The Orchid Journal

First we posed for this picture: I saw it, and was like, "Hey! You never make a normal face." and he cracked up. Then I said, "Fine, we'll both make a face this time." He agreed,so we took it again. We both cracked up when I saw the second one: I punched him in the arm and said, "Thanks a lot!"

I am grieving. No, no one has died. Nothing tangibly tragic has occured to cause me to grieve, no, I am grieving the loss of a sense of place in my life. It is strange to grieve the loss of a place, and not the loss of a person or thing. In America, we seem to have grown out of a need for a sense of place. Because of the ease of travel and instant communication over long distances, families disperse like chaff in the wind as soon as they're old enough to leave the nest. There is also an emphasis on non-traditionalism, newness, the excellencies of change. We want a change of scenery, a change of situation. We are quick to separate from the past, assert ourselves over history. We are different! We will move on! My family had moving down to a science. I am grieving the years we spent wandering the country. I bottled up my anger and hatred of moving and I stuffed it down inside. Every time we moved, I put on a strong and happy face, but inwardly, I cringed and whithered ins...

I feel so sad right now. It is not the kind of sadness that is gut-wrenching in its intensity, nor is it one of those, "Oh man, I just got a papercut" fleeting sadnesses. This kind of sadness sneaks up on me, little by little. One circumstance or internal struggle is met and I face it, or ignore it, thinking it can be bested. Then a new one surfaces unrelated or related to the first, and I am slightly bemused by it, but I trudge on unvanquished. Unfortunately, there are only so many of those urchins that I can fend off by myself. Lately they have been coming in droves, weakening my resolve. No sooner do I fight a few hundred off, but the next come crawling up my pant leg. I am trying to pray, but one of the little sadness buggers made its way to my ear, disguised itself as an awfully convincing truth and is whispering, "You may ask God for help, but He sure ain't hearing you." I know it is a lie, but at the same time, it feels so true right now. I coul...

Some people should not be teachers. My "Structure and Meaning of Words" professor is one of those people. She is not actually a professor, she is a Russian born graduate student, named Tatyana. I like her name, I like her voice and her proper, precise speech. She is pleasant and has long blonde hair. Tatyana, who asks us to call her by her first name because she is not a professor, knows a lot about the rules of English and the root structure of various languages, but she cannot teach. My mom, who has been a teacher for about thirty years for good reason, says that a teacher's job is to excite the students about learning. The teacher's job is to present the material in a way that those who do not naturally care about the material will take an interest in learning for themselves. The inverse of this equation would be that a bad teacher is someone that makes you hate a subject you normally find interesting. This is the case with Tatyana. I signed up for this c...

I am beautiful, gorgeous, actually. Well, maybe, according to the magazines in the grocerly line. If I lost fifty pounds I will be really and truly beautiful. Maybe they're right. So, I am beautiful if I lose fifty pounds! And well, if only I was four or five inches taller like the models on TV. I guess I am beautiful... if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller, and as the ads in the salon windows say, if I was a little more tan and not so white. I might be beautiful if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller, if I was more tan... and you know, I saw that celebrities are getting plastic sugery now! So I guess I could be beautiful if I lose fifty pounds, were four or five inches taller, if I was more tan, and maybe if I downsized my nose, made my full lips fuller, turned my DD into EEE... and maybe I can at least be slightly pretty if I wear contacts and have surgery to turn my big green eyes into even bigger brown or blue... and if I straighten my curl...

I like to think that changes are easy to handle, that they are good, that I like them. In all actuality, they scare the crap out of me. Sure I like to know new people, visit new places, have a growing family, learn new things, experience adventures, but sometimes I would rather shut myself into my little house, close my eyes and hum to myself pretending nothing unusual is happening. Change cannot be avoided. The moment we are conceived, our lives are determined by change. We change physically in the womb and once we are born, we change physically until the day we die. Even our bodies, once we no longer inhabit them, will be effected by change and deteriorate in the ground. The Bible says that once we reach heaven we will be changed in the twinkling of an eye. We are born with particular abilities and personalities, but even those are effected by change as we grow in maturity and intelligence. The thoughts that crossed my mind as a teenager are not of the same interest to me as a...

The intense thirst surprised me the most when I first moved to Tucson. No matter how much water I drank, my throat was still dry and every fiber of my being begged for more. It is so dry in the desert that any water on my skin evaporates before I knew it was there. After some time in the desert climate, I realized that either my tolerance for thirstiness increased or my body acclimated itself to living off less water because I could go hours and hours without drinking anything. While this tolerance is more convenient, it is also dangerous. People in Tucson constantly warn newcomers to keep drinking water even if they don't feel thirsty. Apparently it is common to forgo water so long thinking you are not thirsty, but in actuality dehydration sneaks up easily and before you realize it, your body can go into shock because it needs water so badly. When I am under the intense, bright sun of the desert and my thirst increases, I think about these verses: Revelation 7:13-17 Then one of...

The light blue shirts are always the same shade. I wonder if they all go to Wal-Mart together to be sure to buy the same color or if they hand out color swatches in their gang meetings. Do they have to wear light blue every day? Are their wardrobes full of light blue t-shirts folded neatly in their drawers, one for every day of the week? I see the young men walking down the streets, heads down, with purpose in a sauntering sort of way. They look up surprised when I say hello and wave. So far, the faces are friendly. They smile back in little smiles and quickly drop their heads again. My heart goes out to the boys and the young men who choose to be in gangs. I understand the allure of being in a brotherhood, a committed community, but what about the danger? Light blue seems an odd choice for a gang. I wonder if they ever talk about changing colors. I wonder if they kill people often.

Life is full of lima beans squished in salty butter and sometimes there is ice cream served with peas and pepper

She nurtured me with her heart, soul and body. Thank you, Mom, and Happy Birthday.

In the midst of miserably contemplating the fact that my car had broken down and so many other things were going wrong, I suddenly had the biggest urge to go to the downtown library and borrow a book about interior decorating.

I glanced at the man who walked into the post office while I was waiting in line for my package. He was tall and strong with a strong jaw and he was wearing sunglasses, but it wasn't until he took off his sunglasses that I gave him a second look. His eyes were amazing! There were dark and soft, which made him suddenly all the more handsome. We glanced at each other a few times, then I left and sat in my car to excitedly open my birthday present from my friend in South Africa. My car window was down and I was listening to music as I admired the soft towel with my name embroidered on it that my friend Brenda had sent me. The man with the nice eyes came out of the Post Office door. As he walked by my car, he looked at me and said something which I missed because of the music. I turned it down, looked at him and said, "huh?" The man smiled and said, "You is beautiful!" I felt my eyebrows raise in surprise while I smiled back and said, "Thank you very mu...

In order to develop discipline in my writing and to follow the advice, "Write every day," I have decided to write two sentences per day. This is not much, I know, but I need to start small or I will never keep it up.

I grew up reading fairy tales like a drowining person inhales air when they finally reach solid ground. The adventures, magic, good vs. evil, the emphaisis on quality of character and beauty in the stories thrilled my already overactive imagination and my naturally romantic heart. Unlike most girls though, I did not read the watered down Disney versions of fairy tales. I read the original, hard core Brothers Grimm or other old fashioned fairy tale stories. While I highly enjoy Disney stories too, there is a vast difference in style and sheer number of Borthers Grimm stories. They fill volumes and volumes of books. I remember taking out thick books from the school library. They looked older, more worn and drab than the books that my schoolmates were borrowing. Each volume was a different color-dark maroon, navy blue, emerald green- and all of the pages were yellowed and the spines of the book were slightly worn. The outside of the book may have been uninviting and the thickness ...

Somewhere in the world is the reason for the clanging bells, the laughter on the silver note the rainbow streamers dancing in the breeze he has worlds of adventure sailing in his eyes aged sages and Socrates' fellows reside in the chambers of his heart His touch warms like the spring sunlight on the glistening face of a frozen winter's lake It is he whose familiarity sparks a fire of recognition- as when flint hits a steel- and the fire. Oh the fire! Generations will feel the warmth of the blaze

Silence- every fiber straining to hear a sound. As a balm lifts poison from a rattlesnake wound, the discordant city noise dissipates into the wind Silence- thoughts rise to the distant mountain peaks A breeze rustles tumbleweed into a saguaro, as a shy lizard scampers from its heated desert stone Silence- drawing out the song of the wilderness A dove coos softly from a setting purple sky, entreating all who hear the soft plea, to stretch and explore Grand Possibilities-

Love is the rose? So many suppose but it likens to something that dies. Love is the rose Temporary Beauty and shine to dazzle the eyes? Who tends the rose with clippers and hose giving drink and trimming stray branches? Who tends the rose, with patient care in lifeless winter, never blanches? Though leaves are bare He feels no despair when he sees naught but dry twigs and thorn. Though leaves are bare he waits for Spring. The death of blossoms he does not mourn. Love is the Lord, Majesty still stored in the heavens and trees and flowers. Love is the Lord; like gardener tends, and in dark winter never cowers. We in our love with gardening glove must continue to tend and protect. We in our love fight winter chill. Persistence and patience will perfect.

Here → • ← I am In the place I was before. Have you seen my hat? The map is defective- This crossroad looks familiar. Old pictures show me laughing then. Laughing still, but eyes hold unknown glint Of sadness, or..."What the hell?"....time slipping So where does the story end up? Don't tell me! Without the search, discovery holds no SUPRISE.

Crimson thread weaving through time, tying thoughts, buried in the confused past, to the wind; rising, dancing in the shimmering light exposing dragons that rear their heads in shame. There, there it is! There! Thus cries the captive, weighed down by ignominy of forgetfulness. There is the sound I listened for in the dark recesses, that resonated freedom from this confinement. She reaches out Towards the tremor that woke the light of life, Echoing the childlike hope the adolescent struggle the blush of femininity. Crimson thread lifting note by note the weary body of the languished captive, draws forth the ancient dance and wraps wings of sound around long forgotten beauty.

(These are segments from a piece I wrote for my non-fiction class-We had to write about an obsession, talk it up as much as we could in a sensory manner and include research, so I tied my "obsession" with hands to the overall importance of the sense of touch. It is more than 10 pages, so I just included a few parts) Hands are one of the most sensitive areas of the body. Not only are there over one hundred touch receptors on each fingertip which allow you to feel even the raised letters from the ink on this page, but hands are useful for wielding a hammer, playing an instrument, threading a needle, throwing a football, and hurting, helping or caressing another person.... My dad's hands are strong and stocky and very rough. He is a horticulturist, so all his life he has worked in the sun and rain. Working in the dirt, shoveling and raking and spraying has made his hands incredibly strong, with cracks and scratches and calluses on them from the manual labor. The ring fi...

click...click...click The librarian scrolled down the page with excruciating slowness. I was standing at the desk waiting for her to find a copy of "Frankenstein" that I knew the Mission Branch had. I had found the book while at work and put a reserve on the copy so that they would have it ready by the time I got to the library, but there had been some mix up and instead of the library reserving the copy from that branch, they had ordered it from another branch. Since the book would not be there for another few days with that odd route, I was trying to find the copy I knew they had in hand. "Well, here is an illustrated comic book-like version of Frankenstein," the librarian suggested helpfully. "No, that is not the one I need," I said, "I need the classic version by Mary Shelley." click...click.click....click.........click "Here's 'Frankenstein Lives' by Bruce Richardsen." "Nope, that's not it," I countered,...

Lay your heavy head upon my breast, soft like the clouds rising and falling with the wind. Wrapped in gentle arms, let me hold your sighing, sad, shuddering body wracked by unshed tears and long-held lies that pain with surfacing newness. Hear my heartbeat, rhythmic and slow, beating for you. A lullaby lulling your restless heart. These years of silent stoicism- receding sorrow of salty tears like waves of the ocean before a tsunami. Feel our hot tears mixing, gathering on your hair and cheeks, rushing unrelenting while purging the wasteland. Weep not, nor mourn your burden alone in the dark, cold, world devoid of sympathy for the weary. Come. Weep, wail, cry, mourn, sorrow in my ear as my hands, caressing your features tenderly, soothe your sobs to whimpers; and then you rise.

"Make sure to read to page 761 by Monday and write a commentary about the author's method of oraganizing the table of contents page..." My teacher's voice droned on and I stopped listening. Read to page 761? The syllabus says we're only supposed to be on page 435 this week, but now he says read to page 761 and knowing that I am only on page 371,my mind goes numb as I contemplate the endless barage of words that I have to cram into my head by Monday. On average, it takes me about an hour to read 35 pages. With that in mind and barring any distractions, like my mom knocking on my door to remind me to do the dishes or my eyes drooping or the chance that I remember a more pressing paper that needs to be written, I should finish the book in about twelve hours. If there's an average of 350 words per page and I have 390 pages to read before I am caught up, that is a total of approximately 136,500 words. Words, words, words. The Non-fiction teacher says excitedl...

There you were, your sweet self passing by, first slowly, happily. Mom and I watched you walk on the park's yellowed grass; a small boy, out on your own, headed who knows where. We wondered to whom you belonged, and looked around for fam'ly We hoped someone took note of your determined stroll. At a run you started towards the passing cars. Realizing that you were alone and headed straight for danger, we ran too calling sweetly, then running, faster, to catch up and grab you gently just before your little foot stepped onto the road and an SUV passed by our noses. Still no one came to claim you as their own. A sweet, sweet, brown boy with deep brown eyes and barely taller than my knee. Unafraid, you followed these white stranger ladies speaking soft asking where your mommy was; you answering back gibberish. Too young. Content to walk with us under shaded gre...

Silent souls in silvery, shimmery gossamer glide gleefully through the garden; lifting loftily, laughingly in faltering flaps as they flit from flow'r to flow'r. In iridescent irises, rambling roses tube tongue uncurls tentatively sipping sweet, syrupy nectar voraciously to nourish the fragile frame. Princely purples, wedding white, vibrant orange; Clownish colors catch the morning light adding artistic articulation of movement to the delicate dancers.

Impermanent The sun came up today. The sun came up today behind the Catalinas. The sun came up today behind the Catalinas, shyly peaking over the ridge and bursting forth in all it's morning glory. The sun stayed up all day. The sun stayed up all day in the wide bright blue, called sky. The sun stayed up all day in the wide bright blue, called sky, slowly gliding along illuminating thoughts of busily living world. The sun went down tonight. The sun went down tonight behind the Tucson mountains. The sun went down tonight behind the Tucson mountains, gently falling, sending last rays of hopefulness beaming over the ridges. The darkness fell this day like darkness falls on days that the sun goes down. Tomorrow the light will brighten up the day like all days upon which the sun rises. I woke today. I woke today and forgot to praise my God. I woke today and forgot to praise my God for the light shining steadily and the newly minted day. I lived today. I lived today moments idly passing...