"She was so down, look at her now..."
"I had my rock, I had my roll, but I couldn't find the spark..."
It's always interesting when a song you've never really listened to pops up on your iTunes and says what you are feeling. Spoooooky. Ah well. It has reassured me that:
"Everyone knows, give it some time, the clouds will clear the sky..."
I slept a lot today, mostly to avoid thinking about college applications and all of the homework I have to do. When I did think about my college applications, I got a horrible stomachache. I just need to buck up and do it, but it's hard to write when you're aware that every single thing you put down will be highly evaluated. I hardly have the confidence to write my name.
Hey, if anyone would be interested in reading one of my college essays by some wild chance, here it is. Don't worry -- I'm cutting it.
It was Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” that made me wonder whether love for poetry is hereditary. I was sitting in my sister’s kitchen with the phone (I was in Iowa City for five weeks doing Shakespeare with a company of teenagers, and my mother had called to check up on me). “I’ve been reading Whitman,” she said, even though last time I’d talked to her, she’d insisted upon complete indifference towards his poetry. “I just read this one poem, with a part about a child asking about grass and the graves…” I immediately recognized her nebulous description. I had just read that very same poem a few months ago, and it had struck a chord within me as it had her. We both laughed at the coincidence and spent a good half an hour discussing the poem.
It wasn’t until now, as I re-read the poem with my mother in mind, that I realize how, on some level, it reminds me of my relationship with her. Like the child in the poem that asks Whitman “what is the grass?” I am a child tottering up to my mother, throat filled with impregnable questions, hands cupped to catch the wisdom that poured from her mouth. My mother didn’t simply answer my questions. She taught me how to answer them myself, how to let them grow like bellows on a fire and how to find questions in everything. In short, she influenced me by teaching me how to look at the world through the eyes of a poet. Question, interpret, explore beyond the surface of things…that’s the poetry I see in my mother, and because of her, in myself. I saw poetry when she organized an Iraq war protest at our courthouse, I saw poetry when she fought for our new library…I even see poetry when she’s yelling at the radio, cursing some politician for being a hypocrite or a war mongrel, or when she’s making sure that everyone’s well fed, comfortable and happy.
The qualities that I love in my mother, I am, to my delight, beginning to see in myself. With my mother’s energy and involvement guiding me, I’ve become passionate about many things. This will be the first presidential election in which I’ll be able to vote, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I have been working weekly at our local Barack Obama campaign office, making phone calls and helping bring politics into high school discussions. I love feeling like I’m making a difference, however small. I’ve influenced my mother in a small way as well - after months of harassment, she’s decided to support Obama!
Some of my mother’s influences have been big; others are as small as my reaction to the radio. Now when I turn on NPR in the mornings, I don’t just passively listen, I join in the conversation, questioning what everyone’s saying. I try to fight for what I believe, even when met with fierce opposition, which often happens as a pacifist in a violence driven society. I work hard at school, and when I commit to something, I really commit. And I read poetry when I’m feeling lost or miserable or completely at peace. All of these things are immensely valuable to me, and for those things, I have my mother to thank. But I’m not done yet. I am still growing and changing, but in all that uncertainty, I’m secure in the knowledge that my mother will always be a beacon to which I may look. A poem by which I can be inspired.
In other news, I'm happy that all these people are dating and what not, but man! Am I the only person who doesn't have a boyfriend for the lonely, depressing holidays? It's funny, however, because I don't even want a boyfriend. I've tried that. A few times. And it mostly just ended in disaster, or at least, it just ended. I mostly just want this:
When we finally kiss goodnight,
How I hate going out in the storm,
But if you really hold me tight,
All the home I'll be warm!
Stupid Christmas songs. I thought they were supposed to be happy. More like mocking and in-your-face. Sorry. I'm really not that bent out of shape about it tonight, but I was before. "Let It Snow" really is a bitch. I'm just going to stick with my lame dance music. Although sometimes my lame moves make me a little depressed as well. :) I'm going to go now and read about Nelson's Trafalgar. (Why does that sound dirty?) I randomly picked this book off the shelf because it's very pretty and new looking, and I think it'll be fun to read. More fun that sitting in my blanket-tent on the couch and trying to tell myself over and over that there is "nothing outside of this, nothing outside of this..."
It's always interesting when a song you've never really listened to pops up on your iTunes and says what you are feeling. Spoooooky. Ah well. It has reassured me that:
"Everyone knows, give it some time, the clouds will clear the sky..."
I slept a lot today, mostly to avoid thinking about college applications and all of the homework I have to do. When I did think about my college applications, I got a horrible stomachache. I just need to buck up and do it, but it's hard to write when you're aware that every single thing you put down will be highly evaluated. I hardly have the confidence to write my name.
Hey, if anyone would be interested in reading one of my college essays by some wild chance, here it is. Don't worry -- I'm cutting it.
It was Walt Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass” that made me wonder whether love for poetry is hereditary. I was sitting in my sister’s kitchen with the phone (I was in Iowa City for five weeks doing Shakespeare with a company of teenagers, and my mother had called to check up on me). “I’ve been reading Whitman,” she said, even though last time I’d talked to her, she’d insisted upon complete indifference towards his poetry. “I just read this one poem, with a part about a child asking about grass and the graves…” I immediately recognized her nebulous description. I had just read that very same poem a few months ago, and it had struck a chord within me as it had her. We both laughed at the coincidence and spent a good half an hour discussing the poem.
It wasn’t until now, as I re-read the poem with my mother in mind, that I realize how, on some level, it reminds me of my relationship with her. Like the child in the poem that asks Whitman “what is the grass?” I am a child tottering up to my mother, throat filled with impregnable questions, hands cupped to catch the wisdom that poured from her mouth. My mother didn’t simply answer my questions. She taught me how to answer them myself, how to let them grow like bellows on a fire and how to find questions in everything. In short, she influenced me by teaching me how to look at the world through the eyes of a poet. Question, interpret, explore beyond the surface of things…that’s the poetry I see in my mother, and because of her, in myself. I saw poetry when she organized an Iraq war protest at our courthouse, I saw poetry when she fought for our new library…I even see poetry when she’s yelling at the radio, cursing some politician for being a hypocrite or a war mongrel, or when she’s making sure that everyone’s well fed, comfortable and happy.
The qualities that I love in my mother, I am, to my delight, beginning to see in myself. With my mother’s energy and involvement guiding me, I’ve become passionate about many things. This will be the first presidential election in which I’ll be able to vote, and I take that responsibility very seriously. I have been working weekly at our local Barack Obama campaign office, making phone calls and helping bring politics into high school discussions. I love feeling like I’m making a difference, however small. I’ve influenced my mother in a small way as well - after months of harassment, she’s decided to support Obama!
Some of my mother’s influences have been big; others are as small as my reaction to the radio. Now when I turn on NPR in the mornings, I don’t just passively listen, I join in the conversation, questioning what everyone’s saying. I try to fight for what I believe, even when met with fierce opposition, which often happens as a pacifist in a violence driven society. I work hard at school, and when I commit to something, I really commit. And I read poetry when I’m feeling lost or miserable or completely at peace. All of these things are immensely valuable to me, and for those things, I have my mother to thank. But I’m not done yet. I am still growing and changing, but in all that uncertainty, I’m secure in the knowledge that my mother will always be a beacon to which I may look. A poem by which I can be inspired.
In other news, I'm happy that all these people are dating and what not, but man! Am I the only person who doesn't have a boyfriend for the lonely, depressing holidays? It's funny, however, because I don't even want a boyfriend. I've tried that. A few times. And it mostly just ended in disaster, or at least, it just ended. I mostly just want this:
When we finally kiss goodnight,
How I hate going out in the storm,
But if you really hold me tight,
All the home I'll be warm!
Stupid Christmas songs. I thought they were supposed to be happy. More like mocking and in-your-face. Sorry. I'm really not that bent out of shape about it tonight, but I was before. "Let It Snow" really is a bitch. I'm just going to stick with my lame dance music. Although sometimes my lame moves make me a little depressed as well. :) I'm going to go now and read about Nelson's Trafalgar. (Why does that sound dirty?) I randomly picked this book off the shelf because it's very pretty and new looking, and I think it'll be fun to read. More fun that sitting in my blanket-tent on the couch and trying to tell myself over and over that there is "nothing outside of this, nothing outside of this..."