In a Beautiful Place

7:00 in the morning, my alarm goes off and I am greeted with a wet, sloppy kiss from my black Labrador Samson. This is routine. Once Sammy hears the echoes of Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, he comes right to my bedside looking for me to arise from my foggy slumber.  I roll out of bed and stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I fumble through the medicine cabinet and find a hair tie, sweeping my messy chestnut hair into a bun on the back of my head. I tuck the loose strands of hair behind my ears and look in the mirror, evaluating my morning fogginess. Not terrible. Good enough to take Sammy for a walk. I put on a clean pair of sweatpants with BOSTON in white block letters down the side and pull a navy blue hoodie over my head.   “Ready to go outside?” I ask Sammy, moving into the living room. He wags his tail enthusiastically, knocking some stray papers from my latest story off the coffee table as he moves towards the door. I take the faded purple...

     The world outside my window calls me. Whenever the weather cooperates—no snow, not too cold, not too rainy—I exist outside. I live in a city but my favorite places are the green sloping parks and bits of forest bridging one backyard to another. I am an explorer; from the trails behind my high school, to the dog park, to the ice cream shop down the street; I walk everywhere. My memories outside are vivid. From standing in the rain during a warm summer thunderstorm to walking home from school through the red and yellow leaves of fall, or climbing the tree in my backyard to watch the blue jays in my neighbor’s yard, I have always been ensnared by nature.      Today I leave footprints across my college campus. The trees wake from the recent snowstorm and absorb the sunshine. Light dances across the snow. Late winter air nips at my nose. I walk along a shoveled path by a green shrub and pick a stray clipping off the ground. I roll the needles between my fi...

In the politically charged atmosphere we have cultivated in the United States, there's barely any time to mourn. The time to mourn was yesterday--or years ago, when students were killed at Columbine, or Virginia Tech. I've spent another week trying to process. Disbelief. Sadness. I've been watching as my roommate, studying to become a teacher, looks at the articles, videos, and town halls and tears up thinking about how her ideal profession has become more and more dangerous. I've read articles and seen tweets and thought about how different school would be if teachers were armed, or if schools were heavily guarded. I've cried and signed petitions and accepted an invitation to a March for Our Lives. We all have a right to a basic education here in the United States, but we also all have a right to bear arms. In the last week we have been reminded that one of those rights seems to take precedence over the other. Accusations are being thrown across the country--th...

I am disappointed in the federal government of the United States of America. Not that I've never been disappointed before. I am disappointed in the population of Americans who continue to walk around with an elitist attitude about how "great" our country is while we disparage nations still developing that are not up to our standards of living.We need to do a better job of understanding our privilege while acknowledging that the privilege does not make us better than the people in another country in any way, shape, or form. The prevalence of racism here in the United States is one part of the problem. The other is the very denial of that racism. Thinking oneself is better than another because of skin color, religion, sexuality, or nation of origin is racist and the blatant ignorance of this fact causes me much grief. Being a white woman, I do not have the firsthand experience that people of color and immigrants to the United States experience. But that does not mean I...

There's a community in Illinois, across the river from St. Louis, Missouri called East St. Louis. For years it has been a dumping ground for chemical companies like Monsanto. The city doesn't have the financial ability to re-do the systems that need re-doing and gets thrown to the wayside because the state of Illinois doesn't want to throw any more money into suck a poverty-stricken area, saying that the money is there--they just need to "help themselves." As a result, sewage lines the streets and the ground is contaminated from chemical spills, sewage breaks, and trash that no longer gets collected because the city can't afford to keep up with trash collection. It's a dump. The schools that do exist in East St. Louis are terrible; they don't have enough school supplies, aren't funded enough to get an adequate number of teachers, and dropout rates are nearly at 50%. Conditions in the school and the community are deplorable, and this place exists ...

A writer told me to think about being a writer 24/7. He said that keeping your eyes open, your ears open, and being present in every day is how you practice being a writer. He said that stories you hear every day have the potential to blossom into a novel. He said paying attention to how you react to things, how you speak, and how other people carry themselves gives you insight into your own world and the potential worlds of your characters. A writer told me to write every day. To get stuck in a routine of writing for at least fifteen minutes between the craziness of essays and the challenges of college. He said that routine will make it easier when you are eventually working on a book for hours a day. A writer told me to fall in love with reading all over again. He said that reading books that make you want to write are the kinds of books you should immerse yourself in. He said that stories will surprise you, make you want to be the writer you've always dreamed of being. A w...

Freshman year. I hated Romeo and Juliet. They were whiny and over-dramatic, in the span of 24 hours they decided they couldn't live without the other. Reading it was just as tedious; Shakespeare made up words! Why do you think I’d understand what’s going on? Despite the fact that I hated the play, you challenged me to think about it. I spent so many hours in front of my home computer that week, typing and re-typing sentences, trying like hell to make sure you wouldn’t write “awkward” above a phrase I wrote. My other papers that year were fine and all, but handing in my Romeo and Juliet essay was like crossing a finish line in a cross-country race. Getting it back was like a siren call. The next year, you used my essay as the example for the next freshman class to read. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when you were my teacher again junior year. I read satire and Andy Borowitz, learned that being the early bird really is about getting all the worms; I...

I’m from hard-working and loyal; I’m from single mother and college graduate, walking across the stage for her daughter, from proud and strong and independent. I’m from grandparents, aunts, uncles, bathtubs, beautiful pictures, infectious smiles; I’m from white picket fences and green backyards, full of ducks, and overflowing creeks that make my boots soggy and the puddle-jumping exciting, from stale bread and laughter and constant video cameras. I’m from obnoxious toy guitars and Barbie dolls, from toy cars I refused were “for boys,” and Emeril live on weeknights, even when my mom should have told me it was time for bed.  I’m from Dr. Seuss and fairy tales with happy endings, from princess gowns and movies and dolls, from dreaming and believing. I’m from soccer games and competition, from running until my lungs give up, from challenging and even sometimes winning.  I’m from 80’s rock music and Bon Jovi, from Charlie Parker and swin...

I can't help but think about running away. Away from the problems, away from the fights, away from stress. I constantly wonder how I could possibly fix the wounds right in front of me.  I don't have enough band-aids, or knee braces, or aspirin, to cover up the cuts, to ease the aches, to take away the pain. Nothing I can find can fix the damage inflicted on you, on me, on us.  This one is just too big of a problem  for my words and hugs to solve. My mind spins trying to comprehend  everything unimaginable to me.  I can't help but think about running away because it could all be easier that way. No tension, no stress, no untied knots. But cutting away the loose strings won't mend the broken scarf.  I can't help but think about running away. I put on my running shoes, take my inhaler, take a step outside.  I can't do it. It seems too cowardly a move. 

Kindly, sprightly, blows the wind, To signal changes of time, And allow the day to pass As beautiful as your heart. For the winds are as warm As your gentle care, And your humbling smile, And your welcoming spirit. Your family remains; Healing and missing you, As heaven welcomes an angel, We celebrate your life.

Voices lie in the tubes of your ears, Whispering unfathomable lies To your delicate mind. Who do they think they are? Wheels turn over and over again, Like the tires of a worn bicycle, Just trying to reach it's destination safely. What is their fate? You sit in your bed with vacant eyes, Shying away from any pain; Keeping to yourself is easier. Who do you know you are? Don't allow their lies to tangle into your dreams; I believe in you, child. We all believe in your kindness. Do you know how much we care? Believe that you are worth it, dear. Because no one can pull hope away From my own family. I'm here, Steadfast against voices that trip through our doorway.

You would think this place was a ghost town If it weren't for the kickboxing class down the street. Houses sit on the edge of the brook With paint chipping, windows boarded, And a sense of abandonment sitting on the porch. Cobwebs creep up the railings Like disease in a third world country. Dreams lie in the cracked windowpanes, Waiting for someone to notice them. Down the street people buy pizza, Get their nails done, sit in an empty restaurant. The most action this little town sees  Is trapped in cases at their quiet video store. A girls who grew up in the suburbs Is lost in this kind of place. You would think this place was a ghost town At this time of the day when all is silent; But I'm sure the residents lives are filled with schedules Their yards filled with history molded by their own hands; Their annual blueberry festival makes them proud, Despite the ghosts that outsiders see lurking in town. While tourists must think it's ...

The summer breeze catches on the trees Like a criminal's shirt on barbed wire But this breeze does not frighten me I'm already caught in the summer sunshine

Trees line concrete streets filled with bustle of humankind But all they are Are reminders of what once was Yet it is fascinating That they have the willpower to live When their destruction means ours