Hawlio, Rhannu ac yn llawen Cry

Hawlio, Rhannu ac yn llawen Cry


Once upon an unrecorded time,

in the land beyond the River Rhymes

there lived an old woman wise


To the fortune seekers she offered hope,

to the withered maids their forgotten glow,

and to the learner the chance to know


This wisdom was born of life lived pure,

of courage and strength to endure

when fires consumed and left no cure


In her thatched hut she sat each day,

watching those who came her way

to ask of what they ought to do and say


Those that were young or old,

those born of dirt or gold

all came hither to hear of wisdom told


Each morn she woke and offered a prayer,

to the One above whom she knew to be there

asking that she be able offer them care


And one misty morn of an ancient autumn day,

came walking a soul through the light rain

to ask of her what was best to claim


For the question was deep and wide,

asked from a soul who long had tried

to find the path free of the blind


“Where might I go?” Simply said,

“To find those whose hearts aren’t dead?

Where life means more than daily bread?”


Peace was sought by the soul in the rain,

a place to find heart beyond the pain

where love could conquer and supremely reign


“For my heart is heavy and my body weak.

I’ve sought for a place to live in peace,

where happiness begins but with belief.”


The old woman wise looked into the rain,

thinking of times when she’d felt the same,

and told the soul what to claim:


“Walk where of you there is a need,

sing though the hearts first won’t agree,

and write the words they may not read.


Dance though the music was forced to fade,

laugh by hearths of those gone gray,

and offer a hand to the one who wished you away.


Dare to be the person you feel inside,

and the way may still be a place to cry,

you may not be remembered until after you die.


But your deeds will true happiness bring,

those songs they will ever boldly sing,

and the written words priceless reading.


Claim the gifts you have to spread joy,

share them with hearts grown cold of choice,

and in time you’ll find that you rejoice.”


The soul then thanked the old woman wise,

and turned down the road grown ever so wide,

to claim and to share and to joyfully cry


And now upon a long recorded time,

in a land before the deep River Rhymes,

we see that, truly, to share it is wise


For in each of our wandering souls,

gifts to spread joy we blessedly hold,

to claim but more for to share in bold




Dear Today

Dear Today,

I’d like to personally thank you. I understand that I get a ‘today’ every day, and I am grateful for that. But on this specific ‘today’ a few things happened that I’d like to mention specifically:

  • Thank you for beginning much less windy than yesterday ended
  • Thank you for reminding me how much I love history
  • Thank you for reminding me that history has untold stories that make it more than we’ll ever know
  • Thank you for the circumstances which caused all of my roommates and me to be eating lunch at the exact same time4a9a3be15aec7e6d5c40a6bb2f43cd6d
  • Thank you for the market having toy cars on sale that my roommate and I went crazy over…and then bought
  • Thank you for small things that make all the ‘todays’ important in the chain of a story
  • Thank you for hope that this blog of mine won’t be a complete flop, because I’m trying to not make it completely worthless
  • Thank you for the fact that those toy cars actually go and we’ll be having a race later
  • and thank you for being another today


“Hit The Road, Bucky!”

So I have this roommate, whom I have named Shay for the purposes of this blog. (This is not actually close to her real name at all, but for some reason it is part of her email address. So, as Shay she shall be known.) If there is one thing you need to know about Shay before I tell you this story it is this: she is a laugher. She laughs at absolutely everything, even if it might not be funny, and her laugh is contagious to the point where you end up crying from guffawing about something that you honestly don’t recall. That being established, it is time to introduce the boy who is so desperately pursuing her. We’ll name him Terence.

Groove-disneyscreencaps.com-3281It isn’t that Terence isn’t a good kid. In fact, when he’s not being annoying on purpose he is actually quite funny. He is just so, so, so in need of love is all. He met Shay because his roommate is in a relationship with our roommate (so typical, I know…). And the night we met this poor soul he tried holding hands with two of us. Am I putting Terence into perspective now? Anyway, Shay is just way too nice to tell poor Terence, “Hit the road, Bucky!” It isn’t that she’s purposely leading him on, he just doesn’t know when to stop. And part of it is because when they first met he decided to ‘show her this one video’ on Youtube which talked about why guys and girls can’t actually ever be friends….right as Shay was thinking, “Oh, I think we could be friends.” And now we come to the point of all of this.

So one night Shay and Terence are watching a movie. Knowing Shay and the agony this whole thing has caused her, they were not alone. (No, I was not present for this. Though the heavens know I laughed extremely hard when I heard the tale.) In the midst of this movie, Terence made his move. And oh, it was destined for failure. Instead of offering his hand for her to hold or something sensible of that nature, he begins stroking her hand. Seriously, no joke. Stroking her hand. If I’d been narrating this event I would’ve had Shay saying something like, “Oh, thanks but I’m not a cat!”  If this had been a mutual thing, it’s cute and sappy and blah blah blah everything you’ve ever heard before. But in Shay’s words, “I froze and just sat there thinking, ‘Oh, heck no!'” So what did her instincts guide her into doing? What, do you ask?

She laughed! And not just any laugh. She snorted! At which point poor Terence jerked his hand away and began watching this movie with complete attention. What could possibly be worse for poor Terence? I mean, a laugh is one thing, for it is Shay after all. But a snort laugh is an entirely different matter to begin with. A snort laugh clearlye06242a2f70697ada99d8a2497317cbf states your attitude in such a situation. A snort laugh clearly indicated, “Hit the road, Bucky!” And the story doesn’t even end there, because Terence still keeps coming back! If there is one thing I’ll say about him, it’s that he is a pretty determined fellow.

The Dog, The Umbrella, And The French Revolution

And so do such words summarize this Tuesday that I’ve experienced. Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you exactly how. Just in case you were the slightest bit curious. West-Highland-White-Terrier-20

So there I am, walking to my Anthropology class on a gloriously cloudy day. And as I’m doing this I pass a parking lot, at which point an exceedingly nice and extraordinarily shiny car drives past me. And sitting in the back of this car was a dog. And not just any dog, mind you. A very prim and properly groomed dog with his polished nose sticking up in the air just slightly. Not only did the person in the front seat suddenly take on the look of a chauffeur, this dog suddenly reminded me of some important government official and I was quite at a loss for what to do. Salute? Wave? Start singing some national anthem? But quickly, Mr. Dog had been driven away to his next important conference and I was left with only one thought: if we all had as much confidence as that dog, what would the world be like?

Just over an hour later, I exited my Anthropology class and went outside only to be greeted by rain. And not just any kind of rain, either. The deceptive kind of rain where it doesn’t look like it is raining that hard until you realize look like something between a drowned k13572315yak and baby penguin….and, yes, that kind of rain actually does exist. So, I hurriedly whipped out my small, black umbrella that I’ve had in my possession for at least a million years, feeling quite proud of myself that I’d had the presence of mind to be prepared for precipitation. However, my umbrella happens to be broken. Oh, it gets the job done the way it’s supposed to, I guess. I mean, at least my head doesn’t get wet. But one side is a little bit saggy….anyway, it’s noticeably broken, okay? And so there I am, walking across campus in the deceptive rain. The Girl With The Broken Umbrella. I looked into the eyes of all those I passed and saw the exact same thought: oh, she’s a lonely soul…

So after comparing my confidence to a dog’s and being pitied due to my discombobulated umbrella, (yes, that word was used intentionally. My umbrella is clearly confused as to its purpose) I spent the time in06_french_revolution.cover_ between classes doing the reading for my history class. Oh, I was thoroughly engrossed in reading about the French Revolution. Truly, I was. I’m not sure how to explain to people that I get a high off of such things. If I had it my way I’d tackle the nearest person in sight and shout something like, “Did you know that the French Revolution was crazy?! Well, did you?! I’ll tell you all about it!” ……okay, maybe that’s slightly extreme. But I do get very excited about my history. And as I was on the edge of my seat, I looked up into the mirror I have sitting on my desk and realized something: I think I need a new umbrella.

What is Written

Chronicles of a Hopeless Lover of the Written Word14b5674c65dcbb3446b30d1b81832f83

Well, that is in fact what I’ve claimed to be, and you, dear and most wonderful reader, haven’t seen much of it have you? Well, I do, in fact, love the written word. Much more than words can even describe, which is something that I’ve always found to be a sort of irony and at the same time frustrating. But, let me see if I can possibly put this into perspective….hhmmm….hold on, I’m thinking…..

Okay, I think I’ve got this. I just love books, okay? I love, love, love literature! It is safe to say that I’m completely infatuated with words. The ways in which they can be put together are endless, the meanings they have are beyond anything, and the potential they have for creating things is immortal. Because every single thing that has ever happened in this world began with words in some way. I believe in words. I love them.  To speak them is a privilege, and to write them is an honor. For the things that are written become the testaments of society. And it is my dream to use words in the ways that some of my favorite people did, because they spoke and wrote words that changed the world.

I don’t want to think about what this world would be like without them, and I’d rather not try and name them all or then I’d surely forget one and then I’d have to feel extremely guilty and….well, we just won’t go there. I will, however, mention a few. So bear that in mind. This is not the entire list. I would like to personally thank the following people:

  • William Shakespeare
  • Jean-Jacques Rousseau
  • John Locke
  • Charles Dickens
  • William Wordsworth
  • Charlotte Bronte
  • and Jane Austen

0bc2044536bc0b6c68998a4a3bd0f8f2How many things in this world have these people impacted? How many things exist because of them? What were they able to say through their words, whether through direct philosophy, novels, plays, poetry…? What emotions was Shakespeare able to convey under everything? Rousseau and Locke’s words helped form nations. Dickens, Wordsworth, Bronte, and Austen have given us so much more than poetry or novels.  These people understood words, and they used them the way they were meant to be used: to bring light to others. Reader, if you take nothing else from this blog of mine, know this: There is real magic in good literature.


Wear the White Dress

If I’m being completely honest with you, probably my most indulged in fantasy is walking 8dcec1ef58e7a699a5c6cbc5f947bb6baround lush green hills somewhere in a white dress on a cloudy day. I know, so typically cliche (not to mention dramatic, but I’m very good at being dramatic, after all). There are a few fairly practical reasons that I’ve never actually done this:

  • I can’t figure out how to set up theme music
  • I don’t actually have a white dress like the one I always imagine
  • I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t end up looking as glamorous as I imagine
  • I don’t exactly know what I’m doing in this fantasy….just walking around dramatically I guess
  • And how do you go about doing that anyway? “Hey, I’m leaving for a few hours in this incredible dress to go wander lush green hills dramatically! Enjoy your bean dip!”??

But nevertheless, I have this fantasy. I think that if everybody wandered rolling green hills in white dresses with beautifully written piano music playing, maybe add a violin or two in the panoramic scene shot, there could be world peace or something. You know what I’m saying?


I guess the whole point here is that we each have these strange little fantasies inside of us. There is so much we keep inside us, isn’t there? My theory about this is that people don’t talk the way they used to. I mean, I’m pretty sure we’re a lot more free with our feelings than people were historically. But I’m talking about the really deep things, you know? I’m also not saying that we should go around broadcasting these profoundly deep feelings to the entire world, either, because that isn’t a good idea all the way around. What I am saying is that I think we’ve become too used to glossing it all over. I think this world has become much too impersonal that way.

And I just want to clarify that I don’t think your heart should be fully bleeding on your sweater sleeve, or something. Because emotions can be intensely deep, complex, personal, and without words. And those emotions are not for the world to see.

But what is wrong with my white dress dream? Besides the fact that it is extremely dramatic, why do I have a hard time admitting that this would actually be the coolest thing ever? (Because it is actually hard to post this…) What is wrong with being dramatic? You’ve no idea how many times in my life that I’ve heard, “Oh, my gosh, you are sooooo dramatic!” Like it’s a bad thing, or something! Excuse me, but somebody has to make up for the lack of feeling going on around here! And while I’ll be the first to admit that my crazy dramatic personality leads to all sorts of things like my insane over-analyzing skills and weeping over fictional characters, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This post is not about doing whatever you want, saying whatever you want, etc. etc. It isn’t any kind of political or social statement. All I want to say to you tonight, reader of mine, is this: Not all the time, but sometimes, dare to share your small fantasies and dreams, and Wear the White Dress.

What Secrets

[My last post gave me a huge wave of “Did I really just post that?” guilt. So, here is a poem I wrote quite some time ago. I hope you enjoy it!]

What Secrets

What secrets does the Earth hold

When the world is pure with snow

When the gray skies stretch to a far horizon

And hint at the things they know


What secrets does the Earth hide

When the rest buds anew

When grasses shoot from the ground beneath

That knows of fallen blooms


What secrets does the Earth save

When all about keeps on

When the sun rises, a golden orb in the sky

With rays all knowing of once upon


What secrets does the Earth begin to whisper

In the autumn when all seems old

When it tickles the mind that all was once different

That there are so many tales untold


What secrets does the Earth bury deep

Secrets of people and things from days of ancient time

When words were not written, but spoken by mouth

And of nothing remains but a rhyme