What it Means to be a Sister

Being a sister is quite the adventure. I say this for the many times I've almost been traumatically amputated.

Despite this, I've got a definite soft spot for the two little munchkins I'm so blessed to call my sisters. As the oldest, I basically have this certificate that permits me to mess you up if you even think about hurting one of my little angels (though blackmail is much more classy, honestly). I couldn't imagine life without these girls; they're so eccentric, supportive, energizing, slightly insane, uplifting, and made of every little thing that lights up my life.

There's Jackie, who's the responsible (*cough* bossy) middle child, and she's about as goofy and tenderhearted as they come, but when it boils down to it she's one of the toughest people I know. She doesn't take crap from anyone, especially those who pick on the underdog (especially if that underdog actually IS a dog). Jackie knows exactly what she wants in life, or rather, wants to do for others in life, and is wholly unabashed in her pursuit to serve that purpose. Then there's Olivia-- bubbly, loud, sparkling with enthusiasm, optimistic, driven, studious, and intelligent. She always puts 100% effort into her life, be it in gymnastics, school, or improv comedy performances at home, and her motto is "Don't practice until you get it right, practice until you can't get it wrong." I'm so proud of both of them. They're unique, beautiful, and spirited; and they teach me far more than I do them. I thought it would be opposite, when I became a big sister. I thought I'd be doing the instructing, and I was wrong.

Instead, I gained a motto; "Ohana means family. Family means whoop anyone who hurts 'em."

My sisters really do care for me. I remember one time I was in some bizarre emotional state and started breaking down into sobs over the fact that no one had ever brought me flowers. No sooner had my sisters heard this than they dashed out of the room and returned with an impromptu bouquet of irises and wild mustard. They may actually be angels, and now I'm on a mission to prove it :P

That's not to say there isn't dissension. Oh no, believe me, there's a lot of it. About half of my arguments with Olivia are, regrettably, very petty. The most notable of which was about eggs (long story). Another time, Jackie gave me a Christmas card, no gift accompanying it, the only inscription being a lengthy explanation of "You owe me ten dollars". Merry Christmas to you too, Jackie!

Ah, lovely memories.

They've given me a fair share of scares, too, and I'm pretty sure the vast majority of them qualify for inclusion in the "Dumb Ways to Die" song. Jackie put an arcade token in her mouth and choked on it while jumping up and down on the bed. Olivia nearly hung herself in the drapery. Then there was the time Jackie wanted to play lifeguard and Olivia, God bless her, actually experienced a not-so-fun episode of unfairly realistic drowning. her commitment to the game was fierce. Gotta love 'em.

I've always watched from a distance as they did everything together. I grew up and became a loner far too quickly. There was only room for two in playing Mommy and Baby, or Kitty and Owner. Jackie was the mothering type, and Olivia loved being (s)mothered (in affection). It just worked out like that. I was to be mature and responsible, an aptitude for which Jackie seemed by far more fitting. I often felt shut off from them, loving them but never really quite there. I was the kind of sister who would take you out for ice cream only to be shooed to another table, or call "Dance party in my room!" and have no one show up.

No, this isn't a pity party. I'm about to tell you why I finally realized this is my fault. Though I tried to be a loving sister, I was also a hot and cold sister. One minute I'd be pushing everyone out of my room for "invading my space", and the next I'd just expect them to flock back in for some quality time. You can imagine why it seemed like they favored each other. In reality, it was me shifting between two extremes of "You always get me in trouble, leave me alone!" and "Hey sweetheart, I bought you this necklace!" Yes, sometimes, I will admit, I have been deliberately mean. I have been frustrated, tired, vengeful, moody, snappy; all of the above. And because of this, my own actions, I have spent so much time on the outs.

I still do remain there, because there are memories I can't make up for so easily.

It's a difficult thing, changing who you have been. Oftentimes it doesn't come as easily as just giving an apology. I know that in my past jealousy over parental affections, I very much damaged my relationship with Olivia. I can't forgive myself for the hurt I caused a little child who just wanted her big sister to care for her, like I should have. If I can't forgive me, how can she?

Another failure on my part was a lack of understanding for the love languages. Olivia is a strong Words of Affirmation, Jackie is first and foremost Quality Time followed by "buying a puppy". I thought that if I bought them trinkets and made some snacks that they would feel unconditionally loved, even if I got snappy or wanted my space. I didn't understand just how unloving it was to set up treats for the tea party but wander off to my room instead of dining with the stuffed animals and my little sisters. I should never have believed in the phrase, "I'm too old for this", or another even worse one, "This isn't worth my time".

Oh, believe me. When you look back on these moments you'll regret every second of not living them, realizing just how precious and worth it they were all along. Those times are always worth it-- I don't care if your quasi-boyfriend is on the phone or you're missing the beginning of your favorite TV show or whatever else you've convinced yourself takes priority; sit down and have tea with the five-year-old who is looking up at you with adoring eyes and calling you "sithy" though gaping front teeth. Those are the things truly worth remembering.

Things changed about two years back. It took me several miserable months of a head-spinning paradigm shift, but I got my act together. The big point I don't want you to miss is this: It's okay to get angry. It's not okay to hurt people because of it, especially those who love you most. The Bible says this: "In your anger, do not sin" (Eph 4:26); "A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control" (Prov 29:11). Buddha says, "You will not be punished for your anger, but you will be punished by your anger." Mark Twain (Yes I know, he's not the patriarch of a religion) said, "Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured."

It seems that every major spiritual and philosophical feature, these used as examples, deals at least in some part to the nature of anger. It's a struggle common to all of humanity, which is of course no surprise to anyone who's looked at the news for two minutes. Everyone's prone to some moments of giant rage. The important thing is knowing how to take deep breaths, several if you have to, and look on with love.

I'm not that kind of sister anymore who's something to be afraid of. I've built my strengths and broken down my weaknesses, an ongoing process which will be worthwhile but always open to more renovation. Now I'm the kind of sister who cooks Mac n' Cheese, brings home flowers, protects her little angels with the full-grown fury of a Mama Bear, listens to stories, carves out time to help with homework, and (hopefully) holds her tongue a little more.

That's what it means to be the oldest sister. It means having the blessing of a family that refines you into the best version of yourself that you can possibly be.

(Now if you'll excuse me, I have some Mac n' cheese to make.)

The Music of Nothing

I care a lot about music for someone who's going deaf.

My mom says she thinks it started when I was much younger, the details of which are not important, but at the epicenter of all this she had a child who learned to sing do-re-mis before she spoke them and yet would one day cease to sing at all. They found out at some standard procedure audiometry exam when I was in third grade; a little bird whispered, "By the way, you can't hear in your left ear". So it goes. We had hope, of course, as all people do before they're told not to. Year after year, the hearing worsened, deteriorating... into nothing.

For all that I profess as to the virtues of silence, I am a person favoring a steady susurrus of faint classical music, jingling bells in some room far away, slow breaths, and the drum of an almost-broken washing machine. Such sounds are my constant companions. When I step outside, I hear the birds twittering, gentle breezes caressing the trees, and the faint beat of footsteps, and mechanical noises that come with living above a city. I love the sound of rain and the sporadic cackles of fire. I love the pulse and sound of my heartbeat, two senses I can't untangle. I love the color of someone's voice as they laugh and the shape it makes as it hangs in the air. And names. Oh, I love names.

When I was reading Stargirl (Jerry Spinelli), I became enthralled at this character who so embodies everything I am and want to be. As soon as I heard her names, I knew that for a single second, my soul was understood. Yes, names. Susan, Stargirl, Hullygully, Mudpie, Pocket Mouse...  Someone like me. All through my life I've felt that names were a different kind of meaningless than everyone thought. They're meant to encompass who we are, and yet, we carry around (most of us) only one, like a weight around our proverbial neck, through the entirety of our lives. One can hardly be expected to remain the same person they were a few short moments after their birth. Names are to reflect who we know ourselves to be.

In 2012, Emma was the top girls' name in 31 states; since then it's carried through as the overall greatest statistic, into 2015. One Emma will hardly be like any of the others. Stargirl.... she will be someone different. Better yet, she will be herself. Yet, we stereotype names so blindly-- Every person I meet named Blake, I instantly shy away from in a certain apprehension that comes from my memories. It's even worse in racial profiling cases-- Studies have shown that interviewers are more likely to hire a person with a "white-sounding" name, even if the resumes are identical.

In sixth grade, I first came to the conclusion that names have this profound impact. I then made attempts to legally change my name, to no avail, and perhaps that was for the better, since the name I picked was "Echo Silver". Since then, I have absorbed more fragments of thought and personality than I could ever have imagined. So of course, I've gone by many titles-- Olive, Hollownight, Rachel, Flower, Opal, Harley, Cricket, Madhuri, and finally, currently, Ariel. Each of these names was once so dear to my heart and harmonious to my ears, but now they have each in turn become foreign and replaced. It is something I can never understand; all I can say is that I am changing.

It's more clear to define who I am by saying I collect succulents, Moroccan pottery, and sand than to say my name is Julia. How much easier it would be to know someone without a name there to impede the way, if such things were only whispered secrets among the closet of friends.

This reminds me of a plane flight to Seattle I took this February. I was seated far away from my family, and began nearly shaking with fright as some stranger took his place next to me. It was a long flight; and I began it by tracing over the lines of an already completed drawing and skittishly avoiding human contact, In the end, boredom got the better of me, and as I noticed his open laptop-- "What are you working on?" We talked for hours upon hours, and he was by far one of the most fascinating people I have ever met. It was psychology and cinematography and the human condition and wizards and puzzles and everything I could ever want to talk to someone about.

And the plane touched ground.

I realized then that I never asked his name,  never said mine. I had, in every literal sense, brushed souls with a stranger. So I asked him, and he said something that can never escape my memory--

"If I tell you, you'll forget me. You'll remember me as a name and before you know it, this will all fade away. But if I don't tell you... You'll never forget that guy you met on the airplane. You'll have to remember what I said and who I am instead.."

He left, dragging his suitcase behind him. He was right. I've always been left with a sense of wonder muddled by hints of agony for never knowing. It's very likely that I will never see him again. But if I do... I won't ask his name. It's the most magical thing in the world, the sound of resonance in a soul that will always be remembered.

But yet... I'm afraid. I'm afraid of going deaf because playing the Moonlight Sonata is the only thing that can heal me when I'm distraught. I will never know the sound of an instrument I haven't heard yet. I won't write songs or chirp back to birds or watch my anguish dissolve to the lull of a piano. Yet... I might have something better. I'll get to feel the vibrations of a person's chest as they sing some serenade, one day. I'll know what eyes look like when there are words trapped behind them, how some words taste bitter on lips and the quiver of a touch feels like the words I love you. I'll feel the sand rattle with crashing waves, the purr of a kitten as it resonates in the delicate bones of my fingers, the exact depth of a piano key as it plays the brooding C that I always hold for too long; I will never have to hear another name.

I may not have working ears, but perhaps in that all encompassing silence I will finally, truly hear.

Meet the Author

Who are you?

It's a daunting question, isn't it? In a world of 7,380,436,559 individuals, exponentially increasing, it's next to impossible to feel unique or even, sometimes, valuable for who you are. That which comprises the self is abstract and volatile, and you may try to pin it like a butterfly to a cork board only to find that the wings melt through and away You fly. How inexplicably agitating it is to know the self by uncertain terms!

I could offer up any organized scheme of objective details about myself-- INFP-T, Choleric-Sanguine, Chaotic Good, Right-brained, Neurotic, Ravenclaw, Amity, Leo (more like Cancer/Pisces), IQ 174, Love Language: Quality Time/Gifts, WPI-62, APS: Feminine-- the list of measurable traits goes on to the brink of infinity, and still, none can truly grasp that indiscernible me. I find that soulful intimacy comes breath by breath, in little flickers at a time. People can be more understood by their experiences and thoughts than by any standard test, however comprehensive.

So many times I've seen people confine themselves to the restrictive limits of their Myers-Briggs type. I should come as no surprise that I did too, for a time. These tests only highlight trends, they are not meant to conform the soul of a sui generis individual.

I may be your mostly friendly INFP, but there are other things you could know about me that would mean far more than my result on a test (even the revered Myers-Briggs). So, rather than explaining various facets of my personality in attempts to describe enough for you to "know" me, I'm going to skim over some of my quirks. It'll be fun! My main reasoning is this: Our actions much more define us than our categorized perceptions of the self, however eerily accurate they may be.

1. I start every morning with kundalini yoga and love to go on little walks (especially during damp weather, particularly involving the acquisition of chai tea at the local bakery). The feel of cold, crisp fall air is the sweetest in my lungs. I often forget or forsake breakfast, unless said breakfast involves raspberries, crepes, or strawberry milk.
2. Back in seventh grade or so, I began to pride myself, rather obnoxiously, on not liking Twilight because of the sparkly vampires and blatant lack of plot. Unfortunately, this whole hipster image was shattered when I discovered the web-series Carmilla and distressed my whole family with such obsession over it. As it turns out, my aversion to Twilight is because of the blatant lack of character development, inaccuracy to lore, and the horrendous writing style that is wholly reminiscent of a sixth-grade fanfiction. I say I hate romance in all forms but still read things like Fruits Basket and A Little Something Different.
3. My bucket list includes riding an ostrich.
4. Thai food makes me horribly nauseous, but I eat it anyways. This probably says a big something about my appetite, as do these two other things-- I've seriously considered a career in Culinary Arts, particularly as a pastry chef (but am now pursing Naturopathy) AND about once every few weeks I get a new craving and fixate on it until it's fulfilled. One particular recurrent craving has earned me the infamous title "Cinnamon Roll Princess". Also, I get hangry a lot; poor Cody.
5. I usually leave parties early and either fall asleep or get sick every time I go over to a friend's house. My best friends tend to be those with whom I feel no social pressure-- the casual, quiet hangout is my ideal. Still, I love theme dances and elegant dinner galas. Usually my social usefulness is as the "constantly in the kitchen hostess"; food, decorations, tending the bonfire, and hiding out in the room with the pets. 

And, as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.

Crivens, More Rambling!

It was by the charity of the universe that my friend Anne introduced me to the author Terry Pratchett, through his book We Free Men. This guy is basically about as INFP as you can get, and it's amazing down to every last dripping morsel of sarcasm. The allegory is hidden well and some points and rather conspicuously at others, in the name of humor, but its rather poignant. I've gleaned quite a few quotes that hit me like a frying pan over the head. And of course, because I'm me, I went through the whole book Myers-Briggs typing all of the characters.

I've got four to present to you today, cognitive function theories and all: Tiffany, Granny Aching, the (general) Nac Mac Foogles, and the Queen of Dreams. But first, a little bit about my thoughts on the book as a whole.

My two main reasons for enjoying this book are as follows:

1. I have never found a character more relatable than Tiffany. Seriously, the whole book I was reading through thinking "I don't remember myself doing this, but hey, proof of samsara."
2. Frying pans were used as weapons, seven years before Tangled.

That should be more than enough basis for me to force you to read this book. If you're not running to the library right now (darn you), I'll talk for just a little bit about the metaphor of the book itself. The major theme of it all is that we, as humans, walk through our lives seeing only what we want to or think we should see; a comatose state in which we cannot truly comprehend the wondrous nature of experiences we might have if we only were to open our eyes and wake up for real. However, being mere mortals, we could not begin to comprehend or exist in such a state of consciousness. It's the paradox and malaise of humanity.

All this, from a book whose every other word is a curse in some pictsie language.

There are some doubtless profound quotes, though. They contemplate religion, alternate realities, susuristic silence, hyperawareness, and of course, hypnagogia. I won't say it's my favorite book, as I do tend to prefer texts that leave me questioning my existence in near psychological breakdown state, but as for things that may or may not leave you in existential crisis, it's pretty dang good. Thank you, Anne, I'd recommend it too.

Also, thanks to this book, I now have a halfway decent Scottish accent under my belt.

I went ahead and researched the painting it was loosely based on, The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. Incidentally, the artist went insane and killed his father, whom he thought was the devil in disguise. His caretakers at the insane asylum encouraged him to keep painting, and thus, commissioned by one of the doctors, this was born. He also produced the Sketches to Illustrate the Passions, which are pretty cool. They're actually quite lovely, although some are a tad morbid. 

In my mini research project, I also discovered that Queen wrote a song about this, with the same title of The Fairy-Feller's Master-Stroke. It suddenly turns into Nevermore, and I think the lyricist was high as a kite. Anyways, here's a link to the song. Now, onto our main feature: Myers-Briggs typing!! :D

First up, Tiffany Aching. She's a pretty fun main character to tag along with, and though I initially saw her as INFP, I later questioned my prior judgement and came to the outcome of a solid INTP. Let me explain why, first with the original MBTI and followed with cognitive functions.

Tiffany is most definitely an introvert. She reveled in silence and thoroughly enjoyed her alone time, which was one main reason why that little jiggit was Granny's (unofficial) favorite.

Secondly, we know she's intuitive because of the many references to "First Sight and Second Thoughts", which are among other things a fancy way of stating that she doesn't rely on what's expected or normal. Half of the book takes place in her thoughts, and she's not one to rely on those of others.

In deciding T or F, it got a bit harder. I went with T, for the primary reason that while she's an emotional person, she's decidedly very calculated about it. She used her little brother as monster bait-- with definite Perceiver-style impulse-- and decided not to cry about her grandmother.

It was definitely a harrowing issue to come to the conclusion that Tiffany is not, in fact, an INFP. My tears stain the keyboard even as I type, ect. There could be a definite debate to this-- for one thing, I see a lot more Fi than Fe. It's entirely possible that she's a well-rounded INFP, and this is my fervent hope and prayer. I don't like to rely too much on cognitive function theory, since it usually muddles things, but it's useful for explaining a character's thought process.

Introverted Feeling (Fi): Tiffany relates the outside world back to her feelings, and uses her sense of morality to guide her actions. It's often controlled, as she decides through a set of inner values what is worth her emotions. She doesn't worry too much about what others think of her, but rather, what her actions will cause her to think of herself.  For example, saving her brother. She doesn't think, "I have to find him, or how will my family feel?!" but "I need to save him because he's my brother, and if I didn't love him, what kind of person am I?" In spite of this, I typed her as a Thinker and not a Feeler, mainly because of the scene in which she confronts the Queen. While the Queen is using classic Fe manipulation strategy, Tiffany logically insults her instead of playing on her emotions. However, she's able to read the Queen quite well based on war she knows about her, enough to know her crucial emotional weak points. That smells of a Fi vs Fe contest, and a pretty well-written one at that.

Extroverted Intuition (Ne): Tiffany is open-minded, abstract, idealistic, insightful, and flexible in thought. The majority of her emotional reasoning sources inside (Fi), but she bounces her ideas off of others in order to fully grasp them. She likes to be present where possibilities exist, readily grasps foreign concepts, and seeks out creative solutions-- such as marrying Rob Anybody once a bird grinds a mountain down to a grain of sand. By the hundreds of obscure connections she makes throughout the book, it's easy to type her as a solid user of Ne. 

Introverted Sensing (Si): While Tiffany often lives among her thoughts and is wrapped up in her own imagination, she's also quite the sensor. She notices when things are off in her environment-- the unreality of the Drome's creations, Jenny Greenteeth appearing subtly, the slight noises of the pictsies-- and reflects heavily on the past as a guide for current actions. She's quite sentimental over her memories and they comprise a good portion of the book. She's consistent, hard working, and uses her routines to find comfort in daily life (This is offset by her rampant Ne, which pushes her into exploring everything). 

Extroverted Thinking (Te): Logic is a driving weapon at Tiffany's disposal. Once she's reasoned through her emotions, ideas, and sense of morality, she steps right into doing whatever makes the most sense. This could be using her brother as monster bait or defying the Queen by coldly playing her deepest insecurities, but once she's decided what the right thing to do is, she'll go by whatever means are objectively necessary. She makes decisions quickly and decisively.

Granny Aching

What we know of Sarah Aching comes entirely from the dialogue of the Nac Mac Foogles and Tiffany's memory. This is ~~SPOILER~~ because she's already deceased, but nevertheless she remains crucial in the underlying plot, up to the climax, and is therefore deemed by me a major character. I'll try to keep this profile a lot shorter. Granny Aching is an ISTJ. She was undeniably an introvert, relied on a strong moral code of right and wrong, worked within the law, nurtured both her sheep and any person in need duly with a spirit of moral obligation, worked hard unceasingly, and did her best to fill the traditional role of a "grandmother". On top of this, she stubbornly refused to leave the Chalk and clung to her constant values.

Nac Mac Foogles

The  Nac Mac Foogles (pictsies) seemed to have one general, shared personality. There were, of course, deviants, but as a whole, they conformed to a broad cognitive structure. The Nac Mac Foogles are ESFPs. And they were so, so fun to type. We know, for starters, that they're extroverts-- you never see one alone, their idea of heaven is endless parties and beer (as well as rampaging), and they're quite loud and exuberant. As SPs, the Sensor-Percievers, they're full of hedonism and are lively, fast-paced, skilled in battle, and based on their interpretation of common sense. They also tend to cry "Waily waily" on everything, though they can be serious on some rare occasions, and have a strong compassion which drives them to be the Robin Hoods of the fae world. They're ready to rush into both danger and fun, have a strong instinct to protect and fight for others, lack long-range vision, and can never seem to take the logical path.

Queen of Dreams

Let me just say right off that I love this character. It's fantastic development, even though it seems superficial at the surface. Fi vs Fe clashes are some of my favorite moments in literature. This one comes across as Harry Potter meets Chronicles of Narnia, in the worst way, which is alright I guess, but not ideal. There's not a lot of of information to go off of, but I just had to type her. The Queen screams ENFJ to me. For one thing, she's definitely got extroverted feeling at a max, and it's been corrupted to villainry. Her back story involves being left by her King, following which, her happy summer kingdom descends into eternal winter. Writers just love characterizing xNFJs as the harbringers of winter-- Elsa, Ingrid, Queen of Dreams, etc. It's such a trope, but I love it. 

Anyways, when a Fe-Ni combo goes off the deep end, you have some of the most manipulative and fantastic, poignant, gray-area villains. By this I mean, it's oftentimes hard to not fall into sympathy for them. The Queen's warped NF typing is blatantly present from the moment we see her: One, kindap children because she just wants to care for them; Two, fall into the classic primary Feeling function of "your mistakes are not your fault, but that of your circumstances"; and Three, her response to losing who we can only assume was the love of her life.

She's an extrovert because she must always have company and doesn't withdraw into solitude (additionally, because of her primary Fe function), and the J/P difference comes from the cognitive function stack. Again, in order to have that extroverted feeling, she fits with the classic ENFJ villain. Other example of Fe is Hans, from Frozen, and another pseudo-villain of NFJ-ness is Elsa from the same movie. The ENFJ vs INFJ difference in supposed evil is obviously present.

An important point to remember: Functions display differently for every individual.

This concludes my massive text on Wee Free Men! I checked out the one copy, but it's soon to be at our local library :P If you'd like to follow up on more book recommendations, simply click on my tag #bookreviews. If you enjoyed this book, you'll probably like Simon Bloom: The Gravity Keeper by Michael Reisman.

It's humorous, action-packed, profoundly intuitive, and most certainly makes you go about the world looking for suspicious textbooks. A couple years back, this was the book that made me enjoy reading more than I could express with words. Simon Bloom was the novel that started it all, and I will forever be grateful.

If you'd like to purchase the book, it can be found on Amazon here.

You can thank me later ;)

Crivens, what a long post!

I conclude with one of my very favorite quotes:

"We sleepwalk through life, because how could we live if we were always this awake?"

(Okay okay I'm sorry, here's a link to the actual song.)

The Curious Case of my Outdoor Ineptitude

When I was little, I sustained fanciful visions of living alone in the woods in my Hobbit hidey-hole. That was a pipe dream, and I very much thank my strange little four-year-old self for it. Well, I also had some ideas then that were not so fantastic-- for one example, part of that whole "living in the woods" thing included me being a captive princess, adventurer on an exotic undiscovered island, or a cat. Possibly a caticorn.

Anyways, what I'm trying to say is that I've always loved the idea of peaceful solitude in nature, of existing free from societal conventions and interpersonal toxicity. Once, on a "where do you see yourself in ten years" paper, I wrote, quite literally, "living alone in the woods with my pet green conure, named Rue, and a baby hedgehog." Now I have the conure, but she's named Tango. And much to my chagrin, no hedgehog. Additionally, I've realized that I'd die of agony in under a week if I didn't have access to strawberry milk or takeout Chinese food.

This, of course, was an extremely distressing realization. I'm plenty skilled in the art of cooking, as it pertains to preparing my boyfriend a different strain of pasta each week; but in terms of outdoor survival skills, I'm the kind of person who sets priority on decorating the stick tepee and tries to snuggle the fire because it's just so warm and cozy. Now, if you know me personally, you'd laugh at me being tormented by this because I've also studied herbal sciences rather extensively and would be reasonably adept in a survival situation, with that and my general study of outdoor skills.

But to me, it just isn't enough.

To be outdoors, out in the wide expanses of earth's embrace, the ground trembling with the heartbeat of all existence, and unconstrained air in your lungs; you cannot feel more alive than when you are one with the world. It isn't, for me, a matter of survival-- it is of mutual growth. Fighting against nature grants us the possibility to survive, but immersing ourselves within it inspires us to truly thrive.

If I sound vaguely like a Druid by now, I can honestly say that I have practiced as one. This philosophy of oneness within the self and the world is intrinsic to my view of life. Withdrawing from the universe pulls me into grueling bouts of depression and a lack of connection to my inner self utterly destroys me. That being said, and knowing that some existence of solitude at the least is of the utmost importance to me, I do find incredible value in reflections with others. My general thought is this: The purpose of the soul is for true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means. Nevertheless, I'm possessed with this "living alone in the woods" vision. Maybe I won't be alone alone, but I definitely get a little snappy when someone else invades the quiet serenity of my morning walk.

My point is, if I want to exist in this natural world, I have to know how to. My one big problem is that while I can basically forage for any edible plant and discern or apply its medicinal properties, I am downright AWFUL with plants. Honestly, I write up hundreds of garden plans but I can't keep one little sprout alive for more than a few days. The root of this problem (*humorous snort*) is that I treat plants like sentient beings (Trees of Cheem) and have a propensity to over-water so they "won't be hungry". I've combated the soil quality issue with my little worm farm, but I still have that nasty residual proclivity to smother every living thing within a mile radius with affection and warm cookies. With plants, this kind of doesn't work. Whatsoever.

So, there are a few things I want to do to acquire skills in this particular area of passion: grow a mini garden, renew my first-aid license, make homemade cheese, spend the night sleeping under the stars without a tent, go solo hiking, and create a collection of herbal remedies to store for later need. My little explored mission in life, the desire of my heart, is to immerse myself completely into the beauty and peaceful entropy of nature. I hadn't realized until lately how strong a facet of my personality this is-- until I noticed that my idea of an amazing life is and always has been existing in perpetual awe of the world around me (or, of course, being a caticorn).

From my fixation on naturopathy to my possible non-violent pyromania to the bizarre impulse to get truly lost in the forest- if only for a few hours-- it is evident that my greatest happiness comes from harmony with nature. In both solitude and close connection I find my joy. It's the paradox of human nature, the craving to be at once so close and distant from those around us. Perhaps in the delicate balance of this, our hearts are most aligned to all the world around us and to ourselves. It is in this equipoise that our souls are set free, unburdened, and we are most truly alive.

Of Speculation and Silence

"I seen it over and over-- a guy talkin' to another guy and it don't make no difference if he don't hear or understand. The thing is, they're talkin', or they're settin' and still not talkin'. It don't make no difference ... It's just the talking. It's just bein' with another guy. That's all."

Once you carve through John Steinbeck's blatant sexism, you may find in his words an illustrious meaning and allegorical symbols, perhaps a commentary on the essence of human existence. Despite the quite irksome flaw of inherent misogyny in all of his works-- if a female character is not the physical incarnate of evil or lust, then invariably she steps out of line at some point and is beaten back into her place with none of the other characters thinking ill of it-- ahem, despite this, Steinbeck is one of my favorite authors. If you've ever heard me speak of East of Eden, you know I have for it an unbridled enthusiasm and somewhat obsessive passion. It is not only the voice of his writing but the aquifer of poignant metaphor that flows through each and every one of his works.You won't find an author more dedicated to pronouncing the reality of the human condition (Except, side note, women actually do have souls. Just thought I'd mention.)

In the past two nights, I've been reading Of Mice and Men and The Pearl cover-to-cover in one sitting each. East of Eden is a walloping and formidable endeavor, possessing a great length of text- albeit undoubtedly worth it-- while these two books both have approximately 100 pages, give or take (in the editions I've been reading). I could write 10,000 words on only one facet of these books alone, but for the sake of your sanity, I shall not. I compile this post today to briefly delve into a shared concept that runs through the philosophy of Steinbeck and expound upon the consequences of its application.

The theme is: Silence.
For all the folks at home; what follows will contain some impressive spoilers.

As I was reading The Pearl, I realized in it a dual and contradictory philosophy to be present, contrasted in my mind by a significant ideology embedded in Of Mice and Men. In chapter four (OMAM), which, by the way, is actually closer to the end of the book than its beginning, we finally meet a character who shows that Steinbeck is not only extremely sexist, but racist! However. In works such as The Pearl, Steinbeck presents many well-rounded, heroic, insightful characters who are, in fact, people of color. His apparent racism in Of Mice and Men is to coerce the reader into considering what unjust treatment African-Americans have been forced to endure. If these are truly his motives, then I can forgive them. Anyways, on to this character.

Steinbeck has a habit of forcing incredibly detailed descriptions, in a single wall of impenetrable text, onto the reader out of nowhere. Just to provide a bit of background on these quotes, here's what we know about the speaker:

• Crooks:

• African-American man
• Stable buck
• Has to bunk in the harness room because he can't quarter with the whites
• Crippled back from being kicked by a horse
• Instinctively angry against white people, all of them, because of how he's been mistreated
• Reads books, unlike everyone else in the story
• Definitely a loner, but also lonely
• Scarred past
• Somewhat pragmatic and aloof

Two of his most profound quotes are at the very beginning of this post and directly below.
Context? He's rambling on and on, now that he finally has someone to listen to him. No matter that the other person doesn't comprehend and isn't listening anyways, because he probably couldn't care less.

"Books ain't no good. A guy needs somebody-- to be near him ...  A guy goes nuts if he ain't got nobody. Don't make no difference who the guy is, long as he's with you. I tell ya, I tell ya a guy gets too lonely and he gets sick."

Steinbeck, unfortunately, forms him as an "angry black man" stereotype, and that doesn't sit well with me. Nevertheless, Crooks serves as a metaphor for the desolation and depravity of loneliness, and the kind of desperate character it inspires. No matter what he does or how many books he reads, he can't seem to fill the gaping need for human acceptance and interaction, however superficial.

Well, I could contend with that. And thinking on that quote a couple nights ago, I began to mull over a concept (which I'll come to later).

Crooks makes some intense points, as the dialogue continues, about the need to reflect experiences-- with only one mind, I have one dimension of a viewpoint. With another mind, there is stretched from my experience another dimension, and the space in which I can process, interpret, and edify my understanding is exponentially increased. From a singular line there now comes a plane of thought.
This is the source of Crook's misery; that he cannot achieve the simplest, yet most complex, and most pleasurable of human experiences. It is intriguing, then, that he at first adamantly refuses to speak to anyone or let his space be violated-- perhaps it is because he anticipates that he himself will be made not to speak, just as in the scene where Curley's wife threatens to lynch him (She does three things in this book: attempts to seduce men, complains about her life, and threatens to execute someone because he told her t get out of his room.)

So it seems that John Steinbeck's philosophy is that there is a necessity to express to one another, any other, human being. This is understandable; we humans are social creatures, we thrive on connection. The error in this reasoning comes in that there is no true connection in simply speaking. It does, in fact, make a difference whether "he don't hear or understand". Communication, language itself, was invented in effort to make raw the soul. This is the true human need; to be bare and authentic, and loved in spite of or because of it.
Otherwise it is dull, shallow, and false.

Yet, in reading The Pearl, a contrasting philosophy emerges.Steinbeck, speaking of the close relationship between Kino and Juana, says this:

"She knew him and she knew she could help him best by being silent and being near ... She knew he would ask when he wanted it."

And, this:

"There is not need for speech if it is only a habit anyway." 

In Steinbeck's eyes, this must be the ideal relationship. They work together nigh-flawlessly, as one being, the only conflict coming when Kino's wife dares to defy him. Juana is obedient, quiet, supportive, and in Kino's own eyes, strong-- she never cries in pain, not in childbirth or even when Kino beats her half to death (In love, of course, because that's definitely what you do when you love someone.) This theme of beautiful, wordless communication is present throughout the entirety of the story, in which there is little dialogue whatsoever. So, if this is the "ideal relationship" to the author, what can we gather?

Abuse aside, which may be dismissed for the moment as a cultural thing, this couple harmonizes very well. Kino and Juana need no excess of words; knowing each other so openly, they must only exchange a touch or a glance to communicate with the same authentic vulnerability. When words are thought necessary, they are spoken with little inhibition. The rest is sung through actions, much like a delicate, interpretive dance comprised of gentle three-note songs and affectionate touches.

My compromise is this: Perhaps we speak too much or not enough, and either of these impedes the deepest desire of our soul to be felt and cherished as we truly are. When our words become necessary, we should let them come freely. But more meaningful than this, more intrinsic to connection, are the knowing exchanges and clement touches passed between two souls who are already exposed to true understanding of each other. The purpose is true, authentic connection, and verbal expression is but a sometimes necessary means.

Hey, Steinbeck fans!
Want an equally profound novel in which neither sexism nor racism prevail?
Look no further! I recommend Life After Life by Kate Atkinson, which you can purchase on Amazon here








When I first read Of Mice and Men, I was so rival to the philosophy of this superficial "connection" that I devised to test against it by taking a vow of silence, to any linguistic communication, for the duration of a week. Now I see that these two books harmonize with each other like the songs they are, ancient, of the family (openness) and the ocean (inner thought). Steinbeck's meaning is not evident in one work alone, and still, from any book we will derive our own meaning. Therefore let us traverse in intimate, infinite dimensions of reflection, gleaning from each other what we ourselves alone cannot.

People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening, people writing songs that voices never share, and no one dare disturb the Sound of Silence.

-William Shakespeare

Faure Out

A Halloween Experience

Feel that tingling chill drifting through the air? Hear wind tugging at the bare tree branches? The person puking their guts out after having eaten too much candy?? Yepp, it's that time of the year again. I hope you brought the sixteen layers of wool coats your Mom forced on you to go trick-or-treating; because my argument against Halloween is about to strike a cold blow real fast.

As a little kid, I didn't exactly "like" Halloween all that much. Something miraculously changed during the past year, once I finally realized and took advantage of the fabulous candy sales-- I now have at least three full bags of chocolate stuffed in my room. My opinion of this holiday used to be not just a grim disdain but a presence of utter loathing, directly correlating to the existence of these teen "parties"- or whatever you extroverts are calling them nowadays-- and my family's "traditional" dependence on those $2 home costumes over the years including but not limited to-- ballerina, fairy, fairy ballerina, doctor, 80s chick, nerdling, and hobo (as seen in the Dennis the Menace movie). Really, the only reason I tolerated Halloween was because of the candy. And then my mother stepped into the picture, rather forcibly, consuming everything in her wake and blaming it all on the elusive "Tax Fairy". We're on to you, Mom.

After that, Halloweens went very far downhill. And for 8 distinct reasons:

          1. There was a great and glorious abundance of candy. It prevails even to this day. This, for me, is no great mark against Halloween whatsoever. Bring on the cavities, I've got three times my weight in candy corn! However, the issue arises the following day, post-sugar crash. You wake up sick and fatigued, and half of your friends aren't at school. Because they're sick too, of course. It's comparable to dengue fever, except, worth it.

Now, of course, I believe that I'm responsible enough to moderate my candy consumption. Am I, really? Absolutely not!! But isn't that the fun of it?

          2. My mother fervently opposed the notion of referring to Halloween as a holiday (holy-day), and firmly impressed this into all of our minds. I'm blessed to come from a very loving, downright amazing family. A drawback, however, to having my mom around on holidays is this: She only accepts an occasion as a holiday if it allows forced family bondage- I mean bonding!-- time, and if all the sweet treats can be detracted and supplemented with kale chips.
We had an interesting childhood.

          3. I was always a little too versed in my history studies for the average forth grader. Did you know that Halloween originated as the Druidic holiday of Samhain, upon which it was believed that all the dead were granted passage to the world and the living wore elaborate costumes to ward off the roaming ghosts? As a nine year old, I did, and was none too pleased with the thought of spirits dragging me off into the shadows because my costume wasn't cool enough.
And then, disaster struck. My mom, inevitably, deemed the weather too cold and forced me to wear a coat that COVERED UP MY COSTUME.

Even before this, I had issues with the whole "coat or no candy" thing. This one year, I remember being excruciatingly upset at my parental units because I had to wear a jacket over my otherwise GLORIOUS costume.

          4. There exist magnificently spooky things which I lack the coping mechanisms for. The unbeatable problem with me is that I hate being scared, but I'm also totally addicted to it. So, when Halloween rolls around, I get all excited about the haunted mazes and creepy decorations and stuff. Artistry, the eldritch avant-garde, everywhere!!

And then I remember, I'm me.

A similar thing happens in haunted mazes, since my adrenal response isn't "flight or fight" but "punch and then faint". Oh, and the night after scary movies.

One time when I was watching Oculus with my friends I screamed so loudly that their parents thought someone was being murdered in the basement :/

          5. It's a war zone out there. Stampedes of children are trampling each other into the ground to get to the houses with the best candy. Going out with my sisters becomes the actual scariest thing I've ever done. "Ack! I almost tripped there. Oops, watch your step. Woah now, be careful. There's a two year old right in front of-" [BAM! WAH!!!]
I think we all know where the idea for the Hunger Games came from.

          6. Walking door to door with other people is like trekking through the Alaskan Tundra with a person who's had their leg gnawed off by a rabid antelope-- It takes FOREVER. I'm not the slow one, I never am. It's a get in get out operation, the sole mission being the acquisition of candy in as great of amounts as humanly possible even if such a number is not remotely consumable. This is probably why I've given up on door-to-door trick-or-treating-- There's always the one who moves at the pace of an amputated snail, and they still won't stop complaining. And you're not allowed to go ahead of the group. It's just a barren stretch of nothingness invariably resulting in a total metal and physical breakdown by the fourth house. Especially in our neighborhood, where houses are set 1,000 feet back from the sidewalk, I swear...

          7. Some people give out pencils and stickers. Honestly, it's more productive to go to one of those awful parties, stuff all the candy in an inconspicuous sack, and make a run for it. Chances are that people will be too focused on the actual party to notice you getting away with everything that makes a social occasion worth it: Food.
Introverts: 1   Extroverts: 0
But anyways, back to the main point. One could argue that with the merge of the Roman celebration of Pomona and the Druidic holiday Samhain to create Halloween as we now know it, and with the history of the pencil originating with the sharp metal styles of Latinic Rome, a pencil would be an appropriate gift to commemorate the holiday.
Such people, however, are the reasons I've grown cynic to the world.
No more pencils. Please. No kid goes trick or treating with the intention of rounding out their collection of writing instruments. Although, I could walk 1,000 miles for one of those mechanical ones. Maybe some Carmilla stickers, do they make those? I'm also the kind of person who would keep coming back around to the kindly old lady giving out apples. Especially if they're caramel.

          8. Over the years, the various shenanigans associated with my costumes have landed me in some rare and unfortunate situations. Let me take you on a tour.

2009- Ah, yes. The first year of mischief.

And the second time I went as a fairy princess.

2010- The family consensus this year- Well, fine; parental consensus-- was to begin making our own costumes completely from materials gathered at home. This posed some challenges for me. So of course, I raided my mom's closet for some supplemental gear.
So I wore a ripped fishnet "Sex Pistols" shirt, a flamboyant tutu, glow sticks, crimped hair with scrunchies, sparkly high heels, and I think also just one glove. However true the sentence, it was apparently "entirely inappropriate." Couldn't wear it to school.
When I was ten, I thought the 80s were the coolest years of fashion ever, and that my mom had definitely been glammin' it up. After that, I didn't stop raiding her closet, seeking to emulate the totally hip style of my mom. I sincerely believed that crimped hair was still the coolest thing ever. She was proud, and looking back on the photos of that following year, I was definitely not.


2011- This is the year I started getting really into the character development of my costumes. Unfortunately, I went as a hobo.

2012- I went as the alternate reality version of myself in which I was left unattended watching Baby Einstein for much longer durations of time in my toddler years.
Explanation required? Alright, fine.
I raided my mom's closet for her "engineer wear"(white polo, khakis, loafers, and argyle socks), clumped my hair into scrunchies (which I'm apparently quite fond of, costume-wise), put tape on the bridge of circular wire glasses, and hung upside down from the bed for ten minutes so my voice would get more nasal. I really went all out.
So, every time someone would open the door, I would recite an entire script in a squeaky, nasal voice: "Hi, my name's Brianna. I'm intellectually capable." I'd sniffle and wipe the imaginary snot all over my hair. "but my mom says I'm not very social. Would you like to sign this petition against introvert abuse?"
The entirety of this monologue went on for approximately five minutes. People would close the door on me, and then I'd just knock and start all over again. Remember the movie Up? You know what scene I'm thinking of.

2013- This year I went as a peacock. Well, at least my "character development" would be dignified and graceful.... right?
Wrong. You are so, so wrong.

I won a costume contest. Ha.

2014- By this point, I'd decided that I was absolutely DONE with Halloween forever. Why? Well.... I wanted to just buy a bag of on-sale candy at the store and sit in my footie pajamas watching Nightmare Before Christmas. To my despair, I was pushed and pushed and finally convinced into a pair costume with Cody. I went as an angelic assassin with an actual saber sword. Thank goodness I didn't get too into character. We kinda modeled it after one of his favorite books, This Present Darkness; he was the embodiment of alpha and I was that of omega. Day and night. Somehow, I actually really enjoyed the party we went to. I met some amazing people and didn't figure out the rules to "Never Have I Ever" until I accidentally made myself lose. Plus, I got to smash pumpkin pie in his face on a dare. Success.


2015- I'll keep you posted, lovelies ^.^ I'm petitioning Cody to stay in and watch a scary movie (psych. it'll be another animated feature.) with me while we eat straight out of several bags of candy and end up bloated and/or barfing with what I'm sure will be pure bliss. Wearing either pajamas or full costumes, of course. He, however, probably wants to go to yet another party where we'll definitely end up in whipped cream war again or getting an abandoned TV a hitch-hike with a stranger, "for the lols".

Word of advice: For the sake of your own sanity, don't date an extrovert.




And there you have it, The INFP-certified list of reasons to loathe Halloween. But despite this, I implore you to go on absolutely adoring it! Remember all the lovely things, like pumpkin carving, haunted mazes, amazing costumes, cherished time with friends and family, stealing candy from bab--

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

On the Malaise of Monetary Gain

When I first began to read The Best Things in Life by Peter Kreeft, my parents could not have known that stuffing me full with Socratic dialogue was about the worst possible thing they could have allowed, for both themselves and anyone exposed to my shouting range. On the other hand, I can't and don't blame them for the intellectual chaos that ensured-- Nope, that was definitely all me.

The Best Things in Life is a piece of contemporary philosophical literature, written in the form of a script, that can be best described either by smashing together the concepts of "moral justification" and "conjecture of the truth of others to be fallible while determining the truth of oneself to be undoubtedly accurate" OR by a general outline of the topics discussed and conclusions reached. I find the latter to better depict the underlying message of the book.

1. An introduction to the the flaws in the educational and occupational systems, dispelling both hedonism and labor futile in meaning.
1. Introduction to Socratic philosophy
1. Assume no truth
2. Say what is
3. Ask the great question of "Why" -- obtaining all of the answers and none of the questions is a useless pursuit
4. There is no such thing as a last question. "The unexamined life is not worth living". When we sit in complacency, we forfeit our meaning. 
2. As a society, the vast majority go to college and study that duration of their lives away to get a degree, to get a good job, to earn respectable wages, to buy things and raise a family, to send children to college.
1. When a trajectory is circular without reason, it is devoid of meaning. Why waste our time on this useless pursuit? 
2. There is a general attitude of self-indulgence in our culture clashing violently with the concept of delayed gratification. People desire immediate leisure, but give up everything to misery in the present to obtain it in an uncertain future. 
1. The hope of pleasure is in and of itself no sufficient reason to deny gratification now
3. The most valuable lesson is that which inspires you to become your own teacher.
2. It is a better and more fulfilling practice to serve the true design and meaning in our lives than to comply with societal standards of what should and should not be done.
1. The world's most practical decision-maker is logic, though philosophy can often impede philosophizing. 
1. Questions are more important than their answers. "They are the road, and only those of us who use the road find their way home"
2. We choose everything as a means to happiness, the ultimate goal. Even enlightenment serves us to happiness. Our choices should depend on what best leads us to those ends, not just in the present, but in the future.
1. Philosophy is useful because it helps us to identify what is good and true. Without knowledge of these concepts, nothing can be discerned as true or untrue, good or bad (countless numbers of synonyms could have been supplemented, as these four words are at the cornerstones of our lexicographical language.)
3. Money is good for nothing unless it is assigned meaning. Take the dollar bill, for instance. Without the government to assert that it has economic value, it's just paper.
1. The value of money, then, is what we choose it to purchase; but none of these things-- houses, cars, yachts-- is an end in and of itself. This acquisitions do not guarantee us any amount of happiness.
4. Is there a common and universal end sought by everyone?
1. Happiness, pleasure, and joy
1. Preservation of life-- health, food, drink
2. Connection-- love, companionship, loss of loneliness
3. Self-actualization and meaning
5. Is the value of serving humanity in the pursuit of truth?
1. Our time doesn't often think of truth as a close means to the ends of happiness. We instead desire monetary gain or the acquisition of  power, but power is as futile a purpose as money.
2. Making the world a better place to live in should come second to the more intimate improving of the self, which directly concerns life, more so than the outside world. 
1. There are practical sciences and productive sciences. Practical improves practices, productive improves products. 
3. We should seek knowledge for its own sake. While we can improve our practice and the world around us, philosophy improves our self. Our true being.
1. No matter what our career or path in life, we are called first and foremost to be ourselves, as human beings, serving the pursuit of knowledge. 
1. Know thyself.

And these are just the first two sections of the book! In order to avoid strangling you, dear readers, with an overly gratuitous amount of points, I'll say this-- To learn more, check out this book at your local library.
When faced with this looming wall of text, it seems a daunting task to carve through and begin to delve into the real meaning-- the purpose and implementation of Socratic dialogue. This work of philosophy, and Socrates himself, are not purposed to teach us what to thing. Rather, how. That grand and bold teaching, the golden lesson, is this:

Ask an infinite number of questions.

Better yet, discard your concept of numbers and build it up again, for that is in itself an assumption. Socrates instructed us to think like children, brazenly open to the impossible, daring to explore every crevice of a question, pointing out flaws in theories as boldly as any objective statement. With this in mind, let's examine Peter Kreeft.

Though I much appreciate the deviation from the usual societal standard of learn to work, work to earn, die; I disagree with Kreeft on one solid point that he did not address: Sometimes there is value in serving humanity not only for the pursuit of truth, but to help others to obtain that same happiness, pleasure, and joy, whether by guiding them to the philosophy of pursuing truth or tending to the needs of connection and preservation of life. The same follows for his point against the practical and productive sciences, or the goal of serving humanity; I argue that self-actualization can be better served not by constant pursuit of introspection, but upon the reflection of those around us. As we serve others, place their needs before our own (by pure altruism, not by some concept of gain or duty), we gain more a wisdom of our psyche than we do by the refusal to sacrifice the self. The pursuit of knowledge, of self-actualization and the happiness it ensures, is still inherent in this philosophy. However, rather than gaining it by theory, it is gleaned through the shared experiences of others. Kreeft states that we are called first and foremost to be human beings. Perhaps a more crucial distinction of philosophy is that we are called to be human beings together.

The major flaw I find in the Socratic method is that it can be used, by the right, deliberate, and tangling misconstruction of words, to conclusively prove anything. The dialogue becomes circular, and in the right form, it invariably supports itself no matter the weight of evidence against its cause.

It is this very flaw that makes the Socratic method, warped, ideal for an angsty seventh grader. At the time, I gleaned the process but not the philosophy. I learned to question to an end, not as an end. It is more important, I realize now (after those past months of haggarding my parents with unwinnable, pre-scripted debates), to appreciate the wisdom of others while leaning not on our own assumed understanding. There is an endless wealth of questions to be explored within the universe and within ourselves-- perhaps they are the same.

Socrates asserted, Know Thyself, and only this can I know for certain-- For every question that I may answer, I will come upon a thousand more. And, for the sake of my soul, may I never cease to ask them.

"We'll Call It Vermicompost Because That Sounds More Sophisticated"

(Building a Worm Farm)

I've been doing more posts lately about sustainable living... And by that I mean, I did one once, it was cool, and now I'm pretending to be an expert. That being said, I have conducted a fair amount of research into fertilizer. I don't want to explain how "worm humus" got into my search history, but anyways, here we are. It's obvious that a compost highly saturated with nutrients will prove more beneficial to plant life. The issue is the expense of such quality soil. Never fear! In one fell swoop you can dispose of your fruit and vegetable waste in a way that benefits you agriculturally and is favorable to the environment.

How so? Well, I hope you read the title. It's called vermicompost-- to be a teensy bit less verbose, it's worm manure, and it's an unbelievably powerful, natural fertilizer. Worms, particularly the favored species Eisenia fetida, are built for decomposing decaying organic material into less contaminated, nutrient-dense soil. It's like a superpower no one wants, because hey, they've got to eat that stuff!

For a long time, worms went largely thankless for their good deeds towards humanity. Now, they're utilized in both large-scale factories and backyard farms to churn out nutrients that ultimately benefit their entire ecosystem on the whole.
It's all wibbly-wobbly squiggly-wiggly stuff, but you get the idea.

In the following video, I'll walk you through the steps to harnessing the incredible power of these gifted decomposers in the form of a mini worm farm. Happy gardening, y'all! <3

Back to the Roots

As a society, we're severely un-involved with the production of food. Many of us- like me-- just much on whatever happens to just "show up" in our fridge. The other day, I was eating one of those frozen chimichangas when I stumbled across the realization of two horrifying things: One, I had no idea who had purchased these burritos or where I'd even acquired one. I didn't realize I was eating??? Two, I would definitely not have the skills necessary to produce the ingredients to make such a burrito myself, if there came a crisis where knowledge of that kind would be necessary. I was completely, utterly inept.

It's definitely time for me to start considering what I'm putting into my body.

According to the US Department of Agriculture, 155 people are fed annually per 1 farmer. That's a bit of a weightily imbalanced ratio. The majority of those people will not have the skill set to produce their own food. On top of this, the average age of the American farmer is rising. Cited from the United States Census of Agriculture-- back in 1945, it was 39. In 2007, it was 58. Unemployment in rural America is rising, as is the net agricultural import of our country (balanced against export). So, what are we to do with this information? What does it mean?

Well, for me, it meant to have a teensy anxiety attack. And by teensy, I mean-- "HOW AM I GOING TO SURVIVE ONCE THE APOCALYPSE REACHES ME. I CANT EVEN RUN FAST ENOUGH FROM THE ZOMBIES AND NOW I'M AGRICULTURALLY WORTHLESS" Maybe it's a bit much to equate not having a garden to becoming a zombie, but if that's what I need to threaten y'all with, I'm not above it.

There we go.

Anyways; America got its start as an agricultural wonderland, and since then, in many decades gone by, that expanse of free land and hard-earned virtue of work ethic has faded from existence, as well of our knowledge of where food comes from. This all began when our ancestors made the merciless, greed-motivated decision to massacre Native Americans by the thousands. Actually, that's not necessarily true-- Even before that, Columbus practiced mass extermination of the Taino; killing over five million withing the course of three years. After Columbus, the "Indian Removal" policy was set into place to clear the land (via genocide) for the white settlers. You've doubtless heard of the Trail of Tears; the brutally forced, evocative march of the Cherokee Indians resulting in the decimation of their population. If you haven't heard of this, you've probably been raised on the US school system; which omits all our horrifying wrongdoings so that no one has to feel guilty about the death tolls resulting from white supremacy! But, as much as I love debating against Donald Trump's supporters, that's not the point of this article. Maybe another time (Oh, there will be another time. Trust me.)

Let's see if I can get through this without getting sidetracked. Basically, I set myself our on a mission to make tapenade bruschetta from scratch and trace all of its ingredients back to their sources. It gets a bit complicated, given the sheer number of components in the recipe. Speaking of, it'll be at the end of this article, so stay tuned or just skim it ;)

The ingredients of my bruschetta are pretty straightforward-- tapenade bread, mozzarella, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, cherry tomatoes and basil. Where it gets to be more difficult process is the bread itself; being homemade, from scratch, I needed to research every ingredient within the bread. That leaves me with this protracted list: pitted black olives, mushrooms, sardine fillets, garlic cloves, dried thyme, dried marjoram, olive oil, granulated yeast, Kosher sea salt, bread flour, mozzarella cheese, fresh basil leaves, cherry tomatoes, balsamic vinegar. First things first, let's start with the ingredients of the tapenade.
Pitted black olives. In retrospect, it was very much my fault for getting these canned and not locally. I can't even express how hard it is to track down the origins of an exact can of olives. Not only that, but to have to call a busy company for no other reason than to ask what farm their olives are grown on. Plus, I sound like the world's biggest idiot when there's a big, all caps, "CALIFORNIA" stamped onto the label. However, I did find it, and now it's on my little map of origin that you can find below.
Chopped mushrooms. Also, from the can. It turns out that I was remarkably lacking in foresight. Anyways, same company. They're going to block my contact. It turns out, these little slicey 'shrooms hail from China, in the Fujian providence. This bread is constituted from an around the world adventure! (At least for a few cans of ingredients. It has been a noble journey).
Sardine fillets. Part of me didn't want to know at all where from and how these little fishies got to me. That in itself shows a tad bit of American complacency, doesn't it? Anyways, I tracked them down a bit, and they're from Thailand. Instead of coming directly from "Chicken of the Sea", the brand based in San Diego as is on the label, they source from a company called the Thai Union Group that produces and sells to brand names various seafood based food products. They're the largest producer of shelf-stable tuna in the world. The fishing grounds for my particular sardines were located in the Andaman Sea southwest of continental Thailand. And now, it's got a little marker on my map!
Garlic cloves. Thankfully, these were purchased from a local produce stand in our town, whose owner my dad happens to know. With a little phone call to him, I could easily trace back these white garlic cloves to their farm of origin. Turns out, they're from Christopher Ranch in Gilroy, California.
Dried thyme. Our garden. Thank goodness.
Dried marjoram. This comes from our garden as well. So relieving, honestly. I didn't think I could ever be so overjoyed at not buying something from the store.

Olive oil. After a little digging (aka just reading the super helpful label) I found that this was packed in Spain. Unfortunately, however, it's a mix of oils from Italy, Greece, Spain and Tunisia. My marker is on the packing city of Lorca, Spain.
Granulated yeast. The way that yeast is manufactured is really quite fascinating. I may have to do one of my science-y posts on it. They have to culture little yeast cells in a lab completely away from outside influence, sterilized, in little flasks. Everything is measured, from the acidity to the levels of ammonium salts added to the exposure of air. It's all very precise. Also, there's molasses in your bread! The yeast is fed by sugar, and that's the preferred medium. I'm going to have to run a ton of experiments on this. I didn't end up hearing back as to where the yeast in my package came from, but suffice it to know how it was produced ^.^
Kosher sea salt. The salt I used was harvested off of the northern coast of Brazil. This map is starting to look like a lovely bucket list-- hey, I could travel to all these places! Produce my own materials to make bread! :3
Bread flour. For this company, wheat is purchased from smaller farms around the state of Kansas. My bag of flour was milled in Kansas City. Boop! There it is on the map now.

Mozzarella cheese. This is getting easier and easier as I go alo-- oops. Spoke too soon. It's bizarre to me, how one company produces and sells to another, who then gets to slap their label onto something they weren't even involved in the making off. The brand presents itself as certified Italian but actually sources from Wisconsin xD Oh, well. That just shows what big corporation does to the integrity of trade.
Fresh basil leaves. I purchased a starter plant from a little farm along the Snoqualmie river. Since I love caprese and make it often, I definitely need a little basil plant of my own for fresh pickings whenever. Now, I'm downright awful with plants, but this one is my darling (NOTE: I need help deciding upon names. So I can become emotionally attached before it dies, of course.)

Cherry tomatoes. These little beauties also came from our garden. Whew, that's a lot less research for me! A lot healthier, too ;)
Balsamic vinegar. Finally. At the end of the list. We bought this vinegar at Trader Joe's, and it comes directly from Modena, Italy. It's so lovely that they have that right on the label *sigh of relief*

It's incredible how much we rely on transportation to get our food to us. Imagine the chaos if the security of our reliance shattered with a fuel crisis! Some of the ingredients for my recipe came from over three thousand miles away. As an American, citizen of a first world country, I don't bat an eye at insanely processed and preserved foods (they have to be, in order to survive that kind of a voyage). A few years back, I took a trip to explore the inner-workings of an apple orchard plant. Apple transportation is especially interesting because these fruits emit large quantities of an organic chemical, a gas, called ethylene. This chemical causes other surrounding fruits (including the apples themselves) to ripen incredibly quickly. Of course, this presents a problem in transporting fruits hundreds of miles. The chemical is released in plant tissue in more volume as a response to the stress of heat and pressure-- handlers must take care to cool the apples to a certain temperature, and then not to jostle them. They are stored in large cooling rooms at temperatures just above freezing-- I know this from personal experience, having accidentally been locked in one on said apple plant trip. But that's another story. Carbon dioxide and oxygen levels in the air are carefully monitored, even during the shipping process. In addition, most apples are picked still partly green so that they may continue to ripen while they are transported. This damages the flavor of the apples, but it works to keep them fresh (not "overripe", or ethylene rotted) for sale in other areas.
We go to great lengths to preserve and transport our foods not only from state to state but country to country. I, for one, didn't know before today how yeast was produced! I'll have to create a whole segment in my blog dedicated to the science of food and its handling, at this rate :P But I'm sure you're getting anxious as to the real meat of this post, the dish I created from scratch-- Caprese Bruschetta. Without further ado:

Tapenade Bread

For the tapenade sauce:
6 oz pitted black olives

4 oz sliced mushrooms

2 tsp capers, drained (optional)

2 sardine fillets

2 cloves of garlic

1/4 tsp dried thyme

1/4 tsp dried marjoram

2 tbs olive oil

For the dough:

1 1/2 cups lukewarm water

3/4 tbs granulated yeast

1/2 tbs Kosher salt

3 1/5 cups bread flour

White cornmeal (optional)

Tapenade sauce, see above

1. Mix the yeast and salt with the water in a large bowl. Then, mix in the other ingredients for the dough (excepting the tapenade sauce) without kneading, using a spoon. Incorporate the last bit of flour with wet hands.
2. Coarsely chop and add in the ingredients from the tapenade sauce and fold in with your hands or with the spoon. 
3. Cover (not airtight) and allow to rest at room temperature until the dough rises and collapses, flattening on top. This should take approximately two hours. It can be used immediately afterwards, or stored for up to seven days. 
4. On baking day, cut off a pound (half) piece of the dough and sprinkle with flour. Roll into a ball by stretching the surface around to the bottom on all four sides. Allow to rest and rise on a cornmeal or flour covered pizza peel for thirty minutes.
5. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees (Fahrenheit), with a baking stone on the middle rack and boiler tray on another shelf that won't interfere with the baking bread. Sprinkle the loaf liberally with flour and slash an X on the top. Leave the flour in place for baking.
6. Slide the loaf onto the hot stone. Pour 1/2 cup of tap water into the boiler tray and quickly shut the oven door. Bake 35 to 40 minutes, or until browned and firm.
7. Allow to cool and tap off some of the flour before slicing or eating

Great! Now, let's get started on the caprese bruschetta (this is the easier part, don't worry)

Caprese Bruschetta

1 loaf of tapenade bread

4 oz balsamic vinegar

8 oz fresh mozzarella 

Several leaves of freshly chopped basil

1 1/2 cups cherry tomatoes

1. Pour the balsamic vinegar into a small saucepan, and heat over low to medium heat until it comes to a slow boil. Allow to simmer for about 8-10 minutes. The vinegar will thicken while it cooks. Once the amount that is in the pan reduces by about half, turn the heat off. Pour the vinegar into a bowl to allow to cool. As the vinegar cools it will thicken more and become a glaze.
2. Chop the mozzarella, tomatoes, and basil into small, bite-sized pieces. Slice the loaf into long, slender pieces with average thickness. 
3. OPTIONAL: Heat the over to 400 degrees (F) and cover a cookie sheet with tin foil. Lay the slices on the foil and butter, then sprinkle with olive oil. Bake for 8 minutes or until crispy and golden.
4. Serve the slices of bread with the mozzarella, tomatoes and basil piled on top and sprinkled with the balsamic glaze.
5. Enjoy!