I have no Dursleys to deal with. I do not live in a cupboard under the stairs. I have no prophecies that foretell doom in my future, and no evil dark wizards trying to kill me. (At least, none that I know of.) But for ten days in July and ten more in January, I feel like Harry Potter.
I have my own brand of magic within me, waiting to be mastered and tamed under the guidance of the professors at my school. It has always been there. I just don’t know how to use it. So, I hop aboard the Vermont College Express (better known as Shawn’s car) and take that magical trip north. The scenery changes and the air grows clear. I feel so wonderfully alive, all the way to my core.
I love school. The Vermont College of Fine Arts is as special to me as Hogwarts is to Harry. I mingle with students in all different houses (though we call them ‘semesters’). We hang out in our common rooms, and we all wait anxiously to be ‘sorted’ into our advisor groups. We eat in the dining hall, and sometimes magic even happens there. It’s not usually because of the food, though the NECI house elves try hard. (None of us would be surprised to find pumpkin juice and kidney pie on the menu.)
We learn Charms from Professor Larios, and Professor Darrow helps us with the mystical art of Divinations. We transfigure our rough drafts under the guidance of Marion Dane Bauer, who has been at VCFA longer than McGonagall’s been at Hogwarts. We learn Defense Against The Dark Arts from Cynthia Leitich Smith. (Or it that simply The Dark Arts? I’m so taken in with her fantasy worlds that I sometimes lose track.) And, if we’re very, very good, some times we even get the chance for a jaunt down to Hogsmeade—er, Montpelier.
I could go on and on, but I won’t. School is over, and summer vacation has begun. Unlike Harry, I don’t have months of freedom to do nothing but figure out how to save the wizarding world. I only have a few days before I will be home again. Then it will be time to weave some of my own spells—hopefully, I can transfigure a stack of blank pages into a critical thesis with my wand. If that doesn’t work, my keyboard will have to suffice. Unlike Harry, I will enjoy the small bit of time I have with my family.
Maybe there will even be time to read… Harry Potter, of course.
-PLB
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Days That Count
My days are numbered.
This is day #14,735 for me. On day #14,741, I'll be going to Vermont again. Yay! But I have a lot to accomplish before then.
Day #13640 was the worst day of my life. It was three years ago today, and my mom died. Today was hard to get through, because I can't stop thinking about Mom, yet I want to be looking ahead instead. The wallowing in grief won out over anything productive, but at least I am writing about it. Maybe it will be therapeutic... though my therapist wouldn't be happy to know she's been replaced with a blog. (You haven't, Doctor ... really!)
Thinking about what I "should" be doing or what I "could" be doing really just adds to my misery. Then I feel guilt on top of my grief which already sits upon me like a wet blanket. The guilt makes me feel like the dogs laid on that blanket and drooled all over it. It's worse than the grief itself.
I sit here and think, "I shouldn't be this way! It's so selfish of me to want to see Mom again, to wish she had lived, to wish she was still here." Selfish because I know she was suffering at the end... but what's so selfish about wanting my mother? As a mom, I want my kids to want me around. My mom would want to be around. Well, at least around my kids. She doted over every grandchild that she had. The best thing I did for my mom was contribute to her grandmotherhood! I have to console myself with knowing she is watching over them, taking care of them in her own way now.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm trying not to let my life tick away, day by day, without doing something meaningful. I know weeding my flowerbed isn't likely to win me a Nobel prize, but it means my neighbors don't have to cringe when they pass our house. It doesn't mean I have to write a Newbery winner each day. (Though, one day I would like to... any day!) There are a thousand little contributions that I can make to my family, friends and work that will make someone's day or make someone's life easier. If I don't wallow, if I don't sink myself in the pit of "What good am I?" or the abyss of "I can't do it", maybe those little things will add up. Wallowing isn't meaningful or productive. Still, days like today, #14,735, make that pit feel a little cozy. I could get used to being stuck down here.
Wait. Day #14,736 is right around the corner. Tick, tick, tick.
Today I'll wallow. I wrote this blog, so I was a little productive. Maybe I'll pack something. Mom would want me to. Heck, Mom would be packed and ready to go by this time. Ok, Mom, I'll pack. I can wallow productively, right?
Vermont, here I come.
-PLB
This is day #14,735 for me. On day #14,741, I'll be going to Vermont again. Yay! But I have a lot to accomplish before then.
Day #13640 was the worst day of my life. It was three years ago today, and my mom died. Today was hard to get through, because I can't stop thinking about Mom, yet I want to be looking ahead instead. The wallowing in grief won out over anything productive, but at least I am writing about it. Maybe it will be therapeutic... though my therapist wouldn't be happy to know she's been replaced with a blog. (You haven't, Doctor ... really!)
Thinking about what I "should" be doing or what I "could" be doing really just adds to my misery. Then I feel guilt on top of my grief which already sits upon me like a wet blanket. The guilt makes me feel like the dogs laid on that blanket and drooled all over it. It's worse than the grief itself.
I sit here and think, "I shouldn't be this way! It's so selfish of me to want to see Mom again, to wish she had lived, to wish she was still here." Selfish because I know she was suffering at the end... but what's so selfish about wanting my mother? As a mom, I want my kids to want me around. My mom would want to be around. Well, at least around my kids. She doted over every grandchild that she had. The best thing I did for my mom was contribute to her grandmotherhood! I have to console myself with knowing she is watching over them, taking care of them in her own way now.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I'm trying not to let my life tick away, day by day, without doing something meaningful. I know weeding my flowerbed isn't likely to win me a Nobel prize, but it means my neighbors don't have to cringe when they pass our house. It doesn't mean I have to write a Newbery winner each day. (Though, one day I would like to... any day!) There are a thousand little contributions that I can make to my family, friends and work that will make someone's day or make someone's life easier. If I don't wallow, if I don't sink myself in the pit of "What good am I?" or the abyss of "I can't do it", maybe those little things will add up. Wallowing isn't meaningful or productive. Still, days like today, #14,735, make that pit feel a little cozy. I could get used to being stuck down here.
Wait. Day #14,736 is right around the corner. Tick, tick, tick.
Today I'll wallow. I wrote this blog, so I was a little productive. Maybe I'll pack something. Mom would want me to. Heck, Mom would be packed and ready to go by this time. Ok, Mom, I'll pack. I can wallow productively, right?
Vermont, here I come.
-PLB
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