Non-Epiphany

I’ve come to an epiphany having approached it over a few years, thus making it not really an epiphany at all. This strange non-epiphany is that I am a writer. I need to write. Writing is the only way that I have found myself to be able to create. To create is a fundamental human need, perhaps stemming from the image of God, and the perceived lack of any ability to do so has been one of my life’s greatest frustrations, sometimes leaving me forlorn. I don’t know how I came to possess the ability to write reasonably well, but it is all that I have. I know that it may seem cliché, but like a painter uses pre-made paints and canvas to quell the urge inside of them to bring an imperfect creation into an equally imperfect world, I too must use words that for the most part I did not create to bring into this world something imperfect and unique to me.

What if I have no words in mind to say? No subject to expound upon? I think that this is where I must change. Whereas before I may have given in and fallen into that aforementioned state of forlornness, now I must write anyway. For to be a writer, I must write by nature; the goal not to be prolific, but rather to assuage the creative itch.

God, please bless me.

Get Well Soon: past greeting cards.

As I help my family prepare to move, I've been digging through many old things that date to my time fighting leukemia. Among these things are primarily heartrending hospital pictures, pictures from my trip to Disney World, and pictures of my life before the age 5 diagnosis; but also, there are many "Get Well Soon" cards

It's really odd looking at them now. They are mostly from strangers who took the time to wish me well, though a few came from my third grade class (those are real treasures!). Mostly they come with the stock message and small blurb of encouragement followed by a signature, but some are personalized. These ones are truly the ones that I will cherish most (though I will be keeping all of them). It's funny to think that, when I was too young to understand their message, I would just open the cards to see if there was money inside. But now, I am reading these people's attempts at encouragement to a dying child, and it is really something awesome, in the original sense of the word. Like this postcard from Judy Hartman of Antioch, California written to me in June of 2001 (I was eight, and still fighting):

You are so special, The Lord is trusting you with so much responsibility at your age. While we are on Earth, preparing to be with the Lord, it takes some of us a lot of years to be ready and some are ready sooner. The Important thing is how we touch others for the Lord - I'm sure he has and will use you to bless others while you are here - you are a blessing! You are so loved!

I want to find the person who wrote each and every card. I want to thank them so much. I want to let them know that I'm doing well (perspectively). I want to find Judy. I want to know if she still lives in Antioch; if the return address on the postcard would still work. I want to tell her that I believe her words; that I am trying to use my life to bless others, just like she said.

Thank you Judy. Thank you so much for your postcard.

Oh, that's why!

Our house is being taken and sold in January, regardless of our living situation. We have one month to figure out how to not be homeless, and the likelihood of the entire family sticking together in one place is really, really small. My father decided, rightfully, that the church that wanted him would be like all the rest that had troubled him in the past. I told him that moving there would be, living a tortured life just because you know you were living in a house. He will probably still do it, even though he will be away for five days(an improvement over the three weeks now) and working all weekend on church stuff. I think it's impossible. I think it will kill him (we have a family history on my father's side of people dropping dead while working). But he will still do it, most likely, because it is a house.

One month.

I wish I was living on a campus, one specifically. That was nice, living somewhere that you were pretty sure you could stay. I got to live somewhere that I loved for eight or so months, surrounded by people I came to love, learning stuff that I loved.

That was really nice

But the chances of going back there are nonexistent. I guess things could be worse, I could be homeless now, and I don't actually believe I ever will be. It is just very odd to be this close to it.

That is why I am not entirely joyful these days

And to be honest, I actually feel a little bit better now that I know why.

Profanity in Life and Literature

"Only pastors are allowed to swear," my father told me after I asked him about curse words when I was seven, which was convenient considering that he was an associate minister at the time. It makes for a humorous anecdote now, but that became my very first conception of the morality of profanity. My views have understandably expanded since then; I now sort profanity into two categories: cursing in life, and cursing in literature.

I (usually) swear infrequently. Because I attempt to present myself (keyword: attempt)as a clean-mouthed individual to most people, I can use vulgarity for the purpose that I believe that it holds: shock and awe. Curses are funny things; Once normal words, at some point they were given incredibly negative connotations by the society that uses the language. Connotations are powerful and negative ones have their place, but connotations suffer from diminishing returns. If I decide that a situation calls for it (which is rare), I need only use a single word, and any of whom hold the view that I never swear tend to go silent and slack-jawed. Compare this to your common foul-mouthed lout or lass whose curses hold little to no meaning. I also try (though unfortunately not as much recently) to refrain from profanity when I am alone so that I don't develop a habit which can eventually ruin everything if I accidentally let a curse slip, which has happened multiple times, and therefore shattering my company's perception.

When it comes to writing, I believe one should swear less than what is normal for them. With much of the reasoning being the same, the difference being time. When one is writing and the urge to use vulgarity arises, they have time to turn that emotion into a brilliant piece of wordplay instead of using the shortcut that is swearing.

Now it's time for exceptions! In life, there are two exceptions that I can think of. First, there are some people around who I would never swear, such as children or grandparents (parents? yeah.. well we try, right?). Secondly, never- with no exception to this exception- is it ever alright to use God's name in vain. As for writing, there are also exceptions. Such as emotion filled personal writings, and in fiction. Both are rather self explanatory, I think. Finally, there are those strange, inexplicable, atypical, unconventional, rare-synonymic situations where a single use of profanity just sort of works.