Sometimes All We Need Is To Know We're Not Alone

 

The following is a lyric from a French song that has been in my head all day and which I have here translated into English:

Au pire on rira ensemble on mangera du kraft dinner, c'est tout ce qu'on a de besoin.

At worst we laugh together we eat Kraft Dinner, that's all we needed.

As this lyric went round and round inside my head it made me think of a very random short story that I wrote when I was fourteen. I have since lost the story, but it was so strongly in my head today that I re-wrote a bit of it.

Do you remember the summer you were afraid of the sun. We never knew why, but one day you just refused to go outside or even anywhere close to the windows. He tried so hard to reason with you, he always thought logic was the best tool. He gave you some powerful sunscreen, he thought that would be enough but it wasn’t. She was the one who said she wouldn’t leave you. If you wanted to spend the whole summer in the basement with the blinds down, that was ok, she would stay down there with you. In the end we brought the beach to you. I remember roasting marshmallows over candles and playing guitar in the dark of your basement. It was just that one summer that you were so afraid. The next year you were ok and we went camping together and those are good memories, but the summer we spent hiding from the sun together will always be one of my favourites.  

I think the reason the Kraft Dinner song by Lisa Leblanc makes me think of this story is because they are both about times when you just don’t know what to do for another person, but at the very least you can just be together and that can sometimes be enough.

  

I am really proud of this even though it probably sucks I don't know what to call it but you should read it

When I was younger there was a man I called uncle who always insisted he was a pirate. I say now that I never believed him, but, every time I say that, I am lying. I believed him with my whole heart. I don’t remember much about that man. He is definitely not technically related to me. He must have been a friend of my parents. I can’t even remember his name, but I remember that he had a glass eye that he could take out but he never would do so in front of me, even though I begged him to. Oh how that eye used to transfix my poor ignorant child mind. The only other thing I remember about this man is that he was an excellent story teller. I must have shelved away most of the stories he told me in the same forgotten and lost file of my brain as the one in which I stored his name, but there is one story that somehow got misplaced into another folder which inadvertently get’s opened from time to time.

This is how that story goes:

Once upon a time there was a town very much like the one that we live in except that it was smaller and that the people in this village all had the same goal, unlike here where no one can ever seem to agree, even about something simple like which is the best breakfast cereal. That goal was to make a song that could always be heard from all around the village. People would wear tap shoes all day long and everyone walked in an odd jaunty way so as to keep the rhythm of the song. When a child passed a fence he or she would slap the bars of the iron gate for added percussion. Pencils tapped on tables, dogs barked in tune, people would stand and wait to slam their car door until just the right moment, and someone, somewhere in the town, was always singing. His or her friends would join in with harmonies, du waps, whistling and hums, but there was only ever one person singing the main song and it was never the same person for more than a few minutes. No one said when they would sing and when they would sleep and when they would be busy brushing their teeth, there was no big schedule, but somehow it always seemed to work out just right that just as a singer felt the need to go do something else another person would suddenly feel the need to sing.

There lived in this town a lovely little boy named Oliver who was eleven years old and had never sung the song, EVER. You see, Oliver HATED the song more than I have ever hated anything ever before in my life (even more than you hate spinach). Oliver hated the song, and he hated the people who sang it. He did not see a point in it all. He was always jabbering on about the need for a point. “Darling” his mother would say at breakfast “your brother is trying to sing. Please dear won’t you bang your spoon in time with him?” “I don’t want rhythm mother!” the boy would yell in fury “I don’t want music! I don’t want beauty! All I want in this whole wide world is for you all to wake up and realise that you don’t make sense! WHY are you singing? There is no point!”

One day poor old Oliver had finally had enough, so do you know what he did? He RAN away. It was hard at first to kiss his baby sister goodbye and think of how he’d never see his brother again as he tripped upon his stupid toy drum, but he would do ANYTHING to get away from that song! Oh how he longed for a beautiful silent place where no one ever sang and everything made sense.

So now what do you think happened to Oliver when he left the village of song? Do you think that he went back because he missed his family or because the silence drove him crazy or do you think he climbed up to a silent mountain where no noise is ever made and lives there still cherishing the silence and looking up at the stars?

Well if you think any of those things, then I regret to inform you that you are wrong because it just so happens that the world he discovered was not silent at all and he never could escape from the song. He heard it everywhere: in the screech of a rusty door hinge and the squeak of an old swing. He heard it in the honking car horns and the laughing children. It got to the place where he could even see the song in the twinkling stars which had an oh so familiar rhythm and the smiling mailman who seemed to breathe out the song from somewhere deep within him.

He could not escape the song and at first that drove him mad. There was a time when he wanted to yell at the top of his lungs every time he encountered it, but that soon passed because before he even realised it was happening he was feeling this odd surge of joy every time he recognised the song. And then one day he suddenly realised that he had been singing the song out loud for quite some time. That is the day that he decided to go back to the home of his childhood.

Well he was so excited to go back that he just danced right into the town singing at the top of his lungs until he suddenly realised that no one else was making music and for one small moment his voice faltered and the song started to die out. Then as he glanced around and noticed that everyone was trudging about their business in the most dejected sort of way something deep within him told him not to stop. He later found out that no one in the town had sung the song once in the last 10 years since he had left. Apparently it had started out slowly enough with one or two people voicing the opinion that the runaway might have had a point, but then before anyone really knew what was happening the whole town had given up their song. Until the day when Oliver returned a grown man and he stood in the middle of the town and, for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend, he kept on singing that song. A few people yelled at him to shut up a couple kids ran over and threw rocks at him, but he kept singing. Then his mother came out of a store and stopped dead in her tracks. She knew immediately that it was him and for a few short minutes she was so shocked she could not move, but then she ran to him and she held his hand and he switched to humming and she took up the song. They walked together down the road towards their house and by the time they finally made it home  someone else was singing and a small child was banging out a rhythm on her neighbours fence while her brother teased her for it and her grandmother looked on and whispered thanks that the song had finally come back again.

Why should you read fiction?

1. It improves empathy - http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/novel-finding-reading-literary-fiction-improves-empathy/

2. Like all sources of entertainment it is a fun escape.

3. It enables one to exercise their imagination (you are given only words. The pictures, feelings, and understanding must be created by you from the tools you are provided with.)

4. It opens you up to a world of information, big words, ideas, perspectives, and experiences in a fun and engaging way.

5. By understanding the story of another, you may come to a better understanding of your own story.

6. A fun story can make you WANT to understand the words on the page and how they are working together to create meaning. If you fall in love with a character you will want to know what the things they say mean and you may start to dig deeper into really understanding a text. THIS is great, this means that by enjoying a good book you are teaching yourself skills of communication and understanding.

Things I find funny: A list of 5 things every English Undergrad student should know

If your undergraduate degree in English literature is anything like mine, here are some helpful things to remember:

1.EVERY binary is a "false dichotomy"

2. There is a metaphor about patriarchy and colonialism in there somewhere, no matter what you are studying.

3. You may have heard it said that English Literature is not about memorising facts but about learning how to read, think, understand, and communicate. FALSE. When you studied this text in seminar your professor made one passing comment about the importance of the shoes being red and he or she will be really mad if you don't write that on the test.

3. Don't EVER say "I" in an essay, for some profs, but for other profs say it ALL THE TIME.

4. That is SO Post Modern! (Don't worry if you don't know what this means it will be explained to you a thousand times if you study any more recent literature)

5. Memorise a definition of the sublime, at some point most of your profs will ask what it is and everyone will shift uncomfortable except for the know it all guy because the rest of us have heard it a thousand times and still find it confusing.

Memories a Great Man

Warning: this is a really long post full of my memories of my dad. I realise this isn't the sort of thing I normally write and most of you probably won't be interested in reading this. I hope you won't mind that I wrote it. These memories have been bouncing around in my head for much too long now. I needed to write them down. It's good practice anyways - I've been trying to enhance my writing skills through practice. I read this book a while back for school that was basically just a collection of the author's memories of his dad. Even though you may not have known my dad, I hope you can relate to the realisation that we need to acknowledge the people who have impacted our lives. Perhaps you can relate to that feeling that memories are as beautiful and ungraspable as the sun through a stained glass window.

I have three memories from the year I was two, but they are all very unclear. It is possible that they are actually formed from stories I heard later about that year. If these do count as my first memories, then my earliest memory of my Dad is from the time I broke my collar bone by falling only a foot out of my bed. Strangely enough, I don't remember the pain, visiting the doctor, or the sling. I only have one random memory of the whole ordeal: the day after my dad came home with a big board, he took it downstairs and cut a notch at either end to create a guard rail for my bed.

My second memory of my dad also has to do with guard rails. When I was three years old we spent a weekend at Niagra Falls and Marine Land. When we were at the falls my sister kept saying she could see something. I can't remember what it was. Maybe it was a boat or a barrel.I was getting so frustrated because I couldn't see it. I climbed up on the wall and was leaning over the short little fence in an attempt to get a better look. My dad started freaking, grabbed the back of my shirt, and told me to get off the wall. He was always there to keep me safe.

My dad always went above and beyond. He woke up at 5 in the morning every day and walked to work no matter what the weather. He would come home at 5 o' clock in the evening, eat dinner, call his mother on the telephone and have a nap until just before bedtime when I would wake him up for "family" time and a quick snack.

 He was a hard working man. He deserved those naps, but he always made time to call his mom and hang out with his kids and his wife. When I used to get sick in the middle of the night my mom (who is my superhero) would wake up and clean my bed up for me. Mom stayed home and cooked and cleaned and homeschooled my sister and I, if she wanted to she could just have us all sleep in the next day but dad had to wake up at 5 o'clock like any other day. He could have just rolled over and let mom deal with it, but he never did. He would come and sit with me while mom cleaned everything up so that I never had to be alone when I was sick.

I remember one day I woke up on a weekday to see my dad standing there. I was so confused, what was dad doing at home on a weekday? And why did his face seem so sad? He told me as gently as he could that our dog had died. He had taken the day off work to go to my grandma's farm with us and dig a grave for the dog. Who puts that much effort into their family?

My dad always came alive on weekends and holidays. He woke up early even on the weekends and I would too. Mum and my sister wanted to sleep in so dad and I were morning buddies. We would drive on our bikes to look for good yard sales to check out with the rest of the family, or we would go out for breakfast together, or to the market to get bacon and apple cider, or maybe to Tim Horton's to get everyone coffee and donuts. On Christmas Eve or the night before we went to the cottage I could never sleep so he would come and hang out with me so that I didn't wake up my mom because she had to drive. We would sit and talk about how exciting the next day would  be until I finally fell asleep.

I've always been socially awkward. I didn't have a lot of friends, but I always had my dad. When I was lonely we'd hang out, maybe get a coke or play catch or kick a soccer ball around. When I got a paper route in a sketchy neighbourhood he would go with me to collect money from the scarier folks on the route and we would make up really silly songs about what we were doing and sing them at the top of our lungs as we walked down the street even though neither of us could carry a tune to save our life.We did everything together, but our favourite thing to do together was fish. Actually, it was dad who loved to fish. I just loved having a chance to talk to him. I always had so many things to say and he was the best listener I have ever known.

I had a really hard time adjusting to public school in high school. I used to come home crying. I got picked on a lot at first, until I had time to make friends and get used to things. My dad always believed in me I remember he used to tell me that if people didn't like me he felt sorry because they were missing out, and I was embarrassed because he was being a dad, but at the same time I could tell he meant it. I thought I was the lamest person in the world. I had this really odd insecurity about my bedroom. I'd seen the bedrooms of other girls' my age. They had blue walls and pictures of twilight, the Jonas Brothers, and/ or Zack Effron. I figured that was normal. My room had pictures I'd painted, old fashioned photographs and paintings I'd bought at yard sales, a collection of little nut crackers, and a board my dad had helped me put nails in when I was younger which held all of my key chain collection. On my dresser their was a drum, a bunch of sea shells, and a bird's nest. I remember when dad came into say goodnight (we had an epic secret handshake) he would look at everything in my room and comment on how cool it was. That always made me really happy.

When I was in high school I went through a sort of agnostic phase. I had a lot of questions about God. I didn't want anyone to pray for me. Dad was always an exception though. I knew he'd be praying for me anyways and I never really minded when he did it out loud. Once when I was 11 I had sat in on a prayer meeting my parents had in our house and I had been so fascinated by my dad's face because he looked like he was actually talking to someone. I remember once, when I was 15 about half a year before he died, someone asked my dad what kind of animal I was like and he said "Well I was going to say monkey but actually I think eagle. I know you have a lot of questions, but I think God will lift you up over those like an eagle on a wind current." That's a random memory but it meant a lot from dad. He wasn't very patient except when he was untangling the tangles I made when fishing. When it came to asking him questions we'd usually get so frustrated with each other that he would yell "Oh, just go ask you're mother" and I would and she'd have an amazing answer for everything. But that one time, about six months before he died, he admitted that my questions were ok, and I've never forgotten that.

My biggest regret is being your average fifteen year old distracted with boys and friendship dramas and school when I could have been trying to savour every last conversation with my dad. I always wonder what it would have been like to talk to him now that I'm actually an adult. I'm ashamed because I was mad at him the last time we ever spoke. I went to the hospital to visit him and he never once asked me about the day before when I had been a witness in court. It had been a very traumatic event for me. Dad was supposed to take a day off work to go with me, because my mom was taking my sister to an open house at her new school, but because dad was in the hospital I had gone with an aunt. My aunt had been there before us to visit with my dad and she had told him all about it, but he hadn't heard about my mom and sister's day yet so that's all he wanted to ask about, and like your average stupid fifteen year old that made me grumpy. So when he started saying "you know, I thought I was going to die" I got really mad. "Dad! You're supposed to be positive in the hospital! You're not supposed to talk like that! You weren't going to die, you didn't die, and you're not going to!" "I am not scared to die, I just don't want to leave my girls behind." Other than the usual "I love you and goodbye" that was the last thing he ever said to me.

I still miss him.

6 Reasons to Go to University

A lot of people are starting to realise that university costs a lot of money, takes a lot of time and energy, creates a lot of stress, and doesn't provide a lot of job opportunities.

I never came here so I could get a job. I just came to university to learn. Sometimes I think that I wasted my money on something useless, and that I should have gone to college right off the bat, but I don't really think that is the case.

I just found this: http://aragtaghooligan.blogspot.ca/2012/11/this-year-i-have-really-been-wondering.html and I think it is hilarious because there I go on and on about how useless university is and now I am about to recommend it to everyone.

I'll admit, I've had my doubts about this whole experience, but I have to disagree with past me. University is not useless and here is why.

1. It teaches you different perspectives which provide you with context and may even lead you to question your own perspective. I think questioning yourself is always a good thing because it forces you to really believe whatever you believe.

          a) you can gain perspective from the people you meet in university
          b) you can gain perspective from the courses you take
             (especially if you take courses about different world views)

2. I suggest you move out of your house and go to a university away from home. This is the perfect time to learn how to cook, clean, buy groceries, solve problems for yourself, or make new support networks to help you with things when you are away from the support networks you were born into.

3. A simple BA actually can help you get some jobs. Don't be discouraged. People usually want more than just a BA but a BA can help.

4. A BA teaches you written and verbal communication skills, those are vital life skills.

5. English Literature gets a lot more specific slack than other university programs. I added to that when I ranted about the pointlessness of metaphors and academic language but I have since realised that the subject I have majored is not useless. It is true that I have not got to talk much about the poetic aspects of my literary passion within class, BUT, I think these classes have done a LOT to aid me in knowing how to read a text. Yes, sometimes everyone just makes up metaphors I don't think were ever intended to be there and they use the most ridiculous academic language to communicate these ideas, but other time a peer or a prof  helps me suddenly get new insight on how words are put together to create meaning and I get excited as I realise that English Literature is totally worth studying.

6. As I have mentioned before, university gives you an amazing opportunity to meet people and get involved in sweet volunteering and employment adventures. I know that you don't NEED university to find these types of opportunities, but - for a semi shy introvert like myself - university helps. These opportunities then help you to figure out who you are and what you love which will guide you in making future decisions about what you want to do with the rest of your life.

I am not saying everyone should go to University. I am only saying I have no regrets about my own decision

Grappling with Christian worship/ praise and a poem

Before you read the following poem I want to explain something. I just recently started to read John Piper's book Desiring God. I find it really fascinating. Parts of it make total sense to me because they are discussing things I've heard a thousand times in a thousand different ways. Other parts, the more detailed versions of those more common insights, are difficult for me to comprehend. The main concept seems to be that "The chief end of man is to glorify God by enjoying Him forever," or "God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him." This is tough to hear for someone who sometimes struggles to believe that God exists and that He is good and better than everything else. It is hard to believe for someone, like Peter, who all too easily stops looking at Christ and looks at the waves instead. It is hard to think about for someone who doesn't like to go to church because she so often feels like she is lying when she sings the songs but who doesn't like to not go to church because she really wants to love the Lord above all else and find her ultimate joy in Him. So I wrote my own poem that I feel honours what is really going on in my head better than most Christian songs. This isn't about someone who has fully recognized the beauty of God, but it is about someone who wants to. Talking about God is always a controversial topic. So please try not to get mad if I offend you, I'm not trying to. I'm merely sharing what's on my mind.

I’ve wandered in this wilderness for far too long

But I keep on hearing this one great song

It draws me onward

Though I stumble and slip

It draws me upward

Though this darkness is thick

 

It is the song of a million witnesses

Of the most unimaginable beauty

And I too want to see the magnificence

Though something always seems to stop me

 

So mine is a small voice crying in the darkness

Give me water so I won't thirst,
Bread that I shall never hunger,
Light so I'll never stumble

But really all I long for is a glimpse of that one face

And a true encounter with the glorious beauty of grace