For the Damned Times I Have to be Self-Righteous

It strikes me that, though I often take the moral high ground when it comes to my interactions with other people, sometimes it is not within my rights to do so. In fact, it struck me harder than I had expected it would. So when my temper flared up, and my baser female need to smear a name in mud took over, I forgot that there was more involved than just me and an adversary. Fortunately, I never truly ever seek to ruin anyone, and I always rescind my flare-ups at some point - I am not quick to form grudges. But it's nice to have someone there to tell me off before I do any real damage, and there really has never been anyone that brave.

Yet I woke up this morning, blissfully unaware of what damage I might be causing, and that was when I received a reality check. My first response, of course, was indignation. How could it possibly be that I was in the wrong? It was all just so plainly black and white: I felt the impulse to stamp my foot and demand that I am always right. For me, however, rationale never takes long to follow, and within moments, I wretchedly had realized the error of my ways, and not without some fussing over. There is no doubt that I tearfully wracked my brain over how I had let myself get that far. I stuck my nose in someone else's business, and despite having been insulted myself, I needed to be the bigger person and let it go.

Patience has never been my strong suit, and I yearn to do justice on the world when those I love are wronged. Yet, some battles are not for me to fight, and I have a hard time accepting that because of my lacking patience and desire for results. I claim to believe in karma and that time will deliver the final judgement, but it's so hard for me to wait for it to happen. And as I act out of my impatience, I risk damaging not only myself but those I care for. And pride would demand that I not make reparations for my injuries, only allow for time to make up for what damage I'd done, the same time that I would have inflict penances on those who've wronged me and mine. I will admit, I am an extremely proud creature - I am Scottish by blood, for what that's worth. The concept of letting time heal is alluring, if only for the sake of keeping my vulnerable side safe from prying eyes.

Know this: no one ever hurt anyone by being humble. And that is my intent, to scrape away years of walls and fortitude to allow myself to be better, to be more deserving of the gifts I'm given, for there are so many. Time may allow me to see over these walls keeping me from being a normal human being. Be that as it may, time could probably use a little push.

Sandra Bullock: My Continuing Inspiration

On a radical whim that only hits me about every six months, give or take, I cleaned my room. I went absolutely crazy. You see, I've never been the type to take on a project and let it lie for the next day. I have to keep going, I have to get as much of it done as humanly possible. In the space of three hours, I filled two thirty-five gallon garbage cans. I filled half of the recycling can. I filled a whole black garbage bag full of Goodwill donations, and then some. I even used the Eiffel Tower bookends my aunt gave me years ago. All I have to do now is file my geology and biology notes in my roller desk (my pride and joy - thanks for that one, Da!) and I shall be done.

While I was rummaging around my desk, I came across a poem I wrote after a bad break-up. If you've ever seen the movie, Practical Magic, you know that when Sally watches her aunts cast a spell for a lovelorn woman, she despairs over the raw power lust can have over the human soul. So, to protect herself from such destruction, she casts a spell so that only one man can ever truly grant her true love: one who has one blue eye and one green eye, who can ride a horse backwards, and other attributes she finds to be totally impossible to find in men. That way, since the man is so impossible, he can never come to be real, and thus she will never have to know the pain of love. Of course, if you've seen this movie, you know how well that works.

However, I was in despair as well. And I had begun to dabble in Wicca myself, without any hope of ever being able to truly perform magic. So, last June, I arranged a few items of magick outside on a blanket, under the summer solstice sun, and I did what I do best. I wrote.

My Practical Magic

I wake up every morning, and there's a space where my eyes light.

Where I sleep on my bed, he leaves one half empty.

That's where he used to lie, and my arms were full.

Once, I used to sleep in the center, warm and guarded,

with distance between me and the edge - I had no fear of falling.

He changed me, and now I cannot see anything but the cliff: nowhere safe.

Though I dare much, and though my heart aches from the solitary weight of ice,

I fear love - I fear the void that left me broken.

An Owens girl once made a pledge, wove a spell, and so do I,

daunted as I am, weave a wish, with rose petals and strands of lavender,

plaited in golden straw for luck, and strewn amongst the rocks for the sparrows

to spread like seeds of wisdom in the wind.

My true love is this:

     he will be remarkably compassionate - caring for God's creatures

     (St. Francis's envy if ever there was one)

     full of steady patience, let him wait in the long grass for my timid heart to come to him.

     his eyes will glitter with vibrant life: sunlight against the brilliant Big Sky,

     and he will know my heart's desire, though I shall never utter a word of it.

     He will carry a lark's tune in his whistle

     as I more quietly carry love in my heart.

     More than anything, he will have an unbridled affection and doubtless respect

     for all things free - including me.

Until such a man should show himself, I wish never to fall in love.

Because, if I do, I am destined for heartbreak.

And so I shall be waiting, my love, for thee, always for thee.

I Wish I Was More of a Genius

When I watch shows like Sherlock or Numb3rs, I'm constantly sitting there asking myself: why can't I be smarter? Not to say that I'm not already smart - I have an IQ at around 140 points (the only reason I know this is because of my tendency to take IQ tests when I'm drunk, so it may not be a completely credible statement). But I yearn to be more intelligent, to understand more, to be able to look at something, to glance at a problem and have the answer ready. I love a good challenge.

I've been told that, due to my love of a challenge, that I have a very combative personality. I love a good argument, some intelligent banter, and, above all, verbal sparring. It isn't precisely an adrenaline rush when I can stump someone with a witty remark, but it comes pretty damn close. Maybe there's something wrong with me; maybe I'm poorly socialized. I prefer to look at it as pushing my limits. I am constantly seeking to prove myself, constantly trying to better my life.

And, like all people who strive to be more intelligent, I neglect my social niceties. I'm awkward and, in my pursuit to exchange knowledge, I forgo finesse for facts. For those who know me, if ever I have offended, please understand that I am not a malicious person. I'm not a snob. I'm simply just too caught up in how the world works to understand how to apply grace to the workings of the world.

That's really all I have today. I just want to make it known that I really love being smart, and I hope that I will somehow, someday, figure out how to be a more tactful person. In the interim, I will sit here and write about  how I'd rather talk about the evolution of aquatic mammals than the latest trend of TV shows. You can revel in the invincibility of a Tyrannosaurus rex with grabber sticks.

It's Raining Again...

As of late, I've been doing a lot of self psychoanalysis. It's not that I've ever taken any psychology courses - God knows I would become the world's biggest pain in the ass as I attempted to diagnose everyone's behavior. I've simply just been asking myself why I do the things that I do.

There are a lot of things in my life that have become unnecessary. Certain places that I used to love to go to, certain habits that I've had, and certain friends are all getting axed, simply because they are no longer relevant. It isn't because I don't cherish the time I have had in those places, doing those things with those people. It is simply that I've gotten to a point in my life where they no longer have a role in shaping my person. They've served their purpose, and it is time to move on. And as I come to that realization that they are no longer relevant, I catch myself wondering: why do I even bother with them anymore?

It is a part of growing up. I have accepted that. But what I cannot accept is that is has to happen so suddenly, and yet so painstakingly slow. Why must it be this way? I suppose it is a part of being human. We must feel pain in order to understand the weight of our decisions.

The Merits of an Adhesive Bandage

Blood red like crimson poppies, the tear in my flesh
drips fresh and warm, passion's ink marks my skin.
A fresh wound in my heart, life's black clouds lingering,
smoking out the fire in my eyes.

Then there you came, and you stuck to me, staunched the flow.
A finger for the crack in the dyke, you slipped in and made a vow to stay
until the flood had been dammed.

Years and years pass on, the stone turns to moss and rubble, and skin
turns anew, pale and nubile, and the world is becoming around me.
The small meek child is transformed, and head held high, I find
I can walk on my own two feet. My confidence is restored.

It is time to pull the bandage off, but it's been a lifetime for me.
The colors have blended, and it has merged into unison,
yet the crust of two differing substances has emerged, sickly and green.
It is time to release, time to pull away the aching finger. Time
to put the bedtime story back in the cupboard, for childhood
has vanished.

I pull on the edge of the strip, knowing its uses,
knowing that it has done so much, knowing that in that time,
it would come to find an end.
The glue bonds to the hairs on my skin, and so stinging is the pain
that erupts from pulling away.
It is slow at first. Slowly comes the first millimeter, and then the next.
Then it picks up speed. All of a sudden, there's a rip - a cursing rush,
why, why did ever I attach you there?
In what world did you ever serve me any purpose?

It is done now. The dam is blocked. The door is closed.
And the scab has fallen away, healed and intact.
All there is left now is a red mark and a few bits of adhesive
that soon shall fade.

My New Year: Putting Things into Perspective

It always amazes me how much we can learn from nature. I've mentioned Rudyard Kipling before when I talked about Bagheera from The Jungle Book, and I truly am quite a fan of the book. It involves so many stories of animals in the wild, to include Mowgli and his friends, but also Rikki-Tikki-Tavi and other famous animals. These stories teach us of bravery, of wisdom, and of kindness, virtues we as humans should not neglect to attend to.

Among the stories in The Jungle Book is The White Seal, a story about a Northern fur seal looking for a new home for his family, a place where they will be safe from hunters. In the beginning of his tale, Kipling starts off with a lullaby, one from a mother seal to her baby.

The Seal Lullaby
by Rudyard Kipling


Oh! hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, O'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Where billow meets billow, there soft by the pillow.
Oh, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, no shark shall overtake thee
Asleep in the storm of slow-swinging seas.

This poem in itself is very endearing, and one can imagine how beautiful such a lullaby could be. In fact, one of my favorite composers, Eric Whitacre, did just that. In the year of 2007, Whitacre composed a choral piece with his wife, titled "The Seal Lullaby", and when I heard it for the first time, I felt my heart break. I will admit: I was a big ball of mushy, sappy goo, all teary eyed and simpering for how much the song touched my heart. It was the poem, but so much more. No longer was it simple endearment. It was a mother's desperate love for her child, a calling and a hushing. It was pure and unadulterated devotion. If ever I had doubted the existence of altruism, all doubt was gone with the song.

I have explained my love for music - well enough anyways, I hope. And listening to any of Whitacre's pieces will make me think. But the existence of something as fundamental and untainted as a mother's love even in something as simple as a fur seal - it catches you by surprise. It makes you wonder. It gives you hope.

I would give you one of my own pieces, but this lullaby is what is in my heart as of now. It is what I hope to bear throughout the rest of the year, this feeling of reassurance. There is so much wrong with the world, but there is still so much good to be had, and to let ourselves forget that is to forget ourselves. There is so little now that is appreciated.

Merry Christmas!

When I was much younger, the tradition at Christmas was to listen to John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together, and more than any other song, it was a lullaby that Mr. Denver sings with Kermit's little nephew, Robin, that I remember most. When the River Meets the Sea is my most treasured song. I sang it to little kids when I was a camp counselor, trying desperately to get them to sleep. I sang it to my baby sister, born when I was fifteen years old. I plan on singing it to my children, whenever it is I end up having them.

The point I'd like to make about this particular song is that it, unlike many of contemporary Christmas music, is about the true joy of Christmas. It is about having that wide-eyed awe of the world that children always seem to have, of looking at the world as if everything in it that is good and beautiful is a miracle. It is about us and about our future, and not the dim, ominous future that we all predict for ourselves, but for the opportunities, for the potential that we all have. Like the rapture we see on our small ones' faces right before they open their presents, the song advocates that we treat our future as a slowly unfolding gift: something that could be anything and everything, something that could make the world a brighter place.

Christmas is about light, and about love, and I do hope you all have a little light in your eyes and a little love in your hearts this Christmas Day. I shall leave you with Robin and John, may he rest in peace, and I do most heartily wish you a very merry Christmas.

Much Love,
Ellie


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOoXTggzoFk

Calling All Musicians!

Music is so incredibly important in our lives. Some might underestimate just how special it is, and they wouldn't be incorrect in assuming that we don't need to be constantly blaring Bieber and Miley Cyrus and whatever else the recording business has cursed us with. The music industry has, as of the last decade, taken our music and turned it into a farce. We no longer hear the music of people who've been working at their art for years and years before we ever heard of them. We are listening to a few lucky morons who either had a lucky break or had enough money to buy their way in to force their whiny, off-key, nasal bullshit on us. Some of us are dumb enough to think, because it is on the radio, that it is actually well produced.

I've been singing since I could read (that's the age of three, for those of you who were wondering), and I've almost dedicated my life to music. Since I was eight, I did every talent show I could, participated in every choir in my school, and I've even been a lead in a musical, though I'm sure few of you have heard of or seen Damn Yankees, so I won't expect you to be too impressed. Regardless, music is a considerable part of my life. You almost never see me go anywhere without my Zune on me, and if I'm in the car, and I'm not in the company of someone I really would rather be talking to, I will have it plugged in to my stereo at full blast. Music is possibly the most liberating outlet I've ever had.

My first sister, called such because I'm the oldest, and she's the next oldest of three sisters I have, had a choir concert last night. She is, unfortunately, not in the show choir, which I had been two years in a row, and neither was she in the jazz choir, but it was still pretty exciting. I was underwhelmed by the soloists, and could have gotten along without much of the jazz choir. But when I got called up as an alumna to sing, both for the jazz choir and for the show choir, as is tradition, I didn't expect it to hit me so hard. For four years, I've waited patiently in the shadows. I haven't even seen a stage since I was seventeen. I figured that if a career in music was what was waiting for me after I left, it would happen to find me. So I didn't pursue it. But singing up there and being a member again of something so big...I've been bitten. I thought I'd never want that again. Yet here I am, wondering and searching for maybe a chance to get out there again, and feel the spotlight.


Curtain Call

Dark before ascension, and there is tension,
anxious thrumming, and wishing for straight thought,
instead of such frantic spurts of worry. Asking why I crave these moments
of strung-out adrenaline is like asking where the Loch Ness monster holds
her court in the waters of Scottish highlands, so I don't.
I shut my eyes, I count to three, and
I take a tender step towards the light, a beacon above me.

Bright, searing, and where it falls makes my destination clear.
The timid child within me pulls me away, to hide in the shadows -
the shadows that conceal my darkest flaws - but the brazen minx
who rears her head in my heart of hearts yearns to prove
she is the dauntless blood-kin of ancient kings.
She feels no fear, and I succumb to my pride.
I enter the limelight.

My voice is the Siren's call, and the thrumming of anxiety
turns into a new thrumming in my song,
a sound of reverence, of love older than the skies.
And slowly, surely as a river, the people below turn from foes
to devotees, and even as they do, they disappear as my heart crescendos.
And as the thunderous crashing of waves comes down on a rocky shore,
the curtain falls as appreciation sounds its last.
Satisfaction comes, a blanket around my shoulders, and after all that,
I feel free.