The Orchid Journal

My little brother is excellent at finding things. I remember when he was barely three years old and I had lost my hair bow. Looking everywhere and finding nothing but more frustration, I had turned to Brendan out of desperation and said, "I don't suppose you know where my bow is?" To my surprise, he understood me and cheerily replied, "Over dere". Pointing and walking over to a spot I had passed more than once, he picked up my bow and held it in the air. I was dumbfounded. Over the years, the scenario has played out multiple times. My almost daily question, "Has anyone seen my...?" is heard so often, my family is surprised I haven't lost my own brain yet. Still, my brother has proven himself an excellent finder. I often think that when God decided to give me a little brother, He must have said, "Hmmm, Laelia loses things frequently, I should make her new brother good at finding things". And so, Brendan was born. Now that he is al...

I was seven or eight years old when I realized that I was alive. Completely unaware of any looming revelation, I was sitting in the backseat of my family's long, blue station wagon that we nicknamed, “The Boat” because of its immense size. My parents joked that driving that huge station wagon was like maneuvering a cruise ship. With the ceiling fabric sagging like the skin of an elderly woman and the very cushioned blue seats, the inside of “The Boat” was reminiscent of my grandmother's lap, cozy, safe and warm. Sitting in the car and looking out the window was where I often did my best thinking. Waiting in the backseat of the silent car for my mom to come out of the house so we could go run some errands, I contentedly idled away my time by daydreaming. My mind was in deep thought as I contemplated the strange pine trees in our yard. The trunks were the longest and skinniest I had ever seen on a tree in my eight years of experience, and way at the top, beyond the reac...

On my way to Virginia, I had a brief layover in Dallas. While waiting outside gate A24 for my second plane to Norfolk, I noticed a very tall black man, in his twenties maybe, leaning quietly against the wall across from the gate door. I noticed him because he was quite impressive looking, his massive frame alone made him stand out, but he was also very handsome and had a calm demeanor about him. The man was wearing dressy hip hop clothes and maybe an earring in one of his ears. I couldn't help glancing at him multiple times while we waited to board the plane. When we boarded, I sat down and briefly saw the man take a seat and then, rise a moment later, apologize politely to someone and then move to another seat. He must have accidentally taken someone else's seat. That was the last I noticed of him until we landed in Norfolk. I called my cousin Peter as I walked out of the plane to ask where I should meet him. Since I had no clue as to where I was going, I just followed ...

It is 10:47pm on a Monday night. I am exhausted, have had an incredibly odd, wonderful and eventful day and despite all that, the usual urge to write has hit me at this highly inconvenient hour. This is in no way going to be an interesting post, as it is not a story and quite self-focused, but I had to document this moment, nonetheless. My parents tease me about the fact that I am not very productive in the morning. I've had friends in college who would go to sleep early so they could wake up early and finish their looming project or homework assignment. I never understood that method. First of all, I barely think clearly enough to stumble to the bathroom when I wake up, let alone write a paper or do math problems. Besides that, it appears to me that going to sleep with the prospect of waking up early to do homework is akin to self-torture. If it were me, I would have trouble falling asleep knowing I have this "thing" waiting for me when I wake up, at an earlier ti...

Following my Intro to Horse Science class, I always walk to the university Cat Tran stop across from the Harvell building. After going to that same stop two days out of the week at least fifty times this semester at around the same time of day, one begins to notice things. The older and very tall man from India is there often, standing quietly looking down the street in the direction of the Teal tran's route. The row of motorcycles behind the lava rock wall always hold my interest for a few minutes at least. I like the orange one with white blazes on it and I always wonder what the person is like who rides the black motorcycle. Its kickstand is always propped up by a smooth, black rock and the seat is patched with gobs of black duct tape. As I walked up to the stop, I noticed two guys waiting there. There was nothing unusual about these guys in particular except that I knew immediately they were fraternity boys. The fact that I could tell right away, puzzled me. I hadn't s...

There is a woman in my church who is fighting breast cancer. I have known Elsa and her sweet family for over two years now. Recently, Elsa requested that I help her write her story. When she explained her desire to write children's stories that would be used as resources to teach the complexities of cancer to children with parents struggling with cancer, my skin was covered in goosebumps and my soul pressed on me in a definitive, "YES, I will help!" Here is a godly woman with a husband and two small children, staring death in the face every time she goes to the doctor, and she is asking me to glimpse a part of her life, share in it, help tell her story. Is there a more humbling experience than to be asked to join someone in telling their story? Our stories are unique. No one has the same memories or experiences. Even two people sharing the same experience will process the event differently, feel differently because our history and personality colors the way we view...

This is my second attempt at creating a blog. I tried to make one last summer, but it remained empty and unused for a few weeks like a blank canvas awaiting the first brush stroke of the artist. Not that I consider my writing on the same level as an artist, but I was neither inspired to write, nor did I think anyone would be interested in reading a thing I had to say. It wasn't long before I deleted that blog. This time may not be any different, however, I do have a plan. Since I am majoring in Creative Writing, I have found that having a place to write out vignettes or random stories and memories has helped trigger ideas for the creative non-fiction pieces I need to write for class. I also noticed that it was helpful for me to get feedback on the Facebook notes I had written, which I later used to refine and expand certain pieces for a final draft. We are encouraged in our classes to write whenever anything comes to mind and to also find people to read our ideas. So, the ...