Thoughts

It’s hard to feel

Like any of my thoughts matter

So many thoughts have already been spoken, and written, and shared

They shape my thoughts

But my thoughts stand alone – they are unique

 

If I could, I would have

A book

With all of my thoughts.

Because I think many things,

But forget almost all

Even the things

I want to remember

 

In heaven, there must be a library

Perhaps somewhere among its shelves, there is a book

With my memories

and thoughts

And I can settle it in my lap, and open it, and remember

 

The joy

and sorrows

Preparation

So far today I’ve worked on cleaning my room, as I haven’t had a chance to organize everything since returning from Rainier.

I also took all of my writing notes and put them together in a notebook, labeling the different books and writing notes and writing ideas – finally, I have all of my scribbles and jotted things in one place! Fantastic feeling. Amazing what organization does for your inner writer. Except for the knowledge that my plot needs way more work… I kinda feel prepared for this month of madness. That feeling when you reach 50K just can’t be beat!

While organizing through my papers I found a few “poems”, here’s one:

Is truth, truth, if you don’t believe in it?

Does the sun exist, if you can’t see, feel, or touch it?

Is the wind real – if your eyes cannot observe it?

If someone is told their entire life that they are ugly, does that make it the truth?

Is it possible – that there is something beyond our senses? That only our heart and soul can detect the whisper of – but we will distrust and refuse to rely on that.

If I could see the face of my Creator, stand and witness the radical act of His love for me, hear His voice groaning as He died, feel His hands – the scarred hands of a dead man again alive – would I believe?

Does God exist, if we don’t believe in Him?

As surely as the sun will rise…

Your life is not complete until you sleep outside and wake early to watch the sky slowly fill with the light of dawn. My life is now complete. So don’t be surprised if you hear news that I recently died in my sleep, with a smile on my face.

Just joking! But last night I did borrow (aka steal) a friend’s sleeping bag and stake out a bench outside of the visitor center for a one-night bed. The moon was waxing and not quite full, but gave just enough light to write by. I choose the side of the building that faces the Tatoosh Range, since I would be able to see the light of dawn better there – and there seemed to be a warm pocket of air on that side.

Staring at the stars, it’s an odd thought to think of how they’ve stayed the same for so many years. (Yes, slightly changed, but overall…) How poets and travelers and homeless and lovers and writers and rulers and people from all centuries, wearing sweatshirts, robes, hooped skirts, suits, armor, kimonos… have sat and watched the same stars, with much the same thoughts and questions of life in their mind…

It’s an odd thought.

A fox came snuffling by and sat blinking at me about six feet away for a while, as if wondering “what are you doing here?”, before disappearing back into the darkness.

I liberally sprayed myself all over with bug spray – in the past week the mosquitoes have turned me riddled with bites and as twitchy as a man pursued by ax murderers. Fortunately they didn’t bother me this night.

I thank God for my young body, which can hike and work hard and sleep on hard wooden benches, with minimal soreness the next day. I know that this limberness (and yes I looked it up and that’s a word ) will not last long – so I enjoy it now while I can.

I woke by an alarm at 5:30 the next morning, and was at first confused as to why I had set the alarm so early, since it was still dark. I could see Orion just above Pinnacle Peak, and another, brighter star above it to the west – I wish I knew which one it was?

But looking to the east I could tell there was the faintest of lights growing above the hill.

The sky when I woke - 5:42am

It’s amazing how much the sky changes in but a few short minutes. I moved down to the stone wall on the loop road and watched as the sky turned lighter and lighter, from black to a light, pearly blue.

6:06 am

6:25 am

I gave up on my camera in frustration several times, since it couldn’t capture the colors and beauty my eyes saw. But then I would look away from the sky for a few moments and look back, and try again to take a picture capturing what I saw.

That’s one of the neat things about life, I suppose. No matter how much we try to coax our machines to capture the intricacy and colors and wonder of a moment, they fall short every time to our senses. We can only enjoy something to the fullest as we are living it. It makes me wish my memory were a hundred times better. I’m hoping for replays in heaven.

The sun deciding to be lackadaisical and off schedule (okay maybe it just felt like the sun was late in rising ), eventually I stood to stretch my legs and wandered back up to the visitor center, where I took some pictures of the sunlight from the invisible sun playing across Rainier the Mountain.

7:00 am

Having watched the sky slowly lighten for an hour by now, I had plenty of time to ponder whether or not today would be the day the sun would choose to break its own tradition and not rise. (Although what’s the meaning of “not rising”? I suppose that’s really the earth “not revolving”)

Like the stars in the night sky, the sunrise tells a story of constancy. For thousands of years, the sun has not ceased to warm the earth from the precise distance required to maintain life. The battle between the dark and the light, the delicate balance that results and that has not changed once (barring Joshua 10), is in itself either proof of a remarkable and coincidental machine, set ticking and now dangling in the emptiness of space, or of a God that does not remove His hand of protection from our world, but watches over every detail from the rising of the sun, to a bee setting wing, to the tide rising and falling.

I also thought of the story “The Day Boy and the Night Girl (The Romance of Photogen and Nycteris)” by George MacDonald.

And watched the horizon.

Finally.

7:08 am

As surely as the sun will rise...

...You'll come to us

...Certain as the dawn appears

"Get out of bed, Jerusalem! Wake up. Put your face in the sunlight. God's bright glory has risen for you. The whole earth is wrapped in darkness, all people sunk in deep darkness, But God rises on you, his sunrise glory breaks over you." - Isaiah 60, The Message

It is a marvelous thing to wait and watch for the sun, wondering if it will arrive, and feeling a great sense of gladness when it does.

I felt almost proud of the sun, as if I had helped it up, like a child's parent cheering them on. Yeah, sun, you did it!

And with the transition from darkness to light complete and the world set at rights again, I set off back to my bed and a shower. After snapping a few more pictures.

Can you believe this miracle happens every day?

The Beauty Within

This was my second entry to the Writing Contest, which earned an honorable mention. I’m posting it because I haven’t posted in a long time!! =)

Some people say that mankind is like a meadow of flowers swaying together. The bluebell looks at the lily and wistfully wonders why it was not gifted with such beauty – while the lily gazes at the rose and covets its vibrant colors. Unable to look upon ourselves, it’s only when another holds up a mirror and we see our reflection that we realize the beauty within.
The name of my mirror-holder was René. He sought me out at a time when even my own mother kept me stirring soup in the kitchen, so as not to scare away the boarding house guests with my deformed face and figure. Whether I was dusting, or mopping, or peeling potatoes, he would always find me and sit for hours spinning tales of his past adventures, or playing melodies on his violin. His kindness and patience as he listened to my stuttering speech brought me to realize that here, in this unlikely, grey haired man, I had found my first friend.
And with this friend came the key to unlock my chains. Cursed for so long to look upon fair flowers in this world’s meadow, I had learned to live with my eyes closed, inside my mind. René released my inner world the day he laid his violin in my callused hands and offered to teach me. It turned out he was offering to teach a duck how to swim.
I invented entire tunes on the spot, playing them as they wound through my mind. Even in the beginning when the notes came out squeaky, guests paused in the kitchen door and listened with mouths agape.
“My music is magical,” I told René, my tongue stumbling over the words. “It blinds them to my ugliness.”
He only shook his head. “It awakens them to your beauty.”
On that day I didn’t believe what he said. But now I know he spoke the truth. When my mother listened to me fiddle Papa’s favorite song, she realized she had been blind to a daughter who loved her. When the guests heard my slow, sweet songs in the evening, they knew they had overlooked the scullery maid too quickly. And when Jacques Depaul, a great composer, watched me play one of his complex songs by ear, he saw greatness hidden within my soul.

Several years have passed since René first laid his worn violin in my hands.
I stand in the darkness of the stage wing, swathed in an ethereal white dress. I know I look like a mottled cake poorly covered with icing, but I straighten my shoulders and tuck my violin – my voice – beneath my chin.

They announce my name, Marjorie Chevalier, to the king of France, and lights illuminate the stage. I take a deep breath and step forward, into the light, the sound of my music filling the lofty hall until it makes the chandeliers tremble. This song is a thank you to my mirror-holder – to René.

Simply

This poem won 1st place in the Duvall/Carnation library writing contest. =) I just wrote it one night before going to sleep and hardly even edited! 

Is it possible to be, simply, black and white in this kaleidoscope world of colors?

Is it possible to be, simply, one low note while others are scales, trills, and melodies?

Is it possible to be, simply, a quiet dandelion amongst meadows and bouqets and heady fragrances from roses and lilies?

While all others dance and run and climb mountains, if I stood still long enough in this one spot,

unmoving.

Would I disappear?

Simply sink into the ground, becoming nothing but two sky-blue eyes, watching curiously. Shyly. Quietly.

If you are a colorful play with dancers and arias and drama and laughter,

I am a still black and white photo of a single raindrop

glistening on a common leaf,

lingering over the ground,

Caught at the moment of hovering and wondering whether to remain still and shimmer before disappearing into the air,

or whether to fall

and fall

and fall

to the very core of all things,

Where somehow notes and colors and flowers and running doesn’t matter as much as,

Simply,

Being.

 

copyright Sarah Ulrich.

For my cleansing this my plea…

“Communion is a way of remembering… remembering that we have done nothing to earn our salvation, while Christ did everything, the only reason being His love.”

The speaker finished and read the usual verses before we took communion. How many times have I heard those verses in my short life? I wondered. The quiet music began. Small tables stood on the sides of the room, a round loaf of bread and a cup of juice awaiting the quiet, solemn observers. As always I closed my eyes before standing, to take a moment to reflect. And there he was.

A weak and crumpled body, he lay on the floor, tainting it with his blood. He barely had the strength to breath – let alone stand – yet somehow he moved his face towards mine. It was so twisted by violent, bloodred stripes and bruises that it could scarcely be recognized as human.  His mouth tilted upwards into a joyful smile.

With agonizing pain etched on his face, he pushed himself from the floor, blood smearing across the chairs that made up the row in front. Smears of bright red against everything he touched. An arm stretched towards me, evidence of countless lashes across the skin. The hand – I turned away as bile rose to my mouth. The hand was mutilated even more than the man’s face by a deep hole through which I could see tendons, bone, and a glimpse of the floor below.

The man’s hand remained outstretched. I looked into his face. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripping pale red onto the floor. The look in his face hit me like a punch, as well as the realization… These wounds were for me. He had bowed beneath the whip, silently succumbed to the nails and hammer, and felt the blow of a thousand mocking tongues… all for me.

I feel to my knees beside him, weeping. Arms enfolded me. Kindness flooded my soul, a kindness that understood why I could form no words but “thank you.”

Some count gold as their riches. Others the gleam of jewels. But for me, there is nothing more precious or valuable than the innocent blood, spilled from my Maker, that frees my chains and gives me entrance to a sunless yet lightfilled city when my days have reached their end.

Managi & Otawa, Pt. 2

On a lighter note, here’s a draft from yesterday:

Another slow day at the library! Here, dear readers, is the continuation of our friend’s adventures.

Two silhouettes on a lone tower, Managi and Otawa stood side by side, staring out on the swirling blue.

“It’s so beautiful,” Otawa said, smiling happily.

Managi stomped his foot, irritated. “No, no, no! It’s not beautiful!” he shrieked, then rolled his eyes. “All right, maybe it is. But I did not come out here to admire blueish mist! I came to find kiwis for a delectable breakfast, and instead I end up stuck… with nowhere to go.”

Managi tiptoed carefully to the edge of their pillar, peering down at the edge. “No magical ladder or flying walrus, waiting to transport us away? What sort of supernatural tower is this?!” As he finished his disgusted rant something nudged his toe. He nearly toppled over the edge, but for Otawa grabbing the collar of his vest and gently setting him back on the groun.

A long, slender bridge swayed in an invisible breeze before them. It glittered as if spun from spider silk and stretched far into the distance before disappearing altogether into the ethereal mist.

Managi clung to his large friend. “O-O-Otawa, do you see that?”

Otawa nodded, his eyes huge. “It’s so beautiful…” he murmured. He took a step forward, onto the bridge and it swayed beneath his feet.

Managi shrieked. “Otawa! Get back here! We are not walking on that thing.”

Walking back, Otawa put his large hand on his friend’s shoulder and smiled. Then he picked him up and effortlessly set him onto his shoulders. Managi clung to Otawa’s head.

“O-O- Otawa – no!”

They started across the bridge.

Another sampling…

To accomplish the official NaNoWriMo goal, in the next week I would have to write as much as I’ve written in the last 23 days. (which isn’t going to happen) But I still have excedded my goal of 20,000. (which was 17,000 and started out in the very beginning as 15,000…) I’ve also written much more on ONE story than I’ve ever written before – which makes me very happy!

The words were flowing rather well today. At last count, I’ve called my main character a madman four times, thrown him down a flight of stairs, nearly sunburnt him to death in a desert, and (recently) had him whipped. I had mused I wanted to make my main characters ‘feel’ a bit more so they weren’t simply tripping through life happily, but I think this is a little extreme. =) No, not really. It makes sense for this main character’s situation.

Anyhow, I thought I would share with all of you another small excerpt from my novel. So enjoy, and God bless!

“Did you hear that?”

The gruff voice of a soldier echoed down the hallway.

“It’s just our minds playing trick from being down here too long, Samuel”. Another deeper voice responded. “None’s in this prison but the man Darius beat to death.”

A laugh. “An’ the dead can’t sing.”

The torchlight grew stronger. “But I could’ve sworn…”

A tall guard came around the corner, peering into the cells. He stopped when he came to Joash’s. “Issachar…” His voice wobbled and broke.

Joash blinked against the bright light as another guard came to stand by the first.

“By the beard of Rama…” The second guard breathed.

Joash shifted, starting to stand, and everything went black as the guards dropped their torches in their hurry to run.

He stared in the darkness. Dead?

“Elyon, what happened to me?” he whispered.

An excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel…

I’m hoping all you fellow writers will understand, but still, please note that this is a ROUGH draft!! I haven’t gone back to edit anything. I just figured y’all would like a sneak peak. =) In the slim chance I never publish this book and it turns into a bestseller. Yeah, I know the chance is really slim but just in case… So enjoy!

Underneath the shadow of a booth, an ancient man quietly hummed as his foot rose and fell, setting his potter’s wheel swiftly twirling. His deft, wrinkled fingers guided the edges of the clay into smooth, graceful curves. His eyes, though, were closed and a peaceful smile was on his lips.
“Thank you, Elyon,” he whispered.
How long had he been waiting? He could still remember the days of his youth, when songs of praise to Elyon had been sung from the rooftops – had radiated from every face, every smile. The temple of Elyon had been filled with people, carrying gold or a lamb in their arms – returning back to their God the wealth He had blessed them with.
But those days were now distant specks on the road of time. The old man chuckled. Especially with what his sight was nowadays. His eyes could only see shades of brown where once had been shelves of urns and pots and a blur where once had been a pot steadily forming. So he trusted his fingers. And the money kept rolling in, eh?
He laughed again, feeling so, so happy. Although Elyon’s time was never what men expect, by and by – at just the right moment – his promises come to pass.
Finally this fallen city would be shaken. Once the truth is revealed, how can it be hidden? The old man shook his head. No, the truth had never completely disappeared. The people of Bethel had never forgotten Elyon and his covenant, they had just chosen to reject both. Day after day, they streamed to the numerous temples covering the city. This one promised wealth, this one love, this one power, and this one happiness. And they must fulfill their promises – at least so thinks Bethel, the old man thought – because the people lived wealthy and happy lives.
He sighed. One day all they thought they had would fall away to reveal a bleak, empty life. And that day was coming soon.
He felt a stirring in his soul and slowed his foot, brushing wet pieces of clay from his fingers as he opened his eyes and squinted at the street. A bit of white stood still among the bright, moving colors. The old man smiled, then called out, “Hello, boy!”

- Copyright Sarah Ulrich

Managi & Otawa

While at the library a few weeks ago I was brainstorming on my Nanowrimo novel. The internet was going EXTREMELY slow, so I started playing around with Word. So here, faithful readers, is my jottings.

Managi clung to the root desperately, staring in disbelief at the swirling blue nothing below his foot. Without turning his head, without moving a muscle he snapped at his fellow hiker.

“Otawa, there’s no kiwi trees out here! And you never mentioned this cliff,” he continued complaining as he felt his large friend reach out and easily pull him back to the comfortingly solid ground.

He turned to find Otawa’s eyes as wide as saucers, staring at the vast dropoff before them. Managi allowed his tone to soften some. “You didn’t know this was here?” His heart was still pounding and he shoved his hands into his vest pockets with an irritated air to hide the shaking.

Otawa sturred, clearly at a loss for words.

Managi turned and studied the periwinkle fog. “Well then, it must be a new phenomenon, since you know every rock and bump in this region. Come on, we’ll just have to go back and forego kiwis this breakfast.”

He turned and took another step and let loose a high shriek. Otawa’s huge hand darted out and grabbed his friend’s collar, pulling him back onto their now circular tower in the middle of the etherly ocean.

Managi couldn’t hide his violent shaking now. “W-w-we’re surrounded.”

Otawa’s fear was erased as he chuckled at his friend’s obvious shock.

And here ends what I wrote! Perhaps I’ll add some more, so stay tuned. =)