Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Excavations of the Soul
Okay, so I'm not a great blogger. But I do write a booklet each year to give to my family and friends about my experiences of the previous year and what I learned etc. I've decided to share it on my blog. So, for your viewing/reading pleasure, here is my 2011 booklet, titled "Excavations of the Soul." Enjoy!
Excavations of the Soul
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
El Recado (The Message)
When I was in school at BYU, I took several Spanish classes to get enough credits to fill out a minor in Spanish teaching. In my Spanish Literature class one day we read a short story, (which I think is more of a letter) called, "El Recado," The Message, by a woman named Elena Poniatowski. It caught my eye and touched me in a different sort of way. Let me give you a quick synopsis (and then I will post the story at the end of my blog post, and a translation for those of you who don't speak Spanish):
The woman in the story/letter goes to visit a man, named Martin, but he is not at home. One may assume that it is a boyfriend of sorts. The entire story is a sort of monologue/letter that she writes to him. She obviously cares deeply for him. She describes how she wants to be with him day after day, and she basically professes her deep love for him. She waits and waits for him and then the sun goes down. Obviously discouraged that he never arrives, she decides that the letter she is writing may not be the best option. She wants to tell him that she loves him, but decides, instead, to just go to the neighbor and have her relay a simple message that she came.
The message is, that she came. It's kind of a heartbreaking letter. She waits all day and never gets to see Martin. However, the reader is never quite sure what Martin's feelings are for this woman. The whole letter is full of uncertainty despite the woman's efforts to force her feelings and desires into reality.
At the beginning of my post I wrote that this story/letter touched me in an unusual way. It made me start to think about the role of women in the world and how they have sometimes been portrayed in the past and in today's society as the "docile" and submissive end of a relationship. Although much has been done to change the view of women, I feel like there is still some of that sentiment prevalent in many women themselves. They have this pervasive, smothering idea embedded in their minds that they must wait and wait and wait for the love of their life to decide whether he wants them or not, until it breeds desperation.
In "El Recado" the woman says that "all women wait." As the story unfolds and draws to a close, she does not give him the letter she has written as she has been waiting. Nor does she wait any longer. And I think that is significant.
"El Recado" Por Elena Poniatowski
Vine Martín, y no estás. Me he sentado en el peldaño de tu casa, recargada en tu puerta y pienso que en algún lugar de la ciudad, por una onda que cruza el aire, debes intuir que aquí estoy. Es este tu pedacito de jardín; tu mimosa se inclina hacia afuera y los niños al pasar le arranzan las ramas más accesibles... En la tierra, sembradas alrededor del muro, muy rectilíneas y serias veo unas flores que tienen hojas como espadas. Son azul marino, parecen soldados. Son muy graves, muy honestas. Tú también eres un soldado. Marchas por la vida, uno, dos, uno, dos... Todo tu jardín es sólido, es como tú, tiene una reciedumbre que inspira confianza.
Aquí estoy contra el muro de tu casa, así como estoy a veces contra el muro de tu espalda. El sol da también contra el vidrio de tus ventanas y poco a poco se debilita porque ya es tarde. El cielo enrojecido ha calentado tu madreselva y su olor se vuelve aún más penetrante. Es el atardecer. El día va a decaer. Tu vecina pasa. No sé si me habrá visto. Va a regar su pedazo de jardín. Recuerdo que ella te trae una sopa cuando estás enfermo y que su hija te pone inyecciones... Pienso en ti muy despacio, com si te dibujara dentro de mí y quedaras allí grabado. Quisiera tener la certeza de que te voy a ver mañana y pasado mañana y siempre en una cadena ininterrumpida de días; que podré mirarte lentamente aunque ya me sé cada rinconcito de tu rostro; que nada entre nosotros ha sido provisional o un accidente.
Estoy inclinada ante una hoja de papel y te escribo todo esto y pienso que ahora, en alguna cuadra donde camines apresurado, decidido como sueles hacerlo, en alguna de esas calles por donde te imagino siempre: Donceles y Cinco de Febrero o Venustiano Carranza, en alguna de esas banquetas grises y monocordes rotas sólo por el remolino de gente que va a tomar el camión, has de saber dentro de tí que te espero. Vine nada más a decirte que te quiero y como no estás te lo escribo. Ya casi no puedo escribir porque ya se fue el sol y no sé bien a bien lo que te pongo. Afuera pasan más niños, corriendo. Y una señora con una olla advierte irritada: "No me sacudas la mano porque voy a tirar la leche..." Y dejo este lápiz, Martín, y dejo la hoja rayada y dejo que mis brazos cuelguen inútilmente a lo largo de mi cuerpo y te espero. Pienso que te hubiera querido abrazar. A veces quisiera ser más vieja porque la juventud lleva en sí, la imperiosa, la implacable necesidad de relacionarlo todo con el amor.
Ladra un perro; ladra agresivamente. Creo que es hora de irme. Dentro de poco vendrá la vecina a prender la luz de tu casa; ella tiene llave y encenderá el foco de la recámara que da hacia afuera porque en esta colonia asaltan mucho, roban mucho. A los pobres les roban mucho; los pobres se roban entre sí... Sabes, desde mi infancia me he sentado así a esperar, siempre fui dócil, porque te esperaba. Sé que todas las mujeres aguardan. Aguardan la vida futura, todas esas imágenes forjadas en la soledad, todo ese bosque que camina hacia ellas; toda esa inmensa promesa que es el hombre; una granada que de pronto se abre y muestra sus granos rojos, lustrosos; una granada como una boca pulposa de mil gajos. Más tarde esas horas vividas en la imaginación, hechas horas reales, tendrán que cobrar peso y tamaño y crudeza. Todos estamos --oh mi amor-- tan llenos de retratos interiores, tan llenos de paisajes no vividos.
Ha caído la noche y ya ycasi no veo lo que estoy borroneando en la hoja rayada. Ya no percibo las letras. Allí donde no le entiendas en los espacios blancos, en los huecos, pon: "Te quiero..." No sé si voy a echar esta hoja debajo de la puerta, no sé. Me has dado un tal respeto de ti mismo... Quizá ahora que me vaya, sólo pase a pedirle a la vecina que te dé el recado: que te diga que vine.
"The Message" English Translation
I came to see you, Martin, and you are not here. I am sitting on the front step of your house, leaning against your door, and I think that in some place in the city, as if by a sound wave that passes through the air, you should know that I am here. This is your little garden; the mimosa is stretching and children passing by pull its closest branches. I see scattered around on the ground some very straight and formal flowers that have leaves like swords. They are navy blue and look like soldiers. They are very important, very honest. You are also a soldier. You are marching for your life one, two; one, two…Your whole garden is solid; it is like you with a strength that inspires confidence.
Here I am against the wall of your house, the way I sometimes lean against your back. The sun also strikes the windowpanes and because it is already late, it is gradually fading. The red-hot sun has warmed your honeysuckle, and its fragrance becoming even more penetrating. It is twilight. The day is drawing to a close. Your neighbor passes by. I don’t know if she sees me. She is going to water her little garden. I remember that she brings you noodle soup when you are sick, and that her daughter gives you injections…I think about you very deliberately, as if I drew you inside of me and you remained drawn there. I would like to be sure that I am going to see you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow and always in an uninterrupted chain of days; that I will be able to look at you slowly, even though I know every little corner of your face; that nothing between us has been provisional or accidental.
I am leaning over a piece of paper, and I am writing all this to you, and I think that now, in some city block where you may be walking in a hurry in your usual decisive way you are on one of those streets where I always imagine you to be: on the corner of Donceles and Cinco de Febrero or Venusiano Carranzana Street, seated on any of those monotonous gray benches which are broken only by the crowd of people hurrying to take the bus; you must know within yourself that I am waiting for you.
I came only to tell you that I love you, and because you are not here, I am writing to you. I can hardly write now because the sun already set. I’m not sure what I’m putting down. Outside more children come running by. And an irritated woman carrying a pot warns, “Don’t shake my hand because I will spill the milk…” And I drop the pencil, Martin, and I drop the lined paper, and I let my arms hang uselessly along my body, and I’m waiting for you.
I’m thinking that I would love to hug you. Sometimes I would like to be older because youth carries within itself the imperious, implacable need to relate everything to love.
A dog barks; a hostile bark. I think that it’s time for me to go. In a little while the neighbor will come to put on the lights of your house; she has the key and will put on the light in your bedroom, which faces out on the street, because in this neighborhood there are a lot of assaults and robberies. They rob the poor often; the poor rob each other…You know, since I was a child I have sat down like this to wait; I was always docile because I was waiting for you. I know that all women wait. They wait for future life, for all those images forged in solitude, for all that forest that moves toward them; for all that immense promise that is a man; a pomegranate that suddenly is opened and showed its shining red seed; a pomegranate like a ripe mouth with a thousand sections. Later those hours lived imagination, made into real hours, will have to take on weight and size and rawness. Oh, my love, we are so full of interior portraits, so full of unlived landscapes.
It is now nighttime and I almost cannot see what I am scribbling on this lined paper. I cannot perceive the letter. There, where you may not understand, put in the white empty spaces: “I love you…” I don’t know if I am going to slip this paper under your door; I don’t know. You have made me respect you…Perhaps now that I am leaving, I may stop only to ask your neighbor to give you the message; that she should tell you that I came.
The woman in the story/letter goes to visit a man, named Martin, but he is not at home. One may assume that it is a boyfriend of sorts. The entire story is a sort of monologue/letter that she writes to him. She obviously cares deeply for him. She describes how she wants to be with him day after day, and she basically professes her deep love for him. She waits and waits for him and then the sun goes down. Obviously discouraged that he never arrives, she decides that the letter she is writing may not be the best option. She wants to tell him that she loves him, but decides, instead, to just go to the neighbor and have her relay a simple message that she came.
The message is, that she came. It's kind of a heartbreaking letter. She waits all day and never gets to see Martin. However, the reader is never quite sure what Martin's feelings are for this woman. The whole letter is full of uncertainty despite the woman's efforts to force her feelings and desires into reality.
At the beginning of my post I wrote that this story/letter touched me in an unusual way. It made me start to think about the role of women in the world and how they have sometimes been portrayed in the past and in today's society as the "docile" and submissive end of a relationship. Although much has been done to change the view of women, I feel like there is still some of that sentiment prevalent in many women themselves. They have this pervasive, smothering idea embedded in their minds that they must wait and wait and wait for the love of their life to decide whether he wants them or not, until it breeds desperation.
In "El Recado" the woman says that "all women wait." As the story unfolds and draws to a close, she does not give him the letter she has written as she has been waiting. Nor does she wait any longer. And I think that is significant.
"El Recado" Por Elena Poniatowski
Vine Martín, y no estás. Me he sentado en el peldaño de tu casa, recargada en tu puerta y pienso que en algún lugar de la ciudad, por una onda que cruza el aire, debes intuir que aquí estoy. Es este tu pedacito de jardín; tu mimosa se inclina hacia afuera y los niños al pasar le arranzan las ramas más accesibles... En la tierra, sembradas alrededor del muro, muy rectilíneas y serias veo unas flores que tienen hojas como espadas. Son azul marino, parecen soldados. Son muy graves, muy honestas. Tú también eres un soldado. Marchas por la vida, uno, dos, uno, dos... Todo tu jardín es sólido, es como tú, tiene una reciedumbre que inspira confianza.
Aquí estoy contra el muro de tu casa, así como estoy a veces contra el muro de tu espalda. El sol da también contra el vidrio de tus ventanas y poco a poco se debilita porque ya es tarde. El cielo enrojecido ha calentado tu madreselva y su olor se vuelve aún más penetrante. Es el atardecer. El día va a decaer. Tu vecina pasa. No sé si me habrá visto. Va a regar su pedazo de jardín. Recuerdo que ella te trae una sopa cuando estás enfermo y que su hija te pone inyecciones... Pienso en ti muy despacio, com si te dibujara dentro de mí y quedaras allí grabado. Quisiera tener la certeza de que te voy a ver mañana y pasado mañana y siempre en una cadena ininterrumpida de días; que podré mirarte lentamente aunque ya me sé cada rinconcito de tu rostro; que nada entre nosotros ha sido provisional o un accidente.
Estoy inclinada ante una hoja de papel y te escribo todo esto y pienso que ahora, en alguna cuadra donde camines apresurado, decidido como sueles hacerlo, en alguna de esas calles por donde te imagino siempre: Donceles y Cinco de Febrero o Venustiano Carranza, en alguna de esas banquetas grises y monocordes rotas sólo por el remolino de gente que va a tomar el camión, has de saber dentro de tí que te espero. Vine nada más a decirte que te quiero y como no estás te lo escribo. Ya casi no puedo escribir porque ya se fue el sol y no sé bien a bien lo que te pongo. Afuera pasan más niños, corriendo. Y una señora con una olla advierte irritada: "No me sacudas la mano porque voy a tirar la leche..." Y dejo este lápiz, Martín, y dejo la hoja rayada y dejo que mis brazos cuelguen inútilmente a lo largo de mi cuerpo y te espero. Pienso que te hubiera querido abrazar. A veces quisiera ser más vieja porque la juventud lleva en sí, la imperiosa, la implacable necesidad de relacionarlo todo con el amor.
Ladra un perro; ladra agresivamente. Creo que es hora de irme. Dentro de poco vendrá la vecina a prender la luz de tu casa; ella tiene llave y encenderá el foco de la recámara que da hacia afuera porque en esta colonia asaltan mucho, roban mucho. A los pobres les roban mucho; los pobres se roban entre sí... Sabes, desde mi infancia me he sentado así a esperar, siempre fui dócil, porque te esperaba. Sé que todas las mujeres aguardan. Aguardan la vida futura, todas esas imágenes forjadas en la soledad, todo ese bosque que camina hacia ellas; toda esa inmensa promesa que es el hombre; una granada que de pronto se abre y muestra sus granos rojos, lustrosos; una granada como una boca pulposa de mil gajos. Más tarde esas horas vividas en la imaginación, hechas horas reales, tendrán que cobrar peso y tamaño y crudeza. Todos estamos --oh mi amor-- tan llenos de retratos interiores, tan llenos de paisajes no vividos.
Ha caído la noche y ya ycasi no veo lo que estoy borroneando en la hoja rayada. Ya no percibo las letras. Allí donde no le entiendas en los espacios blancos, en los huecos, pon: "Te quiero..." No sé si voy a echar esta hoja debajo de la puerta, no sé. Me has dado un tal respeto de ti mismo... Quizá ahora que me vaya, sólo pase a pedirle a la vecina que te dé el recado: que te diga que vine.
"The Message" English Translation
I came to see you, Martin, and you are not here. I am sitting on the front step of your house, leaning against your door, and I think that in some place in the city, as if by a sound wave that passes through the air, you should know that I am here. This is your little garden; the mimosa is stretching and children passing by pull its closest branches. I see scattered around on the ground some very straight and formal flowers that have leaves like swords. They are navy blue and look like soldiers. They are very important, very honest. You are also a soldier. You are marching for your life one, two; one, two…Your whole garden is solid; it is like you with a strength that inspires confidence.
Here I am against the wall of your house, the way I sometimes lean against your back. The sun also strikes the windowpanes and because it is already late, it is gradually fading. The red-hot sun has warmed your honeysuckle, and its fragrance becoming even more penetrating. It is twilight. The day is drawing to a close. Your neighbor passes by. I don’t know if she sees me. She is going to water her little garden. I remember that she brings you noodle soup when you are sick, and that her daughter gives you injections…I think about you very deliberately, as if I drew you inside of me and you remained drawn there. I would like to be sure that I am going to see you tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow and always in an uninterrupted chain of days; that I will be able to look at you slowly, even though I know every little corner of your face; that nothing between us has been provisional or accidental.
I am leaning over a piece of paper, and I am writing all this to you, and I think that now, in some city block where you may be walking in a hurry in your usual decisive way you are on one of those streets where I always imagine you to be: on the corner of Donceles and Cinco de Febrero or Venusiano Carranzana Street, seated on any of those monotonous gray benches which are broken only by the crowd of people hurrying to take the bus; you must know within yourself that I am waiting for you.
I came only to tell you that I love you, and because you are not here, I am writing to you. I can hardly write now because the sun already set. I’m not sure what I’m putting down. Outside more children come running by. And an irritated woman carrying a pot warns, “Don’t shake my hand because I will spill the milk…” And I drop the pencil, Martin, and I drop the lined paper, and I let my arms hang uselessly along my body, and I’m waiting for you.
I’m thinking that I would love to hug you. Sometimes I would like to be older because youth carries within itself the imperious, implacable need to relate everything to love.
A dog barks; a hostile bark. I think that it’s time for me to go. In a little while the neighbor will come to put on the lights of your house; she has the key and will put on the light in your bedroom, which faces out on the street, because in this neighborhood there are a lot of assaults and robberies. They rob the poor often; the poor rob each other…You know, since I was a child I have sat down like this to wait; I was always docile because I was waiting for you. I know that all women wait. They wait for future life, for all those images forged in solitude, for all that forest that moves toward them; for all that immense promise that is a man; a pomegranate that suddenly is opened and showed its shining red seed; a pomegranate like a ripe mouth with a thousand sections. Later those hours lived imagination, made into real hours, will have to take on weight and size and rawness. Oh, my love, we are so full of interior portraits, so full of unlived landscapes.
It is now nighttime and I almost cannot see what I am scribbling on this lined paper. I cannot perceive the letter. There, where you may not understand, put in the white empty spaces: “I love you…” I don’t know if I am going to slip this paper under your door; I don’t know. You have made me respect you…Perhaps now that I am leaving, I may stop only to ask your neighbor to give you the message; that she should tell you that I came.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Very Profound...
I just finished reading some blogs that have been written by family and friends. They are very informative and some of them are written so well. It kind of makes me discouraged. I don't really have anything profound to say and I definitely don't know how to make it sound profound even if it isn't.
Oh well. It's almost dinner time and my big- wait, GINORMOUS- cat just plopped down on my lap and is shedding like it's time to get a new coat or something. So that means this blog won't be too painfully long. And I just found out my nephews are coming over to play!
Oh well. It's almost dinner time and my big- wait, GINORMOUS- cat just plopped down on my lap and is shedding like it's time to get a new coat or something. So that means this blog won't be too painfully long. And I just found out my nephews are coming over to play!
So, I didn't get my blog post finished before my nephews arrived. We played with some puzzles, fire trucks, and cars. Then we decided to watch a movie. Here's a video of Lincoln watching "Baby Mormon." You'll notice if you watch closely that he is using some blueberry flavored chapstick quite liberally. (If you ask me, I think he's eating it. But good for him! You've got to live a little while you're a kid!) I'm trying to think of something profound to say about chapstick...or eating it. I guess I'll work on that.
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