Beloved

Once when I was 12 years old or so, my family went on a vacation in the beautiful San Juan Islands of the Pacific Northwest. The area we were looking into was rather upscale and expensive, but we found a miracle house priced significantly lower to rent than its neighbors. It was a done deal, and the house was even greater in person than online. When we got there, though, we discovered that it was situated directly across the street from a large military graveyard, explaining the discounted price.

The graveyard across the street added something to the stillness of the green forest behind the house, and amplified the glisten of the sun as it rose, shards of light filtering in through the East wall, made up of several clear, shiny windows. The house was breathtaking and quiet, but soon night came and my parents told me I was to sleep in the room downstairs. I got my things and headed down, groggy from the travels of the day, and as soon as I closed the door behind me I was filled with a sense of dread. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I could not sleep in the room that was whispering to me, especially not alone. Whatever relative peace I felt in the main part of the house had disappeared and been replaced with a strong sense of unease - some force in the air was pressing down on me and it was making me intensely uncomfortable.
I slept the entirety of the vacation on the couch in the den of the rental house, scared away by the room downstairs, but respecting it nonetheless.

This sense of an outside force with a purpose, that some places are alive with their stories, with their spirits, is what drives Toni Morrison's novel, Beloved. Her rich language drips and glimmers with sadness and pain, yet you can't help but read more. More than one passage evoked a sense of wonder in me, and to be honest just plain knocked my socks off. Beloved is full of spiritual connections, every bit as real and serious as the human characters Morrison portrays in this story of America just after the Civil War, as the protagonist wrestles with guilt, compulsion, and oppression. An extraordinary read, though very sad - but who ever said sad things couldn't also be beautiful?

This book is a winter lake with a layer of blue-white ice covering the top, laden with millions of tiny veins, indiscernable to the naked eye. You walk out onto the lake, willing, and then watch in awe as the ice top gives way and you fall into the water, like a dream. This book is like a dream. Read it.

Stay Yungry,
Shan

Drama Happens

Sometimes people just let you down, no matter how much you love them.

A thing happened to me the other day, a thing that I was not expecting from a good friend. She assures me that we'll still be really close, but I am feeling so abandoned right now that I don't know if we are ever going to have the same strength in our relationship as we have before.
I'm also angry to no end - how in the hell did she think it was okay or accceptable to do that to me? I don't think she thought of me in making that decision. She didn't know my history, and so she didn't know how much it would really hurt me, but the damage is done. Old wounds have been opened. Anyways, she did a selfish thing. I am mad and just generally dreading facing her in person tomorrow. One chapter of my life is over, and many tears have been shed for this realization.

I'm at my parents' house right now, and luckily have some of my only good high school friends in town to help me through this. They are so good to me, and I am ever thankful they took me under their wing.

The funny thing is that on Friday, before I had this bad news dumped on me, I was in a great mood. We're talking unstoppable, high point of the season, the sun is shining - happy. I saw on social media that a gorgeous owl had taken up residence in our library courtyard, and wanted to go see the owl. Owls are such majestic, powerful creatures, and I'd never seen one in the 'wild' before. So I went over the library and snapped a few pictures, but those red unblinking eyes chilled me more than I'd like to admit. I found myself terrified of this 12 inch bird.
Later when I told my friend about seeing the owl, she reminded me that in Native American tradition, seeing an owl in the day is a very bad omen. I thought nothing of it, but then submitted to have my heart crushed.

I can't help but think that owl was definitely a sign. I was too blind with a rare breed of happiness to see it for what it meant, but it was there. I was in such a great mood I actually thought nothing could bring me down, not even a creepy owl, but it is always dangerous to have that mindset about anything. You're almost guaranteed to have your life turned upside down.

All in all, I feel like I've been dumped right now. I've never been in a serious relationship, and therefore never been dumped, but I would imagine this is what it feels like. Eventually though, I hope I'll be able to trust my friend again and get over all of this bullshit.

Tomorrow I will get to see my church family, as it's Easter, and I am excited to see all of them.  It's always a comfort.

Stay Youngry,

Shan

Today Was Rough.

Today when I woke up, I just couldn't motivate myself to climb out of bed and face the day. The sun was shining, I heard birds chirping, but I was stuck in bed, powerless against my own self. Depression is a strange thing, and as many will tell you, very difficult to describe. It's like when someone wakes you up from a long, deep sleep, and you're partly awake but still in that sleepy mindset: your breathing still deep and heavy, your whole body just weighed down and sluggish from the hours of sleep before.

I can't remember what I was thinking about for hours this morning while I lay awake, staring at the textured dorm ceiling above my bed. I did not get out of bed until the afternoon, and even then I just ate a little food and checked twitter + facebook for a while. I am proud of myself for doing some of the things on my list for today, though, because usually when my depression takes over, I can't function normally and I just shut down. I don't feel a hell of a lot better, I have yet to wake up from this morning fully, and I've carried around my depression monster all day, hoping a little music or sunshine might scare him off. Nothing helped, but doing schoolwork did make me feel a little bit better about myself, as being productive usually does.

Depression is unpredictable, so who knows what this week has in store? My birthday, for one. (It's Monday! I'll be nineteen, finally) Also the final draft of a paper, a novel to read, and some translations, all of which are going to build up a lot of anxiety, BUT we have Friday classes off for Easter Holidays, so I am planning to go home on Thursday, something I am looking forward to! I get to see my dog! I get to eat real food and get away from here for a few days! I get to see my church family and give hugs!

Stay Youngry,
Shan

Hey Asshole, see the sun is shining but I am not smiling and I don't know why . . . I know I should be grateful, I know I'm good and able, but I don't have the strength to get up from the kitchen table. This kind of shot comes once - another opportunity of a lifetime just slipped away and that's the fifth this month.

George Watsky, Hey Asshole. 

On Writing and Ambition

And thus, I start a blog. I've been wanting to do with for some time now, because I want to get into writing. I really, really want to write. I want to write all hours of the day, in the rain, on a train, with a fox, in a box. Reading inspires me. I feel so deeply moved when I'm reading something powerful, and I want to learn to articulate these feelings to people around me, but more importantly, myself. There are times when I feel like I have so much stirring inside of me that needs to be expressed in some great, incredible way, like I have so much potential, like I have the ability to do anything I want, like I am standing on the ledge of a canyon, looking into the pool of life's mysteries, the soul-stuff of the world.

But I've never written anything before, so I have this conception that I don't know how. They're just words, how hard could it be? It's harder than it would seem, to get started. Most Great writers started writing when they were children, 10 or 12 years old. I don't have that kind of juvenile experience. I read books when I was that age, but for some reason never saw the need to try my own hand at writing. Sometimes I'll read a particular sentence or phrase and think, Wow! How do people come up with these things?, and I just feel like the author is some mystical force, explaining things to me with immense talent. I could never write something that true, you know? There's always doubt.

If I'm being honest, my future is a great big question mark right now. Undecided major, undecided career path. I've been leaning towards English as my major, but it's scary to me because I've already taken my American Lit requirements and don't want to have to suffer through dry, drab, English Lit, though our professors are mostly fantastic. My main ambition and goal in life is to one day live in New York City, and preferably in a part of town where I can walk home after dark and not get mugged.

So here's my first post. I'm about to cut it short because I really should be studying for an exam I have tomorrow (yikes) and haven't reviewed for, which is terrifying. I am shooting anxiety out of my pores right now, can barely focus on anything, and I'm shaking a little bit. Why must I be so stressed out all the time?
A question I don't have time to answer right now, but will certainly revisit later.

Stay Youngry (young + hungry), my friends.