I write this not to update anyone but in attempt to "test" myself. You see, I won't remember writing this message within 15 seconds of writing it. At best, I'll have a vague feeling that I was on the computer at some point during the night. That's how my entire day has been, and it all started yesterday at about 5:30pm.
Mom and I (according to the notes I took down) went to go see my horse where she's being trained. I was riding behind Scott (the trainer), and it's weird... because I just can't remember his face. He was riding my horse in an attempt to show me what she'd learned over the past month. The one thing I forgot while she was away was that she doesn't do well with having other horses behind her. And the hoof mark on my left peroneal proves this point: a painful visual. She was kicking out at the mare I was on and landed a hoof (thankfully unshod) on my leg. Supposedly, I feigned composure enough to convince Mom and Scott that I was in condition enough to continue.
That was not what did me in... After walking around the pasture once, Scott got Beamer (my horse) up to a lope. Naturally the mare I was riding followed suit. That's when things went wrong, I guess. I wouldn't know. Mom says that the reins I was using were short barrel racing reins. Not having experience with reins of this variety, I leaned forward to compensate for the lack of length in the reins. The horse figured I wanted her to take off, and she did she what she'd been trained to do.
Out of fear, I lost control of the situation. The horse was at break-neck speed (no pun intended). Then we came to a road. At this point, the mare slid to a halt and I, being a victim of inertia, continued on towards the earth like a sack of wheat. Mom came running and Scott rode over, worried. I made it to my feet unaided after laying motionless and dazed for about a minute. It wasn't until we were walking to Scott's house and the runaway horse had made it to the barn that I started asking questions.
"Where are we? I don't recognize this place," I said (according to Mom).
She says that I didn't know my age, where I lived, or what had happened during the last couple of weeks. All I could remember was that I worked at Camp Ocoee this past summer (and now I seem to recall them owing me over $900 for Chacos).
Mom drove me to her hospital, and I'm guessing that I was conscious the entire time. A cat scan was run, but I have no recollection. All I have is this hospital wrist band with my name and date of birth on it. The craziest part of my day was waking up and checking myself out in the bathroom mirror. I have scrape marks from the fall on my face and arms. My left posterior inferior iliac spine must have taken the brunt of my fall; it aches something terrible! And of course, I have the hoof mark on one of these legs that's supposed to carry me 13.1 miles on Thanksgiving morning at 7am.
Time has meant nothing all day... if it has been a day. It seems like there are 60 minutes in a second, but then I look at the clock to find the time careening past me. I think I made a campfire today to comfort myself, and my brother had to put it out after it got out of control. I faintly remember driving to see the horse. Dad says that he was in a car crash years ago, and during the whole experience, he never once lost consciousness. However, he couldn't remember the accident until he revisited the location in which it occurred. Unfortunately, I did not have the ability to visit the "crime scene" today for one reason or another.
And I've called everyone I know, and I have no idea what I told them. Perhaps my subconscious is urging me to ask these people for answers. It seems curious. Why am I calling all my friends? They weren't there when it happened. Perhaps I need to know others are concerned. Who knows? I'm afraid I may have said stupid things or asked probing questions when talking to John. And I think I told Ashlea that I was scared about moving to Colorado in a few days without having time to heal and prepare myself to teach crafts to paying adults. Perhaps I talked to Paul???
One thing is for sure... I am confused and frustrated to the point of tears. How can I get myself to recall when my mind is no longer under my authority? Will I want to remember how it happened? Will I have nightmares tonight and not realize that the nightmares are, in fact, the truth? And what have I told people today? Was I close to death? I don't remember a light at the end of the tunnel. In fact, I don't remember a tunnel at all. Does that mean that I'm not going to Heaven? Or worse yet.... there is no such place? Or does God have something more for me? And what is it?! Maybe if I knew, I could combine the realization of the fragility of life and the drive to make the most of my brief time here.
Perhaps what scares me the most is the idea that no one else can walk this road with me. I am alone.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tea Bowls
As I sit here inhaling my chocolate "pudding pop" (man, that just sounds ridiculous to say) at high noon, my thoughts turn to something my ceramics professor taught me in college.
---Flash back to the Moon Building at Berry College---
Skye is aged 22 years and still hopelessly grasping for the idea of perfection in art. While Bowie plays, she sits for hours in her cellar studio where there's no trace of natural lighting. Using her fingernails, she ardently tweezes renegade brush hairs out of her painting. And then she, being frustrated with that endless task, sets the painting down to pick up a stack of drawings. Then Skye proceeds to sketch, erase, sketch, erase, sketch, and approach the outer limits of seething anger.
It's time for hand building ceramics class, so she places all her pieces down and slams the studio door behind her. Walking up the stairs and into the natural-lit ceramics room, she can't let go of a disappointment all too common amongst artists. Crumpling down onto her stool, she waits for the day's lesson.
"To the Japanese, the tea bowl is most beautiful and valued. They want to see the fingerprints of the artist. Take a look at these," Professor Lykins says as he finds the right pages in a book from his own library.
The tea bowls are squat, wonky and ancient-looking. Not one looks like the other in color, shape, or mass. How could they all be the same beautiful? Or even beautiful at all?
---Today---
That moment is still yesterday. It shattered my perception of what art had to be: flawless. Up to that point, I was fed a steady diet of pictures of artwork by the likes of Rubens, Vermeer, and Caravaggio. What a mistake! Pictures are the equivalent of viewing art under water, across the room, and through a screen. The color is all wrong, actual size is lost, and the hand of the artist becomes glossed over like the page of a coffee table book.
And to that I say, go to the piece itself. Stand in the presence of the work, where the artist stood while he was creating it. I remember the first time I did that at the High Museum; I was looking at a Rothko painting. When I came close enough to see the abundant stray brush hairs, I began to cry. And the same when I saw Pollock at the MOMA in New York City. I could see his fingerprints, footprints, and even cigarette ashes. I could see that the artist had been there.
Not only did this have implications on my art, but on the way I saw people. There's a lot of hoopla surrounding fashion and beauty magazines... about the pictures of airbrushed models destroying the self-image of women. Yes, even that can be treated the same as viewing art in a book: one "raw" and the other distorted reality. I say this not to make "raw" sound shabby in comparison but to deem it more valuable. With a raw person, you can see the fingerprints and the stray brush hairs. Not mistakes, but signs that the Artist was there. Each artwork is as unique as valued.
To go even farther, the same could be said for quirks (aka- the zest of a person). For instance, my dad always wears his Vietnam Veterans hat. Everywhere. Sometimes when we go out to dinner as a family this annoys me, but there is honestly nothing wrong with it. It's just him being him. And the same could be said for one of my friends who eats chocolate pudding with shredded cheese on top. I would NEVER do that in a million years yet she does.
---Flash back to the Moon Building at Berry College---
Skye is aged 22 years and still hopelessly grasping for the idea of perfection in art. While Bowie plays, she sits for hours in her cellar studio where there's no trace of natural lighting. Using her fingernails, she ardently tweezes renegade brush hairs out of her painting. And then she, being frustrated with that endless task, sets the painting down to pick up a stack of drawings. Then Skye proceeds to sketch, erase, sketch, erase, sketch, and approach the outer limits of seething anger.
It's time for hand building ceramics class, so she places all her pieces down and slams the studio door behind her. Walking up the stairs and into the natural-lit ceramics room, she can't let go of a disappointment all too common amongst artists. Crumpling down onto her stool, she waits for the day's lesson.
"To the Japanese, the tea bowl is most beautiful and valued. They want to see the fingerprints of the artist. Take a look at these," Professor Lykins says as he finds the right pages in a book from his own library.
The tea bowls are squat, wonky and ancient-looking. Not one looks like the other in color, shape, or mass. How could they all be the same beautiful? Or even beautiful at all?
---Today---
That moment is still yesterday. It shattered my perception of what art had to be: flawless. Up to that point, I was fed a steady diet of pictures of artwork by the likes of Rubens, Vermeer, and Caravaggio. What a mistake! Pictures are the equivalent of viewing art under water, across the room, and through a screen. The color is all wrong, actual size is lost, and the hand of the artist becomes glossed over like the page of a coffee table book.
And to that I say, go to the piece itself. Stand in the presence of the work, where the artist stood while he was creating it. I remember the first time I did that at the High Museum; I was looking at a Rothko painting. When I came close enough to see the abundant stray brush hairs, I began to cry. And the same when I saw Pollock at the MOMA in New York City. I could see his fingerprints, footprints, and even cigarette ashes. I could see that the artist had been there.
Not only did this have implications on my art, but on the way I saw people. There's a lot of hoopla surrounding fashion and beauty magazines... about the pictures of airbrushed models destroying the self-image of women. Yes, even that can be treated the same as viewing art in a book: one "raw" and the other distorted reality. I say this not to make "raw" sound shabby in comparison but to deem it more valuable. With a raw person, you can see the fingerprints and the stray brush hairs. Not mistakes, but signs that the Artist was there. Each artwork is as unique as valued.
To go even farther, the same could be said for quirks (aka- the zest of a person). For instance, my dad always wears his Vietnam Veterans hat. Everywhere. Sometimes when we go out to dinner as a family this annoys me, but there is honestly nothing wrong with it. It's just him being him. And the same could be said for one of my friends who eats chocolate pudding with shredded cheese on top. I would NEVER do that in a million years yet she does.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Driftwood
The following is a first hand account of September 22nd in this, the 2007th year of our Lord:
I was born.
Just kidding... but seriously. I woke up at the times of 7:00am, 7:15am, 7:30am, and 7:45am. Bloody snooze button. Sometimes I wish really hard that it had never been invented, but it would be easier to unbuild one of the subdivisions down my street. It's such a bogus idea when you think about it: get segmented, and thus poor quality, sleep for as long as you can until having to get up for the morning shower. That's why I usually just set my alarm for the latest possible time I can get away with and still be on time for my scheduled appointment. And that never works either.
By 8:30am, I was entering Dellinger Park in Cartersville to meet my dad for the yearly fishing tournament that the park hosts. The woods surrounding the pond were full of just as many trucks as trees. And the pond was a sight to behold. The banks were entirely covered with every local color group my fair town has to offer. Coolers, lawn chairs, trucker hats, overalls, rural grammar, and a million lines crossing.
I knew just where to find my dad: right next to the walking bridge. That's usually where all the big cats are caught. However, Dad hadn't caught anything all morning. This didn't surprise me, because we've both lost our touch over the years. It's been ages since we went on our last fishing trip, and that is something that needs to change. After casting from the crowded bank a few times, I realized that potentially more people would be hooked than fish. Nothing was biting.
One feisty, elderly woman managed to beat the odds... My dad was so impressed by this lady's feat that he took me over to meet her and her catch. After some jovial banter, a large cooler was opened to reveal the biggest catfish I'd ever seen come out of Dellinger's pond. That thing had a mouth on it large enough to swallow a bowling ball. I must say, it made me want to be a better fisherwoman.
Dad got a call from work and had to leave to deliver some auto parts, so I headed to the Vita Trail (which encircles the park) for my weekly long run. This week, it was 6. Last week it was 5 and next week it'll be 7. You do the math. The run started like it always does; I try to figure out how to make it go by in the most mentally pleasurable manner. And this is no small thing, for anything over 5 miles is a test of will power and mental focus.
What I didn't expect to find was the entire Kennesaw State distance team on the trail doing quarter repeats in fine form. I must say, I felt a slight twinge of competitiveness. This, however, subsided when I saw what kind of shape they were in compared to myself. My running (as of now) is to house cat as their running is to tiger in the jungle prowling for wild boar. But I know my day will return... It's tough starting over without a support group.
It was pretty comical when I plodded near one of the KSU coaches on my third loop. I finally decided to say something to him, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was just to let him know I understood that life.
"You guys Kennesaw?"- the words came like cottage cheese through a sieve.
"Yeah," said the stranger coach from KSU.
"Excellent," said I.
"Don't go passing them," he said. And I still debate the manner of this statement. Did he mean it as a compliment or did he really just want me to stay out of their way?
And so I took the verbally unobtrusive route: "Don't worry. I've been retired for 2 years."
Six miles done with, I drove to my gym to meet Mom for a yoga class. And I'm not too proud to admit it; I love it. Never in my life would I have believed anyone who told me yoga was worthwhile, and here I am... doing it almost daily and enjoying the benefits of an increased range of motion.
Yoga class ended, and then I went home to prepare for the third leg of the unspoken triathlon that was unfolding in front of my very eyes. John showed up and we had a quick lunch before heading to Sand Rock for some climbing. But we were not to be distracted... right. We made it a half mile down the road before pulling into a yard sale. Ha! Talk about the cheesiest wares you'll ever see: vests in some sort of tapestry material, countless High School the Musical posters, very old VHS tapes, and prefabricated paintings (complete with mirrored frames).
John left with a VCR he bought for $6 and a couple of movies: The Professional and Cyborg. And I made off with a child's book and a special, if not "uncategorizeable", trinket for Emily Chamberlain. And so we boarded the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude again in an effort to reach potential "future friends" at Sand Rock.
Yeah... we ended up stopping at Purple Mountain Hardware to buy my dad's b-day gift: a pair of slapping new Carhartts! And then I introduced John to Schroeder's (probably to his disdain, if it's any reflection upon the fact that he ate only 20% of his sandwich). What a good sport. Finally we were on the road for real. By 4pm we made it to Sand Rock, and there was the usual weekend throng of climbers. Trey Dix and his cronies (aka - the people with whom we were to climb) were no place to be found. John and I scoured the labyrinth of boulders and walls until we realized it was hopeless.
Frustration was simmering over, when I made the tough decision to just enjoy being there... even if that meant no climbing. So, we grappled our way up to a beautiful view of the valley below. The clouds were in rare form: huge thunderheads, cirrus, and everything in between. Storms were roving in our sight like grazing cattle, and that made the trip worthwhile. Watching the rain fall is even better than watching a campfire, and I never get tired of seeing a visual representation of God's grace. Our eyes had free rein over miles of Alabama.
After sitting for a long spell, through a few sunny sprinklings... we descended our perch. The time came to head home to Georgia. This was the plan. Did we stick to it?
No. We passed by a sign for yet another yard sale. I could have sworn it said "Driftwood for sell". After an intense game of "rock, paper, scissors" that decided our course of action in this matter, we turned around to pursue the aforementioned yard sale. We expected to find driftwood (in Alabama???), but after 30 minutes of driving out of our way... we found Driftwood Campground. I had earlier jokingly told John that the only way this venture could get more interesting would be if the place turned out to be an RV community. And that is exactly what it turned out to be.
We pulled up to find a dozen tables full of all the dilapidated curiosities one could ever want and never need. By the end of 30 minutes, I had purchased 2 very ancient frying pans and 2 audio cassettes for the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude. As for John, he bought 5 RC Cola collector cans. You can probably guess that we are pretty cool to have bought such items. In actuality, I really didn't need anything, but the retailers proved entertaining company. I couldn't not buy something from those people.
These folks live in and maintain the RV campground year round. And their stories and conversations were peppered with enough choice phrases to make Santa Claus blush redder than his suit. However, they were honest people with honest intentions. In fact, John (aka - Michael Smith) and I (aka - Sarah Smith) were invited to a wedding on October 20th at the campground. Too bad I'll be in Colorado, because I would make the drive to Alabama for that!
They offered us their cold beer, let me try the best ribs ever cooked, and tried to make a deal with me. They wanted to trade an old, golden minivan for the Prelude. And they even went as far as to offer John and me a night in a mini camper if we'd help load the unsold merchandise. To this I had no response but red cheeks: John and I are not a couple like they assumed, nor was I "going to test out the shocks on the camper" with John.
It was probably after 8pm when we finally broke the spell of their unique company. However, I have been unable to shake one of the conversations started. The craziest man of them all, who was "slightly tipsy", asked if either of us were church-goers. I managed to squeak out a weak "yes". To this he laughed heartily and replied, "Neither of you are. You wouldn't be hanging out with us if you were. You're lying." To this everyone laughed, but on the inside I couldn't help but remember that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.
Many are in his place: excluded. And for what? He (along with the others) laughed with us, made us feel welcome, gave us free beer, offered us food, invited us back, and was very honest. Aren't those things to be valued in any Christian? It pains me to know that they felt that way about the church, but they spoke (albeit jokingly) about the all too common truth: Christians tend to judge those we deem living on "the fringes". That has got to change.
I was born.
Just kidding... but seriously. I woke up at the times of 7:00am, 7:15am, 7:30am, and 7:45am. Bloody snooze button. Sometimes I wish really hard that it had never been invented, but it would be easier to unbuild one of the subdivisions down my street. It's such a bogus idea when you think about it: get segmented, and thus poor quality, sleep for as long as you can until having to get up for the morning shower. That's why I usually just set my alarm for the latest possible time I can get away with and still be on time for my scheduled appointment. And that never works either.
By 8:30am, I was entering Dellinger Park in Cartersville to meet my dad for the yearly fishing tournament that the park hosts. The woods surrounding the pond were full of just as many trucks as trees. And the pond was a sight to behold. The banks were entirely covered with every local color group my fair town has to offer. Coolers, lawn chairs, trucker hats, overalls, rural grammar, and a million lines crossing.
I knew just where to find my dad: right next to the walking bridge. That's usually where all the big cats are caught. However, Dad hadn't caught anything all morning. This didn't surprise me, because we've both lost our touch over the years. It's been ages since we went on our last fishing trip, and that is something that needs to change. After casting from the crowded bank a few times, I realized that potentially more people would be hooked than fish. Nothing was biting.
One feisty, elderly woman managed to beat the odds... My dad was so impressed by this lady's feat that he took me over to meet her and her catch. After some jovial banter, a large cooler was opened to reveal the biggest catfish I'd ever seen come out of Dellinger's pond. That thing had a mouth on it large enough to swallow a bowling ball. I must say, it made me want to be a better fisherwoman.
Dad got a call from work and had to leave to deliver some auto parts, so I headed to the Vita Trail (which encircles the park) for my weekly long run. This week, it was 6. Last week it was 5 and next week it'll be 7. You do the math. The run started like it always does; I try to figure out how to make it go by in the most mentally pleasurable manner. And this is no small thing, for anything over 5 miles is a test of will power and mental focus.
What I didn't expect to find was the entire Kennesaw State distance team on the trail doing quarter repeats in fine form. I must say, I felt a slight twinge of competitiveness. This, however, subsided when I saw what kind of shape they were in compared to myself. My running (as of now) is to house cat as their running is to tiger in the jungle prowling for wild boar. But I know my day will return... It's tough starting over without a support group.
It was pretty comical when I plodded near one of the KSU coaches on my third loop. I finally decided to say something to him, for whatever reason. Perhaps it was just to let him know I understood that life.
"You guys Kennesaw?"- the words came like cottage cheese through a sieve.
"Yeah," said the stranger coach from KSU.
"Excellent," said I.
"Don't go passing them," he said. And I still debate the manner of this statement. Did he mean it as a compliment or did he really just want me to stay out of their way?
And so I took the verbally unobtrusive route: "Don't worry. I've been retired for 2 years."
Six miles done with, I drove to my gym to meet Mom for a yoga class. And I'm not too proud to admit it; I love it. Never in my life would I have believed anyone who told me yoga was worthwhile, and here I am... doing it almost daily and enjoying the benefits of an increased range of motion.
Yoga class ended, and then I went home to prepare for the third leg of the unspoken triathlon that was unfolding in front of my very eyes. John showed up and we had a quick lunch before heading to Sand Rock for some climbing. But we were not to be distracted... right. We made it a half mile down the road before pulling into a yard sale. Ha! Talk about the cheesiest wares you'll ever see: vests in some sort of tapestry material, countless High School the Musical posters, very old VHS tapes, and prefabricated paintings (complete with mirrored frames).
John left with a VCR he bought for $6 and a couple of movies: The Professional and Cyborg. And I made off with a child's book and a special, if not "uncategorizeable", trinket for Emily Chamberlain. And so we boarded the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude again in an effort to reach potential "future friends" at Sand Rock.
Yeah... we ended up stopping at Purple Mountain Hardware to buy my dad's b-day gift: a pair of slapping new Carhartts! And then I introduced John to Schroeder's (probably to his disdain, if it's any reflection upon the fact that he ate only 20% of his sandwich). What a good sport. Finally we were on the road for real. By 4pm we made it to Sand Rock, and there was the usual weekend throng of climbers. Trey Dix and his cronies (aka - the people with whom we were to climb) were no place to be found. John and I scoured the labyrinth of boulders and walls until we realized it was hopeless.
Frustration was simmering over, when I made the tough decision to just enjoy being there... even if that meant no climbing. So, we grappled our way up to a beautiful view of the valley below. The clouds were in rare form: huge thunderheads, cirrus, and everything in between. Storms were roving in our sight like grazing cattle, and that made the trip worthwhile. Watching the rain fall is even better than watching a campfire, and I never get tired of seeing a visual representation of God's grace. Our eyes had free rein over miles of Alabama.
After sitting for a long spell, through a few sunny sprinklings... we descended our perch. The time came to head home to Georgia. This was the plan. Did we stick to it?
No. We passed by a sign for yet another yard sale. I could have sworn it said "Driftwood for sell". After an intense game of "rock, paper, scissors" that decided our course of action in this matter, we turned around to pursue the aforementioned yard sale. We expected to find driftwood (in Alabama???), but after 30 minutes of driving out of our way... we found Driftwood Campground. I had earlier jokingly told John that the only way this venture could get more interesting would be if the place turned out to be an RV community. And that is exactly what it turned out to be.
We pulled up to find a dozen tables full of all the dilapidated curiosities one could ever want and never need. By the end of 30 minutes, I had purchased 2 very ancient frying pans and 2 audio cassettes for the '92 electric blue Honda Prelude. As for John, he bought 5 RC Cola collector cans. You can probably guess that we are pretty cool to have bought such items. In actuality, I really didn't need anything, but the retailers proved entertaining company. I couldn't not buy something from those people.
These folks live in and maintain the RV campground year round. And their stories and conversations were peppered with enough choice phrases to make Santa Claus blush redder than his suit. However, they were honest people with honest intentions. In fact, John (aka - Michael Smith) and I (aka - Sarah Smith) were invited to a wedding on October 20th at the campground. Too bad I'll be in Colorado, because I would make the drive to Alabama for that!
They offered us their cold beer, let me try the best ribs ever cooked, and tried to make a deal with me. They wanted to trade an old, golden minivan for the Prelude. And they even went as far as to offer John and me a night in a mini camper if we'd help load the unsold merchandise. To this I had no response but red cheeks: John and I are not a couple like they assumed, nor was I "going to test out the shocks on the camper" with John.
It was probably after 8pm when we finally broke the spell of their unique company. However, I have been unable to shake one of the conversations started. The craziest man of them all, who was "slightly tipsy", asked if either of us were church-goers. I managed to squeak out a weak "yes". To this he laughed heartily and replied, "Neither of you are. You wouldn't be hanging out with us if you were. You're lying." To this everyone laughed, but on the inside I couldn't help but remember that a drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts.
Many are in his place: excluded. And for what? He (along with the others) laughed with us, made us feel welcome, gave us free beer, offered us food, invited us back, and was very honest. Aren't those things to be valued in any Christian? It pains me to know that they felt that way about the church, but they spoke (albeit jokingly) about the all too common truth: Christians tend to judge those we deem living on "the fringes". That has got to change.
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