A wrap-up post for my sophomore year at Gutenberg is long overdue, but, like has been true of so many things lately, I am finding it difficult to write about. Not because of any particularly traumatizing event that took place during it (well, okay, there were the two year exams), but because at the end of the year, all my memories and experiences from it got packed up into a neat little box like the rest of my belongings, and I am only now starting to open that box and examine them, one by one.

So, for now, in lieu of explaining a great deal about this past year, let me share with you something I made this afternoon on a break from wedding-photo editing:

Behold: 100 photos taken on my computer during the ‘07-’08 school year. It’s amazing how much is wrapped up in each one of these silly little pictures; each one brings its own context rushing back to me. Of course, that doesn’t help you very much, but… still, it might help you get a glimpse into the up-and-down roller-coaster that was my sophomore year.

P.S. I passed all of my two year exams, by the way. And finished all of my coursework. Meaning: I am officially a junior. Unbelievable. =-o

Yesterday evening, I worked my very last closing shift at my anonymous retail location. I helped my last customer, I made my last 10-minute announcement, I answered the phone one last time. And after three years, even though it was not always my favorite place to be, I can safely say that I will miss the place.

A large part of what made this job fulfilling (in addition to many great co-workers) was the fact that my brother worked there with me for my first two and a half years. Our time working together saw us develop a unique bond (at family gatherings, we never tired of swapping work stories), but it also saw Brian tirelessly chipping away at my immaturity with his constant encouragement to do a good job even when I didn’t want to. I really can’t thank him enough for taking the time to chide me when necessary; I truly believe I am more responsible because of his efforts.

So, why did I leave? The short answer is: it was time. It was time because I had worked there almost three years; it was time because I am moving back to school in just a few short weeks; it was time because my photography business is picking up and I intend to pursue it with all the gumption I can muster; it was time because I can’t do that and work at a store during the school year.

Oh yes, I really am going for “this photography business,” as I have taken to referring to it. It has been at the forefront of my mind through the entire summer, and lest you think I haven’t been taking pictures just because my Flickr stream has not been updated, I can assure you that I am sitting on all kinds of delightful photos that I can’t wait to share with you. Patience, friends. Patience.

But for the time being, I am editing like crazy and taking care of mundane (but kind of exciting) business details—and trying to absorb the fact that I am no longer “employed.” I’ve called life “an interesting ride” many a time, and it seems like the next year will not disappoint. Hold on tight.

(This post contains a BIG spoiler for the Star Wars novel Sacrifice. You’ve been warned.)

I know, I know.

Star Wars is not real. Mara Jade is a fictional character. Authors have a right to do what they will with their fictional characters. Yada yada yada…

But… do you even know how many hours I put into this website? Do you know how many more hours I spent longing to be Mara Jade? Or at least to meet her? Yeah, I thought not.

So, what do you think they did in the latest Star Wars novel? They killed her off!

Never mind the fact that I have not read a single Star Wars novel or spent more than thirty seconds thinking about Mara Jade for the last four years; I am still taking this personally. I wish there was some way I could rectify this horrible atrocity—but it seems the deed has been done, so all I can really say is…

… Mara lives, folks. MARA LIVES.

One year ago today, I wrote a little post called “Welcome to Lylium.org.”

Happy birthday, Lylium. It’s been quite a year.

Tonight at work I had the distinct pleasure of meeting a very well-spoken woman.

I discovered this fact about her as I was ringing up some dog paraphernalia she was purchasing. She informed me that the dogs on the cards and ornaments she was buying were called Westies. “I have a Westie at home,” she said, “and she’s very aunry.”

I stopped and stared.

“What did you just say?”

“She’s very aunry.”

I still remember the day I discovered the controversy surrounding the word ‘ornery’. I must have been only nine or ten, sitting hunched over my little Performa, furiously tapping away at some undoubtedly eloquent prose.

That’s when it happened: I tried to call someone or something in whatever I was writing ‘aunry.’ I was usually good at spelling, but for some reason I could not call to mind the spelling of this word. I suddenly realized that I had never actually seen it in print. I knew exactly what it meant—stubborn, willful, unpleasant—because I had been called ‘aunry’ by somebody at least once every day for the first seven years of my existence—but I hadn’t the foggiest idea how to spell it.

I figured I would be able to sound it out phonetically. I tried ‘aunry’, ‘onry’, ‘aunrie’, ‘onrie’, each attempt looking more ridiculous than the one before. After several minutes of quiet consternation, I finally asked my mom, the resident expert on the English language, how it was spelled.

“ORNERY?” I exclaimed, sounding out the strange syllables after she showed me the word in the dictionary. How could a word pronounced ‘aunry’ be spelled ‘ORNERY’? This did not make any sense to my ten-year-old brain.

But growing older (and hopefully wiser) means coming to terms with the fact that your own family’s idiosyncrasies are not the only way to do things. Alternatively, it means coming to terms with the fact that everyone in the world except your family does things wrong. I chose the latter route.

Ever since that fateful discovery I have refused to succumb to my friends’ insidious suggestion that ‘ornery’ might actually be pronounced just like it is spelled. I am not sure where my family picked up ‘aunry’—I can only assume it is southern in origin—but now that I have grown up with it I WILL NOT BE TURNED.

So you can imagine my joy this evening, while standing behind the cash register of the anonymous retail location employing me, when that wonderful woman up and said “AUNRY.” Oh, that wonderful woman, and her wonderful, aunry, aunry Westie. I felt like I was facing a long lost relative. Stars danced in front of my eyes, somewhere a band of fiddles struck up, and I reached across the counter and embraced her as I squealed, “Auntie May, you’ve come HOME!”

Just kidding. Actually, I just kind of stood there staring at her until we both felt awkward and then I finally sputtered “You… you say that word right!”

She laughed politely, then turned equally politely away from the counter and started looking at more merchandise, obviously unwilling to acknowledge the fact that there was any other way to say that word. My kind of woman.

I reluctantly continued ringing up and bagging her merchandise, all notions of bringing her back to the farm to bake pies with us slowly slipping from my mind.

But I will always remember her—the woman who proved once and for all how the word ‘ornery’ is correctly pronounced. And don’t any of you try to tell me any different.

Christmas has come and gone. We had a lovely little celebration with our family, from which I will eventually post pictures. In the meantime, please enjoy this column which I wrote for 20Below about Christmas. It was published in the paper today, and you can read it online. But I am also copying it into my blog so that it will be saved if that link ever breaks.

Here it is:

One night, when I was about 7 or 8, I sat in the back seat of our family car with my nose pressed against the cold glass. It was a long drive home, and I occupied myself by staring at the headlights of the oncoming cars, watching them creep closer and closer to our car until WHOOSH! they were gone behind us into the night.

Somehow, this reminded me of looking forward to something. You waited and watched as the special event crept ever closer, and then suddenly in the blink of an eye it was gone.

That is exactly how I experienced Christmas. Around Thanksgiving I would start to realize that my favorite holiday was right around the corner, waiting for me at the end of a torturously long month. As the big day approached, my parents and my brother and I would put up decorations, get a Christmas tree, watch our sputtering VHS tape full of cartoon Christmas specials, and count the days on our Advent calendar.

Finally, I would find myself lying in bed on Christmas Eve, clutching my comforter and squeezing my eyes shut, trying desperately to stop thinking about the next morning so it would just be here.

Christmas was simple back then. Our traditions were comfortingly familiar, year after year. It was never something to worry about it was only something to enjoy. But, like most things in life, Christmas has become more complicated as I have grown older.

Some of the complications are small: my older brother, who used to enforce our Christmas traditions like they were scripture, has moved out and become married. And while we love his wife and her family, watching him start to separate his traditions from ours is bittersweet.

What’s more, my brother and his wife may be moving to another state next year, and I probably will have moved away from home. Next Christmas, our family’s landscape will be completely different. And even though these changes are good, they tug at the heartstrings of that little girl who loved sitting around the tree on Christmas morning with her family.

But some of the complications are more significant. I don’t know whether the world has really become sadder since I was little, or whether I am only now beginning to really see and understand it. I suspect it is the latter. In either case, many of my dearest friends and family have sadness and struggles in their lives—illness, family tensions, loneliness problems that will not magically disappear because of Christmas.

As a child, I heard about people who didn’t get excited about Christmas. They were the reason that the “Whos down in Who-ville” had to reach out to the Grinch—the reason that Tiny Tim had to melt Scrooge’s heart. But I never understood how anyone could actually feel that way.

Now, in light of our messy lives, and the changes and struggles that come at all of us throughout the year, I understand that we could all use some encouragement at Christmastime.

Of course, some things never change. I really do still enjoy Christmas I still love the decorations, the music, the times I get to spend with my family. And Christmas still feels like a car speeding past us in the night.

But now, with a few years of perspective, I can see that while Christmas is an exciting, wonderful time, it is not as simple as I used to believe. And now, more than ever, I appreciate the story of the baby born so long ago in Bethlehem. It is a story that should bring hope to us all, no matter what our Christmas looks like this year.

Because, as Linus put it, “That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.”

Tonight I did something that I did not expect I would be brave enough to do. I opened up my journal.

I have always been a bit fickle about keeping a journal. I have a shelf full of half-empty diaries and notebooks starting from the time I was six that I simply stopped writing in for some reason or another.

But despite my inability to stick to one journal and finish it, writing in a book appeals to me. The sensation of pen stroking paper has always made me tingle with a happiness to which blogging cannot compare.

Anyway, this afternoon I bought some new pens, and I felt that I needed a good way to break them in, so I decided to bring out my latest journal and write a little—the old fashioned way.

The journal in question is one that I started in April of 2004. It is also a book that I have not touched since I broke up with Elijah earlier this year. I could give you a whole list of reasons for this—but I suppose it really breaks down to a combination of my native procrastination and the fact that I was terrified of what I would find inside.

But tonight I bit the bullet and looked through the entire journal. And a funny thing happened as I read through those entries that talked about my years with Elijah, through the good times and the bad—they didn’t hurt.

Instead of finding pain in the knowledge that things didn’t work out the way I hoped they would, I found lessons in every naive word I had committed to paper. I also found a certain peace about my relationship with Elijah. Not that I exactly was not at peace about it—I honestly have not been thinking about it much for quite a while—but reading through those journal entries resolved issues that I did not even know I had. Time truly does bring perspective—a fact that you cannot appreciate until that time has already passed.

A couple of entries leaped out at me as being particularly clear—and still helpful to me in my struggles today. So, although I am still debating the wisdom of posting such personal thoughts on the internet, I want to share two parts of entries with you because I think that some truth crept out of these words that might be beneficial to others, just like it was to me:

“Erin, this is more important than anything: keep your life in perspective. You are not made for this life; this is not the place in which to seek fulfillment. This life will fail you—its fleshly pleasure will fail you. You will fail yourself. Elijah may be your ally, your true friend—he may be a person that can boost you above the treacherous waters once in a while, but he is not your life preserver. You, he and your relationship are all subject to one person: God. God is the One to whom you must cling in stormy weather. He is the One on whom your life must be centered. Your relationship with Elijah is a wonderful gift—and hopefully you can help each other stay centered on the truly important Truths. But that is the key: you must stay centered on God and the Truth. The moment that Elijah becomes more important to you than God, you jeopardize your relationship and both of your salvations. So, Erin–please keep your life in perspective. Even if it changes what you thought you wanted, it will only make you stronger.”

From another entry, about three months later, some thoughts on death:

“Death is a hideous beast that creeps up on all of us. It is the elephant in the living room that everyone is so desperate to avoid noticing. … I take my youth and energy so much for granted—but the answer is not to become so grateful for them that I cling to them to save me. Each one of us must come to terms with mortality. It is not wrong to hate death; it is an ugly, soulless vacuum that taunts us. It is not wrong to hate it, because it is the embodiment of what is wrong with this world. It is not wrong to hate it—as long as we realize that it is not the end.

If I could have one truth tatooed in my brain so I could never forget it, it would be this: This world is not our home. IT IS NOT MY HOME. You see how clearly everything falls into place when illuminated by that truth? All of the sin, and grief, and pain and chaos, and despair, and heartache—all the silly priorities we set up for ourselves—all the times I’ve set myself before another person, when I should have helped them—all of it can be seen in heartbreaking perspective. God is in control. This is not our home.

Death is still difficult to accept. It is a hard pill to swallow for every human being on the face of the earth. But we must come to terms with it, not hide from it—because God is in control, and death is a necessary step in the journey to meet our creator.”

There you go. Two letters to myself, from myself, written about two years ago. I hope they give you some food for thought.

Happy 26th birthday, Brian!

Thanks for being a pretty swell big brother.

I have taken some flak (or at least some well-deserved questioning looks) for the huge number of photos of myself displayed on this website. So I feel I should just warn you up front that this entry is chock full of pictures of me… but don’t worry, they are ALL EMBARRASSING.

Last week, when I was trying to decide what to be for Halloween, I took the opportunity to search through our family photo albums and pull out every single photo of me in a Halloween costume. Then I lined them up in chronological order, and realized that there has been a consistent thread weaving its way through my life: dorkiness.

And then, because the embarrassment of reminding myself what a dork I am was not enough, I had to post those same photos on the internet for the entire world to see.

So, here, for my own twisted amusement, are some highlights from my career as a wee Trick-or-Treater:

Halloween 1988

My first Halloween. I was born in September of 1988. So by the time Halloween rolled around, I was still only a small stub of a human being. My big brother Brian, who was eight at the time, was dressed up as a Ghostbuster. So Mom, being the creative and resourceful individual that she is, decided that her brand new baby daughter would make the perfect accessory to his costume.

That’s right, she put me in baby carrier, stuffed a white blanket around me, and affixed a smily face to my forehead. I think that look on Mom’s face in this picture can correctly be interpreted as, “Yeah, I dressed one of my children as a ghost, and the other as a ghostbuster. What are you going to do about it?”

Halloweens 1989 & 1990

Forever to be known as “The years that I was Supergirl twice.”

Some things to notice about these pictures: 1. I was Supergirl. Twice. 2. I had curly hair when I was a toddler. 3. Dad was pretty young looking in 1989.

Halloween 1991

First in a long tradition of costumes recycled from my brother. In this case, he had been “Buddy Blue,” a character from the TV show Rainbow Brite. A few years later, I was basically the same thing, except with bunny ears.

I think a look a little rightfully indignant about that fact in this picture.

Halloween 1992

… I don’t even know what to say.

Halloween 1994

This was the year I went as “Purple Sweatpants Girl!” No, really… this was another recycled costume from Brian. But the main thing I remember about this year is that it rained buckets on us all night, and that poor little “Batgirl” got so soaked that her mother made her take a warm bath immediately when she got home. (Which, I might mention, interfered directly with Bat Girl’s plan to begin immediate consumption of candy upon returning home. But I guess she survived.)

Halloween 1996

This Ladybug getup was an original. I remember that Mom and I pulled this together in one afternoon out of materials in our “Dress-Up” bucket when I realized in desperation that I did not have a Halloween costume. (Really, in case you didn’t know, Mom was a champ when it came to helping us with our Halloween costumes.)

THE END.

All of our other Halloween pictures are either too grainy to be worth much or they are T.N.T.T.O.A.T.A.S.T.E. (”Too Near The Threshold of Ages That Are Still Too Embarrassing.”)

You’ll have to excuse me for this self-indulgent journey back through time. “Man,” you’re thinking, “These bloggers; if they don’t have kids to post endless pictures of, they post picture of themselves as kids!” To which I say… erm, you’re right. But at least I’m up front about it, right? Right.

P.S. Mom would like me to tell you that the Smiley Face wasn’t really affixed to my forehead, it was affixed to a hat on my forehead. She thinks the first one sounds neglectful. I think she’s just feeling guilty.

P.P.S. Mom would now like me to tell you that actually nothing was affixed to my forehead, because I was facing backwards in the baby carrier. So that’s the back of my head you’re seeing. Piddling details.

Yesterday was perfect Halloween weather here in Eugene. Actually, it was just perfect weather, period. There is something enormously uplifting about cold, crisp, sunny autumn afternoons. I wish I could bottle up that feeling and bring it out on overwhelmingly gray days like today, when all my brain wants to do is shut off and go back to sleep.

When I was little, Halloween was a big deal. I still remember the palpable excitement I felt, rocking back and forth on my chair at the dining table, unable to finish my pizza because I COULD NOT WAIT for it to be dark so my little friends would arrive in their little costumes. Then we would canvass the neighborhood with our parents, searching for those elusive king-size candy bars and daring each other to go to that one house that was SO SCARY.

I am no longer a Trick-or-Treater; in fact, I was only eleven or twelve when I joined the ranks of the lame people who stay at home doing homework and don’t even carve Jack-O-Lanterns. Some crotchety part of me really objects to teenagers Trick-or-Treating. Come on, folks, leave the candy for the kids!

But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy Halloween. In fact, to be perfectly honest, right next to that crotchety part of myself there is an eternally youthful part that will never get tired of playing “Dress-Up.” I love costumes. So I was stoked to wear one for the Gutenberg Halloween party last weekend.

This year I decided to turn my love of photography into a party activity. Using some gorgeous red curtains I borrowed from my mom and an awesome light that I borrowed from a friend, I set up a makeshift photo studio in a room off of Gutenberg’s foyer. The resulting photos of everyone in their costumes are every bit as dramatic and fun as I had hoped they would be. You can see all of the photos from the Halloween party in a Flickr set here. I highly suggest you go look at them; there are a few gems.

Oh, and me? I went as Rita Skeeter, the “Enchantingly nasty” reporter-woman from Harry Potter.

… I will let you draw your own conclusions about the fittingness of that costume choice.