year, I knew that that path was not the one God intended for me. This year, I think I am now moving in sync with my passions and my skills and my desires, things that have only until recently been unearthed. Turns out I don't even really know who I am or what I want. One thing I know is true is that God is a God who answers prayers. Just like in high school, God is now taking my life, by my request granted, and is leading me down a path that is scary and wild and extraordinary. It hurts tremendously right now, fighting against myself, against my Type-A personality, against every plan I had in my head a year ago, but I'm fighting to hold to the dream that God could take me farther than I'd ever thought imaginable.

I see God at work around me. I see God give grace and courage and love and justice in a world that is broken and dying. But it's almost shocking to see God at work inside of me. To think that God would be working in me, a broken soul that's missing pieces to a puzzled heart, is irrational because I assume I am broken beyond repair. I am scared and I tremble before a Holy and Awesome God, that One who Is and Was and Is To Be. And all of this is here in me, and in you.

To pray for the extraordinary is to pray a dangerous thing. But God is not calling us to be safe. He is calling us to be wise, but in wisdom, to be fearless. I cry because the ordinary, which is safe and familiar, is once again gone. And I remember, like a dream or like that deja vu that just hits you, that I am a Daughter of Heaven. And I'm free-falling into the arms of a good Father who has called me to a life that has just as much biggness and beauty as a storm in the desert.

God answers prayer. This has been proven.
Why He answers them? This still eludes me, but until then, I will give the only answer I have: For His Glory.

I just rambled there. And I rambled A LOT. I'm not going to edit it, though, but rather I'm going to save me a copy of it so I remember having sat here, reflecting on the ways of the King. I hope that this is an encouragement to you, and that you find your prayers answered too.

With much love and peace,
Kat

When I Grow Up

When I was little, I wanted to be a FBI agent like my grandfather was. But I didn't really want to kill anyone or even shoot at anyone, so I thought I could just work for the FBI in the crime labs in Washington, D.C. So, by the time I was in 6th grade and my teacher Mr. Brown asked me what I wanted to be when I got older, I answered, "I want to be a biochemical engineer." I assumed that all biochemists worked for the FBI. Where else would they work?

Look at me now, Mr. Brown. I am an English Major with a Creative Writing Minor to top it off. Funny how things change.

I always had reservations about becoming an English Major. Academically, it was wonderful, but practically, well, I had (and perhaps still do) a lot of insecurities about what I was going to do after college. Recently, I applied for a job at a bookstore and had an interview, and I'm waiting to hear back. If I end up getting this job, I think I'll really enjoy it.

If I don't get this job, well, then it's back to Square 1. But, I do have a plan.

I think the next line of work I should pursue is stunt driving. Why?
1. I'm an awesome driver.
2. I'm an awesome driver.
3. I believe in the power of the seat belt.
4. Because I believe in the power of the seat belt, I'm not scared to off-road, do donuts, run over bicycles that don't belong to anyone and were going to be recycled anyway, and go really, really fast.
5. It'd be awesome.

"It's nice to meet you, Kat. What do you do?"
"I'm a professional stunt driver, mostly Ferraris."
"Wow. Um, can I have your phone number? I lost mine."

See how wonderful it'd be?

There are driving schools around here somewhere, I'm sure. I don't see why they wouldn't accept me.

But then maybe this bookstore will hire me. And then with my English Major skills, I'll write a book about stunt drivers and just daydream about fast cars.

And then if that doesn't work, I guess it'll have to be the FBI. But no biochemistry for me. I would singlehandedly bring down the Periodic Table. By accident. By a big, explosive, radioactive accident.

Knowing the Unknowable

Tonight in Bible study, I brought up the fact that sometimes I'm frustrated with "knowing God." I can't ask God what His favorite color is or when His birthday is. I could run off a list of the attributes of God: merciful, just, patient, loving, caring. But God does not have a Facebook profile. God does not call me up on the phone. God does not IM me at 3:34 a.m.

Sometimes I'm also frustrated with the idea that God knows everything about me. Part of the joy of forming new friendships is being able to reveal parts of yourself to someone. In step with feminine ideals, there is something empowering in the knowledge that you are a mystery to a stranger, and there is a thrill in knowing that someone wants to get to know you, someone wants to spend the time to know all your quirks and likes and dislikes.

Where's the thrill in revealing yourself to a God who knows it all?

And though these frustrations come and go like many frustrations I have, I remember driving in my car a few weeks ago. My mom and I had just had a three hour conversation about life, just sitting in the kitchen with Earl Grey in our tea cups. My mom talked about the issues going on with her, and I was able to encourage her. And I talked about issues in my life, and she, as she has done my entire life, listened and spoke truth to me.

I left the house, got into my Chevy, and drove off. As I was driving, I reflected on what had just happened. I had spent three glorious hours with my mother, my mom, my best friend. How was this possible? Only three years ago, I hated this woman, despised her, was jealous of her. This was the same woman who hung up on me mid-phone conversation and had banned me from the house. And as I drove down Mt. Carmel Rd., I began to cry.

And I knew, I knew, I believed that God had answered what I could not pray but felt in my heart. I have prayed for many things and not received them, and yet I have had requests on my heart that have been shrouded with the inability to verbalize what they were, only to see them beautifully and completely fulfilled, only then able to say, "Yes! Yes! That's it! I dreamt this once!"

And it is then that I realize that God is revealing Himself to me by revealing my own heart to myself, that He speaks what I could not say, and He restores what I tore down.

A Rabbit's Death Causes Us to Laugh

I've done a bit of babysitting between yesterday and today, and I have to say, I have the best time doing it.

Last night, I babysat for the Kirk family, hanging out with Davis and Zoe. They are such a joy, such a blast to play with. They love to giggle and laugh. I get such a kick out of them when they get excited about something. They're little ones, one and three years old I think, so today came as a bit of shock.

Today, I babysat a 10 year-old girl who is the daughter of a beloved former poetry teacher of mine. She has the best facial expressions, knows every word to High School Musical 1&2, dances unashamedly with panache, and has the most creative mind I have ever encountered in one so young:
"The Force is strong with this one, Master Kat."

We went to Harris Teeter today to pick up some items to make a Fruit Thingy/Cobbler, which I'm sorry to say, I single-handedly ruined and feel terribly guilty about. As we walked up and down the aisles, we discussed animals. "I asked my dad one time, " she said, "what noise a rabbit makes."
"And what did he say?" I asked.
"He said that rabbits only make one sound, and that is the shriek of pain as they die a painful death."
(I was thoroughly amused. I'll have to remember to use that for my kids one day.)
"My dad's so weird," she said.
"No joke. I knew he was weird, but not that weird. He might be as weird as you," I joked.
"Yeah, whatever. You're like totally weird," she smiled. And then she hiccuped.
And we laughed.

We laughed pretty much the entire time together. I wouldn't have traded that time for anything. There's nothing like a child's laughter that seems to set aright so many things in this world.

Just For the Record

Just for the record,

I love to dance.

Just spinnining in circles with my eyes closed...

Exercises and Bad Language

For the second weekend in a row, my roommate is gone, and I find myself tucked away in my apartment wearing my pajamas, socks on my feet, eating entire containers of food, and watching Bridget Jones (the first one of course) at least two times in a row.

Today for lunch I cooked a box of rice, the Uncle Ben's cheesy broccoli kind, and ate it straight out the pot, cussing as I burned my hand on the not-quite-cooled-down pot.

If my grandfather had not died of lung cancer, I think I would be a smoker. And if I didn't have a fear of headaches or the fear of a potential repeat of a drunk phone call I made a few years ago, I think I would drink a lot more than I do and wake up with terrible hangovers everyday, which would make my time at the Ackland Art Museum much more interesting.

I wrote some poetry this morning as I listened to "Green" by Brendan James. Sometimes I think I will end up like Sylvia Plath, writing emo poetry for a living. Except my poetry won't be as good as Plath's.

Weekends like these, I find myself listening to a lot of Chaka Khan as I stare into my mirror, making faces, trying out new haristyles, experimenting with purple eyeshadow. My friend Dayna memorized a monologue for an audition in which the speaker speaks to herself in a mirror, "doing her exercises" as she calls it. I do exercises. They go like this:
I am confident.
I am hot.
People are not scary.
People love me.
I have a facebook fan club.
Everyone has insecurities, not just me.

I wish people could hear me when I drive. I have the worst road rage. I'll be on the phone with someone, and then out of the blue, I'll scream, "Move, you f****r!" Most of the time, it happens when I'm on the phone with my mother, who replies, Thank God you're human.

I actually love weekends like these where I cuss like a drunk sailor (with a British accent) at the oven which has burned my bagel. I paint my fingernails black, then take it off and paint them red, and then realize that maybe the fingernail polish remover shouldn't be next to the lit Cinnamon Bark candle.

After I post this, I'm going to vaccuum the carpet. And then, I'm going to do a crossword puzzle.

Thank God I don't live alone.

Bluegreen Thoughts on Saturday Morning

so much inside my head wants to crackle and spark
like a million blue firecrackers exploding in a cold breathing night
so much emotion,
thoughts and questions remain unsaid and unseen,
longing to take shape, embodiment, and explode into dust just to be reformed all over again
like blue firecrackers in their casing in a wooden crate
sitting next to a box of 32 matches

those matches would spark us, move us
toward the realization of the daydream, of the prayer, of the whisper

that day when
when the daydream becomes the truth
the prayer becomes the body
and the whisper becomes the world

firecracker ash digs into the ground
deep into the ground
and springs up new
in the bluegreen grass.

Red White Pink Yellow

Today, a stranger bought me flowers on Franklin St. from the flower lady.

I've not smiled so much in so long. Not to say I've been unhappy. I've been laughing so hard this semester already, telling jokes, laughing at jokes, giggling with friends, laughing at myself sometimes because it's the only way to keep me from crying in embarrassment or despair.

But just to silently smile. To smile because it's the only way your face knows how to react. No sighs, no words but the words of a stranger:

Here. Take them. These are for you.

There is a tree in the Coker Arboretum whose leaves look like hearts.

Soft reminders that I am loved when my love for myself is not enough.
And it never is.
And it was never supposed to be.

Spooning

One night in recent past, in typical girl-fashion, I consumed the entire contents of one Jack's Salsa with a spoon. Having to monitor the amount of sugar I put into my little body, ice cream or icing seemed like a bad idea since I was in the mood to eat endlessly, and the next best thing in the fridge was a full tub of spicy salsa. No chips. Just me, my salsa, and my spoon.

As I sat on the futon with my comforter wrapped around me eating salsa by the spoonful, I reflected on this moment. This was a moment marked by the need to be comforted and consoled, a moment not uncommon to the world. Usually these moments are paired with a self-revelation, such as a revelation that one is not strong enough or that one is a snob or that one has a heart that easily bruises and forgets about those tender spots from time to time...

So, there I was, eating salsa and watching The Return of the Pink Panther, and I was beginning to feel better, tears and sniffles to a minimum except that I was eating some really hot salsa. And I pondered, what is it about all this in this moment that makes me feel better? Am I so easily consoled? I mean a blanket called a "comforter", is it all that great?

And I said, yes, it is. It is a wonderful down comforter. It is soft and warm.

But the salsa? Warm, but in a different way...

Ah. The spoon.

Knives are aggressive, forks are functional, and spoons are comforting. We feed babies with spoons. I mean, come on, there's a reason why we call it "spooning" instead of something else. It's comforting. My high school English teacher used to always say cake should be eaten with a spoon. And it's so true. I only eat cake with a spoon, and there's no going back now.

Eating salsa with a spoon, Peter Sellers, and my down comforter, needless to say, did make me feel better. These things within themselves can not solve the world's problems, can not solve my problems, which are small in comparison. But it is always reassuring to remember that even though it may feel like the world is coming to end, the chances of it doing so are relatively small, and that there is still time to change and grow and change again.

the world begins with a word

i am beginning a new blog. i have to practice writing. writing is:
1. a passion
2. a skill
3. a habit
4. a desire
5. a necessity

i suppose this blog will be like every other blog, addressing life's issues from the small and tedious to the grand and stupefying. then again, what else would there be?

perhaps i will make this blog more of a virtual story time, i recounting the strange and bizarre events that find their way into my life.

i'll throw in some poetry, of course. some sarcasm. a little bit of sweetness.