Adventuring with Ashley

My apologies for missing last week!
I had a splendid time adventuring and catching up with my friend Ashley, also affectionately known as "Carlizzle." Ashley and I have known each other since high school when we were put in the same cabin at camp. And then we eventually both ended up working at said camp. And, so they say, the rest is history.

Well, to make a long story short, she ended up dating someone from just down the road, who happens to know, like, ALL of my friends. Ok, not all. But really, a lot of them. So longer story short, she came out to visit me. Ok, and him. Ok, really more him, but also me.

When I finally got to steal my favorite Cheesehead away, we adventured down the PCH past Sycamore Cove by one of the random ocean access points. I made her trek across rocks to the tide pools, curiously poking at sea anenenenemoes and starfish as we wondered at God's creative mind. I always love adventuring along the PCH. It never gets old, really. The vastness of the ocean, the colors, even on a grey day, the uniqueness of oceanic creatures...they enthrall me.
After our tide pool adventures, I made her walk all the way up the sandhill for the sunset, where we proceeded to have much-needed girl talk and God talk. What a blessing it was for me and hopefully as much for her!

I also was on the receiving end of many awkward hugs, and introduced several others to the experience I now relish. Like This.

Last week went by way too fast to not try to grasp every moment. It was a week I will never forget. And I shall miss my Carlizzle, her laughter, her hugs, her presence...but mostly, her love. Thank goodness for these handy new-fangled things called iPhones.

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A Birthday to Die For

(Lunchtime Fiction.)

He chewed on his sunflower seeds, spitting the shells into the cup. His fisted hand clamped the steering wheel so tight as he sat watching the children play. It didn't need to happen this way, but they made it happen. His child died, after all, so why shouldn't they also know the burning pain that seers through your heart every moment of every day. His son would never get to play football with his buddies, go fishing with his family, flirt with girls in his teenage years. If his son would never experience life, theirs shouldn't either. Their child was the reason it all happened, anyway.

Mr. Danton grabbed the dinosaur piñata out of the back seat and walked up to the yard.

"Hi, Uncle Tim!" squealed the birthday boy, who'd obviously had several doses too many of sugar.
Little Jake gave him a hug and he returned with a smile and a "Happy Birthday!"
"Is that my piñata?!"
"Don't touch it - I'll hang it over the tree branch."

Was he going to miss the hugs from this sweet little boy? Sure. But he missed his sons hugs more.

"Thanks, Tim," said his brother, Brody. "Let me help you tie it - "
"No, I got it. You take care of those burgers on the grill."

His anger was in a fist of rage clamped around his heart as he hung the dinosaur to the tree.
It shouldn't hurt anyone else. He'd make sure it'd be the birthday boy who swung the bat first.

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Paint the Light

One of my favorite films, albeit rather cheesy, is The Christmas Cottage, a fictional film representing the work and life of a great artist, Thomas Kinkade.
I've always been fascinated by his work. His paintings seem to capture enchanting scenes of a life I wish for. Streets filled with the laughter of children, or a quaint and charming cottage tucked in a corner by the riverbed, where the water meanders its way through the pasture. My favorite, of course, are his wintertime paintings, which seem to capture the spirit and joy of the Christmas season contrasted against the soft and quiet evenings by the fireplace.
In the movie, his mentor tells him to "Paint the Light." And what a beautiful picture that becomes, when you paint the light.

I love that idea. For there is so much darkness and madness in the world, it's hard to find that solid truth. But what joy and comfort comes by the light of the world.

I like to take walks during my short breaks during the day. And as I walk under this small line of trees, I love closing my eyes and lifting my head upwards. The sun pokes through the leaves and hits my face, and though I may have my eyes closed, I can still feel and sense the sun bursting through as it hits face. Today, I decided to capture the light.

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handprints

I love walking around our neighborhood. I've met several of the families that live on our block, and typically have conversations with Jerry, our neighbor, on a weekly basis.

On one of my recent walks I found a line of handprints outside of a home. I'd never noticed them before, but as I walked past, they had an inexplicable draw that kept me staring at them, trying to guess who each family member is, how old they were, and how their lives have changed since.

I'm always intrigued by these things - somehow adding a handprint into cement is a physical connection to the past, solidifying your lifelong handprint on this earth. It makes me wonder what their metaphorical handprint was like, whose lives they touched, what they did.

And then it makes me think...what would others say about my handprint?

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It's a Writer's Life

Plotting each act for my different characters

One of my favorite things about living in a house with these girls is we are all in one facet or another creative people. Mackenzie is creative in many endeavors, but shines in her career field as a fashion designer for 2b while building up her own business as a custom wedding gown designer. (You can find her exquisite work here.)
Alli is in school pursuing an art degree, and in the meantime, paints occasionally for decor in our house. My favorite of hers I've seen so far has been an incredible sketch of an animated character.
Kim is an English teacher. English teachers were always my favorite, so it's no surprise that Kim and I have lately enjoyed the occasional discussion of Hamlet and existentialism during the few hours I see of her each day. (Being a teacher, she's far from the night-owl I am.)

Me? Well I just do what I can whenever I can. I'm so blessed in my job to have the flexibility to let my creative mind wander, brainstorming new blog posts, tweets, youtube videos, graphics, and sample yearbook pages. (I work at a self-publishing place, by the way.)

I was always intrigued by creative writing. There were several times I had story ideas and characters floating around in my head, but didn't know how to put it down on paper. Then life happened, and I went into journalism - a form of writing that really isn't anything similar to writing a novel. And from there, I always just kept telling myself "I'm not a novelist," thinking that because I didn't graduate with 3 novels and a myriad of poems and short stories under my belt meant that I couldn't be a writer...at least a creative writer.

And then in the fall of 2010, the beginning of my senior year of college, I attended a women's conference at my favorite place - Big Sandy Camp. It was there that my soon-to-be favorite author, Susan May Warren, was the speaker. I was fascinated by her haunting tales of run-ins with the Russian mob and found her hilarious "oops" stories of motherhood enthralling. But beyond her elaborate tales of hilarity and adventure, there was a comfort and an alikeness I latched onto. I quickly found out that not only do we share a love of dancing and football, but that her purpose in writing novels was what I felt as a purpose as a journalist. That first evening, she sparked within me my desire to find that story and write it. And that night, at her minimal display table in the corner, my mother bought me the book pictured above, called "From the Inside Out" by Susan and her cohort Rachel Hauck. Inside that workbook I found another world that to helped me discover that novel waiting to break free. I can't recommend this book enough if you've ever thought about writing.

Fast forward 2 years. I sorta pulled a "me" and let my adventure of novel writing fall to the wayside. Somewhere, in the abyss of my computer, lies a word document with about as much written on it as a sophomore English paper.

Then, last November, someone told me about this thing called NanoWrimo. For those of you who aren't familiar with what that may be, it's short for National Novel Writers Month. The goal of NanoWrimo is simply to write a novel in 30 days. Wait...simply? not so much.
I was a bit late to the party, though, and wasn't even able to flesh out my story and really write before day 30 hit the calendar. I continued for several months, trying to work through storylines, the "why's" of my characters and their actions, and just generally where the story was going. Then I got busy with 3 jobs and was simply too exhausted to really find my characters again.

And here I am, almost a year later, still with a barely written first chapter. But all thanks to my writer-kicker-in-the-butt Sam, she...well, kicked me in the butt.
So, I've VOWED...upon humiliation and death of a piece of my inner-confidence, that 2013 is the year it's gonna happen. I'm committing to finishing this novel by November 30th! I started working through all the remaining how's and why's and what's and who's of my story on Friday. And I believe I have most of it figured out. Now I just have to commit it to words. On paper. (Oh, dear Lord in Heaven, please give me strength to finish this goal!)

So, dear friends, I have 2 weeks to finish up the last of this detailed plotting, and away I will go on this adventure my NanoWriMo friends affectionately call it "The best and worst month of your life." It's a whirlwind, a struggle, a breath of fresh air, way too much coffee (or other legal addictive stimulants), and the best month of your life.  Care to join with me on this journey? You won't regret it! (You may wish to strangle me during that month, but you won't regret it.) Sign up! do it! (Mainly, I'm just begging you to do it alongside me... like a running buddy...because I know I'll need someone pushing me to keep up!)

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3 things I learned from Butternut Squash.

Last night I got all excited about the autumnal weather we've been having and decided I needed something "fall" to make for dinner. So a variation of butternut squash soup it was. I learned several things while doing said activity.

Here I slave away on my butternut squash soup while Rachel takes it easy.
She was on doctor's orders to do just that, so I insisted that she could, in fact, make herself
useful by chopping the onion and reading me directions from a seated position. 

1) I'm learning to love really weird foods...for me. I spent nearly 2 hours yesterday making a butternut squash soup from scratch.  I do not usually like squash. Yet what I've discovered while living with Mackenzie and Kim is that Quinoa and Kale and Squash are simply staples in the house. Learn to cook them well and you'll learn to like them. Minnesota may have made the hipster, but California wins the award for "food hipsters as roommates who will change your tastebuds."
*Note: The butternut squash, I would later find out, actually wasn't butternut squash. I accidentally used the Acorn squash left out by Kim. Oops! Sorry, Kim!

2) Friendships happen in the kitchen. Seriously. I can't tell you how many laugh-out-loud moments and serious, in-depth conversations happen while cooking dinner or doing the dishes.

3) A working dishwasher is going to be a requirement for whenever I get married. (Ours is currently out of commission until the appliance man shows up to fix it.) That will, alone, likely cut down frustrations by 60%.

In the end, it was rather good soup! I may even make it again soon. Next time, however, I'll need to actually use butternut squash. Sorry, Kim.

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The Rain Protector

I was born in Elmsford, New York, a small town just a short drive northeast from the city. It's a quaint and cozy place, one where people nestle among the trees, sipping their coffee as they drop in and out of each others' homes and businesses. The town was named after my predecessor, Mighty Ulmus the elm tree. Mr. Ulm was the town protector, and upon himself he took the duty of sheltering the town as he could by stretching his branches and leaves along the town. He grew strong and sturdy, and though many storms tried to tear him away to get to the town, his roots were too strong and deep to raze him. He would not give in. Mr. Ulm lived for some hundred years before Dutch Elm Disease swept through the land and tragically claimed his life mid-summer in 1980. And that was the birth of me.

You see, the town had no other protector against the rain. Since all the Elms had been wiped out by the very disease that took their elder, it was necessary for the residents of Elmsford to create their own shelter. The townsfolk put together their resources and created me, an umbrella.

And that's how I, George Bradley, was born. I now take great pleasure in protecting my owner, Ms. Heather Davidson, as she takes me for walks outside on rainy days. She seems to enjoy the rain, but I know she gets quite irritable when she becomes wet and cold. So like Mr. Ulm years before me, I unfold myself and stretch out my cloth to keep the rain from falling on her. (She especially doesn't like it when her hair gets wet when it's straight. I still don't understand why that's such a big deal, but what do I know, I'm just an umbrella.) We have a great relationship, she and I. Some people even call me her Mary Poppins umbrella, which I must admit boosts my ego, as that's who I aspire to be.

We reside in Roseville, a suburb near Minneapolis. It's one of my favorite places, actually. I may have been born in New York, and have moved around quite a bit in my life, but I have found great comfort in this city, with its rain-coated streets and miles of lakeshore to stroll around.

I've gotten a few dings and dents from the wear of time, but just like Mr. Elm, nothing has bring me to ruin yet. My greatest battle is usually with Mrs. Wind, an emotional and sometimes angry mistress. She can get under my cloth like no one else, and when she does, she can break my bones. But Heather is quite careful and we battle Mrs. Wind together.

For now, I sit nestled in the coat closet, chatting with her fall and spring jackets, boots and scarves. They're quite friendly, and we like to talk about how we can work together to make Heather's life a better one.

Until the next time it rains....
Mr. Bradley

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This is not one of my better pieces of writing...far from it, actually, but in my goal to post something at least once/week, if not MORE, the idea is to simply write, whether or not it's crap. Today as certainly more about the creative process than the writing itself, so I allowed myself (for the most part) to "just write" without tending to as many sentences I felt were rather lackluster.

Every once in a while I get struck with the mood to write, but don't know exactly what I want to say or how to say it. So tonight, as I sat trying to figure out how to flush out this funk I'm in, I had to get creative to figure out what to write about. I found this picture while going through old photos and thought it fit my mood lately. But I had no idea what I could write about it.
Originally I thought my story would be about the rain. I take a lot of inspiration from nature, and though I liked what I could do with rain, I wanted to expand my thought process into something different.
Hoping to spark other inspiration, I pulled out a book I bought a couple years ago called "Write Starts" - a book of writing prompts that has gone mostly untouched since its purchase. One of the prompts was "Is it possible for inanimate obejects to have an interesting life?"

It was then I thought of an umbrella.
The story unfolded from there. I wanted to tell the story of an umbrella, its life, its purpose, its relationship to its owner (something I think girls could understand more as an accessory than a man.)
One of the companies I searched for manufactured its umbrellas in this actual town of Elmsford, which according to the all-knowing source of Wikipedia, was apparently founded in 1870, its namesake coming from the giant Elm that stood in the center of town. I subsequently found I was loving Mr. Ulm's story, as well, perhaps a bit too much for this story, but felt I had to tell the story of Ulm's legacy to give Mr. George Bradley a purpose. (For those of you wondering, George Bradley is a modified reference to one of my favorite films, Roman Holiday, whose character Joe Bradley is played by the suave and handsome Gregory Peck.)

From there, I had fun taking it back to my Minneapolis days (where this picture was taken) and describing at least the minimum relationship between Heather Davidson (my Regina Falange) and Mr. Bradley. Maybe this could become an adventure series, the adventures of Mr. Bradley and Ms. Davidson...who knows?

And so went the creative portion for my evening. I think this getting back into writing kick could get fun.

~ Hannah

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. october .

Making: a novel, a yearbook, and a website design.
Cooking: French Dips and Au Jus
Drinking: peach tea
Reading: Escape to Morning by Susan May Warren
Wanting: to come home and drive unhurriedly up the North Shore of lake superior with all the beautiful fall foliage, which should be nearing its peak really soon.
Looking: forward to doing laundry with a non-leaking, working washing machine
Playing: Branches on Pandora
Wasting: gas on a drive down the PCH to Malibu.
Sewing: something my roommate is for.
Wishing: I could rest my head upon my daddy's shoulders, then accept his challenge to a game of rummy while watching John Wayne.
Enjoying: Writing again.
Waiting: as patiently as I can for God's timing for His next step in my life.
Liking: the Santa Ana winds currently rushing down the hills
Wondering: what other "noises" do we hear that are really beautiful to others. (Listen to crickets slowed down)
Loving: my family of friends here, who make me laugh and listen to my rants and sorrows, and encourage me to be better than I am, yet give me grace and love when I fail.
Marveling: at God's creation, like really cool starfish.
Needing: God's love and mercy and grace. 
Smelling: the pumpkin candle Kim bought for our house.
Wearing: my comfies- fuzzy socks, sweats and a t-shirt.
Following: blindly.
Noticing: new characteristics 
Thinking: about doing the dishes.
Knowing: this is a blessing.
Giggling: secretly at my roommate, also giggling. (She just got home from Europe 2 days ago and is that kind of tired.)
Opening: my windows hoping my room will cool down for bedtime.
Feeling: held.

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Inspired.

It's so refreshing to have a new design on the blog. Like a fresh start, there's a renewed energy towards blogging. My beautiful friend Julia keeps inspiring me with her beautifully simplistic posts. Part of me used to, and admittedly, still does, think that I have to have something incomparably beautiful to blog about, and if I can't compose anything that could compare to Jane Austen, there's no reason to write it.

I had a Saturday excursion with the lovely Samantha Stevens, who I consider my writer-kicker-in-the-butt. She told me the same thing I knew but hadn't applied: whether it's crap or not isn't the issue. Quit being an editor and be a creator. So part of my creative process is gathering inspiration, which I've been lacking. So I've been flitting my way through pinterest lately, gathering bits and pieces of random inspiration. I don't know why they named pinterest instead of pinsperation. (Or maybe, just like me, when saying that out loud, they realized just how close that sounds to perspiration, which would not give the same effect.) I've been learning that inspiration is everywhere, and it is my duty as a creator to seek out inspiration to continue creating. So I'm committing to blogging at least once a week. It may be a little blurb, it may be a 1,000 word essay on the lessons learned from the last church service, but it'll be a post.

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