tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75182056667413013852024-03-05T08:02:33.348-07:00The Author's Desk...learning as she goes...Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.comBlogger1197125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-74638305958349181292018-08-17T10:12:00.000-06:002018-08-17T10:12:19.614-06:00coffee with a shot of tears, roasted. . .<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="9bhof-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9bhof-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone tried to break into my apartment today. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="760qq-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="760qq-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="760qq-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="74ghp-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="74ghp-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="74ghp-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday I got notified that someone went on a shopping spree with my bank info at the mall in Chicago. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="b0tkb-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b0tkb-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="b0tkb-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="b6td9-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="b6td9-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="b6td9-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The day before, I found out that my brain is full of veins that are "wonky," with no further explanation or plan or anything except instructions to take a medication I'm allergic to. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="4i9ke-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="4i9ke-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="4i9ke-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="lgmr-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="lgmr-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Exhausted and dreaming all of these dead dreams and sitting on my floor in the apartment with tears streaming down my face and the dogs sitting next to me and me not even realizing why or what for I'm crying. Watching tears fall into my coffee cup and ripple outwards to the edges. Salty salted caramel. Literally drinking tears. Roasted. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="2oden-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="2oden-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="2oden-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="btu2e-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="btu2e-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="btu2e-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I hate feeling sorry for myself. I hate feeling like this. I hate that it has. . .hit. Me. I'm a fly on the wall. Swat. Hello, emptiness. Hello, emotional pain. Hello, distress. Hello, those feelings that demand to be felt but are so far away that it's like looking through an empty paper tube at something so small and so distant that I need a microscope to really analyze them. Yet as I analyze and dissect, I have no idea what I'm looking at. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="f1o55-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="f1o55-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="f1o55-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="9eitc-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9eitc-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9eitc-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Coffee with tears in it. Salted. Roasted. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="agfln-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="agfln-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="agfln-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="35hv0" data-offset-key="9ls00-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9ls00-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="9ls00-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Swat.</span></div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-89972708230349893932017-07-03T00:45:00.000-06:002017-07-03T01:52:49.249-06:00All But My Life / Gerta Wiessmann Klein<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have long been fascinated by World War
II history. In particular I've been interested in the Holocaust; from my early
teens, I read every history I could get my hands on, focusing on the facts,
figures, and general psychology of the Nazi regime. Why did they pick on the
Jews?* How could a nation stand by and do nothing, while their neighbors and
friends and even relatives were shipped to work camps, trampled and shot in the
streets, treated worse than the lowliest farm animals - their lives worth less
than the dirt upon which the Germans trod. I can't answer these questions to my
satisfaction. Neither can many historians, whose words in literature and
documentary continue to debate motive and share tales, dates, and figures.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; tab-stops: 88.2pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Lately, I have ventured into the realm
of Holocaust autobiography and historical memoir. Compiling booklists has
become a hobby, because I admit: my previous experience studying the Holocaust
often left me feeling sick, angry, and depressed. Given my own personal
dealings with post-traumatic stress disorder, I was frightened to pick up a
book written by a survivor. Could I read without nightmares? Without nausea?
Without feeling hollowed out, stripped of faith, and dwelling on the current
horrors I know exist in the world?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finally, I got the courage. I began my
journey with Gerda Weissmann Klein's memoir, <i>All But My Life</i>. After
2 hours of nonstop, can't-put-it-down reading, I finished. And I'm unable to
tell what this book has given me with any real clarity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">First published in 1957, her work begins
with her experiences as a Jew in Poland on the day Germany invaded, in 1939.
She introduces her parents, her well-loved brother, Arthur, and other family
members, neighbors, and friends. Immediately she asks the question I have
visited time and again: how could her Polish neighbors welcome the Germans into
their small village, when they all knew what it meant for the Jews in their
midst? Her story continues through the German victory years, with her brother
being removed to work camps inside Poland; her father and mother forced into
the dank, damp basement of their own home as their belongings are stolen before
their eyes; their eventual removal to a ghetto; and their separation as her
father is sent to a men's camp, and her mother is sorted into the trains for
Auschwitz. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-outline-level: 1;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Klein makes it clear
that they all knew what it meant to go to that dreaded place.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because of her age, Klein escapes the
death camps and is sent to one of the many German work camps. She is lucky in
the first years, overseen by a strict commander, but dealt mercy in many
instances. Klein and her 3 friends from home and the trains are together for
almost their entire incarceration - though only she survives the long ordeal
(all 3 died within 1 week of liberation by American troops, the first days
before, the second on Liberation Day, and the third several days after due to
amputation complications). In her final chapters, Klein asks once why she
survived and her friends did not, sitting among the headstones outside the joint
Allied Forces hospital where she recovers from her trauma. And chooses to move
forward in honor of her friends, in honor of her promises to her family to be
strong, rather than dwell on the horrors and grief.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Any memoir of this kind is heavy. There
is death, there is sorrow, and there is the constant head-shaking at the utter
lack of humanity experienced by Klein and her fellow Jews. As I read, I kept
expecting tears. I kept expecting rage and shock to boil within me, to cause me
to close the pages in despair. As each page unleashed new terrors and fear, I
was surprised to find myself spellbound - not by the awfulness itself - but by
Klein's bravery and commitment to her promise: "Be strong," said her
brother. "Be strong," her mother's last words through the screams and
cries of a crowded cattle car. "Promise me," from her father,
"that you will go on." And she does - for herself, for her friends,
for her family. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Klein humbles me. Her determination and
sheer force of will are inspiring. I found myself staring at a spot on the
page, simply wondering how she did it - how when filthy and hungry, she kept
working and found ways to ingratiate herself and her friends with their guards.** In awe I read her account of carrying her best friend in their death march through
the snow, Klein herself too weary to keep going, but never stopping. I couldn't
do that. I don't think most of us now could do what she did, or any of these
survivors managed. How did they hold out in the face of such insurmountable
pain? Fear? Grief and sorrow?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm amazed by this memoir. I'm astounded
by Klein's final pages - how there is such hope pulled from the darkness. I'm
blown away by the epilogue, how Klein writes of her healing, of the dark days, and of things that trigger memories*** - and each time they threaten to swallow her
up, she perseveres. She overcomes. She is herself in awe of what has come from
her experience - that she is never hungry, or cold, or afraid; and that she has
turned tragedy into opportunity to help those who do suffer through advocating
and volunteer work. Klein writes that helping others has lifted her higher than
any activity she could possibly do, has given her courage that she never
thought possible. I am again humbled by her compassion and dedication to easing
suffering. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I feel things I cannot express. I never
"review" books - in fact, this isn't a review to me. This is trying
to capture the sheer amazement I feel at this woman's strength. Part of reading
for me is empathy - trying to feel and be one with the person or persons whom
you read about in a story. And I am overwhelmed. Words are my gift, and words
fail describing the sheer energy I feel in my soul.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Read <i>All But My Life</i>. Really <i>read </i>it. You will learn something more than heroism and courage. You will learn
gratitude.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">------------------------------</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">* Note that the author repeatedly mentions others who were persecuted, criminalized, and beaten/tortured/killed due to disability, age, and race (such as non-Jewish Hungarians and Gypsies). No mentions are made of individuals of varying sexual orientations. I focus on Jews in my thoughts here because this is the group whom Klein most identifies with and shares common experiences.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">** Klein made use of sudden, unknown confidence and blunt honesty to get Polish natives working for the Nazis to assist her and her friends. She demonstrates almost reckless courage to many captors, both male and female. Remarkably, she gets what she needs almost every time. She did not, however, use sexuality to earn favors or get out of trouble. In fact, she refuses this and almost loses her life for it, if not for a friend's quick thinking (which friend is the first of her quartet to perish).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">*** There are several instances in the epilogue that hint at post-traumatic stress disorder. I found Klein's responses to these situations inspiring, and I believe that other individuals who live with this illness would find her experiences useful. It certainly has helped me after an initial reading, and a second, more thorough look at the passages and stories shared.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-43349231916433204332016-10-06T00:40:00.000-06:002016-10-06T00:41:12.342-06:00taking it back...<div dir="ltr">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">I've missed writing</span><span style="background-color: white;"> because I've been super busy and felt like hiding away. So here is a long, truly scary confession post for me with *gasp* a photo with MAKE UP ON. </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Triggers here. Fyi.</span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7kdDM2fR9eQ2pLw1A3YhWHtRFximrEnpY7DH1kqKR1I7ZnNienp72OkO17XFHoUaXF8ye7A401Txlkoh1pb9QnUaxiqMKbb1aKgSfRBtMJQs6bt9D2AOVQ7o6jGpDed7-DGd0A4tp6Ol/s1600/14462885_10154060531918981_1300787931544146858_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs7kdDM2fR9eQ2pLw1A3YhWHtRFximrEnpY7DH1kqKR1I7ZnNienp72OkO17XFHoUaXF8ye7A401Txlkoh1pb9QnUaxiqMKbb1aKgSfRBtMJQs6bt9D2AOVQ7o6jGpDed7-DGd0A4tp6Ol/s400/14462885_10154060531918981_1300787931544146858_n.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
<div dir="ltr">
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't wear make up pretty much ever. If I do, it's basic mascara and some pink blush used as eyeshadow. Nondescript. Barely there. Fiance is cool with it - "You're naturally beautiful. Women really are. I wish you - all of you - could see it too." Love him, right? Anyway. We did engagement photos a week ago, and so I did the thing you do and put on my face - and though I look very Jane Austen? I about had a panic attack walking out of the bookstore restroom to go meet up with our photographer.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Fiance immediately asked what was wrong - and I almost cried off my face as I told him I hate wearing make up. "People look at me more. They see me. Men see me. I want to be left alone. I don't want them to look at me." He was confused. And as I thought about it from his perspective - I found myself analyzing why I think this way.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Guy from high school who locked me in his car and threatened to rape me? He wouldn't let me wear make up. Or cute clothes. "I don't want other men to look at you. You're mine." Checking my phone, playing mind games, making me change outfits before dates if I looked "too hot." Don't be seen.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Supervisor who locked me in the janitor's closet with him. He let me go when I stared too hard at him, wide-eyed and more confused than scared. "Close your eyes, girl. What the hell you doin' with those?" Don't be seen.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ex who repeatedly abused me for two years - "You attract so much attention just because of your face. Especially your eyes. Stop looking at me. Look down." "Take off the eyeliner, you look stupid." "Did you see that guy checking you out? Don't wear that shirt when we go places anymore." Don't be seen.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've always been shy. Awkward. Looking at the ground. But to have a panic attack because I put on make up? Unable to breathe because my eyes shine? Afraid to show fiance my face when I put this stuff on because he might see something he's suddenly afraid of or made angry by and tell me to disappear? He wouldn't. He won't. But my crazy brain says he might - it's ridiculous.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So guess what? This cleansing confession post now has a DARE. A BIG ONE.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Be seen. With or without make up on. With or without a nice outfit. I'll Be Seen. I'll see others. I'll smile and laugh and walk with my head held high.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I'm taking back my face.</span></div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-80621757627023644282016-09-20T03:19:00.000-06:002016-09-20T03:23:30.052-06:00blocked...I've always found it silly and cliche to call myself a writer.<br />
<br />
"Hi, I'm Sarah Anne -- a 20-something volunteer addict who checks out more books from the library than she can read in a month, stresses over everything you can possibly imagine and more, owns a dog, is engaged, and has a bunch of other things she should be doing but is probably watching Netflix instead.<br />
<br />
Oh, and I'm also a writer."<br />
<br />
It's always an afterthought. Almost a confession, like it's embarrassing to admit because I, like some others, hear people say, "I'm a writer" and immediately do a silent eye-roll while smiling enthusiastically, "Oh, are you ? That's great!" Never asking their genre or subject or storyline. Never offering help or the tidbit about being a 5-star writing tutor for over a year in college. Just the internal eye-roll and the smile.<br />
<br />
Let's just say I've helped with far too many terrible writing projects of which the author was over-proud and overzealous.<br />
<br />
So now that I have this confession -- I'm a bit embarrassed.<br />
<br />
I. Am. A writer.<br />
<br />
Like many self-conscious and conflicted students of words, I keep it to myself. Mostly. And, I go through long periods of inactivity. Days and weeks and months of time pass without setting a pen to paper or fingers to keys, because writing? Writing really well?<br />
<br />
It's exhausting.<br />
<br />
And the thing about writing and writing well is that when you know how to do it, and you've seen all of the ways people go wrong. . .well. You get even more blocked than you did before. You edit as you go -- instead of word vomiting all over the page and saying, "Hell yeah, that's a plot hole -- Ima fix it on the next round. Deal with it." You get paraylzed by the need for just the right word; just the perfect way of expressing all that stuff swirling around inside your head.<br />
<br />
Justice is served with the perfect word.<br />
<br />
Falling short. Because it's an injustice to the story and the feeling and the experience if the words aren't <i>just right</i>. That's the main thing for me. I can't find the perfect word, the just-right piecing together of the dictionary's tenants into a party that screams THIS IS IT! THIS IS THE ONE!<br />
<br />
The sentence of the year. The story of the decade.<br />
<br />
It's not that I want people to think that the story is perfect. It's that I want how I feel and think to be expressed perfectly -- for myself. So I can represent all of the twisting mess of feeling and strangeness taking place inside my head.<br />
<br />
Why else would I be awake at 3am every night? Unable to sleep because images that need description plow through my mind with reckless speed. Yet, I can't find the words. "Play on!" says Shakespeare, "Play on!" Like an old VHS recording on fast forward, my static-filled mind joins with him -- play on!<br />
<br />
But there is Hamlet, standing with his now iconic skull, posed as the Boy in Black. "To sleep -- perchance to dream."<br />
<br />
Dreaming isn't the problem. It's sleeping that makes no sense to me.<br />
<br />
Because words, words, words are the real issue. Which one to use, which to strike from existence, weighing the options of this one and that one. Literally keeping me up at night. Even the placement is cause for grief. Put it there? Or over there? A comma? A colon? I use that form of punctuation (the colon) and think of cancer every time. Probably because someone I know died of it a few months ago.<br />
<br />
What I'd write about?<br />
<br />
I'd write about dad's cancer.<br />
<br />
I'd write about our cancer jokes.<br />
<br />
I'd write about how when I make cancer jokes in public, few and far between people get offended, saying angrily "You shouldn't talk like that, it's offensive!" and I shrug and say, "Well, seeing as my dad is terminal, it's kind of how we deal with it"; and then they just sit there, quiet, like dad is dead instead of dying.<br />
<br />
I'd write about my own kind of cancer, the flashbacks and post-traumatic stress disorder episodes; silent killers that come out of nowhere like a poisonous viper and strike when the sun is out and you're in love and then WHAM. The snake bites your ankle while you stare at it wondering why you didn't see the thing lying on the pavement.<br />
<br />
Plenty of colons and commas and heres and theres to satisfy even the pickiest of word readers -- unless of course you're including me in the bunch.<br />
<br />
Reading is easy. Writing, and those who can accomplish it -- now, that deserves all of the glory.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-79006566838338187582016-06-21T18:12:00.001-06:002016-06-21T18:16:36.156-06:00concerning habits. . .I used to be out of my mind concerned about really strange things. <br />
<br />
Like how I had to take the exact same route in the kitchen every morning to get the same cereal: pantry for cereal to fridge for milk to cupboard for bowl and big spoon to table. And the exact inverse to put it all away: counter with dishes and so on. I'm still particular about my utensils. Always a small fork, no matter what I'm eating. And always a small spoon except for cereal. You get more milk that way.<br />
<br />
Or how my outfits had to be entirely color coordinated. No patterns with patterns. Very business style or jeans and tees. And that period of my life where everything was long sleeved, long legged, and booted. All black. Very particular. And later on -- white socks with white or light shoes; black socks with black or dark shoes. Particularly if the outfits were light or dark. Though I'm still that way about my socks needing to match -- and that they should match something in the whole ensemble. If I wear socks at all.<br />
<br />
Or how the closet had to be organized. And not just organized by type, but by color and sleeve length. Starting with the R of ROYGBIV and working through the spectrum of tone and shade and whatchamacallits, making sure that the browns and blacks and whites fell on the outside somewhere. Absence and absorption of color and all that. Can't mix it in. Same for pants and dresses and skirts. Even shoes. All by color. Length. Or heel height.<br />
<br />
I'm still organized. I still worry about weird things. I used to think I was over all of this weirdness. Be it my overactive, over intense brain is now medicated to the point of closer normalcy or I've just grown up and moved on. Not so much moved on -- moved on from those specific, consuming routines and must-have patterns. Moved on to new ones.<br />
<br />
Other strange things concern me now. Like which pockets the wallet and the glasses go into in the backpack -- they must be the same each time. And the respective pockets for all of the other things I pack around with me for various reasons. Respective pockets. To each item its own home.<br />
<br />
Or the phones at work. Geraldine lives on the left side of the desk; Batman lives on the right. And Batgirl lives over by the till because she came to us last and that was the only place left for her to perch. I didn't name the phones. They were like that when I got here. But now they have specific places to live. Strangely, my coworkers now do the same thing. Perhaps because they can see the genuine panic that comes across my face too fast for me to hide when I see Batman heading to Geraldine's house for a nap. Their prongs must not share cradles. Ever. <br />
<br />
We never have that problem with Batgirl. Batgirl always ends up where she is supposed to rest.<br />
<br />
Placement is and has always been ridiculously important to me. Knowing where things are. Where I am in orientation to those things. When things are thrown off -- it upsets me. Often I tried to hide it. But that little flash of panic can be terribly hard to hide from some people. Sometimes -- and I am the first to admit -- a stupid tantrum gets set off. A suppressed connection to 3-year-old Sarah Anne is sparked and internal screams manifest themselves in the form of pouting, quiet tears, and all-around obstinacy. <br />
<br />
For example. When my sister's husband began joining us for Sunday dinners and they moved me out of my chair so he and she could sit side-by-side. My. Chair. The chair I had sat in at mealtimes for almost a decade. And it felt wrong. Horrible. Awful. That sick kind of sick you feel when you see someone you once loved and who once loved you with another person, and you get this awful mean jealousy and displacement. Even though you know you should be over it. <br />
<br />
"But it's mine," petulant 3-year-old says. Not sadly, either. Angrily. "That's my spot. All of my memories and perspectives and sitting nearer the corner than you'd think humanly possible. They're all in that chair."<br />
<br />
I know. It's weird. But I'm still not over that chair. <br />
<br />
More than a year later; I really want my chair back. <br />
<br />
My brain knows that this is all weird. That someone looking in at my life would think, "It's just a chair. It's just a phone. It's just a pocket that holds stuff. Who even cares?" I think that at myself too, every single Sunday dinner. Every single time I put Batman to bed. Every single time I open the pockets in my backpack and panic when something isn't right. When it's wrong. Disconnected. I think that's the word I'd use when certain things aren't just so. When specific, tiny, ridiculous details are overlooked or aren't just right. The porridge too hot or the bed too soft. Not right. Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-59306176711777108892015-09-11T11:57:00.000-06:002015-09-11T11:57:55.023-06:00what can you do for America?<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
It's hard to believe that it's been 14 years since I was sitting in the family room with my backpack on and my shoes untied, more captivated by a radio than any 10-year-old child in this generation has ever been.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I'm saddened today -- not so much for the loss of 14 years ago, nor by the actions of the terrorists. Those feelings, though still tender upon memory, have been eased to a reverence through forgiveness, stories of courage, and hope in the goodness of humanity as tho<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">usands reached out to a suffering nation.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
But I am saddened by how in such a short time -- 14 short years -- America has remembered the tragedy, but not the need to stand together as a nation, to fight for the ideals and values which birthed this country, to put others before self. As a whole, America appears to have forgotten the lessons we learned about pride, about ignoring threats, about selflessness before personal gain.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Wake up, America. Remember not just the days of dust, debris, destruction, and death. Remember that events like these serve as a wake up call, an easily forgotten reminder that evil is out there. That evil, given any chance, will rear its head and strike the innocent. Remember your part in this, as you sat rooted to the spot watching the Towers fall, the Pentagon burn, the fields of Pennsylvania fill with smoke.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Remember that America needs YOU, the very best you that can be given. Not our ignorance, our pride, our selfishness, our all-about-me needs. It needs our love, our committment to becoming better every day, our fight for freedom and justice for all humanity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
"God bless America, land that I love. Stand beside her and guide her through the night with a light from above."</div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-67191740046899672442015-08-31T23:25:00.000-06:002015-08-31T23:25:24.558-06:00do we take offense too often because we don't know or care about the facts?<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I'm rather confused about the reaction to <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/auschwitz?source=feed_text&story_id=10153194873943981" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl" style="color: #627aad;">‪#‎</span><span class="_58cm">Auschwitz‬</span></a> museum staff installing water sprinklers near the ticket line to keep guests cool while waiting to enter. I do understand that this could be made to appear similar to "showers" that the Nazis sent Jews into -- the gas chambers will never, ever be forgotten. But here are some things:</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
1) These sprinkler systems are meant to keep people from passing out in line due to extreme heat, which is mentioned in articles about the issues as happening several times this summer. The sprinklers are nowhere near the gas chambers at the memorial site. They're not even inside the complex -- they're located before guests can get in. With record crowds this summer (over 1 million people this year so far) from all over the world, the wait to get inside has been longer than ever. It makes sense that the staff would want to keep their visitors safe from the heat.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
2) The "showers" look nothing like shower heads. They are literally hoses with holes in them strung across poles to mist over visitors who get too warm. They are much like the misters used at Freedom Festival events here in Provo around the 4th of July. In no way, shape, or form are they similar to the systems used inside the gas chambers.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
3) Those who are familiar with Holocaust history know that the "showers" Jews were made to enter had false shower heads installed. No gas ever came from these. Instead, pellets of Zyklon B were dropped through small, re-sealable holes in the roof or walls of the chambers. The gas wasn't sprayed -- you cannot spray a gas like you can spray water. Furthermore, the Auschwitz Museum and Memorial staff are trying to protect their visitors, not hurt them. It's a completely opposite situation, seemingly small in comparison to the outcry against the sprinklers.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I recognize that for some this seems horrific and like a major oversight on the part of the Auschwitz Memorial and Museum staff. However, it seems clear that their main objective is to protect their visitors. Guests come from all over the world, and from all types of environments -- many cannot stand temperatures of 102 degrees Fahrenheit for very long. I certainly can't.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
In addition, Poland's extreme temperatures (record highs not seen in decades) are causing power curbs, meaning that public and private sector establishments (including homes) are having their power cut. How can you do something with fans when there is no power or limited power, and the air blowing around is still over 100 degrees? I'm personally trying to brainstorm other cost-effective ways to keep guests cool as they wait to enter the complex, and I'm coming up dry.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
What do you think about this? Honestly, I feel that people in our global society choose to be offended about things that were completely innocent. Perhaps it's because I'm not an Israeli, nor am I a descendant of Jews who survived the Holocaust. I know and recognize that horror -- I've studied it so much that I almost wish I hadn't delved as deeply as I did. But this truly seems like an overreaction.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Isn't it important to make sure people can visit places like this, and visit safely, so that these histories and stories and lives aren't forgotten? To shut such a place down because of the heat would be a tragedy. How many wouldn't get a chance to go again?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
Thoughts? Rebuttals? Comments? If you are Jewish or have Jewish ancestry, what is your take on this?</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-91906998337628131982015-08-18T11:49:00.000-06:002015-08-18T11:49:26.004-06:00it's because I'm White, isn't it?<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I'm frustrated. I'm frustrated that groups of people who preach love and acceptance won't love and accept White people because we are White. I'm frustrated that if I, a White woman, express an opinion about race in the United States, I'm "privileged," "ignorant," "biased," "bigotted," and "intolerant."</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Who cares that I've done all that I can to get an outside perspective -- taking classes; reading literature and essays and histories and newspapers; talking to people of other races about their experiences; attending cultural events NOT to say, 'Oh, hey, that Colorfest though,' but to say 'Excuse me? Can you tell me about why this is important to you? Why this matters? What you love about it? What you would like me, someone who is different than you, to know?'; asking the harder, more awkward questions so that I can learn and understand something I've never experienced; attempting to help by becoming educated and active in America in its entirety, not just my White part of it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
It seems that many don't care. Many don't care that there ARE White people who support them, who want to know them, who want to help them, and who want to be equal. Yes -- be EQUAL. NOT be called names. NOT be overlooked for scholarships, jobs, awards, even justice, because we "aren't colored." NOT be beaten down and shoved aside because we "don't understand" and "cause all of the bad things to happen" because of our Whiteness.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Yes, I don't understand completely. I recognize that. I hear stories and I'm shocked. I see the way people get treated and it angers and saddens me. It spurs me to change minds and hearts. It's hard to do where I live, because the population is different. But if I see injustice, or inequality, or meanness, I at least try. Though I don't understand the depth of sorrow and pain that past and present generations perpetuate, I know that many are trying.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">Yes. There is racism. Yes. There is inequality. Yes. I don't understand what it's like to walk down a street of white people and be looked at like I'm a freak. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">But I DO understand what it's like to be in a classroom full of minority students and a minority professor and be completely, humiliatingly shut down because of an honest, sincere comment about someone else's experience as a person of color -- and I never spoke in that class again. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I DO know what it's like to be called a racist because I disagreed with a Latino's opinion.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I DO know what it's like to be called a racist because I disciplined two Black children at the museum where I work when they weren't sharing -- and the only other child, a White child, was following the rules.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I DO know what it's like to walk down a street of full of people of color and be stared at, glared at, and be whispered about because "here come those White kids" with our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, with our "White charity," with our "privilege." </span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I don't understand it all. But I understand a little.</span></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">I'm sorry that there are jerks in the world. I'm sorry that there are people who call names, who pass people over for jobs, who give worse service, who won't listen, who continue to express hate and malice based on color.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
However. I refuse to be sorry for being White. I refuse to acknowledge arguments that blame Whiteness alone for social problems. I refuse to accept inequality against Whites, just as I refuse to accept inequality towards those of other races.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
We are all, first and foremost, Americans. And as such, as Americans, we each deserve things. Life. Liberty. The Pursuit of Happiness. Freedom to laugh and love and receive aid when it is needed, from those around us and from higher powers.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
No one, not one of us, deserves ANYTHING based on the color of our skin. I, as a White woman, do not DESERVE a scholarship. I do not DESERVE a job. I do not DESERVE anything. I work hard for everything that I have. And I work hard to make this world better for everyone who lives in it, no matter what color people may be. You may not think so, because I am White. But boy, let me tell you. If ever there was an advocate for equality for ALL -- you're looking at her. And that includes EVERY color. Because underneath each color is a living, breathing, thinking, hoping human being who deserves rights simply because they live. Every. Single. One.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
If you ever see injustice, speak up. If you ever see inequality, confront it. It doesn't matter who it is against -- raise your voice and question. But do so with the understanding that it might have been a mistake. It might not have been based on the color of skin. It might have been done out of ignorance, instead of meanness. So ask the questions. Get people thinking. Change comes when people's HEARTS are touched, when people's MINDS are opened. And hearts will not be touched, nor will minds open, when there is abuse, rudeness, incivility, and attacks on race.</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-25483206207685734152015-08-16T10:04:00.000-06:002015-08-16T10:04:13.975-06:0070 years ago, when the world began anew. . .<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I missed marking VJ Day yesterday.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
The war is over. The conflict has ended. People can breathe again. Tents and tanks are put away; men and women board ships for home. Cities, demolished, start to rebuild. Countries, frightened, weep with relief; weep with sorrow. Deaths are mourned; homecomings are celebrated. Loss is accute. Life is accute, be it present or gone.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Confusion. Exultation. Shock. Rejoicing. Some wondering what will become of them; some certain that everything will be alright from now on. Some surrounded by death and pain, silent; some surrounded by life and joy, clamour.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
The war is over. The conflict has ended. Life can begin again.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
The more I study WWII, the more I'm convinced that there will always be good people in this world. People who fight for what they believe in, regardless of the cost. And I mean this for ALL sides of this conflict: the Axis forces, the Allied forces, and all those people caught in the struggle.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I believe that most Axis members weren't bad people -- they were good people who trusted their leaders and sacrificed for their countries. Granted, this was mostly the young, while the older generations watched in fear. Terrified to do *their* version of the right thing, but trying through underground networks or by attempting to shelter their children. Not bad people -- people trapped by circumstance; children raised to spread an idea, warped though it was.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I believe that most Allied members weren't bad people -- they were good people who saw a monstrous threat intent on swallowing humanity and spitting it out as something which was, to them, horrific. And so they fought back, for their families, their freedoms, their way of life. They sought to halt an idea, a system that seemed intent on the world's destruction.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Both sides had a goal. Both sides had a belief. Both sides, though one is easily marked the bad and the other just as easily marked the good, were full of good people trying to do what they believed was the right thing. I know that this analysis is somewhat simplified -- it doesn't account for every variable, because that would take pages and pages of documented research to present a sound argument. But simply put, everyone had something they believed in: the Axis' New World; the Allied idea of freedom and safety for everyone, regardless of race, color, creed, religion, or lifestyle.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
What to us is clearly an evil may be obviously good to someone else. Take the current conflicts with ISIS and ISIL: many of them truly believe that what they do is right. And what do we support and perpetuate that others in the world see as evil?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Good people do bad things -- sometimes we know what we're doing is wrong, and we feel too frightened or too unconcerned to change it. Sometimes we don't know it. Does that make those people bad? Evil? I don't believe that it does.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Our perspectives shape the way we see good and evil. I believe that if everyone looked harder for these perspectives, to understand how and why people think and believe the way that they do -- I believe that there would be more love. Less hate. More talk. Less gunfire.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
I'm glad the war ended the way that it did. I sorrow for the loss of innocent life that led to Japanese surrender. I understand that many believe that it was the only way, and I have often thought about other possibilities. I wonder what would have happened if talking had been an option, if a greater respect for all human life could have made things change. It didn't happen that way -- and so we can appreciate what goodness DID come from the ending of the Pacific conflicts, and think of all the goodness that can be found in stories of people throughout the terrible time that was WWII.</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-17336285872087202402015-05-25T17:17:00.001-06:002015-05-25T17:17:38.194-06:00. . .A man called my coworker a "nigger" today -- now that I've had a few hours to quash the tsunami of rage that welled up inside me when I heard the story, I feel pity for the man's ignorance and the example he is setting for his children, and a great deal of sadness at my coworker's remark of "I'm used to it."Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-62432622520084572762014-12-27T22:03:00.001-07:002014-12-27T22:03:47.836-07:00Christmas soup...<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
This afternoon, my sisters and I went to Olive Garden after seeing Ballet West's production of "The Nutcracker". On our way out, I saw a man in an old coat and jeans standing a few feet from the door. For some reason I couldn't help but look at him, and when our eyes met, he hurriedly turned away. His whole body read shame and cold and sorrow.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Without thinking, I ran to the door. I had no money, but I did have a bowl of hot, steaming soup; the untouched all-you-can-eat servi<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ng I was too full to even start. I called to the man, who didn't answer. I called again, "Sir! Here. This is for you."</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
The look on his face was one of utter amazement -- his eyes brightened, and the shame and sadness I had seen disappeared. As he took the soup, he cried "You've got to be kidding me! This is for me?" I told him again that yes, it was for him, and was happy to see him accept it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Technically, I broke the law -- I don't have a permit to hand out food to someone who is homeless or panhandling. But when I saw that man's face, and saw how he could barely look at me, I absolutely couldn't walk away from him, not when I had something hot and delicious to share. Utah's laws didn't even cross my mind -- only a higher law, that of feeding the hungry and lifting those whose hands hang down, made sense to me. Seeing the change in the man's eyes, and watching as he cupped that simple bowl of soup in his hands -- wow. What I wouldn't give to be able to do that for someone every single day of my life. <a class="_58cn" data-ft="{"tn":"*N","type":104}" href="https://www.facebook.com/hashtag/sharethegift?source=feed_text&story_id=10152621459258981" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><span aria-label="hashtag" class="_58cl" style="color: #6d84b4;">‪#‎</span><span class="_58cm">sharetheGift‬</span></a></div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-28866959280627575832014-12-23T12:06:00.000-07:002014-12-27T22:07:36.721-07:00be the change...<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
As Christmas approaches, I am even more aware of the injustices and pain that happen in the world. Today, my thoughts have turned to America, and to a story of love and sacrifice that changed one person's life forever. But as much as this story is inspiring, it has an incredibly dark side, one that I do not feel should be overlooked. And so, if you read on, please accept this as my offering to those who have little -- accept this as a plea to be the change that we need.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUL_IAFDQSFoCYC4ijcR2rE3qEnfM0L5bv0kz9WfZ03fMfIuwaVjAfaTR8do0Lo0cVRGbMKPWgfLt7Fap7vH31e4q7l8D_tQTH5LlIe7aD7xcxOow7SkXBlYoJxoy8V6yP-NdFYFCp2gvH/s1600/1531545_10206041042085481_6210315798649043095_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUL_IAFDQSFoCYC4ijcR2rE3qEnfM0L5bv0kz9WfZ03fMfIuwaVjAfaTR8do0Lo0cVRGbMKPWgfLt7Fap7vH31e4q7l8D_tQTH5LlIe7aD7xcxOow7SkXBlYoJxoy8V6yP-NdFYFCp2gvH/s1600/1531545_10206041042085481_6210315798649043095_n.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An angel and a hero -- Tara Starling, founder of SoulFood USA with military veteran, Kaylynn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">This woman served her country, became a soldier. She fought to give us a place where we can reach our goals, raise our families, talk about anything we want -- she gave up everything to keep us safe. When she got home, she had nothing. She and her little boy have been living in a tent, in December, with belongings that fit into a closet-sized space. And yet, we have government representatives making hundreds of thousands of dollars, a president who goes on million dollar vacations using tax-payer money. This woman served her country and protected that government so that it can continue to exist -- only to come home to a tent for her and her son.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Not only that, but this group of devoted, compassionate individuals who banded together to help this single mother are required BY LAW to have a permit to help those less fortunate than themselves. Utah now requires that groups who help the homeless (especially those who provide food) have a permit. They are required by a government who rejects those men and women who give all, those men and women who sacrifice family -- birthdays, holidays, births, deaths, all of those precious moments -- who sacrifice safety, security, mental and emotional health -- rejects the men and women who keep safe the government which sends them away when they return.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
More and more states are requiring these permits -- requiring that men and women who freely give of their money, time, and resources, with no thought for compensation or recognition, get permission to help those in need. It's suddenly against the law to help our fellow men, unless we get permission from governments that can't seem to help.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I'm not suggesting we become a socialist state. I'm not arguing for communism or big government. I'm pointing out that there is a major discrepancy: those who support the nation and risk it all are put on the streets, while a single man -- the president -- uses taxpayer dollars to go on million dollar vacations to Hawaii.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
That isn't right.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Nor is it right that giving, nurturing people be required to have a legal document to aid the homeless with food or other material goods, like coats and clothing and bedding.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
This is not the America I love. This is not the country I honor. This is a country that needs to change. This a country that is sick, that has forgotten its ideals, and that has turned its back on the aspirations which birthed it.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Do your duty in this country. Know not just who you are voting for, but what that person stands for, what he or she will do with the power that YOU give.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
You decide what happens in this country. Be the change.</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-69403560462933376332014-09-25T12:29:00.002-06:002014-09-25T12:29:58.192-06:00...I feel as though I have nothing to live for.<br />
<br />
Nothing matters. Nothing I do is important. Nothing is the only thing I have left.<br />
<br />
Living is the hardest part of each day.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-620639758988397632014-09-07T11:18:00.001-06:002014-09-07T11:19:49.950-06:00...<br />
I wish people could see that I'm trying.<br />
<br />Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-6538728514543960962014-08-10T22:07:00.000-06:002014-08-10T22:08:38.849-06:00...The tears come in quiet moments.<br />
When the night has fallen and the stars awake in the sky;<br />
when the city goes to bed, and the clock creeps slowly on to midnight.<br />
<br />
Finally alone -- and I cry.<br />
<br />
I cry for the sorrow, the hatred.<br />
The pain. For the hunger and sickness -- for the loss.<br />
But mostly<br />
<br />
I cry for the children.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-65159899178794400292014-05-29T14:39:00.001-06:002014-05-29T14:39:09.252-06:00...I can't explain my life to you. The pain. The fear. The constant exhaustion that never goes away.<br />
Until it all becomes a sort of fog, where I'm choking, but I don't care.<br />
<br />
You can't understand it. You can empathize -- and for your compassion, I am grateful.<br />
But you can't understand.<br />
<br />
I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you cannot.<br />
Because to understand? You have to live this.<br />
<br />
I pray you never live this way.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-44043888216647489892014-05-27T17:34:00.000-06:002014-05-27T17:34:18.197-06:00#YesAllWomen...i don't want to be a victim.<br />
i don't want to be running scared,<br />
walking through the world like there's a target on my back,<br />
worried that someday, somewhere, someone is waiting.<br />
watching.<br />
waiting.<br />
waiting for the perfect moment -- to strike.<br />
<br />
i don't want to be paranoid. i don't want to be afraid;<br />
constantly re-living the past. always aware of an unknown -- unseen -- unnamed --<br />
threat.<br />
<br />
because that's how i've been living.<br />
that's what i've become.<br />
this is the world that i inhabit, that i understand, that i <i>know</i> appears irrational<br />
-- but i also know to be horribly. nightmarishly.<br />
real.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-86211009214495531242014-05-27T00:36:00.001-06:002014-05-27T00:36:56.024-06:00living with depression and all that comes with it...<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Things that go bump in the night go bump in the day;<br />
<div>
the difference so little that time slips away</div>
<div>
-- exhaustion.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-16641722066320291152014-05-06T17:16:00.002-06:002014-05-06T17:20:11.262-06:00comic KAAAAAAHN...No, I'm not actually a Trekkie, though I have been initiated into the fandom by several very persistent friends. It's going to be a long undertaking. They're quite dedicated.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Despite my lack of Trekkie-ness, you can count on my nerdy affiliations to other fandoms, like Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, the TV series <i>Chuck</i>, Harry Potter, among a myriad of fun things. Which is why I once again attended the Salt Lake Comic Con this April with one of my best friends.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmImcyqEPHodAqBGHN1fx1n_qOWy-1CSjyQuVxZ-cA91clkbJ21iA6fxEhEUu6BGwDmG7IDn6oSp_kGsazw70MLFoJ0ChhkjCLYaBdRWiFERWmzH9DZDBoSGEwLoe_LjXodJjGfWeavYX/s1600/10268642_10152108050903981_3719364384026300243_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmImcyqEPHodAqBGHN1fx1n_qOWy-1CSjyQuVxZ-cA91clkbJ21iA6fxEhEUu6BGwDmG7IDn6oSp_kGsazw70MLFoJ0ChhkjCLYaBdRWiFERWmzH9DZDBoSGEwLoe_LjXodJjGfWeavYX/s1600/10268642_10152108050903981_3719364384026300243_n.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here we are, me and Linnea. We're two of the cutest little nerds you're ever gonna meet, if you're lucky. ;) This is the second time we've gone together, and we're all ready making plans for September.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0iWHXlzBlldQepA1U9orvBX4LKQpwhNAvxVQxNBhcxhnNmFKBF8HSLoDD16LY5eZPYIZRGQ2yg0UePPX-GaELzlLhsGOJNdumm9WJqTQIncC7pO7I5BvlB5aHsXlp6F33hVK09ppmPTb/s1600/1551463_10203071035992676_5185524361695867980_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh0iWHXlzBlldQepA1U9orvBX4LKQpwhNAvxVQxNBhcxhnNmFKBF8HSLoDD16LY5eZPYIZRGQ2yg0UePPX-GaELzlLhsGOJNdumm9WJqTQIncC7pO7I5BvlB5aHsXlp6F33hVK09ppmPTb/s1600/1551463_10203071035992676_5185524361695867980_n.jpg" height="512" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Meeting Karen Gillan from the popular TV series <i>Dr. Who</i>, which I've never actually seen. Linnea was kind enough to let me be in her the photo. Can you tell that I'm super tired? We'd been in line for over two hours!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosXjkybpzxI5L4UqfAW_vYUvsObaELvx4VXIoCjyEazTgAJSCUKT7uNxzKmHB-zm7JhKFhWvHY-BgQ7m4km7Sx8eApE31BjkA4JrsoMMXijnTAj72kEF2CoJmkNsGUuLljsSL5LsUsYLD/s1600/1017755_10152107952738981_3401930979657520483_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiosXjkybpzxI5L4UqfAW_vYUvsObaELvx4VXIoCjyEazTgAJSCUKT7uNxzKmHB-zm7JhKFhWvHY-BgQ7m4km7Sx8eApE31BjkA4JrsoMMXijnTAj72kEF2CoJmkNsGUuLljsSL5LsUsYLD/s1600/1017755_10152107952738981_3401930979657520483_n.jpg" height="640" width="512" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Meet the handsome, charming, devil-may-care and self-proclaimed "I'm a nerd just like you guys!" Karl Urban of <i>The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers</i> and <i>The Return of the King</i>. When I walked up to him, I exclaimed, "Wow! You're super tall!" He laughed and in his adorable Kiwi (New Zealand) accent, he said, "No worries!" He then put his arms around us and bent his knees a little bit. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKrwLMxcNvHAF7IxN9wX-WXqirL09nARBldlo5uzKeDPL5QbDz2lEjqCk3lMEp4iYpr2kFiOuQ2uLblgDJbkEHwsGmuiD5AepJU8OTBcmgbyF63qBpsesI54u0mOKHo_y_Gql4wUU9dG3/s1600/1013751_10152107952743981_4666131161293860575_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDKrwLMxcNvHAF7IxN9wX-WXqirL09nARBldlo5uzKeDPL5QbDz2lEjqCk3lMEp4iYpr2kFiOuQ2uLblgDJbkEHwsGmuiD5AepJU8OTBcmgbyF63qBpsesI54u0mOKHo_y_Gql4wUU9dG3/s1600/1013751_10152107952743981_4666131161293860575_n.jpg" height="512" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">He is so TALL. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
But my favorite -- the man who I was so excited to meet that I almost cried -- Adam Baldwin, who plays John Casey in my favorite TV show, <i>Chuck</i>. Yes, I know that it's kind of silly that I about cried from happiness and excitement. It was really special for me, though. I even got a giant hug when I said hello to him. It was a literal dream come true.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
We had such a good time together. I was lucky enough to go on Saturday with a few other friends. I got to see Adam Baldwin again and attend the panel where he answered questions. One of the guys I was with went up to ask a question and got Mr. Baldwin to do his John Casey growl just for me! Afterwards, we got to meet Patrick Stewart -- another step to making me a real Trekkie. They just don't give up!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Such a fun experience. I can't wait for September.</div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-76395364253607737072014-05-05T23:41:00.000-06:002014-05-05T23:42:02.012-06:00night time...I spend little time outside. I realized this two days ago, when I was lying on the grass at the park and I was struck by the fact that the sky is <i>blue</i>. Running an average day's schedule through my head, it became clear that being outside isn't really a "thing" in my life. Which is very sad.<br />
<br />
As I've thought about it more, I've also realized that I <i>do</i> get outside -- I just get outside during the night time. For some reason I'm a lot more comfortable outside when the sun has gone down. Perhaps it's the fact that it requires zero sunscreen (I burn like you wouldn't believe [no, really -- I get sunburned sitting at stoplights with the car windows rolled <i>up</i>]). Or maybe it's because it's dark and that means my eyes don't hurt, which means no headaches from bright sunlight.<br />
<br />
Both contribute to why I prefer venturing out of doors at night. And -- this is just sad -- there are a lot fewer people out after dark. No one bothers me at midnight when I'm sitting out in the driveway looking at the stars, and no one wants to talk when I'm driving down the freeway at two in the morning with the windows down and the radio turned up loud.<br />
<br />
I like the night. I like the quiet, and the coolness -- I have a rather startling number of sweaters, so the cold doesn't bother me too much. I like that the rest of the world is sleeping and that I'm not. Sometimes it's lonely. Sometimes it's <i>very</i> lonely, and a little scary. But I like to think that somewhere, there is someone else enjoying the night time, just like I am.<br />
<br />
While all of this is fine and good, I really should get outside in the sunshine more often. I don't think the moon produces any vitamin D, and I might be less depressed if I get out of this vampire-like habit and, you know. Interact with day time lovers or something.<br />
<br />Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-51647657648993109692014-04-23T14:29:00.003-06:002014-04-23T14:32:12.979-06:00more than survival..."You're always so happy." "You are always smiling! How do you do that?" "It's impossible to not feel loved by you." "Dang -- you just have life figured out!" "I wish I was more like you."<br />
<br />
I get comments like this a lot. I smile and nod and say thank you, then rush to encourage the speaker or point out their good qualities. I appreciate their words. I can tell (most of the time) that they're sincere. And I'm grateful for their kindness.<br />
<br />
But -- I don't feel like I'm any of those things at all. I don't have life figured out. I know for a fact I'm not always happy, nor always smiling. People say they want to be more like me, yet I'm constantly wishing I was someone else.<br />
<br />
I'm not "that girl." I don't have everything under control. I'm insecure and vain and shallow -- I worry about dumb, petty little things. My thoughts are often obsessive, focused on tiny issues that probably don't matter to anyone but me. I want things I can't have -- I do things I shouldn't do.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I feel like I'm always the girl who is struggling with something. No matter what I do, something is going wrong that's outside of my control. Either that, or the internal struggles become so intense that I can barely function.<br />
<br />
It's a miracle that I hauled myself out of bed this morning. Part of that was because I know need to work so I can pay for graduate school -- fear of massive debt or financial strain is a huge motivator for me. Part of it was because I knew I'd be more bored if I stayed in bed -- and I felt guilty for feeling bad.<br />
<br />
I don't feel like I smile very much. I don't feel like I'm a very happy person. Often, I'm shocked that I have as many friends as I do, particularly after I was told that I'm "an incredibly negative person and no one really likes you, which is why you have no friends. People don't like you; they don't like to be around you." Comforting sentiments, let me tell you.<br />
<br />
The happy compliments and this absolutely devastating remark swim through my head on an almost daily basis. I hear "people don't like you," and fight back "but she said I'm nice!" And it comes back, "Yes -- but you know it isn't true. Because people don't like you. You don't even like you. Even if everyone in the world liked you, you'd still be like this."<br />
<br />
I have no reply.<br />
<br />
Whether surrounded by friends or in the comfort of my small bedroom, it's dark. So often I find myself begging to just make it through the day, or even the next five minutes. I'll sit with my head bowed over my desk, willing the tears to go away; I'll lie curled on the floor of my room, physically trying to hold myself together until it passes.<br />
<br />
Each time I make goals or attempt new things, I suddenly feel paralyzed. My motivation to progress and do something, <i>anything</i>, is overturned -- and then I'm in survival mode. Just wake up -- just roll over -- just walk out of the room -- just brush your teeth -- just make it back to your room -- just survive.<br />
<br />
I don't <i>want</i> to simply survive life. I want to <i>live</i> life actively, passionately, maybe even a little aggressively, meaning <i>not</i> as someone who has things done to them. I want to be the one doing things.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-13909469193907471732014-04-23T00:53:00.000-06:002014-04-23T00:55:27.985-06:00i feel lost...I never understood why people get so emotional about graduating. In the past, I've listened to coworkers, classmates, and friends express everything from anger to paralyzing fear about leaving the undergraduate realm. Honestly, I can't tell you how many times I've been the shoulder-to-cry-on or the assistant job seeker for people.<br />
<br />
When I say I never understood, I mean that I never felt the way they did. People would say things, "I'm just not ready to leave," "I've got nowhere to go now," "I'm so scared that nothing is going to work out," and the like. Out loud, I was supportive, and I could both logically and empathetically see where they were coming from. It's a big step, leaving the campus and people that have become so familiar. Life once again becomes uncertain. On the other hand, I internally wondered why they weren't jumping up and down for joy at the chance for freedom -- for <i>real</i> adulthood -- for graduate school or job opportunities -- for bigger and better things -- CARPE DIEM!! Get me OUT of here!!<br />
<br />
With my own graduation ceremony looming less than 72 hours away, I suddenly feel a rash of emotions and sentiments that previous students have expressed. While walking across campus today, I couldn't help but utter a noise of disgust and say, "I <i>hate</i> this place." Surveying the grounds and the pretty pink tulips, I thought, "Well, it's not so bad. But still -- I can't wait to be finished with all of this." Then, as I received my cap and gown, I trudged slowly across campus in tears, thinking, "They're kicking me out. All I did was what they asked, and now they're sending me away to who knows where doing who knows what with who knows who! How could they do this to me?!"<br />
<br />
It's quite the rollercoaster. I don't recommend it.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've been having nightmares. I mean, I usually do, but these are different. Often when I sleep, I dream of a void: me suspended in empty, crushing darkness. There is no up or down, no point with which to orient myself and determine where I am, or even who I am. Nothing is familiar, and I am alone. I've had these kinds of dreams before, but never with this intensity or such lingering effects.<br />
<br />
Waking from these dreams leaves me in a fog of uncertainty. I go throughout the day as though still stuck in that dark, cold emptiness. I felt it again as I unwrapped my wrinkled, too long, navy blue graduation gown and untangled the gold tassle strands. Running my fingers through the tassle strands, it suddenly hit me -- the dreams and lingering feelings come from my feeling of placelessness. It exists so strongly in me that it manifests itself in my dreams. I truly feel lost, along with a decent amount of panic.<br />
<br />
As I've thought more about this, I've concluded that this sort of anxiety speaks to feelings of displacement based on my changing position in the world. Though I do have places that are important to me, none of them are permanent. Everything in my life is transitory right now: graduation this week and finishing school in June; leaving the university I've grown to know well; acceptance to graduate programs that I'll never actually <i>go</i> to because they're online; leaving a student job and needing to find other employment; even my housing situation is in flux. My present places are quickly becoming my past places, and future places are presenting themselves -- though some are not really <i>places</i>; more like virtual experiences.<br />
<br />
It's an unknown -- it's a feeling of anxiety that occurs even before losing an important place. Facing graduation, loss of employment, and an almost place-less form of virtual graduate schooling creates that anxiety in me.<br />
<br />
Of course, changes like these aren't a bad thing. They're actually very good things; things I've worked for and looked forward to for a very, <i>very</i> long time. The emotional effects, though, are incredibly real. Being displaced from the undergraduate experience, employment, and people is a lot to handle all at once. It's kind of like when someone is forced into homelessness or made into an exile through war or foreclosure. I don't mean to minimize these events by comparing them to my current transition; losing a home or a familiar place because of such traumatic events is without a doubt much worse. I use that comparison because it's the only one that makes sense to me, that I can understand.<br />
<br />
Graduating is turning me into a school-less (and somewhat reluctant) migrant student -- an exile from everything I have known for the last three years. While my exile is partially by choice, and the graduate program I've chosen to attend does provide a new place to go, I'm still being displaced. I have met the requirements for graduation, and my diploma becomes both a celebration and a pink slip.<br />
<br />
I don't like change. I don't like losing the places and the people I have come to know and appreciate. However, I am human, and so my body must move. It must change and move and go new places, do new things. I of all people understand this now: after spending nearly a month in bed recovering from a surgical procedure, I've learned that staying in a room too long really can make a person go crazy. I wanted out! I wanted to move and change and go to other places. And I could not.<br />
<br />
It was hugely frustrating.<br />
<br />
None of us is meant to be stationary; movement of some sort is necessary. Still, the emotional distress that occurs from losing place is real. I'm feeling it in a big way now. I feel a mixed bag of loss, excitement, anger, sorrow, anxiety, betrayal, anticipation. These places have been critical in forming who I am and where I will go in the future. It's probably universal: places affect us and shape us. Perhaps the fact that places are key formative elements is what makes the displaced feeling distressing. We know we must move on from certain things, but letting go is difficult due to the ties to the place we grew and changed in.<br />
<br />
For me, my feelings of loss over my current state and place are helping to spur me on to the next experience. I mourn the loss of familiarity and worry over the new places I must find, yet these familiar places help me realize that I can't stay. Current places have shaped what I do, who I am, and where I will go. My experience as an undergrad student, while coming to a seemingly abrupt and frightening end, has created that desire to move to a new place <i>because</i> of the experiences I've had in the place I now leave.<br />
<br />
It's a strange, almost cyclical phenomenon: loss of place creating sadness and anxiety over the loss, while silmultaneously pushing us to find new places, which also creates uncertainty and grief. This constant shuffling of place is what makes us grow and change. Memories of old places shape our interactions with the new. Both types of places directly influence who we are, how we think, what we will become, and where we will go in the future.<br />
<br />
Thinking about it in this way is helping to turn my feelings of terror (yes -- terror) about the coming changes into excitement. I won't lie. The fear is still very real, as is the deep loss I can't quite understand and never expected would occur. However, it's being tempered with curiosity and excitement for the experiences and places that lie ahead of me.<br />
<br />
Though don't expect me to be all hopeful all of the time -- I'm desperately hanging on to any happy thoughts to keep myself from falling apart!Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-58378202794900830172014-04-21T16:41:00.001-06:002014-04-21T16:42:31.417-06:00yawn...I've never been a super huge fan of hardcore exercise, but I've never been too keen on being a total couch potato. Walking and slow jogging, dancing, and weight lifting were great for me. Running, though? Nope!<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When my health went south, so did exercise. The chronic pain and other medical problems made it really hard to find any sort of balance, and reluctant couch potato became a standard for a long time. I'd try and do the things I liked to do, but I'd end up in bed for days recovering. That is, until I found yoga. For almost a year, I was able to do yoga sessions at home every day. Then it all changed when the pain became so debilitating that I could barely walk. And so, as some know, I had surgery!<br />
<div>
<br />
<div>
Because of the surgery and <i>long</i> recovery, I haven't been able to do much in the form of physical movement. For several weeks, the most I could do was take a shower before collapsing back into bed. Now that I've started feeling quite a bit better, I decided to try some type of exercise so that my muscles don't totally atrophy. That's more worrisome to me right now than weight gain, seeing as my jeans are actually quite a bit bigger on me than they were back in March.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't want to hurt myself or push my body too hard, so I recently got back into yoga exercises (and by recently, I mean about two hours ago). Here are some things I forgot about this form I like so much:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. I have not been nor shall I ever be as flexible as I am in my dreams -- because I do dream about being able to do incredible feats worthy of Elastigirl in the Pixar film <i>The Incredibles</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. Relaxing my neck is ridiculously difficult!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
3. A yoga mat is probably a good investment, one which I should have made a long time ago but have never gotten around to doing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
4. Every time I finish a session, I'm suddenly exhausted and feel like I could sleep for hours. In fact, I'm reminded of how often I've fallen asleep at the end of a routine -- 'cause it happened today.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
5. 40 minutes goes by incredibly fast when I'm not timing laps at the gym. I like this <i>way</i> better.<br />
<br />
Now, if you'll excuse me. I'm going to go study for finals -- and by that I mean I'm going to take a nap, because I can barely keep my eyes open!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-90088253487862052662014-03-30T17:11:00.000-06:002014-03-30T20:43:02.151-06:00changing our reactions...Social media and other Internet functions are a great way for people to connect, express opinions, learn about the world, and gain new perspectives and experiences. I've always liked that about these sites.<br />
<br />
Now, though, there is something that I really need to get off of my chest, because keeping it in is driving me bonkers.<br />
<br />
The problem with all of these sites and resources is that often, the posts and ideas get turned into negatives. People constantly search for the hole in the argument, or the bad feeling that most likely came from behind the opinion. The tiniest hint of bad feeling or racist/sexist/bigoted/misguided/silly/whatever is latched onto, and the offended party then nails the original speaker for those obviously shallow, naive, and prejudiced statements.<br />
<br />
Why does it always have to be a fight? Why can't things just be let alone?<br />
<br />
For example. This whole explosion about moms who like to go all-out (or overboard, depending on your rhetoric) for holidays, birthdays, and the like -- who cares? There shouldn't be a reason to put moms or dads or whoever likes to party on the defensive because they <i>like</i> something and <i>act</i> on it. There shouldn't even <i>be</i> an attack!<br />
<br />
OR. Selfies without make-up, commonly tagged as #nomakeupselfie. Okay, yes, to me it's a little weird that people broadcast the fact that they're not wearing make-up, particularly in a world where we're so self-conscious and worried about it. Maybe it's a little arrogant, or insecure. Maybe it's brave, or perhaps just normal. But. Who cares? It's just a choice, whether they're supporting cancer research or not. So, if someone feels a need or desire to tell people about it with a hashtag, who cares? Why is that all of a sudden a horrible, terrible, awful thing? Who cares?<br />
<br />
Why do we care so much about what other people are doing that we feel this desperate need to write some mean-spirited or vengeful reply to tear down those who think and act differently? Why are we so caught up in the social media exploits of other people? I ask again, who cares? Is this really that important?<br />
<br />
I know, I know. If someone reads this article and finds a hole in it, or thinks that I'm misguided, or believes I'm missing the point, I'm going to get blasted for it. Because this post is an opinion. It's my opinion about what I see as people getting so caught up in the way others are living their lives that they stop living their own. And I see it as incredibly damaging. Why argue things that don't really matter? Why take a side on an issue that really isn't that big of a deal?<br />
<br />
I can see why though. Don't get me wrong -- after all, I'm taking the time to write about this, meaning that I feel passionately about it and it's bothering me. I'm sure that's where most of this stems from: our reactions to the actions and lives of others. And so what do I do? Go write a blog post about it. I'm being a hypocrite. I know it. I'm the first to say it, without fear or shame. I'm including myself in this, too. Just because I can use a computer doesn't make me the sole authority on this, or anything. I'm as imperfect as anyone else.<br />
<br />
But seriously. Think about it. If we're constantly judging the lives and values of other people, what does that make us? Obviously, judgemental. Shallow. Prideful, even. Let's all just calm the heck down and remember that there are a lot of other things in life to worry about. Even better, there are a lot of other things in life to find <i>joy</i> in. So let's stop with the shaming, the belittling, the rejection, and the judgement. We need to change the way we react to things.<br />
<br />
How, you ask? Well. For starters, ask if whatever it is actually matters. If it does, think before acting on the initial feeling. Basically, as I see it, it's simple. It's about <i>real</i> life -- what we have here and now, today and maybe tomorrow. It's bridling that emotional response and asking, will this matter in five minutes? In five months? In five years? <i>Should</i> I be caring about this? Or is this just distracting me from what's really important?<br />
<br />
Let's just focus on what we have right now: this day, this moment, in which <i>we</i> -- not that person on your newsfeed or Twitter page -- are living.Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7518205666741301385.post-78615287404436615102014-03-27T19:53:00.003-06:002014-03-27T19:53:57.486-06:00show me the money...<div style="text-align: center;">
Well...since I don't really have any money, I can't. But I can show you these.</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydPW-HWtmN3ZEBDsM95MQZ1SUGCtJjbbZwfoHwq65NMRFm6myBBgbv9CPWShMqYrb_mqWBQumau1MD_4DjfwzcXagIz85cjr7nGYIr2D8OOWkmPq6v7hde51WVSr_MZznPo_I087x2ECm/s1600/DSCF0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiydPW-HWtmN3ZEBDsM95MQZ1SUGCtJjbbZwfoHwq65NMRFm6myBBgbv9CPWShMqYrb_mqWBQumau1MD_4DjfwzcXagIz85cjr7nGYIr2D8OOWkmPq6v7hde51WVSr_MZznPo_I087x2ECm/s1600/DSCF0261.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Pre-release showing, baby. Cannot wait.</span> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Sarah Annehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11525949118660493801noreply@blogger.com0