To you:

We live in an era that applauds the big stuff. We celebrate the ones who win, who are the best, who do the most. And we celebrate each other on milestones like graduating, or getting married, or having babies. But life is the thing that is lived in the spaces between the Kodak moments, and excellence really just looks like doing the unseen stuff well. It takes strength to be faithful in the little things.

So good on you, today, my friend.

Good on you for consistently making your bed in the morning.
Good on you for buying celery last time you went grocery shopping.
Good on you for returning your mother's calls.
Good on you for taking a cup of tea to your husband.
Good on you for singing when you want to complain.
Good on you for smiling at the bank teller.
Good on you for dealing with constant sleep deprivation because you are working two jobs in order to pay your rent.
Good on you for crying with that friend.
Good on you for respecting your boss.
Good on you for walking into a new church alone.
Good on you for quietly writing that story in your spare moments.
Good on you for getting up at 5 to spend time with God.
Good on you for doing a lame job well.
Good on you for playing checkers with your little brother when you really just want to veg in front of the tv.
Good on you for tithing off the small amount that you earn.
Good on you for dropping everything to babysit your niece and nephew.
Good on you for going to that party because, even though you hate parties, you love the person the party was for.
Good on you for walking your dog when you feel absolutely wiped out.
Good on you for sending encouraging text messages.
Good on you for being thankful.
Good on you for loving that person when they are being unlovable.
Good on you for being a listener.
Good on you for not betraying confidences.
Good on you for teaching yourself to cook.
Good on you for returning the change you were overpaid.

'If you are faithful in little things, you will be faithful in large ones.' Good on you.

9/100 (a birthday letter to sylvia plath)

Dear Sylvia,

It's your birthday today. You would've been eighty-one years old, but of course you're not. You're forever frozen in your youthful zeal and passion and confusion, and I suspect that's how you wanted it. But because it's your birthday, I'm forced to confront my bewildered feelings about you.

One part of me admires you. There is no doubt (and I mean there is no doubt; take the cliche away from it and consider what that actually means) that you were gifted beyond belief. You were a woman who knew how to feel, how to string words together in such powerful configurations that they reach in and squeeze the heart of the reader.

But another part of me is a little afraid of you. There is something dangerous about you, for you carry (carried?) with you a kind of infectious, desperate romanticism. You walked the tiny red line that on one side fell to wanting everything and on the other side fell to wanting nothing at all. You took your own life and, after reading some of your thoughts (I am reluctant to dive too deeply into your world) I can't decide if you felt death would be just another great adventure, or whether it was something darker, more irreparable. There is nothing romantic about suicide; it is heart-breaking and lonely and grievous, and it is forever.

You said, once, that your realest self was the poetry self, that it was the truest you. Conversely, your self which fell in love and had babies and made a home and was outwardly happy -- at least in moments stalled in time -- was your false self. Your nice self was your false self, you said. I wonder if that's true or whether, rather, both selves were equally you and the writing self, the not-nice self, was the insistent one, the intense one, the one with the emotions that felt the deepest, the self that you thought must be obeyed.

History is still undecided about you, Sylvia. Some paint you as a victim. Others point to Ted and the children left behind, the sad legacy played out in Nicholas's life, and paint you as the criminal. It is none of our business either way. Your story is history now and it is not absolutely necessary for us to decide what was right or wrong. But by your own urgent, desperate life and your own urgent, desperate death, you force us all to look at you and take sides, to consider something that has no bearing on our lives and yet feels weighty.

Sylvia, we are confronted by who you are. We are confronted by you. And although there was deep sorrow amongst your deep joy, I have a feeling this would make you smile. You've been gone fifty years, Sylvia, but you're still intriguing people.

Happy birthday, Sylvia Plath.

Danielle

[image source]

Project 52: forty-four and forty-five

Two of my most favourite people in the world --
my Mum and my wee youngest niece, both blue-eyed blondies.

* * * * *

A postcript: I've kind of dropped into unintentional hibernation as the end-of-semester tidal wave approaches (not just end-of-semester, but end of degree (yay!)). I had optimistic visions of myself sprinting gleefully to the finish line*, but 2012 has been a crazy whirlwind** (in the best possible way), and it feels more like I'm limping to the end instead. Regardless, it's been a good journey***, and I'm both sad and happy to see it concluded. Roll on postgrad studies (please, Jesus?)!

Anyway, just letting you know I might be a bit more absent than usual over the next few weeks. Also, thank you for your continued excellence in being the best real life and bloggy friends a girl could ask for. The last few weeks have been sprinkled with lovely acts of grace from people who probably don't realise just how giving they are. Getting a beautiful handwritten letter in the mail from someone across-the-sea (when I have been an incredibly poor correspondent) is just one example of grace upon grace. This, like other grace-gifts, points me back to the bigger picture of amazing grace. 

And so I've been thinking a bit about how grace, even the grace of a friend's unexpected letter, takes the bad news about me -- my inadequacies, my failings, my lack of -- and replaces it with another's good. Grace says, 'Whatever your failing may be, it doesn't matter anymore. I will give regardless.' Grace is the anyway, and that's a very beautiful thing.

So thanks, friends known and friends unknown, for your graces in my life, graces made evident through your reading, your comments, your shared creativity, your time, your words, and your warmth. You are a pretty fantastic bunch.

* the metaphor suddenly switched from the ocean to a marathon. Because that makes sense.

** and now we're couching it in terms of the weather.

*** and now it's a trip?

* * * * *

Conversations:

Thank you, brilliant friends, for your excellent questions for my About page. Can't wait to dive in! You're all so cool and creative. xx

Andrea -- you're welcome. NOW POST AGAIN ALREADY.

Abbie -- I'm loving that the 'girls' are all blogging, too. I keep dreaming of a family blog project, but so far no brilliant ideas :).

Caitlin -- books are just a necessary part of growing up, hey? xx

Katie -- your "when" rather than "if" in your published author question brightened me considerably :D.

Carla and Alastair -- we practically are related, aren't we? I mean, it feels like we are! Ooh, that would be so fun to write your "about" page! I'll email you about it after a few weeks, when school is done. Warning: it may turn out rather silly indeed.

livingintheshadowlands -- you're precious. Thank you.

harriet coombe -- I miss you, too! I was just reminiscing about your wedding, the other day. So beautiful...

Lauren -- haha!! Andrew Peterson's mum and dad, I guess :D PS. No, that effect was done with an app. Totally cheated.

HCH -- I love that you could relate to this.

Sarah -- rather like you girls -- a family of blogging ladies! By the way, I've really enjoyed keeping up with you girls (at least in my own meagre way) online.

Bloss -- you write the best blog comments. And of course I'll use your questions; they were awesome! Ugh, like you, I couldn't believe that someone would respond so negatively to the ad that Pete Peterson wrote. I'm discovering that some people really get joy out of raining on others' creative parades. It's such a shame! Love to you, lovely lady. xx

A Sunday afternoon letter:

Dear you,

It's a grey, blustery, dark Sunday afternoon -- the kind of day you resent on a Monday or Tuesday because it makes you want to curl up with cocoa and a book or a black-and-white movie and, instead, you must work. But for a Sunday, it's perfect. I put Ingrid Michaelson's Everybody on repeat to keep me company while I tackled the dishes left over from a happy day of long lost friend catching-up yesterday. Afterwards, I pulled out paper and pens and my vast pile of unanswered mail and started writing some letters. It was quite delicious, a happy luxury that reminded me of being seventeen and answering mail all the time, promptly and fatly -- because we all know fat letters are the best kind. And because I was in the letter-writing mood, and because my blog has been fairly wordless lately, I decided to write a letter to you all here, even though I probably owe paper letters to half of you as well. Never mind. One can never have too many letters, surely.

Today has been like a big round pause button freezing the frame in the middle of an otherwise hectic month. It is mostly the best kind of hecticness -- good tasks to complete, good roles to fill, good people to spend time with -- but I haven't been this tired and run down for a long time, proving that even the good busyness can take it out of a person. This morning I decidedly did not want to go to church. I wanted a sleep-in instead, and to completely shake the headache that's been dogging me since last night. But I went because I couldn't get that little verse out of my mind, the 'do not forsake gathering together' bit. Of course it was good and I was happy I went. One of the songs we sang this morning was Trevor Hodge's No Other Name. The chorus has been playing over and over in my head since:

My joy in sorrow’s tears
My strength to cast out fears
No other name but Jesus, Jesus
My hope in darkest night
My broken soul’s delight
No other name but Jesus, Jesus

So rich and so good.

I'm sure I've made reference here and at livejournal -- at least in passing -- to the near-churchlessness of 2011, and the associated agonies of hunting for a church home. Church hunting is a unique and awful pain, known deeply to those who have endured it, and never forgotten. I'll shelve my ramblings on that subject, though, and instead say how restful it is to have moved beyond that stage and actually be settling into a church, one that believes the gospel, preaches it, and knows how to love people. It's a very cool thing.

I'm still meeting for Bible study with a group of guys and girls who were also mostly wandering in a churchless wasteland last year (side note: what is this disconnect that twentysomethings are feeling in relation to church these days?). I really respect this little group of people and, though I'd consider us newer friends, we're friends nevertheless. This semester we're digging through John Piper's Don't Waste Your Life together and, though we're only two weeks in, already it's conviction city. And I mean that in a good way.

This week looks set to be a big one. There's another book review to finish for YLCF's March of Books, mountains of homework for uni (including an essay due three weeks earlier than I was at first informed, eep!), and then a bunch of very fun stuff: catch-ups with beloved and faraway friends and family, and the 12.01am opening night screening of The Hunger Games. To say I'm excited about seeing this film is a ridiculous understatement, since the books prompted such an emotional investment and are still my favourite take on YA dystopia. I truly hope the movie does them justice (I believe it will) and I'm also just a little bit giddy at the thought of seeing it before my northern hemispherean friends. Normally we get everything just a little bit later than you northerners. Not so this time!

I'll close here because this is bordering on too long by blogland standards. I'll leave you with three pictures from a morning beach photo-walk with Anastasia on Tuesday. Sand is really quite cool.

Happy Sunday evening, friends. Be cosy!

Danielle

* * * * *

Conversations:

Laura Elizabeth -- Kat made a very cool Daria indeed! Her only flaw was not being gloomy enough. She's too naturally happy! Your description of your little-girl reading habits made me visualise you as the subject of a cute painting by an artist (from the fifties, I think) who painted the most beautiful pictures. Of course I am totally blanking on her name but I cannot rest until I work out who it is -- and link to her art, of course!

Jess Axelby -- how funny if we did double up again! Just a case of great minds thinking alike, hey? ;)

Brenda -- I always wish away my seasons of wordlessness, but I'm sure they're just part of the natural ebb and flow of thinking and writing.

Un -- you're not the only one who thought it looked like the secret garden :)

Hannah -- yes! It truly is a gorgeous spot.

Natasha -- it's lovely to be able to have a place like this, a little bit solitary and a lot sunny -- even though I'm right in the midst of suburbia.

Katie -- spoken like a true reader!

Staish -- I only wish I got some clear photos of when you were actually receiving your award. You're just a blur with blue shoes!

MME -- children's books! Aren't they the best?

Sarah -- I honestly feel like the 90s weren't long enough ago to immortalise in dress-ups, but apparently they are!

Chantel -- pin away, by all means. I'm honoured :)

Gretchen -- it truly is a lovely spot.