Drowning

I feel like I'm drowning.

I know I'm a drama queen, but I don't see any point in lying about how I feel on Nine to Phive. Especially when hardly anyone reads this blog since I've gotten so lax about updating it. No one will be fooled, if you know what I mean.

A Muse performance at ELEV8 conference this year. I thought it was sufficiently depressing.

Maybe it's because I now have an IC flareup for two weeks out of the month. Every month.

Maybe it's because I'm scared to death that I won't be able to keep a full-time job, let alone a job in the highly impractical field that I love.

Maybe it's because I've had to take a 19-credit load this semester just to graduate on time (barely). Oh, and those extra credits? They cost me $800 of over-enrollment fees.

Maybe it's because two of Muse's biggest performances of the semester are over and I don't feel relieved. No less busy. No less stressed. No less out of breath.

Maybe it's because, after two and a half years of marriage, I feel like I should have worked out so many of the selfish struggles that my newlywed friends seem to have no problem with after just a few months.

Maybe it's because I feel guilty turning to my family for support when they're struggling just as much as me right now.

Maybe it's because I love God, love my church, and love my brothers and sisters in Christ, but can't find the time or energy to invest in my personal spiritual life.

Maybe it's because I want more than anything to write freely--stories, poetry, journals, grocery lists, bucket lists, this blog--and I can't even find time to do my required writing for class.

Maybe this is my life now.

Struggling.
Fighting.
Keeping my head above water. 

 Drowning.

I thought graduating this spring would feel like a weight being lifted, but as I approach commencement with all of this and more baggage (some of which won't disappear the moment I walk across that stage), I feel as though it's just a doorway into different and heavier weights pressing down on me.

Pressing down on my lungs . . .  
On my heart . . . 
On my spirit . . .  
I'm broken . . .

Drowning . . .

Oh, and a drama queen. There's that, too.

"In the Garden" (Sonnenberg)

For those who are keeping track, today (August 7th, 2012) is Josh's and my second anniversary!

Of course, when I decided to visit Josh down here at his workplace in Pennsylvania, I selflessly opted to leave my laptop at home to limit any distractions. I'm now left with no way to get the pictures of us from my camera to the blog! Josh, however, assured me that he wouldn't be terribly hurt if Travel Tuesday went off as planned and I posted about our blissful two years tomorrow :-)

 

Today I'll be posting about a little adventure I took with my family not thousands of miles across the Atlantic Ocean, but right in my home state of New York. Expect a whole post about living like a tourist in your homeland soon!

These pictures were taken in the lovely Sonnenberg Gardens in Canandaigua, NY--barely an hour from our Rochester apartment.

Title is from the hymn of the same name by Charles Austin Miles.

The first garden we happened upon in Sonnenberg was styled after a traditional Japanese garden. The oriental accents seemed very accurate and transported me on what felt like my first trip to Asia. There was a pond full of water lilies and koi, stone pagodas, and even a bridge leading to a Japanese "temple."

A koi, of course

And a pagoda. What else? :-)

The Buddha himself

The other beautiful garden at Sonnenberg was a traditional Italian garden with ivory columns, tile roofs, Renaissance sculptures, and countless other Roman accents.



More pics of the Italian Garden after the jump!

Neil Gaiman "For Amanda, An Appreciation After Christopher Smart, Sort Of"

**READER ADVISORY** There is an instance of (censored) strong language some will find objectionable in the poem included in this post.

The purpose of this post is no doubt a bit unique.

I would first like to shed some light for the currently oblivious crowd of lit-lovers who have yet to make his acquaintance to the off-beat and infinitely charming Neil Gaiman. Gaiman is a poet, novelist, writer of short stories and non-fictional musings, lover, fighter, dreamer, and magic-maker--not to mention the fact that he is British and has one of the most delicious accents imaginable. His creative mind is wild and limitless but at the same time controlled, collected, and narrated in a level and soothing tone of voice that no one can quite duplicate.

I recently watched all of the YouTube videos recorded at the "Ninja Gig" of Amanda Palmer, Gaiman's musician wife, at Good Records in Dallas this April. To my delight, Gaiman decided, as he often does, to humbly read a few of his favorite poems, one of which had recently been written about his beloved wife.

All of the poems we beautifully written and even more beautifully read. I cannot recommend enough "The Day the Saucers Came." Make sure you listen to Gaiman recite it rather than just reading it for yourself. It really makes all the difference. The thing that struck me the most, however, was that in my fandom I had never yet discovered the following poem dedicated to Amanda Palmer and that scouring Google didn't turn up any text versions of this beautiful work. All I seemed to find were video recitations.

Well, for those who come behind me, I leave you this, the written version of Gaiman's "For Amanda," that you may pour over it's beauty and sweetness over and over again. Keep in mind that poems written specifically for performance can vary from reading to reading and that many words in this particular piece may be different in other versions available online.

For Amanda, An Appreciation After Christopher Smart, Sort Of

by Neil Gaiman

For I shall enumerate my lady’s charms although they are numberless.

For firstly, she has a smile like a beam of sunlight breaking through a cloud in a medieval painting.

For secondly, she moves like cats and panthers, and also she can stand still.

For thirdly, she has eyes of a color that no two people can agree on which I remember when I close my eyes.

For fourthly, she laughs at my jokes, sings unconcerned on the sidewalk, and gives money to buskers as a religious act.

For fifthly, she f*cks like wild cats and thunderstorms.

For sixthly, her kisses are gentle.

For seventhly, I would follow her or walk behind her or in front of her wherever she wished to go, and being with her would ease my mind.

For eighthly, I dream of her and am comforted.

For ninthly, there is no one like her, not that I’ve ever met, and I’ve met so many people, no one at all.

For tenthly, she squeals when I say “wastepaper basket,” and also in the morning, eyebrowless and waking, she always looks so perfectly surprised.