Writing – Page 3 – Chloe J Sayers

Rephrase and Rethink

One of the most frustrating feelings in the world: having something to say that you can’t express. It feels like your entire existence depends on this one moment of self-expression. The words bounce around in my mind until they are tangled, torn, and troubled. I rephrase and rethink. I try to sculpt this mess of thinking mass into something someone else might possibly understand. I force myself to look at it from a different angle, flipping the idea over and over again until I can’t remember which way is up anymore.

It’s exhausting, all this fruitless thinking. So I try to distract myself. I surround myself with new ideas, new people, new music, new books. Yet everything I read or listen to seems to march me right back to that holding cell with my original thought, now just with some extra perspectives picked up along the way. My distractions might be completed unrelated to my thoughts, but I’m reading and listening only to hear what I want to think about so inevitably, it comes around.

This stifling feeling of not being able to express what I want to is equaled only by a paralyzing fear of being misunderstood. It is this fear that makes me hesitate before speaking, that can halt me in the middle of a sentence or conversation and force me to change directions completely. My unspoken words never even got the opportunity to escape.

Yet there is something far worse than this combination of not being able to express myself or be understood.

What terrifies me most of all is this: I arrange my ideas meticulously, polish them for hours, overcome doubts and hesitations, say exactly what I want to, and am perfectly understood–only to realize that everything I want to say isn’t even worth my breath, that this completely consuming idea is completely insignificant.

God, Writing

A Soul in Shambles

I’ve had a fear of bridges for as long as I can remember. It’s an irrational fear but I can’t go over a bridge without feeling like the car is going to plummet into a watery grave or I’ll be completely impulse driven and walk off the edge. Yet bridges can be beautiful. We just drove over one that, while possibly fatal, overlooked a gorgeous valley with a peaceful river hemmed by trees that even the best Hudson River School landscape painter couldn’t enhance. I had this overwhelming sense of dread and fear yet a complete appreciation of the beauty around me. That most aptly wraps up how I’m feeling right now.

My heart is heavy. It’s the type of heavy that makes it hard to sleep. I usually sleep on my right side but with this lead-weighted heart, it feels like my heart will crush my lungs and I’m left gasping for breath. I just mixed a physical and emotional description but its as close as I can get to depicting this feeling without actually giving you my heart.

This feeling of breathlessness and a heaviness of heart is because I am downright sad. The wonderful people I’ve spent time with this week will never be in the same place with me ever again. I’ll come to visit of course, but things will never be the same (everything is forever changing, remember?)

I’m also downright terrified. I’ve learned much about God and myself and life in a week (we will touch on this later) and as I approach home, I can already feel this slipping away. The old frustrations and confusions and struggles are waiting to welcome me back. Also waiting are my family, friends, to-do list, shower, and bed–all of which I’m eagerly anticipating.

So here comes the beautiful river and trees and serenity part that lies beneath my deathtrap bridge of over thinking and fear and sadness.

This week was good for me. Other than seeing everyone mesh and grow into a family and stronger children of God, I got to serve others in perhaps the simplest form of meeting needs. The majority of my time was spent in soup kitchens ranging form a very high-tech program to churches with kitchens to a small facility in a shady section that ran like clockwork and seated 22 people yet fed 400 people in 3 hours. I did some street ministry and prayer walks which were good but not life-changing, which was also perfectly fine. Oh, and my partner and I dominated in euchre all week. Good times were had by all (except possibly our euchre opponents).

So even though I’m going to miss my 3D Visioners like crazy, there is beauty in knowing they are on fire for God and will do amazing things for Him. In an interesting stroke of timing, we just passed the exit of Grove City. The idea of new friends and experiences and adventures is beautiful too–even if it is overshadowed by my fear of losing those I love so much now.

So even though I’m terrified of reverting back to my old self, with my soul in shambles, there is a new serenity in knowing that God can put it back together and I don’t have to. I’m a realist. I know my struggles won’t disappear in this life time. I know my soul will be in shambles once again, and probably sooner than I’d like. But I’m a realist. I know that my God fixed the problem of an irredeemable human race and can surely fix me.

Since I abandoned my previous day by day structure (for an excellent play-by-play please visit: http://northoakschurch.org/?p=2339) I’m sure I’ve missed some details and important revelations and good stories. However, there is value to consistency so I’m going to relate in as concise of terms possible (a lost cause at this point, I know) what I have learned during a week of serving God in NYC.

Lessons Learned:

Just because my comfort zone is getting larger and larger and proportionally harder and harder to break out of, it doesn’t mean that the things I participated in didn’t have impact
Serving others is ultimately about, well, serving others and about serving God. Even if I didn’t have a huge epiphany it doesn’t mean that it wasn’t significant.
I need to slow down myself and my thoughts.
When I pray for others, I become personally invested in their lives. Therefore, I find it easier and easier to care about their well-being. This gives new light to the idea of praying for one’s enemies (or at least the people you’d rather avoid). It’s more than a test of forgiveness, it may just be the best way to eliminate having enemies.
Release
The thoughts that occupy our thoughts the most and dictate our actions are the things we “worship”. Yet these things do not love me in return. They don’t redeem me, tell me I’m beautiful or worthy, give me peace, protect me, save me, or offer eternal life. But God does. So why worship the things that enslave me and rob me of happiness instead of the God who will set me free and give me true joy?
The value in being real.
God puts me where I need to be for a reason.

Writing

Explanation

Hello all! It was suggested to me that I explain the new name for my thought outlet. The word penintime means “second from inmost” and the word latibule means “hiding place”. Since there is a hiding place for my thoughts that are about as close to me as I will allow anyone to know, it seemed right.

God, Life Lessons, Writing

Writing a Better Story (Part 1)

Blogger graphs the page views from this blog, and I’ve found that it has a unnerving correlation to my personal up and downs. The best parts of my year have huge peaks then there are massive valleys during the hard times, when I want to write, to express myself, to shout something, but nothing comes out.
Speaking of writing, I have been thinking a good deal lately about stories. In particular, the story that is your life.

Do you realize that? That this life is a story, and we are in the process of shaping the rising action, anticipating the climax, and choosing the setting. Arguably, it is God doing the writing but I will discuss this later.

I have a friend who put it this way: “We define ourselves as characters with our actions, our inactions, so on, so forth. And really morality is merely doing exactly what your protagonist would do.”

I tend to agree. I’m not promoting a frantic, Willy Loman, “I haven’t got a thing in the ground” reaction to the story idea. A life lived solely for the purpose of leaving a legacy will most likely look very impressive. However, a character that has spent so much time focused on the appearance of their actions will miss the actual living part.

I am promoting an intentional life. What can you remember from your story so far? Which moments stand out? If you were weeding out all of the commonplace events and stringing together the significant ones would it make a good story? Would you make a good protagonist, one that you would root for and relate to? It doesn’t matter if it would make the bestseller list or end up in the free box at garage sales. What matters is if it is a story that you would like reading, and inevitably, one that you wouldn’t mind reading to God.

At the end of any book, it usually isn’t the success of the mission, the resolution of the inherent conflict, or whether the boy gets the girl that makes an impact on me. If it is any sort of quality book, it is the personal success (that is, the development of their character towards a better end) that creates an enticing plot line, significant climax, and satisfying end to any book. (Side note: I have a habit of aligning myself with the wrong character in any given book, which my English class was ever so kind to point out to me.)

The reward you get from a story is always less than you thought it would be, and the work is harder than you imagined. The point of a story is never about the ending, remember. It’s about your character getting molded in the hard work of the middle. [Donald Miller]

So envision what you want life to be. Decide to like the main character, which, by the way, is you. Take the opportunities to write a better story. Don’t shy away from confrontation and changes. But be wise, be careful, and seek God’s will continuously. The only problem with writing a better story, is that it might just work.

Friendship, Life Lessons, Pain, Writing

Regret

In a retrospective and introspective mood lately, I decided to read through some of my personal rants, poems, narratives, and essays. For the majority of them, I completely understand why the past me didn’t share them. However, a good deal of my wrirtings were direct letters and notes towards people and this makes me a bit sad. I regret now that I did not share them sooner. So to those people, I apologize. I should have shared my thoughts. It would have made us stronger.

About Me, Friendship, Life Lessons, Writing

Standing on my Shallow Soapbox

Now is the time to write. In the past, my creativity was being forcibly taken from me by a busy schedule and projects. Conversations have also drained my ability to put coherent thoughts on a page, yet these I do not regret. Typically, I have at least one nugget of an idea a day which I’d like to write about. If I’m lucky, I write it down and don’t lose the scrap of paper. Lately, however, I have had some very decent talks with some very decent people which gave me another outlet for thinking. Good for myself and my friendships, bad for a blog. To be honest, though, I’m not writing for whoever is reading this.

I can’t talk. I’m always talking. But not today. And it’s killing me. My soul is restless, I can feel the words, thoughts, phrases, and clauses, trying to come together. They keep missing each other, like a failed high-five, an inch away from collision, a centimeter away from forceful contact. This is my attempt to put them together so that I can feel the impact of words once again.

Today my blog is my soapbox. I have completed high school which gives me a relatively shallow box to stand on and give advice, but it is my box and I am going to use it.

As a result of scholarships, senior awards night, and making an obnoxious amount of display boards and scrapbooks, I have come to two conclusions:
1) I find myself quite annoying at times. I feel like the poster child for anything and everything and if I could be someone else and know me, I’m not sure I’d want to. This is the last time I will spend a concentrated amount of time reading about myself. I much prefer reading about others.
2) It is my sincerest wish that my time in private school, home school, and public school does not simply add up to a resume of accomplishments, awards, and certificates. I was looking at a sheet with all of those listed and realized that those things did not embody the success of my schooling, not by a long shot. This led me to reflect on the things that I did in high school that actually did matter and this is where things get a little soapbox-y.

I have met some of the most incredible people in high school, particularly in the last two years. They aren’t the people that I was supposed to be associated with. They weren’t friends because they boosted my outward reputation. Sometimes we didn’t have that much in common. The majority of them started off with poor first impressions and misjudgements. So my word to the wise: never overlook anyone. Never write someone off after the first conversation, first month, or even first year. People continue to surprise me with how much they add to my life and much of their value you probably won’t even realize until they are gone. If you want to limit yourself to the people that approach you first, that are accepted by others, or don’t require you to exit your comfort zone, feel free. You’ll miss out on knowing and learning from some of the most original and wonderful people you’ll ever know, but hey, at least it won’t be uncomfortable and you’ll always have that little group of friends that are exactly. just. like. you.

We are now drawing near to the end of my writing abilities. Significant events generally spur on significant writing and while these past few weeks have certainly not been lacking in significance, I have only brushed the surface of their impact on me in this post.

Until I have more time,
Chloe

Friendship, Life Lessons, Writing

Linguistics

Just from reading the title, you are probably already bored. Linguistics sounds like a required gen ed course at a liberal arts college. I’m not talking about analyzing the Greek and Latin roots of the English language (been there, did that–trust me, its not fun). So stick with me on this one.

Conversationalist

I feel like the ability to carry on a conversation is extremely limited nowadays. In my opinion, a conversation is not:

a contest to get in the most brag points as possible
an argument
a five part report
a string of questions
topping someone’s stories with a better one of your own
constant connections to your own life, often unrelated to what the person was really trying to say

gossip

talking about the weather or teachers

inserting “lol” or “haha” at the beginning and end of each sentence

Conversations are precious and beautiful. They are an effort on the part of two people to better understand each other, themselves, and the world around them. They are about philosophies and ideas, hopes and dreams, silly thoughts and deep ones. They aren’t all intellectual exchanges, but with some inconsequential small talk mixed in. They are a give and take. They involve more listening than talking.

A true conversation is one where you are actually hearing and following up with the person you are talking to, not waiting impatiently until you get to have your say. A true conversation can be both enlightening and confusing. It is not limited to a list of topics. It is not limited by social barriers that dictate what is appropriate for conversing. It can make your heart soar with new ideas and freedom. It can weigh your soul down with the burdens of another. But its worth it. Every time.

Talking to someone else could be the key you were looking for that opens up their soul and saves their life. And, at the same time, you are saving your own.

Life Lessons, Pain, Writing

Imagining the Inconceivable

Brain Damage.
Is a very serious problem. Usually it is the overhanging anxiety following strokes, concussions, car accidents, premature births. It is also used as a threat. Don’t drink—it causes brain damage. Don’t do drugs—it causes brain damage. Don’t hold in a sneeze—it causes brain damage. The validity of the last one is somewhat questionable. Still, we are told and we see how external circumstances can cause irrevocable brain damage. It is incredibly sad and terrifying.

I started questioning my existence when I was about eight. Not in the “why am I here? Do I have any significance in this huge world” type of way. Fortunately, I had unusually extreme self-confidence and never really doubted why I was in this world. Obviously, my presence made it a better place. What I would do, however, was think myself away. I am making no sense, I know. Stick with me.

I had a tendency to go through my life as if it is a story (probably an after-effect of too much reading as a small child). I know many people “narrate” their life sometimes, but I did this ALL the time. It was if there were two Chloes. There was the one that did the acting, the living out. Then there was another one that sat backstage and watched. Every once in a while the backstage Chloe would throw out a couple of forgotten lines or give out stage directions, but for the most part, that Chloe just watched.

I had gotten so accustomed to watching myself that sometimes I would lie in my bed at night and stare at the ceiling and repeat to myself… “This is real. This is real. I am real. I am me. My life is real.” Realizing the fact that the person that I was watching act out their life was actually me always sent my head into a dizzying fast orbit. The fact that everyone was real, that we were all humans, that this life wasn’t just an incredibly complex and enthralling novel, absolutely turned my brain to mush. This is what I mean by questioning my existence. It is no wonder that after these mind games, I would fall promptly asleep, my brain too tired to continue living in the conscious form.

I still do this sometimes, but its harder now. I don’t know if it is because I’ve done it so often or if my mind is no longer capable of imagining the inconceivable.

Back to brain damage. I was considering this peculiar habit of mine (that is, the existence questioning) and wondered exactly how much damage it had done to my brain. Questioning the fact that one is real certainly doesn’t build up the brain cells. While pondering this, I came to an interesting conclusion: While brain damage caused by the external is serious and harmful, perhaps the greatest brain damage is done by ourselves with our own thoughts. What else could be so powerful as to damage our brains than the very things that feed it? When our thoughts become twisted and confused, our brain follows suit.

We can turn off parts of our brain by no longer using them. While a car crash can cause brain damage that is not of that person’s choice, we can in fact use our own thoughts to intentionally damage our brains. The sad part is, that by leaving some parts of their brains stagnant, many people are hurting their minds without even realizing it. Unintentional self-brain damage is very dangerous indeed.

About Me, Writing

The One Thing Unfathomable

Music is moving. It can move souls. It can transform lives. It can save lives. It can bring a nation to tears. It can bring a stadium to its feet. It can define a generation. It can define a human being. The one thing that this all-powerful music can’t move? Me.

I’ve tried so hard to get into music. I see how many people enjoy it and I see what a strong influence it can have. But try as I might, music really doesn’t move me. You might say this is because I don’t understand music. You would be right. My brain loves making supply and demand graphs and writing essays, but it can’t wrap itself around music. This is how it usually goes down:

Me: “Listen to it. Feel it. How does the music make me feel right now?”
Brain: “Hungry. Oh wait, that’s just because you were too lazy to eat breakfast.”
Me: “No! Try again! What different instruments do you hear? How do they blend together?”
Brain: “Its all one thing! Music: •an artistic form of auditory communication incorporating instrumental or vocal tones in a structured and continuous manner”
Me: “I didn’t ask for a definition. Let the music move you. Connect with the music!”

At this point, my annoyingly sarcastic brain starts ignoring me and begins hatching some new plan on how to make an underwater trans-Atlantic highway leaving me quite alone to just stand there, straining to hear something that my brain refuses to listen to. It’s frustrating to say the least.

The best I can do is concentrate on the lyrics. See, what melodies and notes and the essence of all that is music is to you, is what words are to me. The way they blend together, play off of each other, create meanings and skew meanings, that is beautiful to me. I’m not just talking about poetry (which happens to be my least favorite genre). Writing can say so much or so little. It just is. So, the music that I truly enjoy is the music that has lyrics that I find the most significant. I realize that good lyrics doesn’t mean good music but focusing on the words is the only way music and I can maintain a semi-amicable relationship.

It doesn’t help that my entire family was sprinkled with magical music dust at birth. My dad has his degree in audio engineering, my mom can play various instruments, and my sister dances as her career. The extended family is equally gifted (masters in music, organ players, violin players, soon-to-be in an orchestra trombone players). Everyone……except for me.

If you are like my family and have a super deep connection with music, good for you. Please don’t hate me or this blog. Instead, go and listen or play some incredible music and enjoy it to its full capacity for me. I’ll be sitting here with my words, typing……….and typing………..still typing…..