Believe, Dream, Inspire

I wrote this for a contest this year, I lost but let me know your opinion. Believe, Dream, Inspire She believed she could and so she would but it was never quite that simple. Her arms were too long her muscles weren’t strong and on her cheeks there was no dimple. The little girl with ragged hair could dream her days away but in the dark and dreary room was where she had to stay. The other children laughed at her when she talked about her dream and she would try to ignore them but often her tears would stream. She could practice all day long but nothing seemed to differ she was getting bonier and her legs were getting stiffer. One day she decided to just give up “I’ve dreamed and I’ve believed, but I can never be a star! This was not what I perceived!” She curled up in a ball and shed a single tear it hit the cold stone floor a light did slowly appear. The room changed into a magic world filled with open space her rags had turned into a dress and she had a natural grace. She twirled and whirled and leapt all night her feet growing numb her inspiration shining bright. Her heart beat, her own drum, this is the girl she could become.

Who am I? at Eleven.

I've shown you some of my best works, but I can assure you I haven't always been able to even form complete (or good) sentences. Here is a piece I wrote when I was about eleven for some assignment. This was the phase were I thought really short sentences were cool.

        Who am I?
    I hate roller coasters. I would rather have my feet on solid ground. I am not a dropping person either, I would much rather be on flat ground.
    I love sports. I take dance, basketball, softball, track and field, tennis and cheerleading. I love it! Sometimes, I am so busy I go straight to bed when I come home.
    When I am not playing sports I am playing instruments. I play the piano and clarinet. I also sing solos at church. Last year I sang with my sisters. Who am I?
    When I was a baby, my brother put me in the bathtub and I almost drowned. I started to turn blue and I was life flighted to primary children’s Hospital.
    I like to hang out with my friends a lot. I used to talk on the phone with them but after we talk for five hours straight my mom told me to go on walks with them instead.
    I have twelve people in my family but in June we will have thirteen. My siblings and I are so excited I can’t wait for a new member in my family. Who am I?


Just to clarify I could play like "Mary Had a Little Lamb" on the piano, could do a cartwheel and knew a few cheers, and did a 3 week summer tennis camp. It's interesting to see what I thought was important to tell people like, "Who am I?" "Well, I hate roller coasters!" Way to get priorities straight.

The Magic of this Moment

 Here is another story I wrote. It is actually inspired by one of my friends and my imaginary love life.

I couldn’t breathe.  My thoughts were a mess, thinking of everything that could go wrong. I did slow releves and put another layer of rosin on my pointe shoes. Looking on the other side of the wings, I could see my partner. I could see him shaking and any sanity I had left was gone. I slid into a left split. I had trained every day for hours. Ballet was my life, but at that moment I didn’t feel prepared. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to my friend’s house instead of stretching. Maybe I should have been going through my routine, not worrying about who might ask me to Prom.

            I turned onto my right side. I heard applause and looked over to see the little girls run off stage. They were all smiling and giggling. I guess one girl had dropped her headpiece on stage and all the other girls thought it was so hilarious.

            I stood up and started to pace behind the wings. My only thoughts were all similar, “Don’t puke, don’t faint, don’t die!’ In less than a minute, I would walk onto the stage as Odette. My instructor gave me a thumbs-up sign and I turned my head back to the stage. Fog started to flood the floor and I realized that was my cue.

            I placed my arms into the graceful swan position I have become so familiar with and tondued front. Taking three slow breaths, I said a silent prayer, begging that I wouldn’t trip over my own two feet. And, as the flute hit its last chord, I flew onto the stage.

            The light practically blinded me and it wasn’t until I prepared to pirouette that I remembered to smile. The combination was tough, and a lot harder with hundreds of eyes on me, but when it finished, I felt good. The curtain closed for intermission and I ran off stage to change my costume and, hopefully, practice the pas de deux once more.

            After retying my pointe shoes and hairspraying my bun, I went to find Bryan. Bryan was a funny guy, but definitely not the first person I’d want to partner with. His red hair, freckles, and braces don’t really help portray the Princely figure he was acting out. And sometimes his hands are really sweaty, but he is an amazing dancer. He is much better than me. He also is very kind and not the least bit stuck up.

            I finally spotted him over by a little girl who was crying. As I came closer, I recognized her as the dancer whose headpiece fell off on stage. When he saw me, he smiled. “Isn’t she the prettiest ballerina you’ve ever seen?” he asked the girl. She nodded and looked at my tutu with that longing I knew too well. My cheeks turned the color of Bryan’s hair.

            “Well, I better go,” he said, patting the little girl’s knee. “Thanks for talking to me.” He then held his arm out towards me and struck a ridiculous pose and asked if he could “escort me to my pond.” With his words, my fears came anew. We still had half the performance, including my acting of Odele and then our traumatic death together. I fidgeted and checked my bun for stray hairs.

            When we got back to the wings, we realized there wasn’t enough time to go over our part. Wishing each other luck, we got in our opening places. After being on stage once, the second time wasn’t as scary. The second act went well, besides one of the fog machines going at the wrong time, the second half of the production started off without much error.

            However, when it was time for our pas de deux, I could feel my knees wobbling. Bryan grabbed my hand and I almost pulled back; he was sweating up a storm. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever partnered before, but imagine a sweaty guy lifting you in the air. Sounds gross, right? Well, you probably didn’t realize this will also make his hands very slippery.

            My hands were clammy and I’m sure I made a very unlady-like face. I heard a chuckle come inside Bryan’s throat and his lips tried to tell me something but I was turning before I could read his words. All throughout the first part, I kept looking at him, trying to figure out what he said. I came back to reality when I prepared for the lifts. I did a soutenu out of the fish dive and started falling. My pointe shoe slid on a stray bobby pin and I was tumbling backwards. Bryan was there in a second and pulled me into the move everyone calls the “awkward cuddle.” Although this wasn’t supposed to come until later in this dance, I was very grateful for his quick actions. The dance did end well and we finished on time. We bowed and the curtains closed.

            We ran off stage to change and discuss how well opening night had gone. I pulled on my warm-ups. Scrambling through groups of mothers congratulating their children and chattery teenage girls, I got to the rack that held my costumes. I slipped my white tutu onto its hanger and fingered the beads. I knew my parents didn’t come to this performance so I was in no hurry to get out into the audience. I finally hung up my tutu, lost in my own daydreams of the night’s performance when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find Bryan. Let me tell ya, he looked much different on stage than he did then in his jeans and t-shirt. “Do you need a ride?”

            I looked around. I guess I had not noticed everyone’s exit, but I was the only one left in the costume room. “Oh, it’s ok, I’ll just call my dad.” I said, while unzipping my bag. I reached to grab my phone, but his hand stopped mine.

            “Really, it’s no problem,” he said. “Besides, I actually need help finding my way home.”

            “Well, I’ll try to help, but I’ll warn you right now, I have a terrible sense of direction,” I confided.

            Bryan took my bags and easily lifted them over his shoulder. I smiled and he gave me this really strange look. Then, without warning, he picked me up and flung me on his shoulder too. I let out a screech and he chuckled, low and deep. The sound of his laugh brought me back to that night’s events and my tongue didn’t hold back my curiosity. “What were you saying?”

            Now let me explain. I’m not very good at talking to people (well, duh!) that’s why I dance. It’s my form of communication. “I didn’t say anything,” he said, obviously confused. He pulled me off his shoulder and opened his car door.

            “I meant today during the pas de deux. You know, right before the pirouette?”

He smiled and hopped into the car. Buckling our seatbelts, the silence from my unanswered question stretched on. Bryan finally changed the subject, “So, how’s your boyfriend?” he asked. Blushing, I told him I didn’t have one. The conversation lightened and I realized there was a lot more to Bryan than I once thought. As we got nearer to home, I found myself hoping the drive was longer. I felt comfortable talking to Bryan about his crazy siblings and the ways he pulled pranks on them. We only got lost once, and I have a feeling he did it intentionally.

            When his car pulled into my driveway, Bryan jumped out and helped me carry my stuff to the door. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, while grabbing the door handle. He gave no reply, and I turned to see if he was still there. His green eyes met mine and he grabbed my hand. I had held his hand so many times before, but never like this. This was real life; this wasn’t another character. This wasn’t a way to get into a lift. This was just two people that had only recently realized how much they cared for each other.

            “I love you,” he whispered.

            “What?”

            “That’s what I was trying to tell you during the dance.” I still wasn’t sure if I had heard him right, but as he reached out to kiss me, I assumed it had been something along those lines. Bryan pulled away quickly and with a deep bow, returned to his old self.

            “I will see you tomorrow, my lady.” For some reason, the words “my lady” hung in my mind more than they probably should have. I waltzed into the living room wondering if tomorrow could compare to the magic of this moment.

            For some strange reason, I was sure it would!

           

Here's a story I wrote for Reflections (a contest) a few years ago. (2011) The theme was diversity.

She cried as she hung up the phone. Her husband cradled her head in his chest and rocked her slowly back and forth. If I was the dog sitting next to the couple on the rug, I would be very confused, but I wasn’t the dog. I was the mother without a child, the women cradled and protected by her husband.
It had been two years since Jeremy had disappeared but every ring of the phone was a spark of hope in my pit of blackness. This call hadn’t been about my little boy, it was about a little girl. My tears weren’t tears of sorrow, but tears of confusion. I didn’t want to make the next decision, but I needed to. I turned to look at my husband and that is when I realized he had no idea what was going on.
I slowly sat up and took a sip of my water, then set it on the table next to the phone. I started talking, my voice cracking every other word or so.
“They thought they found Jeremy but it turned out to be a little girl. Her parents can’t be found and they were wondering if we would like to…” my voice wavered and I again burst out in tears. What if my Jeremy had been found, his kidnapper in jail, but they couldn’t reach me? What if he was safe and happy but with another mommy?! It was too hard to bare and it would be horrible to take someone else’s child. It was like I was replacing my son with a random daughter whose parents were probably worried sick over her.
“What should we do?” I cried again looking into Matt’s eyes, Jeremy’s eyes. Even at three he had been the spitting image of his father.
Matt, being the calm guy he was, softened my hair and spoke surely and slowly, “We have to help her, take her here and look for her parents. Jeremy will be here soon, I just know it. Wouldn’t you want someone to help Jeremy?”
Looking at it this way didn’t seem to make me look like I was stealing another mother’s child and I asked Matt to call the station back.
☺☺☺
Things happened much faster than I thought possible and I met the girl that night.
She was very shy and wore very plain clothing. She looked about five and they guessed she had only gone missing for about 3 months, yet her parents hadn’t been involved in the search, or at least not around here. The girl had shiny black hair and gray eyes.
“What’s your name?” I asked her, but she didn’t answer. The officer next to Matt proclaimed, “She can’t speak English.” He paused, “but we believe her name is Raylae,”
After more talking, they agreed Raylae would move in the next week. When the officer left I turned to Matt, “She can’t speak English.” I again broke into tears.
The next morning was a crazy one, first Matt and I called relatives and family to tell them the news. We then headed to the store and bought our little girl some clothes and a couple of toys. And then, I went into Jeremy’s room and cried my eyes out. Matt and I cleaned up his toys and put on the new pink bedspread. We filled the drawers with Raylae’s new clothing and then she came over again.
We talked to the officer and showed Raylae her room.
Raylae came over every night and played with her toys, she wore her new clothes back to the station and even called me “Mama” once. It was so weird and sad, but I learned to love Raylae quickly and she was starting to pick up English. I was “Mama” Matt was “Mate” and words like “toy” and “water” soon came. Our dog was her best friend, and she was his.
Before we knew it, it was Saturday, the day Raylae would stay overnight, and hopefully, would never again return to the station.
We waited until Raylae fell asleep and then the officer turned to leave. As he opened the door his pager went off and he quickly waved to the family and left.
As Matt picked up the little girl asleep on the floor and walked her to her bed, there was a knock on the door. “I’ll get it,” I said even though I wanted to tuck Ray in so badly. The officer was at the door and her had important news.
“Raylae’s parents have been found,” he gave out a big sigh, “but they are not alive. If you would like to adopt Raylae I can hook you up with someone who can help.”
Matt started chatting to the officer about the exact adoption process and I wandered to the hallway. I peeked into my baby’s room and inside was Ray, her mommy was gone, and if I wanted to, I could be her new one. Did I want that?
Raylae started to fidget in her sleep and I came over to find a little blanket in her arms. It was Jeremy’s. I wondered how she had gotten it out of the top of the closet. But it was then that I knew she needed me. I knew I needed to make her part of my family.
About a year later Jeremy was found and returned to us. He had been living with a family in Canada. Our two children became best friends, and if they hadn’t been different races, people would have mistaken them for twins.

I'm From

A boy plunged his hands into the glass of liquid

the fear more piercing than the cold.

He grabbed the body and pulled it to his chest;

his heart pumped rapidly

as mine stood still.

I’m from a large family:

eight daughters, four sons.

This would always change my look on life

always separate me from the crowd.

I’m from a backyard swing

and a long blue slide,

a trip to a magic world,

a ride on my bike.

The boy was a rain cloud,

gloomy, but ready to burst.

The helicopter flew away

and they were left to wait.

I’m from an old beat-up wooden floor,

the echo of footfalls

and the faint smell of rosin,

like the bark of an aspen tree.

I’m from the long late night studies

and the humbling prayers,

from the adventurous camps

and the stories from the hearts’

of my accepting friends.

The doctors tried to make the baby open up her eyes

knowing this incident would affect her whole life.

I’m from a rosed-cheeked mother

and an easily persuaded dad,

a worthy neighbor,

and a loving Brother.

I had to write this poem for school, not exactly my favorite format and I even took of the last stanza because it didn't flow but was necessary for the grade.  Yeah so I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who didn't start every stanza with "I'm From" but I kinda like it. What do you think?

Baby Development (another assignment for my psych class)

Helping a baby hold her head up

The baby sits on its own (kind of)

Learning to crawl

Standing for the first time (and maybe the last)

Learning to walk

As you can see, babies grow and develop; and it takes many stages before they can walk like their parents.

Hunger (a project for my psych class)

Hot cocoa in winter

Watermelon in summer

Young people eating cheerios

Older people eating raisins

Hispanic boy eating tortilla chips

American girl eating pizza



These are all stereo types, but it just shows that our minds and personalities, as well as our age, culture and environment, affect what we eat.


 

Am I crazy?

So yesterday I got the opportunity to be a lunch lady and my siblings elementary school. For one of my summer classes I was suppose to help in a classroom, but I guess the school didn't really understand and decided to stick me there. Some of the lunch ladies were scary, but a couple were in my ward and were really nice to me. (and then there were others who were just nice in general) They acted as if we were a problem instead of a helping hand, but when the time came to actually serve the food to the kids I was pretty nervous. Why? I don't know that just how I am. The kids were SO cute! I couldn't help but remembering all my elementary days and after I finished passing out to all the hungry children I wondered if I wanted to be a lunch lady. That is until some lady got mad at me for putting my apron in the wrong place.
Ya see, I was really tender hearted as a child, and got offended very easily. Now, I sometimes slip back into that stage when adults tell me I did wrong, and I guess just taking a trip down memory lane didn't help so I almost cried when the lady told me to put my apron on the washer.
So, I can't decied, should I be a lunch lady when I grow up? ;)

A Sad Poem

So, haven't written in a while. I've been crazy busy with the end of the school year. I realized, I told you I wrote sad poems, but I didn't actually give you a good example, so here ya go. I wrote this almost exactly a year ago.

I really used to like you,

I thought I was in love.

Your brown 

Curly hair.

Green eyes.

Everyone thought I was crazy,

They told me to get far away.

Even you told me to go.

Oh, if I had listened.

Everyone said you were a bad boy

That you would break my heart.

I thought it wouldn't matter much

Because I didn't get too close.

I was too scared to talk to you.

But how I wish I had.

I liked it better before you knew me

It was easier to let you go.

I'm hanging on to a dream.

Imaginary love

Nothing ever happened.

Your hooked up with my old best friend

But I don't really care

I'm over you

Starting 

Now.

Not that you would notice

Not that you would care

I told you it was sad, and very over exaggerated. But don't worry guys, I like someone else now, and he's perfect. Honestly. Maybe I'll make a post about him...

ASL

So I've been in a American Sign Language class all year and I love it. The teacher is awesome, but she hardly teaches, but I just love the language. It's like, dance all the time! I don't know, maybe I just secretly hate the sound of my own voice. So we've had a project each quarter. Once I had to sign a song, once I had to explain my family. (which was harder for me than most people's was) There was another one but I don't remember what it was. This quarter I had to describe a made up character like I was going on a dating site. I'm not very good, and I kinda go off the screen but here is my project if you want to watch a second of it.

Random stories

I had just about finished writing this post when my computer spazed and I lost all of it. Anyway, I've always wanted to be a writer, so I have tons of half written stories lying around my house. I found this particular one in a notebook today and I thought I might share it with you. I wrote it earlier this school year.

"With what money?' She screamed back, her throat chocked with tears. " we have nothing!" I hit my wash rag against my apron and looked at my daughter. I did not understand her pain, for I had not gone through it, but I knew that screaming would fix nothing. She quieted, for she knew my actions better than a goose girl knows her flock. My movement was one of instinct, which always foreshadowed my thoughts. I slapped my apron, wiped my brow and turned my back to grab the broom. This would mean the end of our discussion.

---

I never quite understood what was wrong with me, sure I had some acne through my growing years but I wasn't considered ugly, I was quiet but not awkward. I guess I was just too average. Not the ugliest, not the prettiest. Nor was I the tallest or shortest. I was always in the middle. I was the sixth of thirteen children, the fourth of eight girls. My family did everything to make me feel special, but they couldn't change the facts. Some how I was swept up in a jungle of invisibility. Besides my sisters, I had no real friends. No boy had ever "come a courting" for me, and I guess that is really the reason I got into this whole mess. I just wanted to be wanted, and I guess, now I am.

"Wanted" is a funny word, for you see, it has two distinct meanings. The first is a good things, this form of wanted refers to being accepted and loved. The other term however is often used to describe criminals, those running from the law, those the government are trying to find. I probably should have realized this, but with no education or real purpose in knowing definitions, I found it unnecessary.

It was early fall. The wind was harder, the air crisper and the pumpkins bigger. Much harvesting had already been done, but the fear of winter was not yet in full swing. This was before we were poor, before the horrible winter in which I met Brice.

I sat in the apple tree. The weather was perfect, the wind blew around my skirt and beckoned me to loosen my bun. I had washed my hair the night before and my slightly damp locks were gracious for this pleasureful opportunity. I could hear my baby brother crying from inside the house. He was getting his first tooth and no one could seem to stop his tantrums. I saw my father through the trees' limbs.

I always felt bad for Papa, he worked so hard. He never allowed us girls to do "a man's job." While I appreciated his act of gentlemeness, (which I'm almost positive, isn't a real word) I knew he needed more help. Us girls out numbered the boys and although we did clean, cook and picked in the orchards, we could not assist our father in what he needed. He had always wanted a house of boys. Yes, he has five, but Norin isn't even walking and Nathan has a mental disorder. Of course, that did not stop him, he is probably the most accomplished of my father's children.


So there you go, a piece of a story I will never finish.

Google images

The Lost State

Most people, whether the want to admit it or not, will go through a period of their life that is challenging and weird. This often happens through the teenage years. These of course vary in extremeness for everyone. Maybe I'm not making sense, let me start again. Have you ever talked to a junior high boy? In general, they are moody, "smart alicy" and like to make inappropriate comments. I went through a stage of this too, but I phased out. However, lots of people never do, they live in this lost state for quite a while. It's weird to see my friends who are in it. They act funny around me, they respect me, so that's nice, but they always say sorry when they swear or say something bad (half the time I don't know what it means so it doesn't matter). I really appreciate that they notice me, but it's just kinda interesting to me. I'm not one to judge anybody, like ever, but I am a people watcher (slightly contradictory). I just want to tell those people that I get it, I was there, not to such an extreme, honestly I'm such a goody-good and I have plenty of stories that I'm sure will come up. But I just want them to get through it, to jump over it and become the person they can become. I have a couple of siblings, like 11, and I have seen how it has helped people. We are given are challenges so we can keep others from having them.
So, there you go, my thought of the day, I didn't explain it very well but I hope you kinda understood.

Her and She

I consider myself a happy person, but when I create it's usually sad. I choreograph to gloomy songs, sing about break ups and write pretty depressing poetry. I t scares me really, like why do I do that? Of course this isn't always the case, but still. So I decided to try and write a happy poem. It kinda worked...

She ran

Away from the place that had held them captive for so long

Her ran beside she

They did not care that they stood out

They were free

She was the responsible one

She always had been

And she protected her on the way

Her did not yet understand the danger

But that didn't matter, for today-

They were free

They knew the path 

They knew the street

But today was not the same

Something had changed

Something was different

And Freedom was its name

I know people will take this poem to mean different things, I intended it that way. You could feel it was girls, escaping a Nazi camp, princess on the run or two angels coming to heaven. While I did intend it to mean all of these the real inspiration was as simple as my little sister and I getting home from elementary school. You see, I'm just an ordinary Princess, who's poem's

I was walking home in a hail storm, so my sis took a picture.

Here is a picture of my sister and me.

still don't sound very happy...

Where to Begin

It was really hard to try and think of what to put for my very first blog post. It sets a mood, it creates a story you must tell, a character you must create. This character happens to be me, and my story has not yet been written, but I wanted to start with this. I am not a singer or song writer (as you will soon be able to tell) I'm a dancer, but this is my additional verses to a popular song in my church. Yes, I am a mormon. (Oh, I've always wanted to say that!:) My song is cheesy, it's kinda long, but it has a slight grace to it, kinda like me.


If the Savior stood beside me
Would I wear the clothes I wear?
Would I tell those secrets that aren't mine to share?

Would I be the friend or neighbor
The Lord would have me be?
If I could see the Savior standing nigh
Watching over me?

If the Savior stood beside me
Would I date before sixteen?
Would I listen to his commandments
So I could someday be a queen?

Would I read what others are reading?
Could I turn off the T.V.?
If I could see the Savior standing nigh
Watching over me?

If the Savior stood beside me
Would I be careful of my thoughts?
Would I put others down just to be in the popular lot?

Would I be less judgmental
Of others and of me?
If I could see the Savior standing nigh
Watching over me?

 If the Savior stood beside me
How would I spend free time?
Would he be proud of my treatment to that
family of mine?

Would I try to do more service?
Would I dance more modestly?
If I could see the Savior standing nigh
Watching over me?

If the Savior stood beside me
What kind of person would I reflect?
Could he look into my eyes and see that humble respect?

Would he see his little sister?
Would he hug me passionately?
For I know the Savior's standing nigh
Watching over me.