Art and Beauty

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Though I don’t know who ‘they’ are –who the first people were to speak those words were –they were right. Beauty isn’t universal. This could potentially be a hard concept to grasp because we are use to refereeing to some things as beautiful. A butterfly is beautiful, a moth isn’t. A baby is beautiful, a Chinese Crested dog isn’t. Society teaches us to define things as beautiful or ugly, but what is beautiful to one person is trash to another. Where I may find the history of the English Language to be beautiful another will find it to be duller than a lecture on lettuce. Beauty is what we are fascinated with; what takes our breath away, fills us with aw, and evokes the desire to learn more or be a part of that which we perceive as beautiful.

           

Beauty is not universal, but art is. We often relate art and beauty. We call Van Gogh’s Starry Night and Michelangelo’s David beautiful. When we think of art we think of beauty. We think graceful lines and playful scenes, but sometimes art isn’t made to be beautiful. Sometimes it’s made to be grotesque. Made to open eyes to a dark reality. Beauty isn’t what makes art. Vases and paintings, sculptures and stories, aren’t put before a jury who decides if they are beautiful enough to have the title of artwork, if their creator deserves to be called an artist.  

            Art, my dear friends, is not the measure of beauty but the unleashing of creativity. It is personal expression upon any canvas its creator chooses to use. Paintings are art, writing is art, architecture is art, fashion is art, dance is art, even the way you speak can be an art. Art is creativity at work. It is a statement to the world, and it has the power to change lives.  

The Cottontail Occurence

Coming from a relativity small city, where country living is just as popular as Starbucks, I'm a fan of harvest season. The blood moon, the nights spent in the crisp autumn air, hay rides, bonfires, s'mores, husking...as summer ends the joys of autumn swoop in and steal our hearts...at least my heart. Unfortunately, being a college student, I'm not actually in my home state during harvest season. I get to catch the first part of it, but most of September and October are spent studying. However, I still make sure to make time for my favorite holiday...Halloween. 

As soon as harvest season starts, though, I'm ready to begin the picking. Plucking tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and beans from their vines, helping my mom prepare for her annual canning adventure, and trying to dig through the thick vines of the garden without angering any snakes...it's all pretty fun, really. 

A few days ago -I think it was close to a week ago, really -I volunteered to venture to the garden to get some fresh vegetables for dinner. My mom, as always, let me go. I pulled a large green plastic bowl from the cupboard, put on my old converse -as if I'd let my new ones touch the garden dirt -and traveled the sidewalk around the outside of my parents' house to the garden.  

My family's never had that large of a garden. It's just a modest sized square with various vegetables and marigolds, but it's a place I like to spend time in. harvesting vegetables while the scent of their plants, the marigolds, and the morning glories hang in the air...it's pretty close to heaven on earth. I was doing just that about a week ago. With the green bowl sitting beside me, my hands were plunged into the thick vines of the tomato plants. My eyes were trained on the leaves, the dirt, the shadows, on the look out for those shifty serpents that liked to sleep among the plants.  

Snakes don't really scare me. They have as much right to live on this earth as we -humans -do. As long as they don't threaten me, I'll leave them alone. I mainly look out for them because I don't want to startle them and earn a nasty fang mark from them. So, I kept my eye out for them while inspecting tomatoes. 

I had just pulled a rotting red tomato from the vine when I hard the planets to my right shiver. I wasted no more than a glance on the plants, figuring it was nothing more than a bird, but as I tossed the rotting fruit on the ground the plants began to shake violently. My attention was drawn to them and, slowly, I stepped away from the plants. In order for the plants to be shaking as they were, something of decent size had to be throwing quite the tantrum within them...and I had no interest in finding out what it was. 

I went to the other side of the garden, deciding to try my luck with the cucumbers instead, all the while keeping an eye on the tomato plants. The plants stopped their seizures after a few moments and I brushed it off. It was probably just one of the next door neighbor's cats; Romeo or Juliet deciding to hang out in the garden for a while.  Or it could have been the neighbor across the street's freaky looking Chihuahua. Either way, I had left the green bowl over by them and I needed to put some vegetables in it -my attempt at harvesting the cucumbers failed by the way, so I had green beans and peppers instead . I walked over to the bowl, intending on grabbing it and fleeing, but the plants began to shake again as soon as I approached them. 

"Chill, Ash, it's just a cat," I told myself. "No reason to get so jumpy." 

Hesitantly, I knelt to retrieve the bowl. Before I could even stand up, the creature inside the plants jumped out, aimed right for me. I have to admit that I screamed. Like, literally. I fell back, as the startled scream left my lips. The source of the plant's shivering landing right beside me. It's fluffy body moving fast as it hopped away. That's right, it was a bunny. A fluffy, white-tailed, brown-furred, long-eared bunny. And as I stared after it, hopping off the yard and across the street, I heard laughter tear through the air. From my place on  the ground, I half turned to see the next door neighbor leaning against the railing of his back porch. His laughter was deep and I swear he was almost crying from the force of his guffawing. 

I stood from the ground, brushing off my jeans and muttering about a stupid bunny rabbit when the neighbor called out. 

"Scared of rabbits, are we? You know, cottontail doesn't bite!"

I didn't reply back, but to offer him a wave and a smile. He's a relatively older man, probably somewhere in his late fifties...maybe older, and that was the first time I had ever seen him smile. Normally he just leans against his back porch railing looking depressed, sometimes with a cigarette between his lips. It was kind of nice to hear him laugh. To know that he had smiled at least once...even if it was from a stupid moment on my part. 

Whoever that rabbit was, it sure made my neighbor's day to see it scare the living daylights out of me...and, consequently, it added a bit of sunshine in my own life. Even I, the victim of the bunny's attack, have to admit that the whole thing was rather amusing. Though, I still can't believe that a rabbit was the cause of my momentary fear. 

Uncertainty and Hope

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep."

~ Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost

It's a bit past 3am where I'm at and I sit upon my bed, pondering life and its events. Life has been somewhat of a difficult time lately. I've felt like I've been trudging through a lake of jello, making progress but moving slower than a snail on its death bed. It's okay though. Hard times bring about good thoughts. 

I've mentioned before, in an earlier posting, about the vow I made as a child. If you recall, I referred to it as my Cardboard Box Dream. I've been thinking a lot about that vow lately. Things that have come up have basically left me to compare my life with other peoples (never a good thing to do, by the way) and I've laid awake wondering just how I got to where I am. I'm so close to accomplishing my dreams, or reaching one of the goals I have been talking about since...well, since forever, but things have been trying to keep me from it. A year and a half. Three semesters worth of schooling and I could reach that goal. I can see it. Its so near, yet so far away. 

College isn't an easy thing in general and paying for it is harder, but its worth it. At least, that's what everyone says. I'm still in college so I can't say whether the green grass on the other side is actually worth the walk through the desert that it takes to get there. I trust those who tell me it is, though, so I trudge on. 

I'm getting off point though, well, not really off point...I just took a little narrow ally way off my main point, but it works. I apologize now though for any rambling. I've spent a great deal of this last week thinking, and sometimes when I spend a lot of time thinking I don't always verbalize exactly what I want to say in the correct format. Meaning: forgive my nonsensical babbling. 

Back to the whole cardboard box thing. You may recall me writing that I had reached a point where I wasn't really sure if I was still okay with that vow. I wasn't even sure how I got to not being okay with it; it was just something that sort of happened. This last week, really these last two days, I've spent more than a few hours laying in meditation over that vow. 

I've laid on the floor, staring up at the rotating ceiling fan, or on my bed and gazing up at the string of white Christmas lights that I mainly keep because it's symbolic to me, thinking about life's current trials and what I would do if -for some reason -I could not reach that goal I've been working towards. I cried at the thought of failing, for to give up on my dreams and settle is a failure I have literately sworn that I would not do. I've seen too many of my friends do just that and, though some are happy, they killed their potential. They basically committed suicide. Not physical suicide, obviously, but by giving up on their dreams they killed part of themselves and they no longer have that full flame of passion that they use to. It's a sad sight. I, one who believes so strongly in the idea that anyone can achieve their dreams if they try hard enough, hate to see those who have settled...especially when I know for a fact that some of them could have been great. Wasted potential, that's what I myself consider the worst failure. You can disagree with me if you like, but I myself don't want to be one who gives up on my dreams just because of a 'little' issue. Okay, so it might be a big issue, but still...in my time thinking I've reached a conclusion. I've decided that fail or succeed, I'll be fine. 

I've come up with a backup plan, just in case I don't reach my dream, and I've thought about that cardboard box. You know, I can honestly say, at this point, that if that cardboard box thing ever did happen I'd be content. I'd probably be scared and worried, but I'd be okay. Life isn't easy, but the trails are what makes us stronger and I -as a writer -believe that each new trial (Each new experience), no mater how difficult it may be, holds the potential of being an inspiration to someone else later on. I write to change the world, but to change it I have to know it, and that means taking both the joys and pains of life on with an open mind. Two writings have already come out of my recent trials, it'll be interesting to see what other ones they influence later on down the road.

I'm going to leave you with those two writings, but before I go, refresh yourself on the beginning words of this entry. Those lines, the ones  I opened with, come from a Robert Frost poem (Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening). Now, I'm not going to tell you why I put them there, for that's a mystery you'll just have to ponder over,  but I encourage you to look up the full poem and read it. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening and Paul Laurence Dunbar's We Wear the Mask have been two poems that have been running on repeat in my mind lately. Good thing about being an English student, there's always some piece of literature that pops into mind when situations arise. 

Now, dear souls, for the poems that I have produced because of recent experiences (Just so you know, this post wasn't at all supposed to be as long as it has turned out to be. I was just going to write a paragraph, give you the poems, and call it good...but the writer in me had other plans).

Uncertainty

The evening light peeks out

From behind the leaves,

Bidding the world a safe night.

Like slowly fading embers

The light ceases to be,

Leaving behind uncertainty. 

Hope

Blue eyes peer at the world

Through a cloud of uncertainty,

Weary ears hear the groans

Of a struggling society,

Soft lips whisper a prayer

For a world lost to conformity,

While small hands wiled a pen

Hoping to remind of unity.  

Interview With A Writer

Note: Before we get started with this 'interview' you should know that I didn't write the questions. I actually found this interview on Deviantart.com. It was a survey that was going through artists' journals. The answers to the questions, however, are mine and are true.

1.   What’s your favorite genre of writing?

I don’t really have a favorite. Most of my stories have either a fantasy, science-fiction, or reality edge to them, but I like to blend genres. Reality, sci-fi, and fantasy are the three main genre’s I write and they crossover a lot. 

2. How often do you get writer’s block?

Too often. I have the tendency to start a story with passion, think through all the possibilities for it, and then sit down and completely forget what it was I was going to write.

3. How do you fix it?

I go on a writing fast or force myself to write. I’ve learned that sometimes it helps if I just don’t write for awhile. Forgetting about the story, going on with life, and then coming back to it a few days later can allows me to see the story from a new perspective and I'm then able to create new ideas.

There are times, though, when the only way to brake the dreaded curse of writer’s block is to simply write. Someone, I’m not sure who but I’ve read it online before, said that writing is like a faucet and water won’t come out until the faucet is turned on. Meaning, sometimes we need to just grab a pen and notebook and start writing. We don’t need a plot, or a goal, we just need to let the ink flow from our pen and see where the words take us.

4. Do you type or write by hand?

Both. I think handwriting is an art, in and of itself. Often times, I’ll write something in a notebook and then transfer it to my computer at a later date. Notebooks are more convent to carry around than a laptop anyway. I can literally take a note book anywhere without causing a disturbance, but a laptop can be distracting.
5. Do you save everything you write?

No. I save most of what I write, but there have been things that I completely hated and tossed out.
6. Do you ever go back to an old idea long after you abandoned it?

Yes. Like I said for number 3, it sometimes helps a story if the author stays away from it for a while. Right now I have a story on hiatus. I intend on eventually finishing it, but I’m taking an extended break from working on it, due to some glitches I noticed in it and myself needing to restructure a few things within its words.

7. Do you have a constructive critic?

Yes. I don’t have an official beta or anything, but I have a couple honest friends. My sister and a couple friends aren’t afraid of telling me what they think of my writings and I will often run ideas by them. There’s even been times when I’ve had writer’s block, passed them my laptop/notebook, and asked them to read it and tell me what they thought about the story itself.

8. Did you ever write a novel?

…maybe…yes…but it’s my baby and it won’t be seen unless it is ever published. It’s a genre blending story. I mixed historical, science-fiction, and fantasy in it. The characters are some of my favorite and the plot line is…well…I can’t tell you about the plot line. Sorry. Like I said, the story’s my baby. It took me three years to write and only two people have read it…neither of them have read the official finished version. They’ve only read the first drafts.

9. What genre would you love to write but haven’t?

Tragic Realism.
10. What’s one genre you have never written, and probably never will?

Humor. I like angst, hurt/comfort, and the darker emotions. Humor isn’t really my thing. I don’t really like reading humor stories either. There is one type of humor I like, it’s satire. I applaud those who write satire, and have quite a few satire books on my shelves, but I myself will never be attempting that genre...unless the satire comes through in the tragic realism story I end up writing.
11. How many writing projects are you working on right now?

Um…let’s see…. three. Two long works and one that's a spin-off of one of the others. The spin-off's quite a bit shorter than the other two...It's actually a collection of one-shots (single chapter stories) based on the relationship between two of the characters in one of my other projects. All three of them are being posted on my Deviant Art account. 

If you really want to check them out, here are the links: 

What Comes Around: http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/art/What-Comes-Around-1-Business-and-Feedings-379608959

Not A Word: http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/gallery/42538903

The one-shot project (still unnamed): http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/art/The-First-Meeting-382908077 and http://writingangel2010.deviantart.com/art/December-Kiss-391514545  (These are the two one-shots that I have posted so far) 

12. Do you write for a living? Do you want to?

I wish. I’m not being paid for it currently, but hopefully one day I will be.

13. Have you ever written something for a magazine or newspaper?

Yes. There was a writing contest in my hometown and the story I entered in it was published in the newspaper. That counts, right?

14. Have you ever won an award for your writing?

See the above answer.

15. What are your five favorite words?

Psychotic- Suffering from psychosis

Annihilate- To destroy.  To obliterate.

Gypsy- A traveling people.

Fission- The act of splitting something into two or more parts.  

Anthem- A rousing or uplifting song that is identified with a group of people.

16. Do you ever write based on your dreams?

I use to, but lately my dreams have been either nonsensical or about nothing I wish to write about.

17. Do you favor happy endings, sad endings, or cliff-hangers?

Most of the time my stories have happy endings, but I like sad endings and a lot of my one-shots don’t end happily. Also, cliff-hangers are good...especially when only giving readers a chapter or two of a story at a time. It keeps them in suspense.  

18. Have you ever written based on an artwork you’ve seen?

Yes. It was a technique my high school English teacher used to get us interested in writing.

To Be Holy

“Holiness, holiness, it’s what I long for.

Holiness,  it’s what I need.

Holiness, holiness is what You want from me.”

~Holiness, Sonicflood

            If you grew up in the church then you probably have heard that song before. You’ve probably stood in front of a pew, or sat in one, and sang the lyrics. You’ve probably acted on auto pilot, knowing that once you sang the song you’d be moving on to the next thing in the service lineup. But have you took time to think about those lyrics? Take a moment and look at them. Notice something? Do you notice how the word holiness is repeated five times in those three lines?

           What is holiness?

           

 This isn’t an easy question to answer and, for the longest time, I didn’t have an answer to it.

  

          I grew up in the church. From the time I was a baby I had heard of holiness. My mother was known to sing the song Holiness while doing housework. She’d sing it to me to get me to fall asleep. It is one of those church hymns that have always been present in my life.

            My friends and I would stand between our parents in church. Our eyes trained on the hymnals one of our parents held. We’d read the words. Sing the words. We’d sway a bit to the soft music. We never questioned their meaning. I guess it was because, at the time, holiness was something we associated with goodness. If you were holy then you were good. Being told to be holy was the same thing as being told to behave. Wasn’t it? That’s what we thought. In our young years we comprehended that eight letter word as meaning the same thing as a four letter one. We didn’t understand the true depth of it.

            As I grew up, that word made multiple appearances in my life. I still didn’t think about it much though. That is until I reached my teen years. The teen years are a hard time in anyone’s life. Changing, growing, trying to figure out where you fit in and wondering if it’s worth it to have a certain reputation if the cost of it is yourself. It’s tough. I know. I’ve been there.

            At about fourteen is when everyone started asking questions. I have to admit, I never really voiced my own. I felt as if I should already know the answers, what with growing up with the parents I did. You see, my parents were the people my friends were asking the questions to. My dad was the youth pastor and he explained to my friends, and I considering I was listening, what certain aspects of our belief were.

            By seventeen, my dad and one of my friend’s moms were my youth pastors. Again people were asking questions. We had lived through three more years and wanted more in-depth answers than the ones we had been given before. No surprise there. As one grows they yearn for knowledge and we had reached the age where we could fully understand the answers to our questions. I didn’t though.

            I could explain to you what entire sanctification was. I could tell you why my denomination doesn’t use wine for communion. I would have debates with my friends over whether or not once-saved-always-saved was legit or not. I was a Nazarene girl who went to a Lutheran high school. I had plenty of opportunities to talk to my friends about our different denominations’ beliefs. But every Wednesday was when my youth group would meet. We’d all pile into the upstairs room of our church and gather around a pool table, or chat on the sofas for a half hour, until our leaders announced it was time for the lesson.

            I remember one night, sitting on a worn green couch. It was seriously one of the ugliest couch ever, but it was comfy and soft. One of my friends were sitting beside me as I leaned against the arm of the couch and our leaders sat among us. I can’t tell you what the lesson was that night. We hardly ever finished a lesson. We’d start talking on one subject, then someone would have a serious question, and we’d spend the time discussing their question. This suited us. Though not all of us were the best of friends, none of us were too afraid to ask ‘hypothetical’ questions. We knew what was said in that room stayed among those gathered.

            That night, one of the leaders used the word holiness and one of my peers asked what exactly holiness was. I wish I could tell you what answer was given, but I don’t remember. That’s because it wasn’t an answer I understood. My peers seemed to understand it. They seemed to grasp the concept and move on, but to me the answer might as well been, “Holiness is a purple elephant that lives in Indonesia and dances the cha-cha on the weekends.” Seriously, I didn’t understand holiness, but I wasn’t going to ask my youth leaders for further explanation. I never even asked my dad when we got home from the meeting. I just dealt with it.

            Holiness wasn’t something I was that concerned with. I was curious about it’s meaning, but not curious enough to forget that voice in my head that was telling me that I would look like an idiot if I asked someone what it meant. So, I went on with life. I went to school, I went to youth group, I talked about Christianity and beliefs with my peers, but holiness wasn’t really thought about again.

            “Holiness, holiness, is what I long for. Holiness, is what I need.” I sang those words in church on Sundays. I listened to my Sunday school teacher talk about what it meant to live a Christian life and I asked questions on occasion. Holiness though…that question remained on the back burner, simmering away underneath the protective lid I had placed upon it.

            A year went by and I graduated high school. I had gotten into the college I wanted and was ready to leave everything in Nebraska behind. I’m going to be flat out honest, I wanted a change. I wanted to be out of my comfort zone. I was aiming for complete and total unrecognizable surroundings. That’s why I planned on going to California. It turned out that my decision to not go to California and stay a little closer to home was a good thing.

            I ended up going to a university in Kansas. I’m still there and still in love with the campus and all the friends I’ve made. It was in my second semester of my freshman year there that I took the holiness pan off the back burner.

            At my university, everyone has to take Bible classes. Two of those required are Old Testament and New Testament. It was a couple weeks into my old testament class that my professor walked in and said that he heard a song on the radio that he thought we should all hear. The song turned out to be an Addison Road song, called What do I know of Holy.

            My professor, who I won’t tell you the name of because I don’t have his permission to use it, played the song for us all to hear. As I sat there, watching the video and listening to the lyrics, that old question resurfaced. The song had a point. What did I know of holy? What was holiness? I still didn’t voice these questions however, and my professor never brought them up.

            Almost every class, my professor played that song. He taught us our lesson, show us clips from the brick Bible (it’s a pretty cool thing, actually. It’s the Bible, using Legos) and prepare us for our quizzes. After every class, he’d dismiss us with a four word phase. He didn’t say goodbye, or you’re dismissed. He didn’t tell us the class was done and to remember to study. He’d do all his quiz reminders than look at us, his eyes scanning over the full desks, and say, “Go and be holy.” Every time. Every single time, he’d say the same thing. “Go and be holy.”

            I found myself thinking about holiness more and more. I ended up buying Addison Road’s song from Itunes and listening to it on my daily walks. I became entranced by the song. There was something about it that had me captured. I realize now what it was. That song was saying, asking, the very thing I had been for years. It didn’t really give an answer to what holiness was. It didn’t say to be holy is to….it just asked, and that’s why I liked it. I spent an entire semester listening to that song, learning that song. I felt the need to learn it, to memorize it, to engrave it on my soul. I listened to it in class, on my walks, and thought about my professor’s words. Still, I asked, what is this holy you speak of? And still I never voiced that question.

            Finals rolled around and between packing, working, and finals I didn’t take as much time to ponder over holiness. I cared more about passing classes. People kept freaking me out. Freshman year, I was new, upperclassmen thought it was fun to terrify us of our finals. “You need to study really hard. His finals are super tough.” Just so you know, they were all lying. So far, I’ve only had one time that someone has told me a teacher was a living nightmare and I ended up agreeing with them.

            On the day of my Old Testament final, I was tired. I had stayed up all night the night before, working on an extra credit assignment for the same class because I didn’t know how well I’d end up doing on the final and I wanted to make sure I had some cushioning. Don’t call me an over achiever. I see you snickering. I don’t do extra credit often. I usually spend any extra time I have writing or hanging out with friends. As it turned out, I didn’t really have to fret over that final.        

  

          I remember walking into the class, sitting my stuff down, pulling out a pencil and staring down at a piece of paper in front of me. The test was turned over, I couldn’t see it, what the Professor said instantly had me nervous.

            “You’re going to have an essay.”

            “Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.” That’s what was going through my mind. A first year English student and I already dreaded essays. Why? Because when you’re an English student your essays are practically papers. I’m not talking your normal two paragraph writing explaining a subject. I’m talking full on introduction, body, and conclusion. If you really wanted a good grade on an essay you shot for three or four paragraphs. I was worried that I’d run out of things to talk about the subject given, but when I turned over that paper, my professor started playing that Addison Road song again.

            At the top of the paper, typed out in black Times New Roman font, was this question, “What does it mean to be holy?”

            Now, with as much as I asked that question without coming up with an answer, you’d think I’d be freaking out even more at that point. I wasn’t though. I was calm. I was actually relieved. As the song played I picked up my pencil and kind of stared around me for a bit, gathering my thoughts. There were a couple Ministry majors writing away in front of me. Their hands were working quickly over their page. Then there were a few people staring blankly down at their pages, and those writing at a relatively normal pace. I set the tip of my pencil to the paper, allowing myself to soak in the lyrics of the song filling the room, and I began to write.   

            I won’t tell you all I wrote, for I ended up writing one and a half pages worth of an answer, but all I wrote could be summed up in the first sentence of my essay….

            To be holy is to be all you can be for Christ.

            You may disagree with me. You may think I’m a crack, that I don’t know what I’m talking about, but to me that was the first time I grasped that concept. I’m still young. I’m only in my twenty-first year of life, and the things I experience and learn from this point on could end up shaping my view of holiness. I might come back to this writing in five years and think, holiness is also about….or to be holy you have to…I really don’t know, but right here, right now, to be holy means to be all I can be for Christ. To be myself, and nothing but myself, and to use all that He has given me (my likes, my dislikes, my talents, and my weaknesses) for Him.

            After nineteen years of wondering what holiness actually was, I grasped onto a part of it. All thanks to a professor and a song. I’m going to leave you now, and I may be leaving you even more confused than when you started reading. If I am, I’m sorry. If you disagree with my thoughts, anything that I’ve said, than good for you. I’m not asking you to accept my views. I’m not asking you to say that my definition of being holy is right, but I am asking you to think about holiness. I want to ask you something. One, simple, six worded question….

            What does it mean to be holy?

            And I am giving to you the same challenge my professor gave to my class each and every time we met….

            Go and be holy. 

How To: Simple Recipe Book

On July 4th my sister turned 18 and I wasn't quite sure what to get her this year. I thought about a number of things, but eventually settled on a homemade project. Yeah, I could have gotten her that DVD series, or that cute little necklace, but this was something I had been thinking about doing for her for awhile. You see, my sister loves to cook. She loves everything to deal with cooking. She watches cooking shows, could spend all day in the dish isle at the store, and loves to make and tweak recipes.

She had been asking me for a while to do a challenge for her...which involved me  coming up with a bunch of random recipes for her to try and make. I used this challenge for her birthday present and made her a recipe book. It was actually rather simple and fun to make. Like any craft though, it took time. I made it in three days (it would have been shorter if I didn't buy paint that happened to take two days to completely dry). 

I've decided to share with you just how I made the book, in case anyone out there is interested in making one. Recipe books are something we can always use. We keep those special family recipes in there. We scrawl our secret ingredients and opinions in the side bars. We pass them on  from one generation to the next. Really, recipe books don't only give us directions for delicious meals, but they also connect us. The recipes that they hold could be from our mothers, our grandmothers, even our great-great-grandmothers. They really do connect us to them, and allow use to make food that they themselves enjoyed. 

To make the recipe book I did, you will need the following items:

• A photo album (I got one with two photo slots per page) 
• Glue
• Paint
• Beads/buttons 
• Black thread
• Scissors 
• Index cards 
• Ink pens
• Computer/really good handwriting skills 

Step 1: The Cover

Paint the cover. I painted the cover first so that the paint would have time to dry while I made the recipes. This turned out to be a good thing because the paint took two days to fully dry.






Step 2: The Bookmark

For this part, there's a few different steps. Just because I feel the need to explain to how I tied the book mark on.

To start off, you need string. I used black embroidery thread (which you can purchase at Walmart for 30 cents). Cut the tread to be twice as long as you want it to be and fold it in half. Slip it under the top ring of your photo album, as shown in the picture to the left.

Next, hold the top of the thread in your hand. Take the ends of the thread and fold it over the ring, putting it through the loop the top of the thread makes.

Then, pull the thread. Let go of the top part and pull the ends through the loop.

The result should look like the picture to the right.















The last part of this step is to add beads/buttons to your bookmark. I used two ladybug buttons. Resulting in what you see.








Step 3: Recipe Writing

Now, if you have really good -legible - handwriting you don't need to use a computer for this part. Though I like to think I have decent handwriting, I fail at writing in straight lines on unlined paper...and I wanted to use unlined index cards. So, I typed up my recipes.

A good place to find recipes is on Pintrest (http://pinterest.com/), but I also pulled some from my mom's cook books. She has a few cookbooks and some family recipes, so I took some of them and put them in the book.

Once you have the recipes typed out then print them and cut them apart. If you wrote the recipes on the index cards, good for you. You can skip the next part :D Congrats on having the great writing skills! I envy you.


Step 4: Recipe Cards




This step is easy but time consuming. Glue your recipes to the index cards. I made the recipes small enough that there is room for notes on the side. You can make them bigger though.








Step 5: Dividers 



While the recipe cards are drying, I made a 'title card' for each section of my book. I made one for: Desserts, appetizers, drinks, salads, main meals, and crusts/breads (I added this one after I made this photo as an after thought because I had pie crust and bread recipes). For this, I just drew on the index cards.

If you haven't noticed, I sort of have a lady bug theme going on. So I used red and black ink and drew tiny lady bugs on the cards. I also used hearts for my 'i' dots. It added a bit of character and fit my sister, who loves lady bugs.



Step 6: Organization

Once your recipe cards are dried (not fried, like I originally typed. Seriously, don't fry your recipe cards. That's not how cooking works), slip them in the photo slots of your album.

I organized the book I made where the recipes went: Appetizers, Salads, Main Meals, Desserts, drinks and Crusts/Breads.  I also made sure to start each section on the right side of the book. Don't ask why, because my only reason is that I thought it looked better that way.









Step 7: The Final Product

Once your book is done, have fun using it! Keep adding recipes, write down cooking tips and such in it. Really just personalize it. Have fun cooking and using those recipes that are important to you. And don't forget just how important those recipes are.

As I stated at the beginning of this post, recipes connect us. They connect us to the creator of the recipes as well as those who have used them before us. We're all connected in this crazy world, and this is just a physical reminder of that.

Cardboard Box Dreams

(The following is something I wrote on a day when my mind wouldn't stop thinking. I wrote it in April and have recently discovered it stashed away in my journal.)


I always dreamed of leaving home; of leaving behind the cornfields and the drama that seemed to grow more scandalous as it's owners aged, but then I did. I graduated high school, moved with my family to another town, and talked myself through the longest summer of my life. I couldn't wait to leave. So it was no shocker that when the end of August rolled around I was packed and looking forward to a new adventure. College was the fresh start I needed. It wasn't an easy transition, by no means, but it was the one that allowed me to use the glorious wings I had spent the previous eighteen years of my life growing.

Growing up, I wasn't really ever like my peers. This is something I can now be thankful for. Sure, I dreamed of marriage, of mansions, and motherhood....but not to the extent my friends did. When I was about fourteen it became obvious I was different. All my friends were  talking about becoming doctors, or vets, or living in gigantic houses with cars that I would be fearful of owning (for I would not want to risk getting into a accident with a car that expensive). I, however, was pushing aside bridal magazines and their pretty dresses that seemed to scream perfect happiness to my friends for science-fiction books. This was something not too many people liked and very few encouraged. Yet, it was because of a science-fiction book and my little sister that I found my dream. 

Forget mansions. Forget fancy cars. Forget home cooked meals. I was fourteen when I decided that I wouldn't mind living in a cardboard box, as long as it meant I could write. 

My dream morphed and became this picture of myself standing in front of a window of a tiny apartment.. It would be night and I would be admiring the city I lived in. I always thought a city at night was one of the most beautiful sights to beheld. There'd be a bowl of Spaghetti-O's on the coffee table, a box of bombpops in the freezer, and a computer with my latest story open on it's screen. That was my dream. 

I saw graduation as a chance to reach that dream. I left home, moved into a dorm, and started my college education. Everything was find and dandy. Sure, I hit a few road blocks and got into some arguments, but I  never expected the road to be easy. I never wanted it to be. Something happened along the way, though, and I'm not sure when or how it occurred, but I got lost. I slipped and my writing began to become tainted. 

At twenty-one years old, a junior in college, and the owner of a planner packed to the brim with work and assignments, my writing had become lazy. I started some stories with friends, and pushed aside some others that I had lost interest in. I figured at least writing with friends was still writing...but then my priorities shifted. 

I want that apartment. I need a car. More hours of work? Sure, I could use the money. Four papers to write, a speech to give, a presentation to put together, a quiz to study for, and..wasn't there something due today? Yeah, those were my thoughts and I was left to wonder what ever happened to I'd-be-content-in-a-cardboard-box?

I was laying in my bed one night, pondering that question. It was one in the morning, but the lights were on and the TV was blasting some crime scene show that was intent on ruining it's viewers' psyches. What is seen can't be unseen, and I only wish I could un-see some of the things that show had shown me. My roommate  was obsessed with it though. All day, all night, there was always some cop show playing. I didn't complain. I left the room if it got to be too much, but that night it was bugging me to the point of insomnia. So, I found a way to distract my thoughts. I thought about writing. 

One thought led to another and I was soon giving nostalgic smiles as I perused my mind's archives. I worked my was back to the first book I wrote and then, suddenly I wasn't alone. 

"Hey," I turned at the sound of the voice, the file of my first book open in my hand, and stood mouth agape as my eyes locked with the brown ones of someone I hadn't seen in a long time. 

There before me, in the dark filing system of my mind, stood a seventeen-year-old male with brown hair and the kindest eyes. His voice had been so shy when he had spoken, so soft, but it didn't mask his identity. On the contrary, it confirmed it. Khaki pants, a green tee-shirt reading SFA, and a pair of worn sneakers only added to the confirmation of his identity. 

"Christopher." I was shocked at how foreign his name sounded on my tongue and felt a pang within my soul. Had it really been so long that my tongue had forgotten how to speak his name with surety? 

"Hi," he gave a shy smile. A single hand had raised to rub at his neck as his eyes turned heavenward. I looked up, but I saw nothing but darkness. He must have seen something else though for his wide, dimpled grin, that I knew him for replaced the shy smile. When his eyes returned to me he said, "It's be awhile."

"My Emerald boy," I muttered. I couldn't believe it. I hadn't thought of Christopher in years, so why was he there then? What made him make an out of the blue appearance in my mind?

"I've missed you," he paused for a moment. "We've missed you."

"I've missed you too." 

The corners of his mouth fell and a sad smile, a twisting of the left side of his lips, stole the place of his grin. "You haven't thought of us in a long time. We should be twenty-three, you know, but instead we're stuck in theses teenage bodies." 

Twenty-three? How was it possible that my original characters were twenty-three? My babies, trapped because I had left them to entertain themselves. What kind of a writer does that? 

I blinked, and when I opened my eyes Christopher had aged. He was still clean shaven, but there was a sharpness to his jaw. He wore a pair of cargo pants, and the same tee-shirt as before (but more worn). There was s sturdy pair of boots on his feet and a messenger bag packed with papers across his chest. Twenty-three...I could hardly believe it. 

He reached up, toying with something above him. I saw nothing, but his fingers behaved as if he were rolling a dangling string between them and he was debating on plucking the string from it's root. 

"You got out," he commented, his eyes turned towards the darkness he was playing with.  "The city's a nice place. Your dorm room's cozy."

"I guess," was my intelligent reply. I watched for a bit, as he closed his hand around whatever it was that had him fascinated. I had ask though, about his life. I had an unquenchable thirst to know what happened to him. "What are you up to now days?" 

A smirk came to his lips, it wasn't an expression I was use to seeing on his face. It wasn't one I could ever recall him wearing. He shrugged. "You tell me. You're the author."

But I wasn't his author. Not anymore. I felt disconnected from him...like I no longer had the right to dictate his life. Not that I ever really dictated my characters' lives. For the most part, they worked out their own lives. I merely wrote them down. 

"You know," he said it with such sureness that I couldn't help but believe him. Our eyes locked and I felt a rush of some unnamed force wash over me. Something happened and I was no longer disconnected. I knew exactly what had happened to him during those years of abandonment. I knew exactly where he stood that day.  

"I'm sorry," i spoke. " I really thought you and Kristy would last. It looks like you're doing well though. You're teaching at the Academy, I see. Good job! I'm proud of you. Who's in charge of the Academy now? Is it still Leader Smith?" 

A shake of his head was my answer. His raised hand gave a downward jerk and a single light bulb blazed to life. A fragile looking, beaded chain dangled from it. His hand held the chain lightly, like he was afraid he'd break it. "His daughter is. You remember Tara. She's doing a great job. Erick's gone missing though. They say he's dead. One of the tombs collapsed on him at the excavation site...but you already knew that. You started writing that story. Remember?"

It was my turn to nod. "I remember."

"Skyler and Onna are happy," he went on, watching the single bulb above us, "but they miss you too. We all do."

I couldn't think of anything to say. My gaze turned to the folder in my hands and I heard a sigh leave Christopher's lips.

"Do you remember when you were younger?" he broke the silence. The bulb was flickering, it's light fading like shadows on a summer day. Darting out on occasion to play with the world around it, but always retreating. "Your dad was in Illinois and a storm was shaking the windows of your home. The storm was worsening and your mind was too busy to sleep, so you logged onto that old Gateway desktop and opened up our story. Remember? You finished the book that night. You ended our adventure on Sapphire-Diamond. Our first adventure. You remember how you felt when you typed those last two words?"

I couldn't speak, so I merely nodded. The flickering light was becoming somewhat of a nuisance. I found myself mentally demanding that it to choose between life and death.

"What happened to you? Where did that confidence and pride go to?"

"I don't know," I chocked out, and it hurt to know that what I said was true. Where did it go to? Why was it that whenever I finished a writing I no longer felt pride in it? Why did I feel like there was nothing worth writing about?

"What ever happened to that cardboard box?"

The light flicked off and I jolted awake, eyes snapping open to find that the TV had been shut off. The lights were still on, though. Out of instinct, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly three. If I had cared to look around the room at the time, I probably would have noticed my roommate reading something on her computer. Her headphones would be in, blaring music so loud that the lyrics were as clear as glass to those of us not wishing to hear them. That's what was normally going on at three in our dorm, but my mind was else where.

What did happen to that cardboard box? When did I suddenly decided writing wouldn't be enough and that I needed to push my body and mind past it's limits in order to grab onto the glorious future that everyone else wanted? When did I ever start wanting that future?