An Ocean in a Rain Drop: The Art of Imitation

Sketch on Dance

Photo by Heather; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/

Original

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. . . .

Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854)

Imitation

I stepped onto the floor because I wished to dance knowingly, to front only the expressions which I found in myself, and see if I could not learn what my catharsis had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not been seen. I did not wish to walk what was not dance, dancing is so dear; nor did I wish to relinquish my movement, unless I must dance in stillness. I wanted to dance intensely and suck all the meaning from my deepest expression, to dance so passionately and Martha Graham-like as to put to rout all that say life is not dance, to call the world my audience, to drive dance into the limbs of all people, and reduce it to its simplest movements, and, if it proved to be finite, why then to get the whole and authentic finiteness of it, and present its finiteness to the world; or if it were infinite, to comprehend it by experiment, and be able to give a corporeal chronicle of humanity on my next stage. . . . ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Thinking

Photo by Leon Ephraim; Unsplash

Original

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.

Robert Frost, “The Figure a Poem Makes” (1939)

Imitation

Many a time I might have surrendered my mind to musing if it had contained the profundity such thoughts were taken for by my maturing faculties. Profundity and eloquence are what I ask of my capacity. For myself the profundity need be no more than the simplicity of a well-wrought insight, synthesizing the elements I have explained: truth and implication. Its foundation is the same as for revelation. Like a ray of light breaking across the murky horizon, the insight must light the path of its own potential. An insight may be examined and contemplated once it is in being, but may not be compelled into being. Its most sublime influence will remain in its continuous presence and sudden illumination on the comprehending mind. Ponder such insight innumerable times: it will endlessly maintain its epiphanic moment as a dew drop on a parched petal. Insight can never lose its initial significance that once broke upon the mind, whether in stages or suddenness, as it dawned.    ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Young, Fleeting Happiness and Depression

Photo by Morgan Sessions; Unsplash

Original

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

Imitation

It was the brightest of days, it was the darkest of days, it was the season of happiness, it was the season of despair, it was the period of sensation, it was the period of indifference, it was the age of Motivation, it was the age of Depression, it was the spring of potential, it was the winter of dreams, we had all of life to live, we had nothing by which to live, we were all going straight to success, we were all going straight to poverty and failure—to make my point, the time was so much like the everyday, that some of us busiest participants decided to simply make due, for better or for worse, in the ignorant absolute of not knowing what other comparisons life could deliver. ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Children's Perspective and Fantasy

Photo by Jonas Nilsson Lee; Unsplash 

Original

“Come to my house,” I said to the beggar. “There you can find food to eat and a bed in which to sleep.”

“I never sleep,” he replied.

I was quite sure then that he was not a real beggar. I told him that I had to go home and he offered to keep my company. As we walked along the snow-covered streets he asked me if I was ever afraid of the dark.

“Yes, I am,” I said. I wanted to add that I was afraid of him, too, but I felt he knew that already.

“You mustn’t be afraid of the dark,” he said, gently grasping my arm and making me shudder. “Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn’t know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.”

Wiesel, Elie. Dawn. New York: Hill and Wang (2006). Print.

Imitation

“Come to my house,” I said to the little girl. “There you can have parents and a nice room in which to live.”

“I don’t have a house,” she replied.

I was quite sure then that she was not a real little girl. I told her that I did have a house and needed to return to it. She offered to walk me to the edge of the wood. As we walked along the moss covered paths she asked me if I was ever afraid of being lost.

“Yes, I am,” I said. I wished I could add that I was afraid of her not belonging anywhere, too, but I felt she knew that already.

“You musn’t be afraid of being lost,” she said, lightly flicking my hair and making me smile. “The woods are safer than a house; it is better for living and playing and believing. In the woods everything is more free, more possible. The echo of safety that is chanted in the walls of houses take on binding and restraining quality when spoken in the woods. The folly of parents is that they don’t know how to distinguish between fear and safety, freedom and habit. They teach fear in houses that would never be believed in the woods.

~~~END~~~

My philosophy in regards to style, rhetoric, reading, and writing:

I have discovered that I can try on a thousand new voices and still be authentically me. I have decided that it is okay to know I have a style and to know I am very good at it. But, it is also okay to go beyond myself and forge a new path. Read, write, read. Write, read, write. It is a vast interrelated, even interminable process. I am a one voice in a thousand, and we each have a thousand voices. It is an ocean in a rain drop.

~Natalie Cherie

The Center of Time

August 30th, 2013

So I got to talk to my little brother Tanner for a good hour or so today. It was so much fun to just talk, whether on sports, his latest book, the impending first day of school, or friends. I was also eating chicken curry and so I, of course, was in a fabulous mood. And after sitting on my kitchen floor, in front of my only air-conditioning unit, watching RWBY trailers I decided to begin my next essay. I've been married for almost two months and it's been incredible, so I felt like it was about time to write about it. At first, I had decided not to talk about getting married because I didn't quite know what to say. Spencer and I had known one another, progressing from friends to dating to engaged and finally marriage, for two years. Each summer was spent abroad, first him in Jerusalem and then me in the United Kingdom, and because of these difficult and worthwhile periods of separation we've accumulated quite a few letters. But there is one letter in particular that I am thinking of that he wrote, not while one of us was abroad but, right before we got married. In his first sentence he used the phrase "the center of time" and ever since having read it I can't seem to shake the idea that this phrase is significant so I once again decided to write an essay about what it feels like, and only guessing at what it means, to reach the center of time.

September 1st, 2013

The Center of Time

Today I woke up fifteen minutes early. 7:00 am instead of 7:15. It was my first day being trained, I had only been hired two days earlier. Two months ago I might have treasured and fought for those extra fifteen minutes of sleep, especially considering my current rising time of 11:00am, but not anymore. You see I got married. I think it was while I was traveling in England that my fiance, Spencer, first mentioned this idea of waking up a little early. At the time he had said he was practicing making time to hold me. Later in a letter, he closed by assuring me he'd always have fifteen minutes to give. Well it's habit now and this morning as I slowly opened my eyes at 7 am, I automatically began to shift towards Spencer, lightly kissed his cheek, and watched his lips form a small sleepy smile. This is my favorite part of being married.

Shortly after getting married I was re-reading a letter Spencer had written to me the night before we got married. Usually, I noticed the end, which promised me 15 minutes, but I noticed the opening this time. It said,


"Ma cherie,
It is weird to think of this moment as the center of time. But it felt like it took forever to get here. And it feels like we have forever ahead of us (which has some pretty awesome potential)."

For some reason I kept having to re-read it, trying again and again to comprehend the phrase, "the center of time." I mean, was that possible? I don't think I would have cared so much if I hadn't found some possibility in them. Albert Einstein said, "Time is an illusion." and the Doctor from "Doctor Who" always explained time as, "people assum[ing] that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint-it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly...time-y wimey . . . stuff." So I began to suppose that reaching the "center of time," keeping in mind my limited understanding, was perhaps possible.

November 13th, 2013

So I've decided that "The Center of Time" isn't meant to be an essay. At least not yet. Right now it's a poem. Months ago I was talking to Spencer and said, "I'm digging a trough against falling walls." At the time I was struggling with isolation and fighting against the onset of depressive symptoms. Needless to say, I wasn't referring to the Center of Time in relation to my wedding day or any other happy moment. But, I think I've come to a conclusion. I think time is medium that I will never understand. No amount of Dr. Who quotes or Einstein relative theory will ever truly express the difference between the movement of time and the comprehensible parameters we place around it. But this summation doesn't stem from a defeatist attitude. I've simply realized that for now I can't really claim that a center of time and eternity exists.

But I do still wonder. Maybe it's like the center of a tornado. The winds swirl around and in the middle everything is perfectly still. But if that were so, is it possible to make it to the middle? Are we forever stuck on the outskirts in turbulent winds, attempting to swim to the middle while dodging each passing day in fear of our time catching up to us as we're laid in the grave? Or are we already in the middle, mindless of our place in eternity, each striving determining our happiness or otherwise?

If we are already in the center of time then my Center of Time felt like my Wedding Day because it was the moment my current decision influenced the rest of my eternity. But if I'm on outskirts, forever fighting for an eternal perspective, then the moments of pure peace, between sleeping and waking, or in meditation and writing, these feel like frozen points of time, the instant I found my way to the center, if only to be pulled back into the winds in the next instant. In these moments I could live forever. And that's where I'll strive to stay whether by memories, writing, or digging troughs against falling walls. Because learning to live in eternal time, that's the goal when searching for the center.


Falling Walls

I wish I could freeze it.
And place it in a drawer--
On sad days of loneliness and difficulty,
I could pull it out and gaze once
Again on his peaceful features, so untouched by the worry of a waking reality.

I am digging a trough against falling walls,
Blindly scratching at the sands of my own time.
A Silhouette of the Living.

Perhaps if I dig deep enough someone will notice,
Long after my digging has ceased.
But if not I'll bury my tools,
In the top right corner of the base of my trough.
And as the walls fall in I'll wait to be found, all the while dreaming of a small sleepy smile.

The silhouettes of the living will stumble into timelessness,
Found only in themselves;
The contours of a memory and the potential of eternity.

"Sometimes I feel like if you just watch things,
Just sit still and let the world exist in front of you-
Sometimes I swear that just for a second time freezes
And the world pauses in its tilt.
Just for a second.
And if you somehow found a way to live in that second,
Then you would live forever."

Lauren Oliver said that.
And no matter the falling walls,
I believe her.

-Natalie Cherie

What Lies Beyond these Walls? (a project for two)

So over the past few days, I've been working on some little projects like my poem on Wales or this! This, being an assignment for two. Paige was my partner and our goal was to write one descriptive paragraph. After having done so, we'd give our paragraph to the other person and they'd write a paragraph of meaning, an essayistic interpretation. Mine focused on Lulworth Cove. The cove world-famous for geology and geomorphology is home to Durdle Door (a naturally occurring rock arch). It is also thought that the cove may have served as the inspiration for J.M. Barrie's Neverland. Paige's paragraph focuses on Tintern Abbey which is the source of inspiration for one of William Wordsworth's most famous poems. Anyway, both days (the day spent at the beach and the day when we read "Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey" in Tintern Abbey) were fantastic! Oh, and at the cove, I saw the cutest little girl that looked exactly like the Coppertone Sunscreen Baby. She was super cute so I thought I'd mention it. Anyway, here goes!

Natalie:
The cove is a moment nearing paradise. All around, the craggy cliffs reach towards the sea and frame the water that rolls with the tide. The blueness of the sky reflects off the crystal water to create a seafoam blue approaching green which carries in the white bubbles that stir near my toes. All the shore is lined with pebbles and white-washed rocks some covered with green seaweed tendrils yet most clean, shining from their place. Out in the cove, the yachts and fishing boats rest, occasionally bobbing when a wave pulls in with power. Above the seagulls draw patterns in the sky not thinking of their landing place, but rather glorifying in their flight. The sun which glows across the landscape casts reflecting rays on every surface. In sunshine, the water glistens like a thousand flickering lights and the rocks shine as marble. All around the world is alive and one can only wonder what lies beyond these walls?

Paige:
Yet, this question seems too broad to even answer, for there will always be walls, whether you are standing within city gates or laying on a blanket in a lawn surrounded by a picket fence. When surrounded by these barriers we always seem to ask, "what lies beyond these walls?" Well, everything does. Beyond a fence lies a neighborhood, then a city with people, then a country and it continues until the universe is reached. We never seem to ask, "what lies within these walls?" Yet, we can never hope to answer the first question if we cannot answer the latter.

And for the second set:

Paige:
The walk turned from three miles to six which on a normal day would have been an annoyance. However, the soft green meadows surrounded by thick forest was a worthwhile setting. We reached the cobblestone town, winding past window shops and flower baskets. After rounding a corner I could see the poet's Abbey, the stone worn like the others I had seen. The outer view was grand but walking through the archways brought a greater sense of awe. The green, earthy floor scattered with daisies provided a striking contrast to the grayish-brown structure. The abbey seemed more massive at this angle. From the outside, the abbey seemed to have a roof. From the inside, the sky was the shelter.

Natalie:
It seems strange that a set of ruins or a green meadow can embody a change of perspective, yet that's exactly what had happened. What is it that moves us when a long hike becomes a pleasant trek or an old ruin a liberating edifice. I think it comes down to where we stand. A mathematician finds beauty in angles, a painter in contrasting perceptions. But as a writer, it all comes down to perspective. What are words but the representation of perspective, the mirror which reveals where we stand? When we stand in contemplation an arduous hike becomes worthwhile interaction with nature. When we stand in amazement the sky becomes the limitless bounds to the aged walls that seem to have forever stood. Much like a roofless abbey, our inspiration will always be dependent on our perspective.

-Natalie Cherie

Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân

Hello! I'm back once again and after a week of being without WiFi, my blog is about to get loaded with posts. That's a slight exaggeration but we're going for at least two or three. :) So the past week has been spent in different parts of Wales and England. This post focuses mainly on my feeling for Wales (via poetry) but I also visited the Roman Baths and the Jane Austen Museum in Bath, England, and St. Briavels Castle (the second most haunted castle in England), as well as Lulworth Cove. I'll tell you more about the cove in the next post. 

So just to start out with some pictures here are three entirely different captured moments of the week. The first is a beautiful piece of countryside in England as we hiked six miles to William Wordsworth's Tintern Abbey. 

The second is me on a travelator in Merthyr Tydfil, Wales. It's just like an escalator but with no steps! It's just a huge ramp and it's super cool. :) I'm not going to lie, Paige, Hannah, and I played on it, running up and down like we were five. Good times :) Also, Merthyr Tydfil was actually originally a mining town which I thought was cool. 

And finally, this last one is of the Roman Baths. Lining the terrace are statues of the Roman Emperors, including Hadrian (built Hadrian's Wall to keep out the "savage" celts), Julius Caesar, and Constantine. The water, now green, became so after the disintegration of the roof. The water flows from a natural spring and the Bath though great becomes even more significant in that it is also the Temple of Sulis Minerva. Sulis, a goddess of the natives became merged with the Roman Goddess Minerva after the Romans arrived. She is a goddess of wisdom and healing which seems appropriate due to the Bath's reputation of having restorative powers. What I found most impressive was that the pool is still intact. Though green the water is kept in the pool because it remains watertight, after almost 2,000 years, because of the immense craftsmanship of the lead workers who lined the pool. 

Anyway, I'm still working on the second half of my current essay so here's some light projects of mine in the meantime. Many of my ancestors on my mother's side are from Wales so I felt especially akin to the area so here is a poem I wrote about Wales. 

p.s. the translation and pronunciation are at the bottom. :)

Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân

The fairyland, thy place lies amongst purple flowers,

Which hover as wings along the mossy hills.

I tread lightly. My boots which carried me through Britain

Now contrast their dark and supple leather against the picturesque dell.

The mists which coast the Brecon Beacons 

And lay among enchanted tangled trees, 

All create this calm array of color 

Which glisten as the raindrops quietly cling 

To the petals of each tiny fairy flower, 

Or the pebbles which sink beneath my boots, 

As I glide along the pathway of the fairies 

And drink from the beauty of the view. 

The scene which looks just like a picture, 

Oil-painted, in yellow, purple, green, 

Or the smoke as it rises from a chimney 

Hidden beneath the treetops of these woods. 

The forest standing tall in strict formation, 

As I gaze out for miles and miles ahead 

Seem to sing out a long forgotten love song 

In remembrance of their resting sacred dead. 

What moves me in these tiny purple flowers, 

Which float above the grasses and the dew? 

Or the flocks which dot the lingering hillsides 

And graze upon the fairyland in Cymru? 

Oh move amongst thy sheep oh gentle Shepherd 

And tell me were you once my distant kin? 

And did you sing the strains of a sad Welsh love song, 

With the fairies as your only accompaniment? 

May it be that a home which never having seen,

Pulls the ties of my heart from this place?

Will the sweet songs of small purple flowers,

Keep my soul in their immortal, fairy'ed space?

Though I go I will ever wish to wander,

Ore the hills that I tread and nurtured long.

From this land to a love that's even dearer,

Unto the West, I will take with me this song.

May I float among the tops of the forest,

Oh, Cymru.

May I glide with the mist and the rain,

Gwlad y Gân.

And find rest in the fairy'ed, purple flowers,

Fy Cymru.

Home to me, Gwlad y Gân, Fy Cymru.

*Welsh Pronunciations and Translations

     Fy Cymru: V-ee Come-ree

     Gwlad y Gân: goo-thlad uh gahn

     Fy Cymru, Gwlad y Gân: My Wales, the land of song

-Natalie Cherie

The Honeysuckle Bush

So after my last post which could be interpreted as me bashing the uninspiring landscape, I'd like to share a little bit of my nature-loving side. For example, I'm an incessant flower picker. Sorry lovely gardens! But I love pressing flowers.

Also, I like taking pictures of nature, for instance, these pictures of flowers from Wordsworth's garden or this cute bunny in Beatrix Potter's garden. Anyway, there is a little proof for you. :)

So anyway, Dan (my other director) is our Romantic and Literature Professor while Pat is the Essayist and Travel Writer. Anyway, Dan is very very passionate and he loves bringing us into the world he adores. The other day he did this by having us write Wordsworthian poems. Once upon a time Wordsworth, upon the urging of his friend Coleridge, wrote down his personal process in writing a poem. So  Dan shared that process with us and gave us 20 minutes to write whatever came to mind. After the time ran out we each shared and snapped for each other and felt validated. It was great. The main thing we were supposed to do was go far back into our childhood and make the setting Nature. So I wrote an entire ten stanza poem in the 20 minutes only to realize that it wasn't set in nature. So in five minutes I scribbled down an entirely new idea and finished as it became my turn. So here is my spur of the moment poem. Enjoy.

The Honeysuckle Bush

I remember we'd hide among the honeysuckles,

Licking the sugar-coated dew.

It was our magical escape.

It was always warm when we'd go there,

In a few more ways than one.

But that is no matter.

For our honeysuckle bush was our magical land,
where leaves became teacups.

My sister had a good imagination.

But I could never quite forget the crying,

Of my mom and daddy inside.

I wish they had a honeysuckle bush too.

-Natalie Cherie

When Now Unstiches Then

Two weeks ago I decided I was going to become an essayist. Why? Because I started reading The Rings of Saturn by W.G. Sebald. To be perfectly honest, this novel (or series of 10 essays) are rather confusing, initially, I found them meaningless, and overall a difficult and uninspiring read. And then I took a second look. Within the pages of an unsettled and shifting conscious I found the remnants and threads of a truly beautiful experience. But perhaps just as important I found myself in the words and mind of a human being I didn't know. Someone who expressed the reason I write.

“But the fact is that writing is the only way in which I am able to cope with the memories which overwhelm me so frequently and so unexpectedly. If they remained locked away, they would become heavier and heavier as time went on, so that in the end I would succumb under their mounting weight. Memories lie slumbering within us for months and years, quietly proliferating, until they are woken by some trifle and in some strange way blind us to life. How often this has caused me to feel that my memories, and the labours expended in writing them down are all part of the same humiliating and, at bottom, contemptible business! And yet, what would we be without memories? We would not be capable of ordering even the simplest thoughts, the most sensitive heart would lose the ability to show affection, our existence would be a mere never-ending chain of meaningless moments, and there would not be the faintest trace of a past.” 

-W.G. Sebald

Later I began to read some essays from On the Shoreline of Knowledge by Chris Arthur. Once again I found a confusing, seemingly meaningless representation of the wanderings of a human mind. But then I was instructed to find a poem in the words. Kind of weird, but this is what I found.

When Now Unstiches Then and is in Turn Undone

When Now un-stitches Then,
This harpoon from the past-
Sharp, pointed, barbed-
Carries with it a reminder that everything we do
Is transient, mutable; that memory's sarcophagi
Are buried in the sands of change;
That the moments which we colonize now,
Our perceptions, our fragile present,
Are already marked with obliteration.

[But,] I know- with a certainty
That outweighs the most cherished particularities of memory-
That I should welcome anything that helps
Attune the ear to time's complex harmonies.
Google may have made once stable images
Come crashing down,
But in the sound of their falling, I can hear
More acutely than in any monotone of static preservation
The Elusive voices of the moments we inhabit.

And that's what it's all about. I've often sat down an wondered where I would find my own meaningful existence. Perhaps in leaving behind a legacy, but would anyone read it. Besides what are words if not read, or understood. Words for the sake of words like Art for the sake of art? No one liked that movement anyway. Okay, it's a gross generalization but what are ink stains and pen scratches when the mocking corrosion of time will all too soon wipe it away? Perhaps this is nothing but the existential crisis of a writer. You see in less than two weeks I'm headed to England, Scotland, and Wales to backpack 200 miles across the countryside.  I'm traveling across an ocean to feel the presence of past lives and the hear past voices. But after the cathedrals crumble, the gardens hedge and hide their secrets and thoughts, and the shores erode their pathways will the word endure. Will a garden and misty morning inspire the words of William Wordsworth when all is gone:

THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream.	5
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

Or will that too fade?

So back to the original question: Why become an essayist when continually faced with such a crisis? Because where Wordsworth is the truth so also are the words of Ulysses by Lord Alfred Tennyson saying, 

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

So when I also, like John Keats, have "fears that I may cease to be, before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain," I simply remember that this is my meaningful existence. To write down the story that I have to share, regardless of who opens its pages. And "through living roots [that] awaken in my head, [though] I've no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb, the squat pen rests. I'll dig with it." -Seamus Heaney

The other day as I was walking, surrounded by busy students, I myself found a rushing figure in my own person. I was heading to work. And then it stopped. Or began. A gust of wind, before pleasant, had swept away dozens of loose leaf papers from the hands of a stunned young woman. Before the blinking moment, they were slipping across the concrete like lifeless butterflies caught on a harsh breeze. A moment passed and suddenly twenty bodies, before moving in a chaotic, self-absorbed direction, all turned to chase the sheets that held meaningless words. Yet, somehow precious. I myself began to chase down papers succeeding in trapping only two sheets. But, somehow on her face, I saw the meaning of meaningless words. Somehow in our task, I had found my answer. Though now unstitches then and is in turn undone, perhaps I can somehow make something out of nothing . . . something worth chasing after.

-Natalie Cherie

Without a Name (Another Short Story)

As the sun set they first awoke. Looking around, the two girls began to realize there was no way out. What had happened?

Flashback 20 hours ago. Sitting inside a big house (at least the biggest they'd ever been in) they'd just been taken from their hiding place.

Flashback a week. One little girl had just been spoken for by a 52-year-old man. Not as bad as it could have been economically speaking; he had paid very well. This little Indian girl was only nine.

Flashback three days. Terrified the nine-year-old and her twelve-year-old sister decided to run away. Not wanting to leave the family destitute they took nothing. And in order to stay hidden from the imminent search parties, they only walked and wandered at night. But with no destination or food, they couldn't be expected to make it far. And they didn't. A day and a half later the twelve-year-old crawls down from a tree, their secret sleeping place, and begins to dig through the nearest garbage bin for food. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, she found some old . . . well, it was something edible and takes her prize back up the tree to her nine-year-old fugitive. But soon the stomach cramps start. Next rolls in overwhelming nausea and soon neither have enough strength to remain in the tree. Slowly they crawl, almost falling, into a nearby bush, but they've been noticed. The man had sent out a search party to collect his prize, after all, he had already paid, and the wedding was in two days. Unfortunately, they were sicker than he'd hoped but on the side of fortune, he had acquired two for the price of one.

Flash forward. Just opening her eyes, the nine-year-old felt exhausted and disoriented. On first seeing her sister she feels like all must have been a dream. She's not been sold into an arranged marriage fetching a high price for her . . . virginity? "Is that what they call it again?" But then she sees the man's silhouette. Her heart sinks but not much before it's traded for panic. Soon strange smelling women scoop her and her still unconscious sister off of the ground. They replace her tattered shawls with colorful veils, slippers, and a Kurti. They paint her in the foul-smelling mud until she's nothing but a mesh of alluring designs. But the worst part was when the hot needles and chains began to pierce her nose and ears. By this time her sister had awoken but they had quickly taken her away, so the nine-year-old was left alone, simply waiting for the night to arrive. Surrounded by brass statues and carpets she suddenly felt very alone. But she had no tears left, so instead, she begins to speak, what we would call praying. She'd heard of a God once and thought maybe he or she (she didn't really know which) would listen. Maybe he would even know her name . . . nobody else seemed to or didn't care to use it. But maybe he or she would. She sat very still and looked up at the ceiling, trying to see up to where God was. Playing with her hands she didn't know what to say, so in a little voice she said the only thing she could think of, "Please, God . . . sir, just don't let it hurt."

-Natalie Cherie

The Exceptional Question of 11:11

My mind froze. I stared at the open box at the most beautiful pearl ring I'd ever seen and . . . nothing, I had simply forgotten how to use words. After what seemed like an internal eternity, I breathed out a faint "What?" (Poor guy, you should have seen his face), but never fear I quickly stuttered out an "I, I mean yes. Yes, I'll marry you! Yes." And then amidst near tears and overwhelming surprise, I did the only thing I could think of to do, I held out my ring finger. And with the ring in place, I kissed the man I love more than even I can understand.  Here's the short version: I'm engaged.

Now here's the good version. :)

When I was ten years old I walked into my elementary library and saw a book. It was called, "Campbell's Chicken Soup for the Soul" and for some reason, I decided that this last name was quite possibly the coolest and most necessary last name . . . at least for me. ;) Wish #1

When I was twelve years old I discovered an uncanny ability I had to, by accident I assure you, eavesdrop on nearly every important conversation not meant for my ears. I never meant to but I didn't really mind either. Needless to say, I've never been successfully surprised, and I determined I never would be. Goal #1

When I was fourteen I was laying on my bed under the light of the moon, streaming in through my window. McKenzie was in her bed next to me and we thought that perhaps the day would never come that we would leave and go to college, of course, we'd never get married, and then as we grew quiet, each knowing it wasn't true, wondered how would it be? And for the first time, I wished I knew who he was. Wish #2

When I was eighteen I left for college. I also decided that if I ever got married it wouldn't be till at least 24 and he'd have to be "something else" to persuade me to such an awful fate. Nope, I wouldn't get married, at least no time soon. "Goal" #2

October of my freshman year of college I met a boy named Spencer Luke Campbell and he changed my life.

You see, I've always pictured myself as relatively practical. I set goals and I achieve them. Simple as that. But let's be honest I don't just set goals, I also wish on every evening star,  twice a day on 11:11, and I have always dreamed of true love. So after countless wishes, months of not dating the boy I was in love with (for that story see "A Continuing Story"), coming to terms with my heart, and then waiting as the distance between me and Jerusalem remained insurmountable, I decided that this boy with the right last name, not to mention my best friend, was the man I loved with all my heart, so I began wishing.

I remember Spencer would make jokes about my wishes, ensuring me they couldn't come true if I never told anyone. But to no avail, I wouldn't tell him my wish, as I'm sure you understand why. Well one day he, to my surprise, made a wish on 11:11. But refusing to tell me his wish successfully bartered the secret of his wish for mine. It was quite unfair, but I agreed and discovered that he'd simply wished that he could make my day better. Let's just say he got the better end of the deal. So I told him I wished that he would propose over Christmas.

Time passed. We went to his home in Prescott, Arizona for Christmas Break and life went on as usual. I got to know his family, we sang in the choir, climbed roofs, explored tunnels, watched movies, played games, we read Narnia every night before bed, and I even suffered through a migraine. I answered what felt like countless questions as to whether or not I was Spencer's wife or fiance and I waited. Soon the Christmas Day festivities were over and the day began to draw to a close. I had already had a few close calls, opening my present from Spencer (a piano puzzle box), and being nearly sure it would be a ring, or slowly closing the bathroom door so I couldn't overhear his dad talk about Spencer's plans to propose. But soon it was night time and as I began thinking about school, my family, and my job I became overwhelmed and forgot all about my hopes that he would propose.

As usual, Spencer came in to read, but this night we read "Rabbi Ben Ezra" by Robert Browning. These were the first lines I read,

"Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith "A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

As I read I wished in my soul that I could be his forever, but it was too late tonight, there was no way he was going to propose. And I refused to bring it up, I already had so many times I promised myself I wouldn't again. So when he asked me what I was thinking I decided to talk about my concerns with school instead of my wish. Long story made short, I talked for the next two hours. It's in my nature to talk a lot, especially when there's something on my mind, and soon our conversation came to a head. I couldn't decide whether or not to drop my Folk Dance class. I really didn't have room or time and I really did want to explore other types of dance, but I couldn't seem to drop it because I wanted to be really good at and very much a part of something. It really comes down to being exceptional. I refer to it as the pangs of mediocrity. I love nearly everything and find success in many things, but I've never invested all my time into one thing, so now I was feeling as though I was drowning in a sea of mediocrity. In surprise, Spencer asked me how I could not feel as though I was exceptional. He simply viewed me through an opposite lens. I labeled his assertions as "biased" but he patiently persisted, until realizing I wouldn't agree he suddenly changed course.
       He quietly said, "Well I think you're exceptional, and isn't it good enough to be an exceptional sister, future mother, and girlfriend?"
       "Well, yes." I replied.
       He remarked on that being an exceptional answer or something, which I quite frankly missed in light of his next question, he looked at me with a gentle intensity I can't really describe. His eyes were soft and light and he said, "Can I ask you an exceptional question?" I slowly nodded. And as he pulled a ring box out of his back pocket I heard, "Natalie, will you marry me?"


-Natalie Cherie

A Continuing Love Story (October 27th)

Yesterday was October 27th, and even though I wish I could have posted this yesterday I would like to take the time now to tell you why October 27th was a day worth remembering. It makes sense that one would hold dear the day that changed their life forever, but it will never cease to amaze me that what changed my life was a simple date. But I guess what's more important was not the date but the man, the man I'll always love. So I decided to share the moment I first fell in love with Spencer. This past summer I did a lot of writing...actually I amend that statement the first couple days of summer I did a lot of writing. In one day I wrote 20,000 words about our love story. Here's the prologue:

             “And that’s how it happened…” I said as I concluded my story. I looked up at him expecting him to be upset or at least a little annoyed at my actions. I mean I felt like he had deserved an explanation and wouldn’t have been surprised at some sort of a rebuke, but with a smile in his voice all he said was, “What are you getting yourself into?” Without a second thought, I burst out with, “A whole lotta great!”

At that, his smile broke through and he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe he thought I was funny, or cute, or something silly, but as he smiled at me I could see contentment. I was glad I could make him smile that way. It was one of my favorites. The kind of smile he gave me when it was obvious how much he adored me, the kind of smile he gave me when I would pray that maybe this time he’d kiss me for the first time…the kind of smile that peered into my very soul and gave wings to the secret dreams of my desperate heart.

And I never looked back.

And this is the beginning of our Continuing Love Story...

Spencer and I had just arrived at the Maesar Building and stepped into the world of "Ghost Stories." There were four rooms and in each was a character that embodied one character trait. Like living ghosts, each obsessed, were hollowed out by, and all consumed by this one idea.  In the first room, the girl was surrounded by clocks and ran around in nervous twitching at each defining tick of the clocks. She was whispering, “Not enough time, not enough time.” And compulsively winding and rewinding each clock. On a chalkboard at the front of the room was a list of things many of us all hope to accomplish before our time runs out.

In another room, the boy was seated at a desk and surrounded by bits of ripped pieces of paper. Each bit of paper had a secret written on it and he seemed to just rock back and forth in the company of a million secrets.

In another room, the girl looked a lot like an Alice in Wonderland. She was in a pretty dusty rose dress and was talking to someone none of us could see. She was surrounded by mirrors and empty picture frames hung from the ceiling. By this point, I was quite confused as to what we, as the audience, were supposed to do. But then out of nowhere, Spencer stepped forward into a picture frame. The girl jumped at his sudden “appearance” and he began to talk to her. He just kept it casual asking how her day was and I think trying to gauge anything about her that he could. At first, I was slightly alarmed not knowing if we were supposed to jump in like he had just done, but then I was impressed because he’d understood and acted. He had just broken down the fourth wall of performance. He eventually came back and after a minute he nudged me to walk up. It didn’t really occur to me that I should feel uncomfortable, because if he could do it then I knew I could. So, without a thought, I walked up to a picture frame and waited for her to “notice” me. She acted a little startled, but eventually, she started talking to me. Our conversation didn’t really get anywhere but Spencer says this is where it started.

The last room had a girl standing on a desk. She was dressed in white ripped clothes and she was covered in works scribbled and scratched in black eye-liner. Phrases like, “not guilty,” “I didn’t do it,” and “innocent” covered her arms, face, and clothes. Something about the scene disturbed me but I couldn’t tell what it was.

What was it on her face and in her eyes that pulled at me so much? Somehow I understood her, the feeling of being trapped; searching for escape and solace from my mind and my expectations. Then I noticed a projector with a stack of slides sitting next to it. Without even really meaning to I walked up and put a picture up. She jerked. Then it clicked. She would respond to the pictures! Perhaps I could take the slides and manipulate the meanings, colors, and emotions to get through to her. Much like my own mind, I felt like if I could just work backward fast enough then I could unravel the person behind the mask of her mind.

I proceeded to show her pictures of the blue sky, Ferris wheels, flowers, and strictly avoided the pictures of bars, solemn staring statues, and crosses over graves. I tried to talk to her about anything but I couldn’t seem to break through. In that split second, I didn’t know what to do, I realized it wasn’t about luring her outside of her mind with the “happy things” of the world but rather, showing her that “happy things” can belong in her mind. I know it sounds crazy but I started telling her all the wonderful things she could think about; I started telling her about color.

About a year earlier I remember walking with McKenzie outside and stopping to watch the sunset. It was mostly pink and orange and very lovely but McKenzie was in awe.

“Natalie, Natalie! Look at all the colors!” she cried.

“Yeah, it’s pretty, pink and orange . . .”

“No no no! Don’t you see it? The greens and blues on the edge with a tint of purple on the line of the horizon?”

“Umm…well I really do like the pink and orange…” I said. Honestly, I thought she was crazy but as she explained and got more and more excited I was shocked to realize she actually could see blue, green, and purple where I could only see pink and orange. Well, we went home but that really bugged me for the next month, so every night I’d go watch the sunset and just strain to see the colors she had talked about.

“Natalie, it’s not just a sunset, it’s a painting.” I would hear her say over and over. I tried to imagine a brush stroke or God giddily playing with watercolors and then one sunset it finally clicked. I don’t know what happened but all the sudden I could see the purple, I mean it wasn’t really purple but if I had to duplicate it or move it into my mind I would have to use purple to paint it.

“So color was not a fact but rather in the eye of the beholder?” I remember thinking dumbfounded.

And this is why I was telling this girl about color, of all things. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and color is just one those things that help us define all that is worth seeing and remembering. But being happy for me has always been a three-step process. First, you have to be able to recognize joy. Second, you remember joy. You create a memory to think of when you have no joy to recognize. And third, you find joy in yourself. So I decided to find something about this girl that had beautiful color. Well, I’ve always loved eyes. For me, their like windows to the soul and every fleck reflect the many facets of a person’s existence. And this nameless girl had beautiful eyes.

Looking at her I paused and said, “You know what?”

“What?” she replied hesitantly.

“You have beautiful eyes.”

“Really?” For the first time, her voice fluctuated to a higher pitch.

“Yeah, they have such beautiful color. They’re the color of . . . well . . . you know when there’s a storm on the sea and things have finally come to a calm and the waves have stopped tossing and crashing? Well, there is always a clear sheen of sea foam where the clear blue sky collides with the green undertones of the water and that’s the color of your eyes. Or you know in early springtime when you wake up really early and go on a run and come back and collapse on the wet grass? And out of the corner of your eye, you see the sparkle of dew reflecting the blue sky onto the tender green blades of grass? That’s the color of your eyes.”

She just looked at me smiling. I was so totally lost in our conversation I actually jumped when Spencer began talking. For the past little while, he’d just been looking at me, watching me interact with this girl. But then he joined in, and I was honestly shocked when he picked up the thread of my thoughts and as though he knew exactly what I was trying to do he began talking, saying the exact words that needed to be said. Weirdly, I felt like he was talking to me, telling me what I’d only wished I could hear. Then, while listening to Spencer, I realized why I’d connected so intensely with this girl. In a strange way I felt just like her; trapped in my mind and weighed down by the unfathomable weight of my expectations.

“But how! How could I guy I’d just met know exactly what to say? How could I come to a theater performance and find a glimpse into my own psychological state?” I racked my thoughts. “How did he know what to say? How?”

             For me, this is where it started. Because without even realizing it I fell in love with a man who knew how to say what no one else could.

 You see it's been a year since that day, and I promise life only gets better. Sometimes life is busy, most often it's difficult, and we learn to become acquainted with the words "C'est la vie." But even so it's always worth it. By taking the time to weave ourselves into someone's story we create a beautiful array of colors in a future of possibilities. And that's what love is, coming to understand that we're not here to escape pain and hardship, we're here to triumph over it. We're not here to waste away in a solitary similitude of apparent spiritual elevation, we're here to live. We're here to marvel and wonder and change the world. And we're not here to do it alone. We're here to love. And as my life keeps turning and I keep trying I'll never stop loving, because from the first moment I met him I knew that Spencer was a man I could love forever.

-Natalie Cherie