12.30.2010
I'm Okay 'Cause You're Okay
Today, I looked at pictures of you from before we loved each other. Your face was younger then, but your eyes are softer now. I’d like to think I did that.
12.21.2010
CHANGE IS USUALLY SCARY BUT SOMETIMES IT CAN BE BEAUTIFUL
Tonight I visited my best friend at her parents' house, because she and her husband are home for the holidays. We lay in her bed where we used to spend nights eating raw potatoes and Kraft singles under blankets in the dark, whispering made-up stories and little girl wishes to each other. But tonight there was her chubby bubbling four-month-old boy between us; instead of eating we were holding tiny fingers and toes, and instead of telling stories we were whispering beauty and love into small deserving ears.
12.17.2010
12.13.2010
Chick Litz
There are some good things happening, and I'm so excited to be a part of it all. Some friends and I are starting a blog stemming from a chapbook we're all doing together. Our name: Chick Litz. Check out our blog and get excited. Each of us have a day of the week, so there will be new content every night for you to read and love. My day is Friday.
I'm so happy to be involved in all of this and surrounded by all the talent these girls possess. I know this will be a bonding experience for all of us that will help us grow as people and as writers. Most of all, it will be awesome for you as a reader, because man oh man can these girls write. They tame words like wild horses, while still understanding that their beauty lies in freedom. Also, they make hilarious jokes that will make you laugh so hard you spit out your coke. This is going to be good.
http://chicklitz.wordpress.com/
I'm so happy to be involved in all of this and surrounded by all the talent these girls possess. I know this will be a bonding experience for all of us that will help us grow as people and as writers. Most of all, it will be awesome for you as a reader, because man oh man can these girls write. They tame words like wild horses, while still understanding that their beauty lies in freedom. Also, they make hilarious jokes that will make you laugh so hard you spit out your coke. This is going to be good.
http://chicklitz.wordpress.com/
12.11.2010
Update?
I haven't posted on here in far too long. So much has happened this summer/ semester, but I'll leave that for another post. For now, here's one of my most recent non-fiction essays.
“She’s here by the grace of God,” my mother said.
Or maybe it was supposed to be about how she packed food into her little backpack because she was constantly afraid she wouldn’t get enough to eat. Maybe it should have been about how we caught her behind the couch with a stick of butter— twice. Or perhaps the day she sat in my closet and chewed an entire box of bubblegum. Maybe this was about her curiosity, her hunger for the world—to taste everything, hold food in her mouth and explore its flavor and texture. She was not heavy, only healthy— not skinny, but perfect.
Or maybe it was about something different entirely: she was the surviving twin; doting, loving, never stop loving; she was happy, she made me happy. This is not about (was never about) the morning Grace cried in the tub-— three years old, tears mixing with bathwater—because she wanted to be as skinny as her sisters.
Grace
This was supposed to be about my sister’s pink chubby toes on the day she was born. It was supposed to be about how her hair grew in, but she looked like she was balding—everything on the sides, nothing on top. It was supposed to be about how those wisps of downy hair turned into Shirley Temple curls that bounced with her Buddha belly when she laughed. She laughed—more than me or my mother or father. She shared her sippy cups with our dog. (I sip; you lick; I sip.) She kissed my face when I cried, and stroked my hair with her baby hands. Those hands, with doll-like dimples where her fingers connected to her palms. This was supposed to be about the child of my mother’s “old age.” Let’s name her Mary Jo. No. Grace.“She’s here by the grace of God,” my mother said.
Or maybe it was supposed to be about how she packed food into her little backpack because she was constantly afraid she wouldn’t get enough to eat. Maybe it should have been about how we caught her behind the couch with a stick of butter— twice. Or perhaps the day she sat in my closet and chewed an entire box of bubblegum. Maybe this was about her curiosity, her hunger for the world—to taste everything, hold food in her mouth and explore its flavor and texture. She was not heavy, only healthy— not skinny, but perfect.
Or maybe it was about something different entirely: she was the surviving twin; doting, loving, never stop loving; she was happy, she made me happy. This is not about (was never about) the morning Grace cried in the tub-— three years old, tears mixing with bathwater—because she wanted to be as skinny as her sisters.
4.02.2010
love.
I don't know how long it's going to take me before I actually come to terms with how awesome God is. I feel like I just forget all the time and then I have moments where my mind is blown because I'm just like "damn God, you really have it together." And I know quite a few people who really don't believe in God and I can understand the thinking behind their skepticism, but I feel like for me, even if I wanted to denounce his existence I couldn't. at all, ever. Even on those days when God's like "ok Abby, just do things this way" and I'm like "no way God, you obviously don't understand my plan and the way I need to do things." and hes like "no really just do it like this." and im like "no really, go away." and hes like "no really, i wont". and im like "whatever." and then 5 days later I wonder why I'm so overwhelmed or anxious or worried and then I'm like"ok God, well maybe you were right. and hes like "every time, baby, every time." That conversation has never actually taken place between me and God but I wish it would.
Through the 20+ years I've been living, I've come to realize how personal everyone's faith is and it's because everyone has such different relationships with God. Whether it's defined by daily Bible readings or a special prayer routine-everyone has something different. When I was nine it consisted of me praying every night that my eyesight would miraculously be healed just like Jesus healed the eyes of the blind. Except I wasn't blind I just had glasses- but I wanted to open my eyes one morning and have perfect vision. Also, I prayed for braces, which is weird, and thankfully that never panned out. But now, it will always be those times, like today, that I break down, spill everything that's been bothering me or weighing me down or stressing me out, and tell God all the things he already knows but is just waiting for me to say. and it always ends up the same way- with me completely overwhelming myself with emotion because until I started talking about it out loud, I didn't realize everything that was pent up inside of me. And then when I feel myself spiraling closer to rambling than prayer, I ask for peace. Just any type of comfort that will calm me down, because I've worked myself into an emotional frenzy. And then it comes. A warm calm flowing through every vein, touching every organ, every inch of skin, every hair follicle on my body, pulsing peace into my heart. And that feeling, better than any worldy substance could ever offer, is how I know that my God does exist. He's always there, quiet with his words (or rather I'm too loud with mine and have selective hearing),just waiting for me to crawl to him on my knees, always ready to soothe, ready to comfort, ready to love love love.
Through the 20+ years I've been living, I've come to realize how personal everyone's faith is and it's because everyone has such different relationships with God. Whether it's defined by daily Bible readings or a special prayer routine-everyone has something different. When I was nine it consisted of me praying every night that my eyesight would miraculously be healed just like Jesus healed the eyes of the blind. Except I wasn't blind I just had glasses- but I wanted to open my eyes one morning and have perfect vision. Also, I prayed for braces, which is weird, and thankfully that never panned out. But now, it will always be those times, like today, that I break down, spill everything that's been bothering me or weighing me down or stressing me out, and tell God all the things he already knows but is just waiting for me to say. and it always ends up the same way- with me completely overwhelming myself with emotion because until I started talking about it out loud, I didn't realize everything that was pent up inside of me. And then when I feel myself spiraling closer to rambling than prayer, I ask for peace. Just any type of comfort that will calm me down, because I've worked myself into an emotional frenzy. And then it comes. A warm calm flowing through every vein, touching every organ, every inch of skin, every hair follicle on my body, pulsing peace into my heart. And that feeling, better than any worldy substance could ever offer, is how I know that my God does exist. He's always there, quiet with his words (or rather I'm too loud with mine and have selective hearing),just waiting for me to crawl to him on my knees, always ready to soothe, ready to comfort, ready to love love love.
3.19.2010
this is not who we are.
"Because men with hard faces do violent things, because fanaticism seizes and shrinks minds, is no reason for the rest of us to abandon our song."
mmmmm. That's a quote from this beautiful short story I read entitled This Is Not Who We Are by Naomi Shihab Nye. It's an Arab-American woman's memoir, expressing her grief over the image her culture has impressed on people's minds. Though I am not Middle Eastern, I can see how the people of those countries would feel sorrow for their cultures during these times. Too often we judge an entire country or group of people by their government or the fanatics. We forget about the simple men and women who do not mean any harm, who only want to live their lives in peace. The author states, "I am simply an Arab American in deep need of cultural uplift to balance the ugliness that has cast a deep shadow over our day" . I've provided a link to the full version of the story below.
http://books.google.com/books?id=wKmKh7slk6wC&pg=PA401&lpg=PA401&dq=this+is+not+who+we+are
In other news, I am now officially a creative writing minor. woohoo!
mmmmm. That's a quote from this beautiful short story I read entitled This Is Not Who We Are by Naomi Shihab Nye. It's an Arab-American woman's memoir, expressing her grief over the image her culture has impressed on people's minds. Though I am not Middle Eastern, I can see how the people of those countries would feel sorrow for their cultures during these times. Too often we judge an entire country or group of people by their government or the fanatics. We forget about the simple men and women who do not mean any harm, who only want to live their lives in peace. The author states, "I am simply an Arab American in deep need of cultural uplift to balance the ugliness that has cast a deep shadow over our day" . I've provided a link to the full version of the story below.
http://books.google.com/books?id=wKmKh7slk6wC&pg=PA401&lpg=PA401&dq=this+is+not+who+we+are
In other news, I am now officially a creative writing minor. woohoo!
3.01.2010
1.20.2010
yes yes yes.
I suppose I love this life, in spite of my clenched fist.
I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble.
This is an excerpt from Andrea Gibson's poem Birthday, For Jen. I can't express how much I love her writing. Just so good.
I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble.
This is an excerpt from Andrea Gibson's poem Birthday, For Jen. I can't express how much I love her writing. Just so good.
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