island girl, excerpt no. 2

nano was going great until I got totally swamped with school/work, and I haven't written in two weeks. considering there's a few hours left today, and I have 30,000 words to go...I will not be finishing. and that's okay. nanowrimo was a perfect way for me to venture back into the wild world of writing and I've decided to make my visit a stay, whether that means simply short stories or blogging or something more. I don't currently know, but I know that whatever happens, I will keep writing.

because, as all writers know, you can't just let go.
there is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
maya angelou said that and her words ring true like the first thaw in spring.

winter is ending.
words come and go.
stories stay and matter.

very small excerpt, but that's okay.
always appreciate your thoughts. :)

h

excerpt:

We’ll step forward a few years.

Laurel got her cinnamon rolls (and a harsh scolding) if that’s what you’re wondering though.

The year was nineteen forty two. Laurel was seventeen. James was eighteen. There was a draft. Somehow the world was bleeding and no matter what people did, they couldn’t bandage it enough. A letter came in the mail, a call to action. It was an honor, Caty said. It was a shame, Annie said. But it wasn’t her son. No, not yet.

Goodbyes were heavy on Laurel’s lips, along with something else.

Yes, a kiss.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

let your living spill over into thanksgiving // cultivate thankfulness

“[From the Shadows to the Substance] My counsel for you is simple and straightforward: Just go ahead with what you’ve been given. You received Christ Jesus, the Master; now live him. You’re deeply rooted in him. You’re well constructed upon him. You know your way around the faith. Now do what you’ve been taught. School’s out; quit studying the subject and start living it! And let your living spill over into thanksgiving.” - Colossians 2:6-7 MSG

“Let the peace of Christ keep you in tune with each other, in step with each other. None of this going off and doing your own thing. And cultivate thankfulness. Let the Word of Christ—the Message—have the run of the house. Give it plenty of room in your lives. Instruct and direct one another using good common sense. And sing, sing your hearts out to God! Let every detail in your lives—words, actions, whatever—be done in the name of the Master, Jesus, thanking God the Father every step of the way.” - Colossians 3:17 MSG

guess who just ate all the candied pecans off of the pastries from panera??

this girl!

also, a couple handfuls of pirates booty (which is a hilarious name for aged white cheddar cheese puffs. although, truth be told, the aged just seems like it was add for emphasis), and five grapes that I didn't wash. oops. and I literally just burned my hand on my tea cup because it's so hot. please ignore my aeropastle shirt. I somehow had it handed down to me from some cousin or aunt or another a few years ago (okay, like five) and since then, it's become a pajama shirt. because I don't wear real pajamas. Just sweats. Or sometimes flannel soccer pants, because they're so comfy.

Anyways, I sang in Church today and that was wonderful. So blessed. It sounds cliche to say that all the time, but it's so true that I will echo it again and again and again. God is so good and I'm just beginning to taste His goodness. Taste and see that the Lord is good...amen.

Lotsa good things coming, folks. Like trip plans and weddings and Christmas cookies. Also, did I mention I'm buying a 35 1.4? I'm preeeetty excited. This pecan-eating gal is gonna get herself some real glass -- a legit lens. Hopefully before Christmas. I'm counting down the days...okay, no, I'm not. I'm just embracing them as they come. It's so strange to think that 2012 is almost over. Here's to a wonderful 2013. I know, there's still four days until Thanksgiving, but in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season (that my ambivert heart adores!), we don't have as much time to reflect on the past year.

But I really want to reflect on it and remember His goodness. He blesses us because He loves us. How wonderful is that?

Too tired to form anything more than a rambly stream of consciousness post, but thats okay. Small bits and pieces of my day and a little of what's on my heart.

Happy Sunday, friends.

. h

that one time i danced the pas de quatre and was carlotta grisi

and it's days like today that i really miss ballet.

my heart hurts sometimes.

okay, a lot of the times.

i miss it so much.

i can't listen to the nutcracker without crying.

every beat, every note, every strain of the music...i know intricately what part of the ballet is going on. and what i would be doing.

plie, pirouette, arabesque, rond de jambe, pique tendu, grande battement, port de bras, fouette, and entrechat.

the big finale, a final grande jete!

ah.

ah.

ah.

i miss it so much.

this is not eloquent, this is not beautiful, this is not poetic, but it is honest.

my heart is tied with ribbons and the smell of sweaty practice rooms.

my feet are bent and broken and my knees still hurt when i run.

my soul is threaded with the sound of classical music and my instructor's voices --

the counts, five six seven eight --

pointe.

i'm praying about possibly going back (not to perform) but to perform for myself. i would appreciate much prayer. like, very very very much prayer. i can't give it up. as cheesy as it is...you can take the dancer out of the studio but you cannot take the ballet out of the dancer.

i love it.

and miss it.

lots.

and today, especially during nutcracker season, is very very very hard.

"Eventually your voice finds you in the midst of all that shooting. It sorts of sneaks up on you from nowhere, more and more present for every day. Trying to chase your voice is pointless, you just need to shoot and shoot and it will find you." - Jonas Peterson

island girl excerpt no. 1

5018 words (and counting) this morning!
a little snippet.
totally unedited, very rough, and probably fraught with grammatical errors.
but here you go. :)
happy november!
ps. carys is now laurel. and name is still subject to change. ;)

-

The rest of the week, Laurel made no secret about visiting the Obrist house daily. She would head over there in the mornings to watch the sunset, drop by after school to check on the doors, and sometimes even sneak over before bedtime to make sure no one had moved in.

In a way, it felt a terrible imposition for someone to move into her house. The Obrist’s had moved out when she was six, and for the last three years, she had formed a strange bond with their empty home. She knew the dusty rooms and quiet paneling like the back of her hand and felt as if it was her own.

That Saturday, she woke up early, when the sky was still painted black. It was so dark she could taste it on her tongue. It smelled like cinnamon from the rolls her mother had put in the night before. On Saturday’s, they always had a special breakfast. The rest of the week was oatmeal or eggs, but Saturday, her mother made something marvelous. Laurel opened the oven a crack and the rich headiness of the rolls wafted around her. She shut it quickly and slipped out the door, a flashlight in her cold hands.

It had rained the night before and the ground was slick and cold. Fall was in full force and the trees were slowly becoming barer and barer. She stepped over sodden leaf piles and her feet splashed in the marshy ground. The flashlight in her hand lit the way dimly.
Her boots squeaked. She looked up a second and slipped.

The thing about islands: when you hit the ground, you hit it hard.
The earth seems to be more stone than dirt.

She slammed onto the earth and felt a crack in her hands. The ground was hard underneath her palms, and she felt mud on her knees. Her hands smarted and her knees ached and she stood up slowly, rubbing her hands together. The flashlight clattered somewhere to her right and she clutched it with muddy fingers. What a way to start the day.

The sky waxed dark blue when she finally made it to the Obrists, hands and legs and all, slightly worse for the wear. Her left wrist ached.
One word.
“Dangit.”
Her mother was going to kill her.