Blogs and Winter

So I have to say I'm not really getting into this blogging stuff. I mean some people are writing blogs for fun and finding pictures that further their meaning. I wonder if blogging is one of those things that the more you write the more you are addicted to writing blogs you become. Maybe I just haven't been infected with blogging-itis yet. OK, I'll try writing about something I do like. I like snow. The warmth of my body spreads to my clothing while I sled. Finding a target, running sloppily toward my victim, I enjoy tackling my friends in the floury snow. I love snowboarding even more than sledding, keeping my balance, racing sledders, dodging young kids and aiming for bigger ones. I love wearing fat boots that claim they are water proof but in actuality are designed for allowing friends to shove fists of snow by my shivering toes. After a day of successful foolery, leaning towards a chattering fire so it can envelop my face with smoldering kisses, I steal my father's fluffy wool socks and hid the crime beneath the disguise of frayed slippers. I love the season. I guess these blogs can be a little fun if you enjoy what your writing about.

Description, Discription, Description

So I wrote this over the week for a class. It's just a portion of the paper.

 Various trees bow to make a dome over me and frame the single spot of visible sky: a train of clouds with white steam puffing from the engine and a gliding hawk for the conductor. Agitating the glittering elm above me, a frisky breeze sets the tree aquiver, spooks the drowsy leaves, and jostles the arthritic branches. The scent of a peculiar lichen that grows on broken rocks cruises aimlessly on the whims of this playful wind. I close my eyes and let the garden shock my senses.

A blue jay sings to his mate; his twittering fills the air with a pleasant melody. Sailing by my ear, a lone bee hums a tune in harmony with the buzzing of his wings. He moves from clover to clover with a steadiness in his work; he seems aware of only the sweet nectar he is extracting and the notes to his song.  Hopping on my arm, two crickets gossip in soft chirps. Eyes flickering open, I feel a ladybug waltzing across the smooth white floor of my forehead; my skin tingles with her gentle dancing. Rising from my peaceful meditation, I continue my stroll along the snaking path.

Whoa, This is Big.

I'm an aunt. Just as the last of the sun's fingertips were disappearing beneath the overwhelming darkness, my father walked up to my mother and I while practicing volleyball. A strange look twisted his face. Talking to my mother he says,
"So, how do you feel about being a grandmother."
Initially the words are incomprehensible. Then quickly my mother and I, simultaneous, understand the foreign words. Shocked, I look at my father with a truely silly grin and ask,
"Jingwan is pregnant."
My father nods. Vito, my oldest brother, a month ago married Jingwan, a former college mate. In our front yard the wedding was intensely hot and beautiful. My mother planted blooming flowers around the aisle and the wedding arc. After a few days, the couple spent a two week honeymoon in Tuscany, Italy. Having returned to their home in Baltimore, Vito called my dad with the shaking news. The first thought that flashed through my head is I'm a sixteen-year-old aunt. My shock and uncertainty about this news was little compared to my brothers and Jingwans questions. I punched the volleyball through the air for a couple more minutes but didn't notice when the ball skewed. I'm a sixteen-year-old aunt. Within minutes I decide I'm going to be the cool aunt.

A Thousand Questions With One Answer.

I stared a head,
Eyes held, I forgot.
Then the splash,
It stirs, it distorts:
Disorder.
Clear then obscure
A funeral, a celebration,
cry or laugh,
both are choked.
I cling now,
Should I push on.
Hesitation.
They mean so much.
Go to far and can't return.
I want to stay,
Terrified to lose.
Confusion.
What matters, what will I regret.
I search her eyes,
Her decision in her tears,
To close to ever release.
Are we the same.
Will I shine dim,
Or the dark my life.
Are the two, one.
They mean so much.
Holding, submurging,
I freeze but it does not.
Are they my search,
I wont let go, but do I wait.
He will be alone,
Do I stay for him,
Or more for myself.
The other is near,
Resolved: locked.
So easy, so tempting but is it fear.
Uncertainty.
They mean so much.