From the Storm (and after)

Powers out, and the internet with it(i'm writing this with the precious little battery i have left inmy iPod.)so I don't know when this'll go up... But, power will probably be back on when it does...

So, if you've read much of this blog, then you probably already know about my atypical feelings towards storms. After a powerful storm, like this one which tore down trees (mostly leaving them strewn across streets) and leaving us without power, I get to thinking about things (Dangerous, I know.), about why I feel the way I do...

Even when I'm out being a wild maniac, or when I'm helping neighbors clear away wreckage from the streets during a calm, I still feel warm. Safe. Protected. Perhaps this is because I've never suffered injury, or perhaps it's because no one I know personally has been hurt, or perhaps it's because i'm young and foolish; but I think it's more than all those, true though they may be.

Storms, in all their fury and power, remind me of God's power, remind me that He is looking out for me, even when I don't realize. It makes me think about how truly blessed I really am. And it gives me energy.

Sometimes though, I stop, I remember others who may or may not be suffering in the storm, who might be in danger, who are out of my reach. For a moment, I forget God, so lost to worry and helplessness am I.

And that is a terrible place to be. Every sound of thunder, every clash between ground and sky, becomes something to fear--not for myself (never for myself), but for others, even and especially for those I don't know as well as I should. Every siren crying in the distance becomes a lucid nightmare, and I feel guilty about the joy of moments before. When that happened, it is hard to trust. Control goes out the window.

Yet even then, God did not abandon me. Somehow I became able to think rationally again, to pray. And after a moment's prayer I gained the strength to once more leave my fears and worries in his hands. And that is a good place to be, one I never want to leave.

Wherever you are, and whoever you are, I pray that you stay safe against whatever chaos or uncertainty you might be facing; and I pray that you, too, might know the comfort and joy that I'm feeling now.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,

M. S.

Update: Yes, it's roughly ten o'clock the night after the storm, and power is back. Yippee skippee! Alleluia! And everyone who still has no power, hold in there. I'm praying for you, and the women and men of the power company are surely working their hardest.

P.S. Please excuse all the tense shifting and clunky prose. It's not my best work, but I don't think I'm going to edit this post. Just cause. Also, I'm very thankful I live in a neighborhood where people go out and help each other the same night the storm came through. I talked to people I don't think I've ever talked to before, it was very cool. So I'm very thankful. I'm just thankful for everything right now.

Whooppee! skibberoo! Life is good! (Darkness really is only for light to shine in.)

And now I'm just drawling on. Sorry. Goodnight all. :)  ... ... ... (I just used an emoticon? Ah, must be the caffeine kicking in... Caffeine, another thing I'm thankful for...

Seriously, goodnight. I mean it this time. I think. Night night!

Mickel out.

Let it rain

It stormed last night and, as always, it brought excitement with it.

There is a standing tradition in my house that, when it rains, people go outside. Now, I'm not talking about sitting on the porch like sane people (why would we, any of us, be sane?), no, my siblings and I go where the wind batters us and we can feel the water sliding past our feet.

Sometimes, we put on felt fedoras and trenchcoats, we walk and talk like we think it's the '40s and Chandler wrote us. Other times, we race outside at the first crash of thunder, not bothering with silly things such as coats or shoes. We run and howl with the wind, finding within the storm a kindred spirit... Actually I think it's just me that does that last—the bare feet thing, I mean.

I don't know what it is about storms, but I love them, I love being in them. Perhaps it's their wild, rampant energy. Perhaps they make me feel more alive... I don't really know, and maybe if I did I wouldn't be drawn to them so much (unlikely).

There's just something about being in the wet, where I can feel the thunder—when I'm there, I don't feel fear. Storms, it seems, are made for me, and I thank God for every one. Lightning might strike me one day, but the thought doesn't bother me. It hasn't turned on me yet. 

What about you, unidentified reader, how do you feel about storms? Do you think about them as blessings, or do you see them as inconveniences? Are they things to marvel at from safety, or things to experience firsthand, close up, from within?

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M.S.

Why am I awake?

Actually, the title of this post is a rhetorical question. I now exactly why I'm awake. I think. Mostly... Let me explain.

I'm still up now because my cinnamon bread is about to go in the oven. I was still up before because, at about 2:30, I decided: hey, since I'm up, why don't I make bread for bible study and puppets? (puppeteers, actually, but whatever) Before that, though? I'm not really sure. I was probably up because everyone one else was, but I don't think that's really reason enough. Is it?

Lately, this has been happening alarmingly often. It's like I have second hand insomnia, which I must say is quite annoying. It's one thing to stay up when no one else is awake, to listen to the house creak and the wind blow, to let my imagination run wild. On nights like those, I write like a madmen; although, sometimes I clean and brood. But when EVERYONE stays up late... Then I end up sitting around eavesdropping, or listening to music by myself; either way, I'm not doing much productive. (I think I may be over using semi-colons here? I don't even know anymore. It seems the tireder (Is that even a word?) I get, the sloppier my sentence structuring becomes. Or maybe that's just my imagination.) This actually how I seem to be whenever I'm in the presence of people: I lurk in the background—doing general lurky things—whilst trying not to be noticed. At times, it's extremely frustrating. Especially when I'm actually trying to interact, but failing…

And that paragraph got away from me. It should probably be broken up. Or cut up. My internal editor isn't on the clock this late—probably one of the reasons writing is so productive when I'm up by myself.

Anyway, the fact is I am awake, and I am baking. In fact, if you'll excuse me one scend… There, bread is in the oven! Mmmm, if only you could smell what I'm smelling.

What else? 3 more hours and church starts!

Is there even a point to this post?

Methinks not.

Good morning—or night, as the case may be.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Late…

I'm late. I meant to post something a couple days ago, but… Best laid plans don't always work out, and it's difficult to keep a non-existantant schedule. And I don't know what to post about. I had a couple interesting ideas, but have since lost the thread.

So, have some muddled thoughts.

 I'd fallen into a recent slump, writing wise, as I've had difficulty putting my B in C. After a few days of writing nothing, it got to the point that I started to worry if I could create with the same creativity and skill I had before. I worried that I'd ruin my projects if I tried working on them. If you've ever been in this sort of mental state, you have my sympathies.

Inorder to fix myself, my sleeping schedule had to take the bullet. I sat down around my normal bedtime, said a short prayer, and dove write in. I had a vague idea of the next scene I needed, a memory of what came before it, and the trust that, even if it was crap, I'd be able to fix it later.

It worked.

I looked up after the scene was finished, and found it to be three hours later. I'd written about three hundred words. That's slow, extremely so, but it still made me happy. It reminded me that whatever worries I had keeping me from writing, they would melt away the moment I started stringing sentences together.

Rather like now.

I don't know if you'll walk away with anything after reading this; I don't care if you do read this. Sometimes you just need to forget about your cares and write. Look in a mirrior and see the story, not yourself. It feels better than beating yourself up. Trust me.


Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

Adulthood

Dear Reader, whoever you might be,

Now that I am recovered from the festivities and labor activities of the previous week, I feel up to tackling a serious subject … or attempting to, anyway.

What is adulthood?

There is the biological definition: one who is fully grown and developed.

And there is the legal definition: one who has reached the age of majority, which is in most contexts either 18 or 21.

But there is also a third definition that does not always go along with those mentioned above. This is a maturity of behaviour, of thought, of recognizing and accepting responsibilities. Some people think, or seem to think, that this form adulthood is magically granted by the Maturity Fairy, when one turns the age of 18. As such, they do not allow people below that age to make decisions for themselves, disapprove of people who do allow them.

This is illogical. Behavioural and mental maturity does not come from being told how to act. It comes from independence, from being allowed to make your own decisions and suffer the consequences of them. To learn from mistakes.

How is one to obtain the independence and the maturity of this adulthood if they are not allowed to think and act for themselves? If they are not trusted to make mistakes and grow from them, then how will they grow at all? How can they be relied upon? Trust is a two way street.

How do you raise responsible adults? You do as my parents did, and allow children to be responsible. Let kids be kids by allowing them to think and act for themselves, to grow naturally in mind as well as body. Do not tell them what to think; instead tell them what you think and why you think it—use logic. Listen to them. Respect them, even if you do not respect their beliefs, even if they are wrong. Especially if they are wrong. Because if they are truly wrong, and you respect them and allow them to act on their beliefs, then they will eventually come to realize their wrongness without a divide forming. And who knows, you might be the one who is in the wrong. Remember that possibility, that you are not infallible simply because you are older and have experienced.

Actually, I think this is how we should treat all people—not just children.

An aside: two hundred years ago, there were sixteen-year-olds in navies being given command of prize ships. In the middle ages there were fifteen-year-olds fighting and dying in battles—and not just because people lived shorter lives. In fact, if one survived the diseases and the war and reached forty years; then they were likely to live to sixty or seventy, some even reached eighty or above.

Anyway, these are my thoughts, the wonderings of Scribe Traceur. You might disagree, or you might agree. Either way I'll be respectful towards you, just so long as you are respectful towards me. If you become insulting, however, then I'll ignore you.

Go mbeannaí Dia duit,
M. S.

P. S. Yes, I'm aware I used the Brit spelling of behaviour. I often do the same with colour, grey, and many other words. I also use oxford commas. I'm sorry if that offends you, but I think they are more aesthetically pleasing than our American spellings. Shallow, I know, but sometimes form and function go hand in hand. And leaving out the oxford comma can cause unnecessary confusion.