Midnight on a Lake

It is after 1:00 in the morning as I write this.

I'm staying with some friends in a real life log cabin on a lake in Wisconsin for the weekend. We've spent our time tramping around in the boggy woods, building forts, kayaking, eating sloppy joes, star-tipping, and canoeing at midnight. Pretty cool.

This evening, after returning from going out on the lake, several of us just flopped down on the dock and stared up at the multitudes of stars. It's a clear night, and the lake is secluded, so we could see everything.

The first shooting star I saw, I automatically thought of a wish. But after it was gone, I felt unsatisfied. What's the point of wishing for stuff on a dying meteorite? It's just a rock! Instead, what if every time I saw a star, I spoke to the God who created all the flying objects up there? A prayer for each brilliant streak across the sky...

Another celestial light zipped across the Milky Way. Floating beneath a canopy woven by a Creative Genius, I smiled to myself and thought of something to say.

Lost in a Patch of Melancholy Wildwood

(Written while walking by the lake at my college)

Why does walking in the woods make me feel melancholy? Why do I feel sadness at the trees and birds and dirt and leaves?

The humid air can't be the reason, because I feel the same way in the fresh morning stillness and in early spring's snowy slumber.

Wild raspberries
Cattails at the lake's edge
Oaks near the sky
Wind rustling leaves all around me
Distant road noise
Ferns on my left in feathery whorls rising to my hip.
Why the bittersweet longing?
Why the deep sighs?
Why the film of water over my eyes?

Mud, packed hard beneath my shod feet.
One dead yellow leaf.
One sick red leaf, still attached to the stalk.

More ferns, an oak rising from their midst. Steadfast and older than my house.
The hill behind looms like a buried wall mossed over by time. Baby birches try to win each patch of sunlight dappled on the slope.

Crack.
I step on a gnarled twig and wish I didn't have to wear shoes. Shoes are for people who conform to society - to a city life.
I may be in St. Paul, but I'm lost in a patch of melancholy wildwood.
Well, not exactly lost - since I have yet to stray more than a few feet from the hard-packed mud path.

The breeze stirs the water into tiny ripples, dozens upon dozens of neat little lines swarming toward me on the bank. But a net of reeds stops them, surrounding my hidden spot of shade with inch-deep, still pools where a blue damselfly hovers. He comes close to see my shoe, his wings invisible until he comes to rest on a green frond. His bulbous eyes regard me even as I regard him.
Splash.
What was that? Are there fish in this little lake? The ripples grow, then diminish again.

Now a fallen tree, split lengthwise down the trunk, forgotten by the others who still stand tall, piled over with dead branches and fungi.

A board by the lakeside, covered with moss on one half. What is it from? A quarter-sized shard of bright blue plastic rests on top. The husk of a fallen wasp nest shares the clearing, as well as a diet coke bottle, missing its label.

Now I can see a giant crane across the lake, a marvel of metal and cable looming over the full crown of a mature tree in someone's backyard.
I return to the path.

Orange collars around doomed trees and the stump of one already taken. A pink flag half-buried in the sandy soil says "wetland delineation" I think.

Mud puddles in the tire tracks.

Hey! There's another path branching off. Should I take it? It goes up the hill and disappears. But my feet are tired, and the flat path I'm on goes around a bend. I can't alter course now. Onward!

A red-painted stake labeled OAK
Some questionable red-orange berries.
Stinging nettles!

I hear an animal in the ferns. Probably a chipmunk. But no! I see now that it is a gray squirrel. I should have known. The campus here is overrun with the cheeky little blighters.

With all this humidity, it smells like Como Conservatory. I can almost imagine I'm in Florida. I hear the tropical sounds of a chittering woodpecker and the sweet warble of a curious oriole. They must think I'm odd, trying to write while I walk. I stumble over a bump and stand still, hearing more birdsong mingled with the beeping sound of a vehicle backing up somewhere. A robin scolds me, for standing too close to her nest, I suppose. Very well, Mrs. Robin. I shall continue my hike.

At last I come to the place where a stream empties into the the lake, after tumbling over some rocks.

Packing peanuts and Styrofoam coffee lids? Tut-tut.

I sit down by the mini waterfall and inspect the rocks. These look man-made. Yes, I believe they are. Someone has poured concrete over the little rocks on either side of the rapids, perhaps to control erosion. The water smells brown. Crusty foam eddies up into the crevices by my feet. If I was feeling more adventurous, I'd hop across on the damp rocks to the other side. What interesting sights and smells lie over there?

But I have a bag full of sketchbooks and my Wacom tablet, so maybe that wouldn't be a wise endeavor for today.

People wade in the shallows upstream. Talking, but I cannot understand them from here. I pick out the word "slimy" and that's it.

And now I reach the end of the path. As I step out into the empty parking lot, the hot sun instantly causes my neck to prickle with sweat. Ah. The enchanted walk is over. The melancholy has evaporated. Life is back to normal.

Time for a snack.

A Tribute to Daisy

The daisy-hued labrador
who once danced,
face turned toward the sun


now withered
on searing metal tracks
pale petals drift across the taconite
caught in eddies of melting snow.


* * *


It's been over a year now since my family's beloved young labrador retriever, Daisy, was hit by a train. It was a traumatic experience, but I finally feel like I can write about it. I took this photo of her only a couple of hours before the tragic event.


She was the smartest dog I've ever known, and loved to be with everybody, young or old or anywhere in between. Sometimes it seemed like she thought she was a human. She would sit on your lap if you let her, even though she was several times larger than a cat, and she would play fetch for hours if she could get you to cooperate. She never whined or barked for attention, and yet when the vacuum or the broom was nearby, she'd growl something fierce until it went away. She loved to chase squirrels away from my mom's birdfeeder, and she would sit at the deck door waiting for the rodents to appear.


When I was home alone, she would follow me around like a second shadow, keeping me company and making me feel safe. I loved to go on long walks with her in the woods, watching her antics and laughing at her boundless energy. She was able to cheer me up with her goofy frolics and happy face. I've never known such a truly happy dog.


I'll miss her, but now I'm able to remember the good times I had with her. I thank God for his gift during those years, and hope that perhaps one day, when I arrive at heaven's gates, a daisy-colored dog will be there to greet me with her happy smile, frolicking in celestial meadows.


~~~~~~~

Welcome to My Treehouse

After much careful thought, I've decided to change the title of my blog from "Evergreena's Journal" to "Evergreena's Treehouse."

Why?

In the last few years since I started this blog, I've done a lot of exploring, learning, and growing. My life has expanded in many ways. When I first started my blog, I only knew that I loved to write. So I made that the main focus of my blog, creating an online "journal" where I could jot down my stories, goals, and random musings.

Lately I've been searching out God's will in my life, and how I should best use the gifts and passions he has given me:

--In early 2010, I went to the Florida Christian Writers Conference, and discovered that I don't love writing itself, I love story.

--Last December, I re-discovered my passion for art, and decided to embark on a self-taught journey until I start college as an art major next fall.

--In the last four or five months, I began to sense that God may have a place for me in the film industry, perhaps the animated film industry. I'm currently experimenting with animation and 3D modeling.

--I recently opened an online Etsy shop, Rachel's Re-Creations, where I hope to sell various items crafted from recycled materials.

--I continue to take thousands of pictures with my DSLR camera.

--And I'm still writing novels and short stories.

I don't fit in a "journal" anymore. That metaphor no longer applies. My multi-faceted life requires a bit more space to move around in online. I need a place where my friends can explore with me, a place where creativity happens. So I thought, "If I could build my dream studio in real life, what would it look like?"

A treehouse.

A no-brainer. My virtual treehouse is born!

And through all of this change and exploration, I know one thing for sure: whatever career path God leads me on in the future, I will always create.

Adventures in Storytelling

This is an essay I recently wrote for a scholarship application. The prompt was open-ended, so I chose to write about my passion for storytelling. I discovered some interesting things about myself as I wrote, such as the fact that I don't love "Writing," I love "Story." It isn't the field of English that I love - it's the basic elements of an entertaining plot and engaging characters in a unique setting, well depicted. And, as a side-note, even though I don't say so in the essay, my ultimate goal is to glorify God through any form of storytelling I choose to implement. 

Enjoy! 

(Note: Please do not copy or re-post without permission.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Story.

That’s what I’m all about.

I get excited about writing, art, photography, music, and film because they all offer opportunities for telling an expressive story. The media may change. Paint or pixels, sentences or sound waves, it doesn’t matter. They can all be used to convey emotion and imagination, and that’s what I love.

Ever since I was first learning to read, and allowed myself to get swallowed up by the adventures of The Boxcar Children, I could sense that stories had a certain magic about them, namely, the power to captivate, entrance, and draw eager listeners into another world. I knew I wanted to be a part of that process almost from the very beginning.

My brother and I made up a magical land, and acted out epic adventures with our stuffed animals. As we grew older, that imaginative play became the springboard for writing stories about our Beanie Babies.

It wasn’t long before I was writing full-length novels. I self-published a science fiction book as a teenager, and sold paperback copies to family and friends. Since I was home schooled, my parents encouraged these kinds of self-directed projects, and provided resources that would help me to learn and grow.

But writing alone wasn’t enough. I discovered my passion for photography when I got my first digital camera at age fifteen. Since then, I’ve taken over 17,000 pictures, many of which have won awards through 4-H and other venues. I love to look at things from a new angle, and capture entire stories in one wordless moment.

Lately, I’ve experienced a renewed interest in art and filmmaking. Each of these has incredible potential for a storyteller like me. I’m eager to delve into these subjects more in college. 

I also hope to discover new opportunities for interaction and collaboration between all of these different areas of study. With the internet and other emerging technologies, there could be possibilities for artistic expression we haven’t even thought of yet, and I want to be on the forefront of that fast-growing field. 

I’m ready to take the next step and go to college, where I hope to purposefully expand my experiences and gain valuable skills that will help me make an impact on the world and propel me into a lifetime of learning.

This isn’t the end of my story. This is only the beginning.

The "Aha!" Moment

I’ve been thinking a lot about short stories and short films and their structure.

They are so much harder to write than novels. You have such a short time to introduce characters and make them compelling, set up a plot of some kind, and tie it up with a resonant punch line.

I think that’s the key. It all has to build towards a powerful “punch line” of some kind. It doesn’t have to be a joke, it just has to make the audience experience an “Oh!” or “Aha!” moment.

An example: In Pixar’s awesome short film “Geri’s Game”, an old man is sitting in a park playing an intense game of chess with his alter ego. That introduces an interesting character and a humorous plot… but it all becomes memorable when the game is won- and the object of the duel is revealed. That’s the “aha!” moment.

Another example, from a short film titled “INSiDE.” 

(This paragraph contains spoilers). A man suffering from multiple personality disorder is being questioned by his doctor, who is trying to get him to claim his true name again. It builds to a noisy climax, and he finally says his name. But then the another doctor enters, and we learn the surprising truth: The first doctor was one of his figments all along. “Aha!”

The "Aha!" moment ties everything together, and makes the short story/film worth remembering. It's usually a twist on the expected, it carries some emotive punch, and it has to take place in a short amount of time (duh).

I’m currently brainstorming for a short film my family is going to make this summer. Already we’re leaning toward the epic side of things— possibly two airships, a sky pirate attack, a lost city of treasure, a mysterious device… and that’s enough fodder for an entire full-length novel! As the official scriptwriter, I’m trying to find a way to condense that into a 10-15 minute film steeped in the epic steampunk adventure feel, yet keep it short, simple, and powerful. How do I come up with that perfect “Aha!” moment? 

First, I think I have to figure out the theme or "tone" of the story (is it romantic? Wry? Mysterious? Heart-warming? Humorous? Stark?). Once we have that root theme in place, we can decide what plot elements accord with that theme, and then find a way to twist the expected resolution.

Any thoughts? I'd appreciate input, because I'm still pretty baffled by writing shorts. Anyone have any questions (or advice!) about writing short films and stories?

One last random musing: Short films are often most powerful when the story is told without a scrap of dialogue.

A Compass to Point the Way

For my birthday, my parents gave me this lovely brass compass. Cool, huh? It came in the mail today. Now my head is full of exploration and quests and sailing ships and steampunk-ish adventures. 

These words were in the card they gave me:

"You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29:13

May this gift always remind you of your true compass, the Word of God.

It's a good reminder.

Turning Twenty

Today is my last day as a teenager.

It's hard to believe, even for me. I certainly don't feel like a twenty-year-old. I've often felt that I don't fit my age, starting way back when I was eleven years old. I realized then that in many ways, I was both older and younger than other kids I knew. Here's why:

I felt older because I read so much and was well-informed about a wide variety of subjects (I think a lot of it came from being home-schooled, but that's another topic altogether). Also, I wasn't swayed by most of the fickle notions of my generation.

But at the same time, I felt younger. I didn't feel the need to grow up fast and be burdened with the cares of adulthood. I spent hours climbing trees and exploring in the woods with my siblings and the neighbor kids. My brother and I played with our Beanie Babies and created a world for them to inhabit in our imaginations (we continued to do this even through most of our teenage years). I was content to be a kid and let the adults deal with logistics and issues that came up. Many of my friends were eager to grow up, find new acquaintances, get a job, start a family, etc, but for me, it was enough to read and play.

It was a precious time for me, and I'm glad that I had such a great family who encouraged me and loved me all through my childhood.

It's weird to think that I'm leaving that era behind me now, as I make the transition into adulthood at last. I still don't feel ready to step out on my own, but I need to trust Jesus to guide and protect me as I follow his call for my life.

God willing, I'll find a college that feels right to me and I'll start the next stage of my education surrounded by Christian peers and mentors. I'll always love my family --they're my best friends-- but I know that I'm destined to eventually follow a new path, perhaps I'll start my own family someday (although that's really hard to imagine right now!)

So, as I take a deep breath and step into another year of life and growth, I'm turning my thoughts to the future and how I can use these next years to glorify God with my life as an adult.

Soli Deo Gloria!

Bits 'n' Pieces of Random Poetry

My computer is sick.
*sob*
I'm taking it in to the Apple Store this evening. Hopefully they can fix it (cheaply and quickly!)

Anyway...
I thought I'd share some of the poetry and song lyrics I've been writing lately. A lot of it is about strange topics, like Antarctica and flipping pencils. Some of these are incomplete. Some of them have tunes that I'm in the process of composing. All of them are random.

First of all, a rumination on poetry itself:

Poetry is what pours forth from your head, your heart, your hand as you sprawl on a window-seat and watch the world change colors and live, live like a sunflower and age as a stone and laugh like a toddler who has found a Daddy Longlegs in a crack in the wall, flow like clouds in a sunset or maybe it's a sunrise but it doesn't really matter, who cares, because your poetry belongs to you, not the library, not uncle, not the public unless you shout it from the rooftops in bold letters earning the right to call yourself
poet.

The Dancer
I lift my hands to the sky
Around and around I fly
My bare feet in the flowers
As my shadow cowers
But I am free,
Free, free.

My eyes are raised to the sun
As I twirl around and run
My heart soars as I leap
Though my shadow fear will keep
But I am alive
Alive, alive.

Kicking up Dust
On a summer Sunday -afternoon-
When I was only six years old
My mother sent me out to play
I went peacefully
But when I got outside
-and this was a sunny day-
I went out to the driveway...

Chorus:
Kicking up dust
Shuffling my bare feet
Kicking up dust
   as I danced in the heat
Kicking up dust
I played and had lots of fun
Kicking up dust
   and dirt and sand in the sun.

I was very dusty -it covered me-
Of course I had to have a bath
My mother sent me to the tub
I went peacefully
But when I got all dry
I dashed right back out the door
To the driveway for some more...

(Chorus)

Now that I am older -all grown up-
I know that I should not kick dust
My mother will not clean me up
I walk peacefully
But when I see a dirt road
'specially when it's sunny
I suddenly get all funny...

Final chorus:
Kicking up dust
Shuffling my shod feet
Kicking up dust
   as I dance in the heat
Kicking up dust
I play and have lots of fun
Kicking up dust
   and dirt and sand in the sun.

South Pole Dreaming
Waiting for the sun to go to sleep
As I watch with bleary eyes
I think I'll be counting sheep
For a really long time, I realize
'Cause this night
is a really long night
It'll last for months, it seems
How I love Antarctic dreams

Stars above in the velvet sky
Time to sit and wonder why?
The sun has gone on his vacation
And I'm here at the South Pole Station
Dreaming of you...
In my everlasting Antarctic dreams.

It'll be a long, cold summer without you
Cooped up in this building with no room to run
I really don't know what I'll do
I really need to see the sun
'Cause this night
is a really long night
It's lasting for centuries, it seems
How I loathe Antarctic dreams.

Pencil
I walk into the classroom
Take a seat in the back
Wish I could hide in the bathroom
But then I see the guy in a black
   t-shirt in the front row
Showing off how his pencil can fly
Around his fingers
And then I really have to try...

Flippin' it around
It hits the ground
   again and again
What's the use of being prehensile
if I can't flip a pencil?

Stickers
When you're having a bad day
and the world gets you down
I take a smiley-face sticker
And turn that frown around

Stickers, stickers everywhere
On my wall and in my hair
I gotta have those tacky little pictures
I live in a world of stickers

It's just a small piece of life
To brighten the day and cheer the night
Stickers wait in my drawer
And whenever you're feeling poor
I break out my stickers

I've got 'em for every personality
They come from every nationality
To bring some whimsicality...

Stickers, stickers everywhere

On my wall and in my hair

I gotta have those tacky little pictures

I live in a world of stickers.

Midnight

Writing songs at midnight

You prob'ly think I'm crazy, right?

But when inspiration blows in

On the evening wind

And I hear the inklings of a song

I know, here I belong.

Whispers of lyrics chime in my head

How could I think of going to bed?

Now is the time for my ink to run

And my eyes both glint with imagination

As I feel the rumblings of a song

I know, here I belong.

This is the time when the world is alive

When the bullfrogs thrum

   and the junebugs hum

   and the sound of the wind on

   the flagpole clanking

And a lonely dog across the lake

I know I was meant to make

   music tonight...

At midnight.

All poems © 2010 Rachel H. Please don't copy or re-post without permission.

Musings on a Shy Grasshopper

This evening, while I was watering my white pine sapling, I saw the sun shining on the wet needles and I ran to get my camera. When I came back, I noticed that I had a guest. A grasshopper had taken up residence at the very top of my little tree. I tried taking a picture of him, but I soon discovered he was camera-shy! He kept moving around to the other side of the branch to hide from me. But I just walked in a circle around my tree until he finally stopped hiding and let me have a peek at him.

I'm not very fond of insects. Yet as I looked at this tiny, frightened grasshopper I saw beauty. The almighty God of the universe created and cares for all seemingly insignificant bugs because they please him and bring him glory. God knows how old this hopper is, and how many stripes are on his body, and what he sees with those dark eyes. God gave him a place to perch in a nice young tree, away from cars, robins, and other potential dangers. God provides food and water and warm weather, and the grasshopper lives to give God glory.

Jesus said, "Consider the ravens: they neither sow nor reap, they have neither storehouse nor barn, and yet God feeds them. Of how much more value are you than the birds!" and "Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass, which is alive in the field today, and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you!" (Luke 12:24, 27-28)

I admit that I often feel about insects the way this grasshopper felt about me-- I'd rather just hide! But if God loves bugs, maybe they aren't so bad after all. And if God so cares for a tiny insect, how much more will he care for you and me!