Welcome to the Family

Happy Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you.

(And also with you.)

Ah, Star Wars. There’s been quite a lot going on in the Star Wars corner of the world lately–the new movie, the TV shows, the Battlefront game. Lots for the fans to get excited about. And boy, are they excited. You can hear them screaming in the streets every time a new piece of info is released.

I have always appreciated the existence of Star Wars, but I never really got into it, truth be told. It’s not that I don’t want to, I just… don’t want to. There’s not this driving need to go out and watch the movies. I suppose if someone offered to marathon them with me, I would say yes, but I have no need to do so on my own. Star Wars is cool, the fandom is great, but I’m a-okay if I’m not a part of it.

Well, sort of.

It was an accident, I swear. I never meant to get into it, but Star Wars Rebels just happened to be on TV and I just happened to leave it on that channel, which led to me just happening to watch one two three episodes. And then the rest of the season. Which then led to me obsessively looking online for info as to when the new episodes would be coming out.

And now I’m hooked. Yet another cartoon I’ve fallen head over heels in love with.

So of course, naturally, I feel the need to gush about it :P

Star Wars Rebels is a beautiful show in a lot of ways, from the symbolic lighting to the wonderfully expressive graphics to the oft-dark storyline (torture, guys–literal torture), but perhaps the most powerful virtue it has is its representation of family.

“We’re not exactly anything. We’re a crew. A team. In some ways, a family.”

–Sabine Wren, Star Wars Rebels

Star Wars itself has created an amazing family of fans. From the tiniest of toddlers to the grey-hairedest of adults, there’s an incredible sense of unity between generations. You see it today, on Star Wars Day, and you see it in conventions like Star Wars Celebration. The common love for the Star Wars world bridges the gaps and brings all kinds of fans together. And once you enter this intergalactic family, you’re in it for life.

Star Wars Rebels does a lot to emulate this sense of family. This group of rebels joined together under some pretty dire circumstances. Living in a dangerous galaxy, fighting against the oppressive Empire, narrowly avoiding death time and again, doing all they can to give hope to the people around them, helping those who can’t help themselves. There are a few small victories, but a lot of massive losses. It’s hard to not succumb to despair in a time like this. But when things seem too overwhelming, this precious Space Family has each others’ backs.

There’s something incredible about the bonds that can form in such grim situations. It’s incredible, how people who are at one time strangers can very quickly come to trust each other wholeheartedly when lives are on the line. Time and again in the show, you see someone who is uncertain, afraid, vulnerable, and you see how they are strengthened, comforted, and supported by the rest of the family. There is a deep love between these motley rebels and it’s what gives them their indomitable courage in the face of such overwhelming odds.

I mean, I’m always a sucker for character dynamics, but Star Wars Rebels gives me a lot to work with. Seeing the way each character interacts, seeing how they express their care… it’s heartwarming. You see Kanan, surviving Jedi of Order 66, faltering in his leadership because he’s afraid he’s not good enough. You see Hera, brave Twi’lek pilot, making the most heartwrenching decisions for the good of her crew. You see Sabine, young Mandalorian explosives expert, questioning the crew’s path because she’s afraid of losing everything. You see Zeb, a surviving Lasat of his planet’s annihilation, unsure how to express himself after being so strong for so long. And you see Ezra, the young Space Blueberry padawan, experience all sorts of growing pains as he learns how to open his heart to others. There’s so much emotion in this show, it’s insane.

Every member of the crew has experienced something different–something painful that the others can’t truly understand. They come from different walks of life with different perspectives and motivations, but they’ve all come together because they’ve all shared the same hopelessness. The same fear, the same loneliness. And in each other, they found hope, courage, and comfort.

And then there’s these two. Agh, they make my heart explode with feels. They drive me insane, but I love it. The relationship they have is golden. The bond they’ve formed is so precious. I love them. But they drive me nuts.

I’m such a big fan of the family-but-not-really-family dynamic. It takes a lot, for people to trust each other so deeply like that. Especially when living in such difficult times. It can be so easy, to let pain and fear harden your heart and strengthen your defences. It isn’t easy to let someone in and see your vulnerability. But when you do… this is what happens. You gain a family.

It happens in a lot of stories. It happens in a lot of real-life situations. A special camaraderie can be found on the battlefield, out on the streets, in impoverished countries–even in places like high school. Anywhere that people experience a common despair, there is the potential for bonding. There is the potential for trust and love. There is the potential for family.

And when such a family is formed–a true family, with bonds that will never break–that is when we find our greatest strength.

Together, as one.

Incredible.

What family-but-not-really-family have you found?

May you always have a family to support you, whether blood-bound or soul-bound.

-Alex

A Battle Against Mesothelioma

Hi everyone. As I’ve slowly been wrapping up the Your Story project, I was recently approached through email with a request to share a different kind of story. Instead of wanting to write about their own hardships and strength, however, they asked that I might do so for them.

I was introduced to a woman by the name of Heather Von St. James. Eight years ago, she and her husband Cameron became the proud parents of their first child, a daughter named Lily. And only a few months later, Heather was diagnosed with pleural mesothelioma. The short definition: cancer in the lining of the lungs.

She was given fifteen months to live.

I can only imagine the despair that must have washed over them, realizing that she might be taken away from the world, that their daughter might be motherless before her second birthday. I can only imagine how dark their path must have become as they struggled to see any glimpse of light on the other side. And I can only imagine what enormous courage must have come over Heather as she prepared for the fight of her life.

And fight she did. They sought all the help they could get and Heather ended up going through surgery to have one lung removed. The surgery was successful and, despite the terrible odds, she had pulled through. She had rid herself of the cancer and has been living the past eight years cancer-free.

I can only imagine.

Something interesting I found while reading about her story is something called “Lung Leavin’ Day”, which is the anniversary of her lung surgery. Heather writes that she, her family, and her friends get together on this day, take time to write their fears on plates, and take turns smashing them into a fire. Though she has undoubtedly been through hell and back, Heather still doesn’t allow fear to rule her.

When I read about her story, her enormous battle, her tremendous courage, and the triumphant victory over despair and fear, I was so inspired. How can one woman have been through so much and come out the other end still smiling?

Now, the main reason why Heather and Cameron didn’t want to be the ones to tell the story is because their mission is to continue to raise awareness for the terrible disease that is mesothelioma. They wanted me to find out more about it so that I could share it with you and we could come to better understand Heather’s perilous journey together. Shall we?

Some of the things I learned from my research:

• Mesothelioma itself is a form of cancer that occurs in the lining of the lungs and chest cavity. The most common cause? Asbestos, the nasty carcinogen that is far too often used in construction. Heather contracted her mesothelioma from second-hand exposure from her father, who worked in construction.
• Asbestos was widely used several decades ago because it is fire and heat resistant, making it a sought-after material for building supplies such as drywall. Though several countries now ban the use of asbestos in new construction projects, places such as the US, Russia, and China still allow its use.
• About 30 million pounds of asbestos are still being used in the US, even in buildings such as homes and schools. In 1989, most asbestos-containing products were banned, but then they were unbanned in 1991. This is the big reason why mesothelioma is a rising issue.
• There aren’t many treatment options for mesothelioma. Radiation and chemotherapy can be used, but are not often successful. Surgery can also be done, such as the lung removal surgery that Heather underwent, but there are several risks involved, especially if the cancer has spread.
• Every year, about 3000 people are diagnosed with mesothelioma. The average prognosis is 10 months left to life. If you break it down, that’s only 300 days and 7200 hours.
• Mesothelioma can sit dormant in the body for 20-50 years.

It’s terrifying, some of these facts, and they bring into sharp focus the dangers of this disease. This was a terrible battle that Heather had to endure, and the hope is that by raising awareness, we might someday be able to find a cure, if not prevent it from happening at all.

Friday, September 26th is the 10th anniversary of Mesothelioma Awareness Day, and I’m sure it would mean a lot to Heather and to other mesothelioma patients if you helped spread the word through your own blogs or other forms of social media, or even if you were able to donate a bit of money to help out.

Heather is a woman of incredible strength to have overcome this dark time in her life, but unfortunately not all those diagnosed possess such fortitude or courage. And so Heather’s story illuminates the power of inspiration and shows so clearly how it can truly help those in need.

If you’d like to learn more about mesothelioma and Heather’s incredible story, you can check out the links below.

Mesothelioma Cancer Alliance (main information page)

Heather’s Awareness Page

Heather’s Facebook Page

Mesothelioma on Wikipedia

This is Heather’s story.

Take care :)

-Alex

Lights in the Dark

Another Your Story submission coming to you, this time from the lovely Jennifer K. Marsh. She writes inspiring and heartfelt posts on her blog that I encourage you to go read. She’s also written a wonderful book that I also recommend you read!

This story is full of darkness and of light, and is a powerfully personal tale of what it means to find hope. For every adventure has its darkest hour and every hero must endure the hardships placed upon her. I have hopes that this story will find a special place in someone’s heart.

As always, do leave a kind comment! I’m sure Jenny would love to hear what you think. Enjoy :)

***

Lights in the Dark

“The concept of lights in the dark has always been beautiful and infinitely precious to me. Indeed, it is still – and forever will be – what makes my heart beat, and why I can make it through the grimmest of times. Ever since conscious memory has been within my capabilities, I have been in love with the night sky, and one of my favourite sights as a little girl was a black river sparkling in the moonlight.

Due to this love I have of lights in the dark, I have, therefore, always been enchanted by the thought of seeing fireflies. They are living lights in the dark that fly, like stardust floating before you. Bioluminescence. How mesmerising. For so many years I have yearned to see a firefly with my own eyes. Maybe someday…

But what does this have to do with the adventure that is my life? Well… My whole adventure has been about finding the lights, seeing the lights, feeling the lights in any darkness thrown my way.

Throughout my teenage years, I was in a very dark place – and that’s putting it lightly (pun not intended). Sometimes, whenever I think back to that phase of my life, I struggle to believe that I could have once been so unbelievably wounded an individual. But, alas, I was – and some may argue I still am. Do you ever truly heal from such unbearable pain? Every single day I used to come home from school and cry in my bedroom until the evening, desperately fighting away the temptation to stab myself in the leg with scissors, or climbing out my bedroom window to run away, and often I skulked out to drown my sorrows with alcohol or let the essence of my inner demons coil around the smoke I inhaled. However, for the most part, I did very well at fighting away such temptations and refraining to meet with friends to do stupid things by distracting myself with activities within my bedroom:

• I had a keyboard. I used to sit crossed-legged on the floor (because I didn’t have a stand), and I taught myself how to play it. Night after night, I did not stop until I had taught myself. And then I taught myself how to read sheet music. Every night, in the low light, I would practice and play until my fingers hurt, until my shoulders ached from stooping over it due to sitting on the floor. But that was okay; it distracted me from the pain within myself from which I could not escape. It was something positive. The white keys shone light amid the night. And now I have the skill of playing the piano with me forevermore, purely because I sought for something to brighten the darkness.

• I had a little, mirrored disco ball which hung above my bed. I cannot remember for the life of me where this came from, though… I think it might have been a present from when I was a kid. At night, I often used to sit on my bed with the lights off, shining my portable book light up at this disco ball as it hung above me. Countless squares of reflected light beamed across the entirety of my room. It was beautiful to behold. And then I’d stand up to spin the disco ball with my hand, letting it twirl madly on its thread, before sitting back down and shining the light up at it again. The light zoomed around me, encircling in a blur, as though I was falling and spinning through a distant galaxy of stars. I used to sit there for hours doing that. It made me see light in my dark, dark room. I still have this little disco ball. I cannot bring myself to part with it.

• I used to write or doodle ghoulish things, or incredibly deep things, such as the following (which I happened to stumble across in the bottom of a drawer only the other day – and I know it was from this time because, strangely, I had dated it):

How does one express an emotion they cannot articulate into words? Their mind becomes a mass of emptiness that engulfs them in a sense of unfulfillment as they wander the trails of life lost and alone. Their soul, their spirit, is crying out in a plea for help, but the body only manages a few forlorn tears. These tears hold each word the tongue cannot bear to speak, nor the mind to think.

And I also found this one (not dated, but I just knew…):

With every light must be a shadow,

With every rise must be a fall,

And now I spend my life letting go

Of the love I used to know.

But with every night shines a bright star,

And with every fall we stand again.

May the grace of high fill me

And take me back to then…

When I could love.

They were heavy words I bore with my pen. But writing out my emotions was (is) a release for me, for I am a mute when it comes to expressing how I feel. Always have been, always will be. But I can talk with the pen in my hand. Writing what I did let my feelings come out in a healthy way, rather than allowing myself to spiral deeper in desolation due to my moronic and sinful behaviour. Writing like this helped me feel the light within my own, terribly dark, heart.

But sometimes, when the night-time fell, I used to venture outside into the garden, for my love of nature and the night beckoned so. I lay on the grass, feeling its damp chill seep through to my skin and I drew in deep, heavy breaths of the cold air, for I was addicted to the sensation of it crystallising in my lungs, and as I lay there on my back, still and silent, I stared up at the dark sky who stared back down at me with innumerable silver eyes. They were such a comfort to me, the little diamond pinpricks up in a midnight robe. Or maybe they were more like shattered particles of ice glistening in the moonlight. I could smell the frost on the breeze blend with the earthy grass rising up, luring in the shadows that encased me in a darkly comforting embrace. I often used to lie there while listening to music on my MP3 – electronic/hardcore/dance/trance/whatever-you-want-to-call-it music, which I reserved specifically for these times, alone and despairing. Darren Styles and Ultrabeat were particular favourites of mine.

While lying there, listening to my music which made me feel so wonderfully detached, I always found myself thinking about The Lion King.

“Look at the stars. The great kings of the past look down at us from those stars. So whenever you feel alone, just remember that those kings will always be there to guide you. And so will I.”

Perhaps the stars really are eyes, I thought. Maybe we are forever watched over. What if every star we see is the light of an angel trying to guide us safely through the night? Is what I see the shining light in their eyes? Deeply breathing, the condensation of my breath curled up and away from me. I used to wonder where those little wisps went: did the breath-essence of my soul dissipate beyond a veil to join the sky above, or did it merely drift away into black nothingness? Would my soul be forgiven by the stars, by the King of Kings? Is He even there?

Time went by, and my situation got no better. If anything, it got worse. I stayed in my seemingly never-ending spiral of desolation and self-destruction, and I could not get out. I did even more moronic acts, and I was glad to, because I wanted to hurt and I wanted to hurt others – such was the malignant state of my mind at the time. School life got worse in every possible respect. Tears, rage, screaming, hatred. Why did no one help me? How more obvious could I have made it that I was dying? And then I came home at the end of the day to a home life which had also got worse. I could not cope. Was home not supposed to be my refuge? More tears. More rage. More screaming. Why was I alive? I didn’t want to be. I wished I wasn’t. It became even harder to fight back certain temptations, yet still I managed to prevail mostly… Somehow. I ever continued to play the keyboard, spin my disco ball, write, and stare at the night sky. I ever continued seeking my lights in the dark.

I was still in my teen years when Owl City’s song ‘Fireflies’ struck the world in a lightning buzz. Who doesn’t know this song? I first heard it on the radio, I believe, while skulking in my room early one morning. I liked it. And so, I put it on my MP3 player (I still used my ancient MP3 in 2009, yes. I am not high-tech). I remember the first time I listened to it lying out in my night-time garden. And that’s when I fell in love. It made such an impact on me while I lay out beneath the night. Such a beautiful impact.

‘You would not believe your eyes if ten million fireflies lit up the world as I fell asleep

‘Cause they’d fill the open air and leave teardrops everywhere

You’d think me rude but I would just stand and stare’

I thought of The Lion King again – as usual when I was under the stars – but this time I found myself thinking of another scene:

“They’re fireflies – fireflies that got stuck up in that big, blueish-black thing.”

 What a gorgeous thought it is to think that the stars are little fireflies; what a gorgeous thought it is to think that the lights we see in the dark night sky are alive, just like us. Are they sad to be stuck there? I thought. Maybe they are. Maybe their teardrops are the early morning dew. I always found it humbling and wonder-striking to stare into the starry sky, for who can say how far away the stars truly are? What an infinite open space the sky is. And there I was, an insignificant spec in the universe, lying upon the Earth which is also an insignificant spec. But there I was, in existence amid this infinite space, even though I didn’t want to be. There I was. Perhaps, at the end of the day, the stars are merely “balls of gas burning billions of miles away”, but that in itself is still a beautiful thing. They burn, and in the meantime, they light up Earth’s night, all so insignificant little specs like myself can look up and fall away from reality in a desperate bid for hope.

 ‘I’d get a thousand hugs from ten thousand lightning bugs

As they tried to me how to dance’

 But looking at those firefly stars was so moving for me. The light from those stars reached out and took my soul by the hand, bringing it into some form of life by rousing my spirits to dance. They can show me how, I thought. The stars are always there, each and every night. With their light, could they teach me how to stand again? And then would they show me how to walk, and run, and dance? I may feel alone and lost and worthless and hopeless and lifeless, but the stars have always been there for me. Aren’t they angel eyes? Don’t they watch over me?

 ‘The disco ball is just hanging by a thread’

 Maybe the moon is a disco ball and the stars are actually the dots of reflected light. Maybe the firefly stars dance because the disco ball moon twirls for them. Maybe the disco ball moon makes the trapped fireflies smile through their tears. And there was no reason why I couldn’t smile through my tears. So I did just that. Listening to ‘Fireflies’ that night made me cry so much, but I smiled through my misty eyes, for I was seeing the most beautiful lights in the dark, and I knew I would always see those lights, so long as I remembered they were there. And how could I possibly forget when all you see when you look up into the night sky are angel eyes, and fireflies, and the disco ball moon?

Is the King of Kings even there? Of course He is. He is the brightest light of them all. He is the shining light in every angel eye. He is the light shining upon the disco ball moon so the endless galaxies can spin with reflected stars. He is every firefly.

These days, whenever I hear the bleeps and bloops that is ‘Fireflies’, I often have to force back a wave of emotion. I am taken back to that place in my old garden, beneath the night and the stars, and I can feel the cold air seeping through to my bones and smell the biting chill as it fills my lungs. I love that feeling. I love to be reminded that I can make it through any darkness thrown my way.

And, goodness, have I had some bitter-black darkness.

 A little more time went by after ‘Fireflies’, and the story of ‘Ilimoskus’ came to me; still being in my teens, darkness continued to consume me as I planned it all. But I was still in love with my lights in the dark, too. My fireflies. There is a creature in the Ilimoskus world which I created specifically inspired by all I have mentioned in this post… These creatures have two names – a formal and informal one: the informal name is dandleflee; the formal name is flamodanba, which means ‘small sun’.

Flamodanba are essentially floating balls of fire, around the size of a golf ball. They are gentle, delicate and sensitive, and they are deeply loved and treasured. They are somewhat mystifying creatures, as when they are not present there is no possible evidence of their whereabouts, or even their existence. They are known to appear when being of assistance by offering their bright light: when one is lost and in need of guidance; when one is troubled and in need of hope; or when one feels empty and in need of warmth. There is also the belief that they are lucky: if one tells a flamodanba their hopes and dreams when it is near them, they will come true. Since they are such sensitive creatures, they are easily disconcerted and discontented, and when this happens they explode into sparks with a bang and vanish. No one knows how they disappear, and even less so where they go. One must be very careful not to upset them. Very little is actually known about these creatures, but it is said they cannot die. They are one of the most mystical and magical creatures in the Ilimoskus world.

‘Deesophe followed Urall’s hand, and not too high up, her eyes met a quartet of flamodanba whirling around one another, swirling and twirling. Dancing. “Aviib!” she exclaimed. “Why, it looks like they’re dancing! I’ve never seen anything like it before!”’ – Ilimoskus: Times of Old, chpt. 23, pg. 264

 My flamodanba dance, just like the firefly stars. And their light will never die.

 If ever you find yourself trapped in the grasp of the deathly shadows, I urge you, please, to see and feel your lights. Whatever they may be. Seek them, and they will be found. Do not be overcome. Even in darkness there is light. The night sky is living proof of this.

 And your imagination and creativity can make those lights even brighter.”

-Jenny

The Stirling Sound

If you’ve never heard of Lindsey Stirling before, you’re certainly in for a treat.

This spunky girl is a musician like no other. She’s a dancing violinist, meaning she literally dances while she plays the violin. And we’re not talking classical music here, no–her violin chords are mixed with dubstep, electronic beats, and sometimes vocals or other instruments to give it a uniquely contemporary flair.

You might recognize her from America’s Got Talent. Back in 2010, she made it to quarter finals but was told by Piers Morgan that her music sounded like rats being strangled, and that was her last performance on the show. In the cover booklet for her first, self-titled CD, she wrote, “Piers Morgan (bless his heart). When I was on America’s Got Talent, Piers’ comment humiliated me and made me wonder if I’d ever have the nerve to step on another stage. My self-confidence was briefly shattered, but my desire to prove him wrong gave me the motivation to believe in myself again. Overcoming that experience made me stronger than ever.”

Boy, was she right. She came back stronger than ever and proved that there was indeed a place for a dancing, hip-hop violinist in the world. Her latest album, Shatter Me, hit #1 on iTunes and she’s toured all over the world. From a music standpoint, she’s got lots of talent and has done something very impressive with said talent.

Her success even prompted a response from Piers Morgan (kudos to him!).

I first came across her music maybe a year ago, when I found her Zelda Medley cover on YouTube. I loved the sound of it (I’ve always loved violins and appreciate me some good LoZ tunes) but remember thinking at the time, The dancing’s a little much though, isn’t it? But then I started sniffing around some of her other stuff, namely her cover of the Skyrim theme, and then of a Lord of the Rings medley, and began to adore the beauty and passion of what she was doing.

I then took a chance listening to her original stuff, and by the time Shatter Me came out, I was hooked. Then, when I found out she was including Canada in her tour, I knew I had to go.

When I walked through the venue door, I was just a girl inspired by some awesome violin music. When I walked out, I was a girl inspired by the story of an incredible hero.

The concert was incredible. The anticipation was nearly unbearable as I thought of the inspiring songs I was about to hear, and when the first violin chord cut through the air, the waterworks began. Just seconds into the concert and there were already tears rolling down my cheeks.

There is something about the violin that just speaks to me. The tenor, the sound, the emotion–it’s the instrument of my soul and I certainly felt it that night. There were certain songs I just couldn’t bear without crying. They had such an impact on me, reverberating straight through, that I felt my own emotions–my gladness, desire, sorrow, and hope–rising and falling with the voice of the violin.

I’m pretty sure Lindsey’s violin was equipped with my heartstrings, because that’s certainly what it felt like.

But as I said–it wasn’t the music that ultimately inspired me, it was the story.

She definitely told a story that was personal, heartbreaking, and uplifting, all at once. One part I loved was when she showed home videos of herself as a little girl, getting told by her dad, “Next time you touch that, you lose your fingers”. It was a piece of her heart that she shared and it reflected her own ability to love who she is and where she came from.

Then there was Take Flight (listen to it while you read the paragraphs below).

I have no words that can accurately describe how much this song means to me. I actually hadn’t heard it before the concert (I didn’t buy her albums till after), but hearing it live for the first time was just amazing. The song itself, of course, is wonderful, but the story is what got me most.

The original inspiration for the song was from a young fan of Lindsey’s, still in elementary school, who had been bullied so badly, he tried to commit suicide. Heartbroken that someone could feel so hopeless, she was compelled to write Take Flight to try to express that, though the road can at times be dark and we can’t even see the light at the end of it, there are people around us–friends, family, even a god–who are there to help. On her tour, she happened to meet a young boy named Hunter who had been diagnosed with cancer and one month left to live. Her show would be the last he ever saw, but he was full of optimism, hoping to leave his last marks of positivity in the lives around him with what time he had left.

At that point, I was truly sobbing. That story isn’t just the elementary boy’s story, or Hunter’s story, or Lindsey’s story–it’s my story too. I endured despair when my best friend moved away, when I thought I’d never write a good story ever again, when I’d had a bad day that was just a little too much to handle. I’ve fought to find hope, to keep myself fighting, to take flight and soar. This story is everyone’s story.

And that wasn’t even the last story. The last story (and the last song before the encore) was the message behind Shatter Me.

Shatter Me is all about breaking free from the expectations of others. Letting your inner spirit out to shine for the world, even if it isn’t what the world thinks it wants. It’s about being tired of lying to yourself, tired of just going through the motions, tired of your glass prison. Even if you shatter, you won’t be destroyed. You’ll just give your inner light that vital chance to escape. After all, our greatest strength can come from our moments of greatest weakness.

This is another story that touches me deeply. It’s hard to be who I am sometimes, to be a girl who believes in magic, who believes inanimate objects have a spirit, who believes in a beauty that not many others may see. But it’s hard too to be a dancing violinist, isn’t it?, and look at how well Lindsey’s done. When it comes down to it, we all have those unique, burning spirits inside us that we keep secret because we fear what the world would do with them. If only we can find the courage to shatter and be free.

My Lindsey loot <3

Lindsey Stirling is truly my hero. She is the first non-fictional hero of mine whom I don’t know personally, because I feel like I do know her personally just from the stories she’s told. She is an enormous inspiration to me, in the music she plays and the life she lives, and I hope that I may one day find my courage and take flight the same way she has.

So that was what completed my weekend of tears, and as you can see, it was a good weekend indeed. I am so happy to have such great heroes, the fictional Hiccup and the true Lindsey Stirling, who inspire me to such lengths that I feel the desire to embrace my soul and live my life fully. And I sincerely hope that you have found the same in your lives.

I will leave you will one last piece of Lindsey inspiration. I hope it speaks to you as it did to me :) And I 100% recommend you go look up more of Lindsey’s work. She’s an incredible human being.

Do you have a hero who inspires you to find yourself?

May your soul be full of music, hope, and courage.

-Alex

The Christmas Visitor

Hi everyone. I hope you all had a great Christmas, hopefully with lots of rest amidst that rush, and I hope you survived Boxing Day unscathed, if you live in a country that recognizes it. I myself have had a great Christmas. I’ve been in lazy-loungey mode for the past few days, but am looking forward to using the energy I’ve gathered to start getting things done.

But before I get back into work mode, I wanted to talk a little bit about Santa Claus.

We don’t know each other very well, but I’m familiar with his work and have great respect for all that he does. In a sleigh pulled by reindeer and laden with toys, he delivers gifts to every single house in the whole entire world, in a single night, by flying through the air and dropping down the chimney. Well, if you believe the stories.

I don’t think he gets to every house, unfortunately. I get the sense, from what I know of him and what I’ve been able to guess, that he’s afraid of places which are dark, and desolate, and are filled up with fear and dread. I don’t think Santa likes to go to those homes–maybe he physically can’t bring himself to go there–and so sadly there are so many houses that are missed on Christmas Eve.

I have great respect for Santa Claus, of course, because he can do such amazing things, travelling across the world and slipping down chimneys (when he allegedly has quite a large girth). But I have even greater respect for him because of the things he doesn’t do–well, didn’t mean to do.

That Santa Claus guy became a legend. He became a man of myth and wonder, delighting children with his presents and care, and the stories probably escalated beyond anything he could have dreamed. But I’m so glad they did.

Because of Santa Claus, children all over the world are given a reason to believe, to whole-heartedly, faithfully believe in magic.

Even if it’s only for a few years, at least there was a little bit of belief. At least they had the chance to live enchanted lives, to see beautiful days, to believe that impossible things can happen. Some kids forget to believe in magic after a while. They forget that it’s real, that it’s more than just card tricks and illusions. Some kids are lucky enough to remember, to hold it with them all their lives through.

But for many of us, we discover in later years that even though we’ve forgotten about magic, we can still learn how to believe again. We can still open up our hearts and let in that blind faith.

Santa came to my house on Christmas Eve. He didn’t drop off any presents–my sister and I have outgrown toys–but I heard him for just a moment. He paused on the roof, I think. Just stopped there, probably to stretch out his back, maybe rub his hands together to warm them up. I could hear the bells on his reindeer’s harnesses, jingling ever so quietly. They’re hard to hear, unless you’re listening. And I was. I knew he’d be around.

The thing is, Santa never forgets a house. He’s been running the same route for years and he knows every single stop along the way. But he’s maybe not as brave as the stories say. He’s a little shy, I think, and loses his nerve when he comes to a house where people are unhappy, or fighting, or don’t believe in magic anymore. Sometimes he can gather enough courage to go in anyways, but not always. It’s sad. I wish I could help him, to give him that extra boost of strength so he could give his presents to the kids who need them most.

I admire Santa Claus, and I hope that his career lasts long into the future, and that he’s always there to help kids all over the world. Because even though he’s afraid of despair, he’s sometimes the cure for it.

I hope you all had a great Christmas, and spent it with family and friends if you could. I hope that Santa was also able to visit your home. I hope you still believe.

How were your holidays?

May Santa never pass over your house at Christmastime.

-Alex

Just Close Your Eyes

“Pick up the pace!” the supervisor bellowed, sweat dripping from his chin in the agonizing summer heat. Before him, staggering across the dusty yard, dozens of soldiers struggled to obey his command and make their legs move faster. Their hair was plastered to their foreheads and veins stood out on every bare, glistening arm. Those who were unfortunate enough to have pale skin this far into the year were burned red by the relentless sun, while others who had already tanned felt only stickiness and heat.

And in the midst of it all, jerking her head to try to toss her wet bangs out of her eyes, was Carinn.

With a heavy, grain-filled crate balanced precariously on one shoulder, she slowly made her way through the dust and sun to the other side of the warehouse yard, where the horses and carts stood  to be filled. Her knees shook and the muscles in her neck, shoulders, arms, and back strained with the effort of lifting the supply crate. She was as well-muscled as any of the men, but even so, she was facing more difficulty than the others.

Another soldier walking by noticed her snail’s pace and said harshly, “Stop screwing around and get to work. There’s no taking it easy just ’cause you’re a dainty woman.”

Carinn growled at him, fury flashing quick and bright in her eyes. “Stop chatting and maybe you’d be able to keep up with me,” she retorted snappishly, using her anger to give her an extra burst of speed. She pulled ahead of the rude man and ploughed on, jaw set stubbornly even as her muscles screamed. Reaching the cart, she slammed the crate down on the stack and trudged back to the warehouse for more.

As she walked past the supervisor, he narrowed his eyes at her and barked, “Get moving, soldier! I want to see those feet running, else you’ll be back on softer jobs. You’ll never make the army if you can’t even lift grain.” Carinn stopped to give him an angry answer that she was doing her best, but when she saw his lip curl threateningly, she thought better of it. “Now get!” he snapped, and she went on her way, jogging to the warehouse as fast as her shaky legs would take her.

Reaching the supply stores, eyes streaming and throat and lungs burning from the clouds of dust choking the air, Carinn got in line for a new crate. Given momentary rest, she bent over double, hands on her knees, and gasped for breath as the sweat poured from her face. The man in front of her noticed and snorted with disgust and disdain. “Pathetic,” he scoffed, turning up his nose. Carinn’s face hardened with the insult and she straightened, spine rigid and tense.

If he understood half of the hell I’ve been through, she thought bitterly, then he would know I’m anything but. Let’s see a coward like him carry this extra weight. He wouldn’t last a day.

“Pay attention!” someone shouted at her, and Carinn realized that, as she’d been seething to herself while glaring at the ground, the line had moved up and she’d fallen behind. She was shoved roughly and she stumbled forward a step. For a second, she was going to turn around to snap at the soldier who’d pushed her, but then more people started shouting and she quickly dropped the notion. Instead, she jogged to the front of the line and bent down to pick up her crate.

Muscles straining, Carinn heaved the box onto her shoulder and, as its weight settled, she staggered and nearly fell. The boys handing out the supplies eyed her sceptically, muttering something to each other that she was sure was insulting. Gritting her teeth and steadying the load, Carinn turned and headed back to the carts.

Along the way, she passed another woman who carried her crate easily. Her arms were clearly the same size as Carinn’s, her endurance likewise, but yet she had no difficulty. Carinn thought bitterly that it should have been the same for her. She should have no problem lifting the grain. She’d done it before, but yet this time, she was carrying more than just grain, and she was afraid that this was going to kill her.

As the woman passed, walking faster than Carinn could manage, she gave Carinn a dirty look. It was clear what she was thinking: there was no room for the weak in the military. If Carinn ever made it to the army, she would probably be killed the first day. With obvious scorn, the woman walked faster to be away from Carinn.

Digging into her barest reserves of strength, Carinn tried as hard as she could to move faster, to be stronger, to bear the weight with more ease and less struggle. She tried until she shook with the effort and tears sprang to her eyes. She tried–until she felt something inside her snap and she lost all control.

Exhausted arms giving way, Carinn’s crate slipped backwards from her shoulder and crashed to the ground. It broke, wood shattering, and grain spilled across the dust. Carinn stood frozen with shock and unable to believe what had happened. Then the yelling started.

“YOU! GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” roared the supervisor, his face red with anger. He jabbed a finger in Carinn’s direction and then pointed to the barracks. Tears now filling her eyes and slipping down her cheeks, Carinn obeyed with a faster step than she’d had all day. Head down, face red with embarrassment and shame, she pushed through the gaping soldiers and forced herself to ignore their muttering. She knew they thought she was weak, but it was their fault. If they hadn’t expected her to be so damn strong…

Carinn burst into the barracks, startling officers and generals, and walked silently past them and into the back lockers. They were empty, all of the soldiers out in the field carrying supplies, and so she sank into a corner, buried her face in her knees, and sobbed.

She cried alone for a very long time. This was the end of the road, she thought despairingly. After her royal screw-up with the supplies–a task that was supposed to be easy for a soldier who would soon be enduring the rigors of battle–they weren’t going to let her onto the battlefield. The real fighting was reserved for the strongest men and women. Not those who snapped under pressure and were reduced to sobbing messes in the corner. Her grip had slackened for a mere second and she was paying for it deeply.

Just as Carinn was slowing, her tears for the moment stopped, she heard a gentle knock at the locker room door. Looking up, ready to snap angrily at the soldier who would surely enter and tell her to go back to the kitchen where she belonged, Carinn was surprised to see a familiar–and friendly–face. There stood Fissar: Fissar, the cripple with the twisted knee; Fissar, the runt who had never been strong a day in his life.

Fissar came in quietly, walking unevenly on his deformed leg. He carefully lowered himself to the floor next to Carinn and handed her a canteen filled with cold water. Refusing to look at Fissar, she took it and gulped greedily, letting some of the refreshing water slide down her chin and neck. He watched with a straight face, waiting for her to finish before taking back the canteen. He then leaned against the stone wall and closed his eyes, looking as if he could fall asleep.

Carinn stared at him rudely, not understanding why he was there and wishing that he would go away. If she was going to wallow in self-pity and weakness, then she wanted to do it alone. She didn’t want the cripple there to remind her that she was useless, like him.

“Blistering hot today,” he said drowsily, still with his eyes closed. “Enough to make anyone snap.”

“What would you know?” Carinn muttered unkindly. “You’re always inside.”

Fissar shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Still hot.”

Carinn snorted and wished again that he would go away. He was only annoying her. She was about to tell him so when he spoke again in a tone.

“It’s hard when people don’t understand,” he said sadly. “They put me inside because they think I can’t do heavy work like the rest of you. I can’t. But then they expect me to not complain. To act as if this is normal. And I don’t complain. I do the silly work they give me. I don’t tell them when my knee is bothering me and I’m longing desperately to be healed, to be able to do strong things. I don’t complain, and they just don’t know. It’s hard to have a secret weakness like that.”

Carinn felt little sympathy for Fissar. He hadn’t just lost his career like she had–he’d never had one to begin with. “Yeah well, you’re not the only weak one around here,” she said sourly. “You didn’t just lose everything with one spilled crate of grain.”

“No, I didn’t,” Fissar agreed easily, still not having opened his eyes.

Carinn shook her head, angry with herself for having made such a horrible mistake. “I needed the pay the army would get me,” she told Fissar. “That was going to support my family. My husband–he tries hard to bring home an income, but the crops aren’t growing in this drought. He can’t keep the fields watered and so he has nothing to sell at market. That leaves it up to me–and my pathetic pay right now isn’t cutting it.”

“You have kids?” Fissar asked, sounding faintly surprised.

Carinn nodded, new tears filling her eyes. “My little boy, Tommas, and two girls, Caty and Liviann. They don’t want much, and they know that their parents work hard to care for them, but I know that they’re sad. Their friends have nice clothes and toys, but they have hand-me-downs and have to play with sticks and rocks.” Carinn’s throat tightened as she said, “There are days when I look into Liviann’s eyes and see nothing but despair. She’s sad that her mum has to work so hard and that her dad doesn’t sleep at night. She’s sad that her brother and sister don’t have nice things. She’s especially sad because there’s nothing she can do to help. She’s the oldest–she understands more than the others that our family isn’t okay. And that’s painful for me as a mother to have to bear.”

Fissar opened his eyes then, giving Carinn a compassionate look and putting a gentle hand over hers. Choking on sobs, Carinn said, “I work so hard for them, trying to make sure that they’ll be okay, but I barely see them anymore. When I come home at night, they’re already sleeping in bed. When I get up in the morning, I have only enough time to wake them and make breakfast before I have to kiss them goodbye and leave for the day. I spend one day a week with my kids, and I’m usually too tired to do anything fun with them. And my husband never stops working. He’s always in the field, trying to get the crops to grow. There are days when I feel like my kids don’t even have parents.”

“You’re doing the best you can,” Fissar murmured comfortingly, but Carinn shook her head.

“No, I’m not. I just lost my job, I know I did. The people here expect me to work so damn hard, to be so damn strong, but they don’t understand that I have the weight of my family bearing on my shoulders. They don’t understand that I can’t be as strong as they need me to be. And so I’ve failed. I have no strength.”

Fissar squeezed her fingers and said, “You have more strength than any of them. None of them could rise every morning and come to work the whole day if they were in the same situation. It takes an incredibly strong woman to leave her children so that she can care for them. You’re stronger than everyone else, but what they don’t understand is that most of your strength is beneath the surface, where they can’t see it. They don’t understand that your soul can carry a thousand crates of grain. Sometimes, people just don’t understand.”

Carinn nodded sadly, crushed by the knowledge that it was this misunderstanding that was hurting her family. “I wish that they did understand,” she said softly.

Fissar sighed. “It can break a person, not being understood. When no one tries, people snap. They bend under the weight of assumptions and expectations. There aren’t enough people to listen.”

They fell into silence as Fissar sat in his peaceful way and Carinn let his words wash over her. Then, letting go of Carinn’s hand, Fissar struggled to his feet, stumbling on his bad leg, and gave her one last sympathetic smile. “You’re strong enough for your whole family,” he said softly, and then turned and limped from the locker room. Carinn watched him leave silently, her chest feeling empty. It was a good emptiness.

There aren’t enough people to listen, she thought quietly, but sometimes, one is all you need.

***

There are days when I don’t feel good. I go to school or work or wherever feeling low, depleted, and weak before I’ve even started working. I’m tired and angry, but I don’t act that way. I act normally, as if nothing’s wrong. I keep it inside because there is a great deal of misunderstanding. Sometimes, strength is mistaken for weakness, and a single moment of vulnerability is considered inadequacy. That’s hard to bear, and so I stay silent.

But sometimes, if we’re lucky, a hero will come by. Someone who will close their eyes and stop paying attention to the weakness they see on the outside. They’ll stop to listen, and they’ll see the strength that’s on the inside, buried beneath the struggle and the pain. Sometimes, we don’t need a hero who can fix our problems and give us strength. Sometimes, we just need a hero who will make the effort to understand.

If I’m ever to become a hero, this is the kind of hero I want to be.

It’s a bit of a long post, I know–the story’s been in my head for a while and once I started writing, well, I couldn’t get my fingers to shut up. I guess that’s what happens when you don’t talk a whole lot–the words have to get out somehow.

Do you have a hero who will listen?

May you always have someone who will close their eyes and listen to your inner strength, and may you be able to do the same.

-Alex