The Chronicles of Janie

Yes, I knew it is a classic. Yes, I knew that I, being a homeschooled book worm, owed it to my reputation to read it from cover to cover and express undying admiration for it. But I just couldn't. Anna Karenina had me defeated. The book's immense breadth made me quail a little when I first picked it up. It looked more like a weapon than a pleasurable pass time. However, I bravely decided that I would read it. And furthermore, I would enjoy it. If nothing else, it would expand and enrich my brain. So, undaunted by the jaw-breaking Russian names, I started reading. I read, and I read, and I read, and read some more before I finally realized that I wasn't even half way through yet, and that I frankly didn't care what happened to Anna, Vronsky, Dolly, Alexei, and the rest. Whether they lived, died, or went insane, it was all the same to me. So I admitted defeat and relegated Anna and her fate   back to the bookshelf. And there the book sat for upwards of two years...

Following is the extended version of what I jotted on the back of an envelope during church. God is the Father of creativity. He created Earth and everything in and around it. He rarely does things the same way twice. On the other hand, Satan is the father of un-creativity. He uses the same tactics over and over and over again. What a good thing this is for us! With spiritual discernment, we can look back through the pages of history and discover how Satan works. Once we our know what our enemy is going to do before he does it, the advantage is all on our side. It seems that many people are unwilling to admit that 'our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.' (Eph. 6:12). We must realize that, whether we like it or not, the battle is spiritual . We are dealing with forces far beyond our control. We must not try to make...

I missed the sunset tonight. I know that isn't a very big deal in most people's grand scheme of things, but, when you really stop to think about it, it is a big deal. God, in His amazing creativity, makes each sunset just a little bit different. That means I will never see this particular sunset ever, ever again. Sad. Very, very sad. I have heard the worn out adages about 'living each day like it was your last'. Sayings like this usually call forth a mental eye-roll and and a 'whatever' from me. Just a word of advice: If you want someone to pay attention to a saying, the last thing you should do is post it all over Facebook, car bumpers, and whatever else comes to mind. But for some reason (returning to the point), missing the sunset tonight really made me think about how I would live if I knew that I would die tomorrow, or even in a week's or month's time. After all, I'm not guaranteed a tomorrow. I started thinking about all the things I would d...

One of the most beautiful, true, and inspiring poems I have read in a long time. Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? Then for God’s sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert’s little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o'er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and...

Do big wind-and-pelting-rain-and-thunder-and-lightning storms make anyone else feel energized and reckless? They always fill me with the urge to do things that would never seriously enter my head at any other time. I have always secretly envied the animals when it comes to storms. Horses can run in the rain, kicking up their heels and making complete fools of themselves, and people excuse them with 'oh, they're just excited about the storm.' Now if I were to declare my intentions of running in the rain, kicking up my heels and making a complete fool of myself , one of two things would happen: 1) I would kick up my heels, lose my balance in the wet grass, and land smack on my backside or head. 2) My dear mother would say something like, "Why do you want to go out in the rain? You'll get wet." Actually, come to think of it, both of those things would happen, and have happened quite frequently. That is the reason why I usually sneak out and kick up my heels in...

Lament The hand of the bard has withered, The pen has been laid aside. The door to Faery is closing, And dreamer's dreams have died. Music has fallen silent, And magic is gone from our shores. Genius is wrapped in mourning As she paces the corridors. Paces the hallways of legend, Where man, in inspired prime, Wrought at the gossamer webbings Of story and song and rhyme. Grey is the rain on the tombstones, Mingling with my tears As I lament the passing Of more enlightened years. Heavy my heart within me, For the lovelier things have fled, Leaving me to a harsher world And a place amongst the dead. Copyright 2011 by  The Aspiring Bard Warning: I am preparing to clamber up onto my soapbox. If you don't like my soapbox speeches, turn back now. I was once Googling get-to-know-you questions, and came across this one: What is your favorite type of art? Why? I had to think about that one for awhile. I am a rather artsy individual. I like all types of art, a...

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From and eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist. A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bard sublime. Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ea...