Thanksgiving Poem

"An author is in every single character they write," -JK Rowling.

Surprise poem from you to me.

I.

Thanksgiving is not a time for gluttony

Not a time feel guilty about the privileges we have

It is a time to celebrate what we have reaped

What we have been given

A time to relish in it

And then reflect it all back to the giver of all good things

II.

Let us not compare ourselves to the rich, to the poor

But let us focus on what we have been given

and how we can make the best of it

We shall reap what we sow

And let it be indicative of our character, of our hope, of our love

III.

I suggest that we all take a moment to reflect

On how our lives have changed in the past year

For the better, for the worse

And let us thank Him anyways

Through the pain, through the tears

That there is an everlasting hope

Inside of every one of us

IV.

Because this is why the Pilgrims came here.

By grace, through faith

And founded on the Rock.

And they celebrated because of hope

Hope of a new age and a new day

Hope that things would get better

So grab a hold of that thread of desire

And let it unravel

To reveal the glowing prosperity

That we all seek

Happy Thanksgiving!

~The WordShaker

What I Learned From Not Wearing Make-Up

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words," -Mark Twain

Beginning sometime in fifth grade, I began to wear makeup.   Lipstick, foundation, mascara, the whole shebang. And every day, no matter where I went, I had to wear makeup. 

In hindsight, it was a crutch. A mask I placed on my face to conceal the raging acne and my morphing and changing identity. What I thought I was doing in good fun was masking and reaffirming my self esteem issues about my looks. 

This was because I cared too much.  I cared about the image that I put off.  I was afraid of being ridiculed for the poor quality of my skin.  Since I didn't feel pretty, I wanted to feel pretty and compete with the girls who had perfectly plump lips and long eyelashes and smooth skin. 

But as I grew older, and I filled in and my face matured - and, more importantly, my hormones calmed down, the makeup reduced. 

But I was still insecure.  I still wore light foundation and mascara every day. Because still, I was trying to prove to girls and potential male mates alike that I was pretty, that I was worthy. 

But it's not until I decided to stop wearing makeup that this all hit me.  Slowly but surely, the foundation faded, and soon enough, the mascara fluttered away.  My much desired contacts even left my eye sockets. Back to glasses and bare faced I was. 

But then, it wasn't until I put all of these things back on me that I realized how awesome I really do look. I was finally able to appreciate my button nose, the rose-bud nature of my lips, the brightness of my eyes, the slope of my forehead. Because that's me.  I wasn't hiding any more, for there was nothing to hide. 

And finally, for the first time in my life, I was able to take out my contacts, wash off the makeup, put my glasses back on and look at myself in the mirror and think: Damn, I look freaking amazing. 

So, take off the makeup and learn to appreciate your bare, raw face.  Because that's what your husband is going to wake up to every morning and he's going to whisper to you in his husky voice over the hot sheets and say "This is when you look your finest."

Actually, just kidding.  The truth is I'm too lazy to wear makeup on a regular basis. 

~The WordShaker

A Letter To An Eighth Grade Me

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say," -Anais Nin

This post was inspired by Maggie's post, earlier this week. You can read it here --> Letter To An 8th Grade Me

Dear 8th Grade Olivia,

On the surface levels, not a whole lot has changed.  Yet, however, in the most basal layers, the core of Olivia has not changed. It's those weird middle parts that have molded and changed.

First, let's talk about eighth grade itself.  The friends you have now, they will change drastically.  People you weren't that close to at Central will become some of your best friends. Some people you would have nearly died for will change and pull away.

But the saving grace of eighth grade year was Mr. Ringle's English class. After finishing the glorious Ten Chapter story, your writing would kickstart, and a year and a half later, you would finish another novel. Mr. Ringle still will continue to influence you for years to come.

You have a blog now!  You have been published in an art and writing journal! You have your own Creative Writing Club!  Your writing will flourish like no other and touch people like never before.  Keep going, because I never could have gotten these things if you never kept on writing.

High school will be good and bad to you.  Security and safety will be found in the art department and in Mrs. Stafford's room/the Creative Writing Club, and in that little circle table in the back corner of the lunchroom. However, disarray will ensue in every other aspect of your life, and, nine times out of ten, it will suck.

But never give up hope, because, while high school will feel like the bane of your existence, it's only four years.

But truthfully, if I could only tell you, eighth grade Olivia, one thing, it would be that you will overcome. Those sleepless nights weren't all for nothing. Those feelings would be released.

And even when their screams would never cease, peace would come.  Not for years, but it would come.  So, no matter how bad you want to, never give up.

Because if you do, I'm going to kill you in my next novel. ;)

~The WordShaker

Death Begs Existential Questions

"Three words for a writer: Make Me Care," -Buffy Andrews

The trees are bare, and the flush of life on earth is at it's end.

And so was my Uncle Tim.

No one knew he was feeling this pain.  I saw him less than two weeks ago, and we never knew.  I never would have had the slightest inkling that he was depressed much less that he would kill himself with the weapon he used to gather his own food.

It would have been different if he died in a car accident.  No less tragic, but different.  It would have been different if he died of a heart attack.  No less tragic, but different.

Because instead of dying from the outside in, he died from the inside out.

Except the decay was not visible.

Until it was too late.

Now all that's left is the past.  All that's left is the memories and the words left unsaid.

~

I remember our last conversation about what praying mantis egg cases look like. He lead me around the back of the house, narrating the first time he found out that these pine-cone like structures were actually the nurseries for little baby praying mantises.

You never know which conversation will be your last.

I never knew him that well. I never thought he much liked me, being creative and sporadic and pensive.  I remember spending holidays where we barely spoke a word to each other - mostly because we never had much to discuss.

He was always one of my hardest relatives, a tough nut to crack - at least, in my book. I could never find much to connect with him, but it seemed I was getting over that hump, and, occasionally, we'd have good conversations.

But now those are lost words and lost causes.

And I regret it with my whole being.

~

The known haunts my past, but the uncertain terrifies my future. What will change? How will my family make it through each grueling day?

Funerals and pain mark what I forsee to be the future of my family. Black umbrellas and rainy eyes.

~

I can't - won't -  believe it until I see it.

But why.  I don't understand.  Why did he die?  Physically, what caused his heart to stop and for you to take the last breath from his lungs.  Why did he die?  Spiritually, what was your purpose for plucking his life back into your hands.

What is death?  Where do we really go?  Does any of this matter? Heaven, Hell, everything in between. Death begs existential questions, that, quite frankly, toy and spear through my feeble mind.

What really is any of this?

My mind floods with many thoughts that can never be translated on paper.  My heart bursts with many emotions that can never be expressed in words.

And what am I to do with them?

I just hope that Uncle Tim is up there with you, God.

USA Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

~The WordShaker