Undone

Grabbing the aide bar in the passenger seat of the Ford Explorer, she heaved herself in with the help of her daughter. Her hair was done up nicely in a refined, quiet up-do, her shirt an off-brand of “Simply Southern.” We pulled the seat back, giving her more room to breathe. I had been waiting a month for a notification from my intern coordinator as to whether or not I would be shadowing a midwife during my summer in the mountains. Cell reception was not granted, and though I attempted to gain it, it was pretty useless to try. I gave up. Instead of driving the three hours to the city not knowing whether or not I would be shadowing, I decided to do something entirely different.

The Ford was on good terms with the mountains. It hugged the roads and weathered the climbs, and as we pulled away from the trailer and down a steep decline, she gripped the bar while I hoped I wasn’t in trouble. Part of me didn’t even care. I was supposed to be helping people. Shadowing? I didn’t see that helping anyone anytime soon. Instead I drove, listened to the drawl of stories, and sometimes shouting, actively assisting the sound waves across the hearing aids.          

We were on a quest for a second series of shots for osteoarthritis therapy. The knees were inflamed again and “Mamma,” as we called her, was in too much pain to skip any appointments. The more I sat, watched, and listened to her humor, the more adamant I became about providing care for her. Yes, I was merely transportation, but when mountain people go through the stress and trauma of finally setting up and having all insurances ‘go through’ to cover their procedure, only to be met with a transportation problem, it is devastating. The stigma against people in the ‘mountain dew belt’ may be somewhat true, but people are still in pain from various ailments. Mamma sure was. But she never complained. Her spunky spirit was like a fog to my ship attempting to discern what lay ahead.

“Christy?” Finally having service I called my coordinator to explain my absence at the midwifery clinic. Passively - but audibly upset - she told me she’d have to ‘sort everything out’ and tell the clinic I wasn’t bothering to come in. Hiding my emotions, I cringed inside. But the cringing wouldn’t go away. I brought Mamma and her daughter somewhere we could eat. I sat quietly. Half of me convincing myself I had been terrible in not following my coordinator’s wishes to the letter and half of me stubborn, believing I did something that was meaningful. Mamma looked over her sandwich at me.

“You’re a sight.” She looked at me, then shifted her gaze to the pretty lilies at our table. “She’s a lovely thing...isn’t she, Angel?” He daughter just smiled, wistfully. I complemented Mamma on her shirt, mostly because I wanted to shift the conversation, but also because there was a bejeweled Eiffel tower gracing it. After bringing her home, she gave me a small, framed print of the tower. Her recollection was perfection.

After the appointment I was still a bit shaken, and though Mamma and her spunk had been quiet, she was happy. We drove home in the twilight on the Hal Rogers Parkway listening to sounds quite forgotten by today’s culture: A sound of raw spirit and vulnerability, sounds of quiet and stillness; communication without words. Commune itself. Mamma never thanked me, and I’m almost glad she didn’t. 

France: ze Jet-Lagged First Two Days

 Here is the beginning of my tale. Well.... I am not sure how many people that care will actually read this, but ce la vie; and please accept my apologies for the non-decorum manner of speech so found in this introduction

My boarding pass! Too bad my name had one too many letters; during the flight I remained "Elleanna Elis" and was nicknamed Elvis by my fellow travelers, much to my disdain. It feels so wonderful to be back, alive and well, and writing. Once we passed security and the guard threw away my cranberry juice, we walked to the gate, dropped our carry-on baggage, and meandered around. Some were hungry and partook of Subway...I just got a Caribou.

This trip was one of many "firsts" for me. It was the first time I'd been on a plane; the first time I'd be going to Europe; the first time I'd been away from family for more than 144 hours. Or five days. Or whatever. The seemingly stoic person was literally taking off into an unknown. But enough melodrama. 

To make myself feel better, I wore a skirt and put my hair up. Delta's service was nice, although food is not worth mentioning, unless...well, never mind. I watched a musical on the way across, but never did I fall asleep, unfortunately.  Arriving at 7:00 am Paris time (12:00 am in my world) was slightly horrific. As we left the plane, the Captain thanked us and then complemented me on my hair. Alright, I thought, as long as they look at my hair and not the eyes...I'll be fine.  Shuttling to Charles de Gaulle at 7:00 am was more than interesting; we witnessed the early rising business men and women, those who were not early risers but forced to be so, young children and parents (who had allowed them to kick my seat...) and French soldiers walking amongst the rotundas and escalators.

Then bus we did, up to the North of France. Leaving Paris, most of us fell asleep or were quietly subdued, staring out the large transport bus windows.

I felt it all a mistake. I already missed my little sister and her sarcasm and my brothers teasing; my Mom's laugh and my sister's kindness; my Dad's jokes only I get. 

But one must never allow self-pity to ruin anything, especially a trip to France. I told myself I was just tired, so I napped, played cards and lost to a cheater....(ask me, if you must), listened to music, journaled, and thought.

The Spirit of the American Youth Rising Above the Waves

Arriving in Normandy was surreal. (the entire trip was surreal; but I digress). Thankfully, the tiredness added to our reverence of Normandy Cemetery and Omaha Beach, and the bitter weather could not have made me more meditative than it had.  

 Here we were: One-hundred and seventy miles West of Paris, and already in awe. But this was a different awe. All those people fought for beliefs and values. They're at stake again today, but they sacrificed their lives for a greater purpose, and it blessed me ever so much to honor these men (and yes, few women) that rest here. 

 Driving through Bayeux: This town was one of the first to be liberated by the Allied Forces after D-Day. It had seen slight damage but was rebuilt soon circa 1950s. The quaint architecture contrasts with modern residential shops such as Lacoste. 

At least that's what I think.

Bayeux Cathedral

It's gorgeous. Saved from damage, the flags of the Allied Forces wave around the perimeter to honor the troops that bestowed liberation.

        then Harold made ships for transport...

We visited Bayeux mainly because it hold the famous Bayeux Tapestry which chronicles the Battle of Hastings. Pretty awesome. (And defining pretty awesome means embroidered Latin. That's ALL readable.) Yeah. Awesome. (Image credit to Google Images).

Bayeux Door

Then it was hotel time. Exhausted, we hung out, and then collapsed. But...it was only the beginning.

more to come soon!

Underhis

I went to battle yesterday.
The ground was dusty, the skies were gray.
I wore rubber boots of green,
My hair was back, and my pants were jeans.

No sun in the sky, no breeze in the air,
Hardly a day one would call fair.
My worn cotton work shirt felt sticky and tough,
And I climbed through a fence by a tree worn and rough.

We battled the green death, or rather, the burdock.
Splintery little bombs, the seeds stand and mock.
Upon their stalks of green, they grow tall and proud,
Weathered and scratchy, they the flowers quite overcrowd.

We went to battle yesterday, with our gloves,
Our courage, our unity, and yes, our shovels.
We went to battle, and despite the gray skies,
The dusty packed earth, the humidity and the flies.

We fought them with shovels, sometimes single-handedly,
As we carried them away we laughed quite candidly.
One dashed for my head, the cluster of evil,
Its spiky little claws seemed almost primeval.

When it burrowed its way into my hair,
I grimaced a bit, bore it and glared.
Not until the Surgeon General appeared
Was the problem fixed; and naught was feared.

Having conquered Vurduria, troops moved up the road.
We passed by a garden, where seeds were sowed.
Seeds of onion and pumpkin, potatoes and peas,
Beets, squash, even melon, as well as some beans.

"Onward, soldiers!" came the cry from ahead,
On we pushed, for battling was better than being dead.
We cut them down, and the enemy died,
No one gave them credit even though they had tried.

When the battle neared its end, the final test was made.
We ran through the field, until we reached the shade.
It was eery and strange; we were hot and sweaty,
I was hit, but we had not the time to write up a treaty.

As we ran through the field, we forgot about something.
The Vespa Vulgaris had ambushed to sting.
I retreated, wounded, feeling like a failure.
However, there was much I had learned in this adventure.

We battled the green death, put it out of commission.
As I cared for my wound, (I was now the physician),
I remembered a thought, and was quite comforted.
"He knows what I need." and fear dissipated.

Sometimes my General sends me out to the front lines
In my head I resist, His plans undermine!
It was right I was wounded, through this he showed me,
His plans are over, above mine: High and lofty.

My dreams, hopes, ambitions, plans, thoughts and musings,
Are nothing at all, but if they exist, they should be underhis.
Never undermine, as the old creation wails, ever underhis:
Always, only, ever, under His.

~sol

A poem I wrote after thinking about my yesterday.  Work is more than it is sometimes looked at to be, and it should be treated with respect, as it is an adventure that teaches you lessons.

I Participate in a Nationwide Event

On June 9th, Saturday, 2012, I participated in an amazing, nationwide event.  Thousands of teens across America jumped out of bed at 6:00, eager to put their "best foot forward".

The event?  It was none other than the ACT.  I admit that teens were probably not as excited to test as they were to be done with testing, but altogether, they did participate in a nationwide event.

But I was probably wrong on one point: I do not think they jumped out of bed.

I (as I hope I have made clear) love writing.  Thus, I scheduled to take the essay test, which I was genuinely  anticipating.  The proctor was a near elderly man who looked like a teacher (and probably was).  However nice he may have seemed, however, did not hurry that process of reading the rules.

FILL IN ONLY ONE OVAL PER QUESTION!  (Duh.)
Do not look around while testing.
If your watch beeps you will be excused and your answers will NOT be scored.
Electronics, if found turned on, will be confiscated.  (I turned off my iPod.)
Do not even think about helping anyone.

I waited, wanting to begin, and knowing I could not until he said so.  I am not a person who becomes "bored" easily, but just sitting there was driving me to insanity land.  I thought of a solution.

"Write, Elleanna," I thought. "That might be what you need."

I scrounged in my small bag, if scrounging is possible in such a small carry-on, but found no paper.

No paper?!  I was shocked.  I always carry paper.  Like I always carry water! Which is another story.

I looked at my desk, strategically placed three feet from any other student, just as the ACT gestapo prefers, and remembered my admission ticket.  There it sat, folded neatly, sitting calmly.   Letters do sit calmly, you know, it is just we never notice them.

So I wrote:

This is the only paper I have at this moment, and they can't keep me from writing.  They can't.  It is in my blood.  It always will be.   
I am exceedingly excited to see how my writing improves after this ACT.  I can honestly not wait for that part at all.  There is nothing to describe it.  This pent up writing urge I have will come out it that 30 minute essay.
I am fresh as a daisy: I woke up at 6:00, as many of the others, but I do not think they are as excited as I am to be here, in this room, right now.
The only other activities I would rather be doing at this time would be practicing piano or writing.

What a nut! Some might think, or perhaps, say out loud.  But I am not done yet.

I had forgotten something, a procedure the proctor had yet to complete.
He straightened and pushed his large glasses up his nose.  With an eyebrow raised, (Oh! An ablative absolute! Latin makes you notice all kinds of pretty grammar) he cleared his throat.

"I will now collect your admission tickets."  His voice boomed throughout the small, freezing room, and I started.

"Delightful." I thought, sarcastically, "He is going to take away my passage!"

There was no way I was turning on my iPod to take a picture.  I seriously thought about it.  However, the tall, almost stern, scary, grandfatherly proctor ambled over and swiped the ticket off my desk.

I was embarrassed.  I sounded like the nerd that I am and I let someone know.  But I was also trying not to laugh.  An experience like that (apart from the yearning to write) would surely carry someone through five hours of sitting.

Whenever I was frustrated over a complicated math problem or a weird science graph, the passage I wrote popped into my mind and I sped on through the questions.  I could imagine that the proctor thought I was a crazed person for sure.  He probably read what I wrote, as he was friendlier later, but it was comical just thinking about what his expression was while reading my passage.

However, it was really God's grace that carried me through.  He continuously succeeds at making me laugh at myself, as well as distracting me from taking myself so seriously.  I also drew the conclusion that some parts of life, though seemingly annoying, are meant to be enjoyed.

Enjoy the ACT? With God, all things are possible.  He did not, for one moment, let me forget that when I participated in this Nationwide Event.

You Can Run, But You Can Never Hide...

A beautiful day calls for time outside, and I answered that call in multiple ways.  I weeded different gardens, mowed lawns, and picked roses that smelled ever-so-sweet.

After lunch, I felt I needed to be outside again, and it was time to bike to the library.  It was so pleasant, not too warm or cold, and the air smelled very fresh.  After browsing biographies of old actors (Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer, Jimmy Stewart and others) for about an hour, I checked out my books and went on my way again, in order to escape something that was bothering me.

Crossing the busy main street, I decided to read a book by the Mississippi River (read a book sitting near the river, not written by the river).  I was so excited to delve into the wonderful pages and travel to another world for a few moments.  At first, I wanted to read on some steps, but they were marked off with yellow caution tape, probably because of the rainfall/water gauge levels.

But alas, (I will restrain from divulging all details while being over-dramatic), the very element I was attempting to escape found me. And I was not even trying to let it.

I fought it, by the river, sitting very distractedly, while reading my book.  I was glad when I looked at my iPod and found it was time for me to cook supper.

On the ride home I thought about this little happening (how even though I tried to flee from something, it was where I fled to) and was struck with the realisation that has actually struck me more than once:  Running from situations, no matter how trivial they may be, will not mend anything.

Running is always an option, but hiding is not a best friend.  It is too often that we should be fighting instead of running.