from freshman year to senior year...

Over the past four years, my writing has grown immeasurably. While I do like the pieces I wrote freshman year, they lack the fluidity of my pieces in senior year. From freshman year to senior year I have not only learned about good descriptions, but I have learned how to piece thoughts together in a manner that makes sense and works with the rest of the piece. I have also learned how to tell a story well and how to engage the reader. I have gone from a student with good thoughts and interesting, but obvious descriptions, to a writer who can take my thoughts and put them artistically onto paper in a way that not only makes sense to me, but to others as well. For the longest time I was very frustrated because I had difficulty correctly forming my thoughts into sentences the way I imagined they would be. This year I feel that I had a breakthrough with that; I finally felt like I could directly translate my ideas onto paper exactly how I wanted to. The following four pieces are examples from my writing during high school in descending order. 

The Grand

It ended the same way it began, with ten switchbacks snaking up the face of the Grant Teton—ten switchbacks through the woods and over loose rocks, ten switchbacks at dawn. For ten switchbacks and five hours I hauled my thirty-pound pack and watched my feet as they churned along the path. At some point over the course of the 48-hour trek I had become a machine. My mind was submerged in a murky pool; the only thoughts that breached the surface were the simple cues issued to my legs—left foot, right foot, left foot, watch out for the rock….

Utterly depleted, my body struggling to obey the most rudimentary instructions, my mind was anywhere but in the moment. I salivated at the prospect of dipping my feet in the glacier-fed creek at the base of the mountain and finally quieting my screaming toes. Each step gets you closer to home was the mantra my brother and I chanted. However, with each blister-tearing step, my consciousness slowly resurfaced. As we climbed further down the mountain, I tasted the fresh air, and my eyes noticed the world around me. A smile snuck its way through my pursed lips as I reflected on my two-day odyssey.  I was not the same person who reluctantly trudged up these switchbacks a few days ago, and inwardly I searched for when, exactly, the “New Betsy” emerged, leaving the old one somewhere on the 13,770 foot mountain.

I thought of slipping on a handhold on a sheer rock face, only to be saved by my father’s diligent spotting.  We were each responsible for belaying each other—holding  my mother’s, father’s, brother’s, uncle’s, and cousin’s life in my hands had invigorated me. Connected by a thin rope, we relied on each other to get through our physical and mental trials. The two coils of rope that crisscrossed my chest like bandoliers had held us together in the literal sense but had further strengthened our relationships; they symbolized our emotional bonds, which had been tested and hardened on our grueling adventure.

I reflected on how revitalizing it felt to attack the face of the mountain. Perhaps my transformation started when my feet first trudged through the deep snow. I could feel every muscle in my body churning as I planted my ice ax into the powder and lifted my body step-by-step up the mountain. Each time I raised my foot my boots felt heavier, my breath became thinner. Or maybe it was when I reached the Upper Saddle, and finally stood on the ridge, straddling Wyoming and Idaho with the monstrous Teton Range extending to my left and a series of long, flat-topped mountains streaked with snow on my right.

I think the real moment, though, was that night under the stars. I walked out of the tent at 4 AM, looked up, turned my headlamp off, and just stared—just stared at the diamonds which blanketed the sky, so close I swear I could’ve touched them. I felt that rush course through me, that “Christmas morning Santa Claus” kind of rush. It woke up my senses, my head, my heart. I felt it in my core. I felt it to the tips of my limbs.  Under those stars, I knew what my soul felt like when it was truly awake. While I savored and internalized my very own Starry Night, a fiery burst splashed across the canvas and vanished in an instant. I stood awe-struck, and in that moment there was nothing more I could ever want.

The shooting star re-introduced me to hope; it reminded me how to dream and why I ever used to; it made me feel magic—a magic that impending adulthood was slowly sucking out of me. This star shot life directly into my soul and dissolved anything that had ever attempted to bring me down.

And now, back on the same switchbacks that I had traversed days (or was it years?) ago, my vision expanded, I swallowed whole the world around me as I made my way down the last stretch of mountain. I drank the sweet mountain air, and bathed in the cool winds—I was reborn.

Bliss

Driving to our destination

The car’s deflated tires contour the hilly sand

Stretching ahead of us lays the skinny peninsula

My window rolls down

Air gently sweeps in soft and warm

Like a silk blanket in the wind

My beach-blown wisps come loose

Tickling my cheeks

The car stops

I taste the salt in the air

With both eyes closed

I breathe in deeply

Lifting my face towards the sky

I give in to nature

Letting the serenity sink in through my pores

And run wildly through my veins

Awakening my soul to simple beauty

I slip off my shoes

And feel the cool, fine sand between my toes

I look left

Into the vastness of the ocean

Its waves reach out to me

With each crash of the water

It gets closer and closer

Sucking me in

I look right, towards the dunes

The long grasses mimic the sea

Rippling as the clean are runs through

Ahead of me sits a tall, withered lighthouse

The light reflects in my eyes

I stand still in awe and wonder

Perhaps a sailor looks to this safety beam right now

Towards this symbol of home

This reassuring reminder of life

For each of us it holds different comforts

Yet we are not so different

This sailor and me

Both of us look to this symbol for survival

Could I endure as I am without a refuge such as this?

From the moment we deflate the tires

Structure is forgotten

And we blend in with the flowing beach

The way the waves crash

The way the wind blows

The new shells which appear everyday

And the beauties which stay to be found

The sun starts resting

Sinking from the sky

A magnificent exit

Colors now fill the spaces where the sun once sat

An emulation of my feelings at this moment

No place would I rather be

Than where I stand

A Little Heaven On Earth

A little Heaven on Earth

Soft and pure white

Like an angel’s wings

Twisted in flight

 

A sea of green hearts

Sprout upward from below

Reflecting their light and love

Onto the beauty above

 

Their long stem necks

Each reaching higher than the next

As their petals delicately spread

Into the sparkling, golden glow

 

A few lone droplets begin to fall

Tiny balls of glitter

Wrap themselves around each thirsty heart

Soaking into each lovely part

 

In only a few seasons

Are we blessed with the sight

To see these angels

Stopped mid flight

 

One by one these holy beauties begin to weep

Bowing their heads

Out of the blasting heat

And by the swirling winds, are again set free

Whisker Hugs

I was at my friend’s house the night it happened. It was a typical Friday night for your average eight year old. My friend, Casey, and I had turned her somewhat plain, messy playroom into a fortress fit for a queen. Our mini couches, barely staying up on their sides, were towering brick walls. I was no longer in my “hipster” baggy patched jeans, Nike Airs, and a flower printed tee shirt. Instead, I wore a glowing, beautiful Cinderella dress. The two new queens, Casey and I, took a stroll around the fort when… BAM! I jumped on top of our castle and our massive fort was now nothing more than assorted clumps of pillows and couches and that’s how I had liked it. Would my brothers really approve of that Cinderella nonsense? I thought not.

The seeds of a pillow fight developed, when suddenly the doorbell rang and my name was called; Dad had come to get me. My heart sunk. My fingers that had been squeezing the air from the pillow seemed to loosen their grip; all the youthful strength left my hands. Checking the clock I saw I still had another hour or so. What the heck was my dad doing here so early?

“Betsy!” my name was called for a second time. Exchanging a sorrowful glance with my friend I slowly turned around and headed down the stairs. My feet thumping, thumping, thumping, harder and harder each step I took. Seeing my Dad in the kitchen, I had to bite my tongue. I said thank you to the mother and pointedly walked straight past Dad without any acknowledgement.

Reluctantly, I got into the car and did my very best to be completely unpleasant for my Dad. The car turned into a dungeon. I was the prisoner and my Dad the heartless gatekeeper. Through all my pouts and angry stares, Dad’s face remained focused on the road. It felt as if he didn’t even notice my presence. I hadn’t seen this side of him up until then. My dad isn’t like the other dads, I thought to myself. My dad is always gone- he works in Los Angeles. He came home every weekend and sometimes during the week. Without fail he always had so many questions and was so upbeat- I loved that. Half of me wanted him to ask more questions right then, but the other half kept up my brutal, cruel face, secretly wanting to give him a great big hug; I hated it when Dad looked sad.

Eventually we made it home. Our five-minute drive had felt like fifty. So irritated by what had happened, I stumbled out of the car, and shot to the door, which was opened and closed in what seemed to be the same motion. Skipping every other, I ran up the stairs, my arms pumping hard. Back and forth, back and forth, they went. As I got closer and closer to my parents’ room I got more and more fired up. “Wait ‘til Mom hears about this,” I said to myself. I couldn’t wait to let out my pent up anger.

I walked up to the door thinking only of me and the instant I opened it my heart and mind were receptive to other people’s thoughts and feelings. I ripped open the door to voice my opinion in loud tones only to jerk to a stop; all the things I wanted so badly to convey to my mom had been erased from my mind and I completely lost my ability to speak. I tore the door open but stopped before I entered their room. I just stood at the doorway and let my eyes wander around the room. Not only was my mom in her room, but so was one of my brothers. They were both on the bed, pouring out a sea of tears. I made a feeble attempt to say something but when I opened my mouth nothing came out. Thoughts were ricocheting around my brain as if my mind was nothing but bouncing balls, none of which I could interpret.  Looking for some explanation, I turned around to find my dad standing behind me. Although I had walked up to the door hating my dad, when I opened it, I ironically realized he was the only one I could look to for support. His face stone cold, but his eyes empty, sad, sorry. I watched as a single tear slowly descended from one of his red, watering eyes. I was terrified. What was going on and why wasn’t anyone telling me? Compulsively, my lower lip started to quiver and almost instantly my eyes were spurting fountains of tears. My hand still clenching the doorknob, my body started to shake.

My mom motioned me toward her, she acted as if someone had ripped out her heart and sewn her back together; her words barely managing to come out; I felt so confused; the two people who gave me the most support and safety in my life were complete basket cases; I didn’t know how to be strong when for the first time in my life, they couldn’t be my strength, and told me the two single words that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Gramp died.

In my head I knew what this meant, but I couldn’t wrap my heart around it, so to speak. I had learned about death, or rather knew the definition but I had never experienced it up close. On some level I understood that death was forever, but at that moment, in my mind, I just knew that Grampy wasn’t going to be gone forever. It was impossible. I clung to the idea that I would somehow see him next time we visited… of course.

My family and I, along with other immediate family of my mom’s and some close friends went up to New Hampshire for my Gramp’s funeral. We arrived at their house and I walked excitedly up the stairs, across the porch, and waited anxiously by the front door, ready to receive my whisker hug. My Gramp gave the best hugs. When he would pick me up I felt like I was the only person in the whole world that he was thinking about or loving for at least that moment.

My Gramma opened the door. Where was Gramp?

And that’s when it hit me. That was the moment when I really truly understood what had happened; Gramp was gone and he wasn’t coming back. For the longest time I struggled with the fact that my Gramp died, but this was the first time I really felt the ache in my heart. I would never again get a whisker hug. We wouldn’t go sledding or work in his workshop together ever again.

I closed my eyes hard shut like they were doors slamming and I locked them with a key and then retrieved his memory. I studied every wrinkle on his face, every fold of his sweater, every pitch in his voice, the way he paused in the middle of his sentences, the manner in which he said my name, and the way he hugged. I meticulously looked over in my mind the way he would wait beside the door, the way I would run up and jump into his arms and how he would pick me up off my feet, squeeze me tightly, kiss me on the cheek, and rub his gray, rough, six o’clock shadow against my plump, young cheek. How I would squirm in his arms as he finished nudging my cheek with his whiskers. I studied the way I felt love, warmth, safety, and happiness as he held me close in his arms and held that feeling in my mind for as long as I could to ensure that it would never fade in my memory.