For once, the title "Reading Day" is used here in the best possible ways...because I quite literally (apart from work in the morning and Bible study in the evening), read for fun all day. Over 200 pages. And all because Suzanne Collins, the author of The Hunger Games, knows how to end literally every single chapter on a cliffhanger that makes you want to turn the page and keep reading.
So I spent the entire afternoon and night curled up on my couch under a snuggie reading The Hunger Games. And even though the book is really, really intense, being one of those dystopia sorts of novels, it's truly impossible to put down. I'm already begging my friend Miranda (who lent me this book) to borrow the second book.
But now, I really ought to go to bed...I stayed up reading past my (lackadaisically imposed) bedtime! Wish school reading could hold my attention like that...
"The only way of catching a train I have ever discovered is to miss the train before." - Gilbert K. Chesterton
Showing posts with label Read for Fun. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Read for Fun. Show all posts
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Happy Prince
I had a horrible day (lots of little things adding up into one terrible day), and therefore do not feel like writing, and I am certainly not feeling capable of writing something good. Here, then, is a short story by Oscar Wilde that I just read online, that I recommend to you instead.
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw -Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured.
He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done.
"It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge.
"A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."
"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is little better than a beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."
-Oscar Wilde, 1888
"The Happy Prince"
High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock," remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything."
"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen one."
"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. "She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."
"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids. Good-bye!" and he flew away.
All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."
Then he saw the statue on the tall column.
"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.
"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness."
Then another drop fell.
"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said; "I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.
But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw -Ah! what did he see?
The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.
"Who are you?" he said.
"I am the Happy Prince."
"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched me."
"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot chose but weep."
"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."
"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad."
"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."
But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry. "It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger."
"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.
So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured.
He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of love!"
"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy."
He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy, "I must be getting better"; and he sank into a delicious slumber.
Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had done.
"It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold."
"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy.
When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was passing over the bridge.
"A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so he enjoyed himself very much.
When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."
"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"
"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play."
"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to weep.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.
The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I am going to Egypt"! cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.
"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay with me one night longer?"
"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea."
"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her."
"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."
"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command you."
So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said, "so I will stay with you always."
"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."
"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the Prince's feet.
All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there."
So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.
"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy."
Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.
Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker's door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"
"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you."
"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"
And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.
"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.
"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer," said the Mayor in fact, "he is little better than a beggar!"
"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.
"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.
So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the University.
Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue of myself."
"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. "This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also lying.
"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me."
-Oscar Wilde, 1888
Friday, August 5, 2011
Things I Didn't Write: "The Great Gatsby"
It is nearly impossible for me to read a book without a pencil in my hand. If it's for schoolwork, it's to highlight the things that are important and make notes in the margins...but even when I read for fun, I'll often take a pencil and underline certain passages that strike me in some fashion. I think it's a writer thing.
Over the past couple weeks I've been reading The Great Gatsby...really, I've been rereading it, but as the last time I read it was nine years ago in the 9th grade, when I was 14, I don't think that truly counts. I remember vaguely liking the book then, but I've appreciated it much, much more reading it now. I still have a chapter to go before I finish, but here are some of the passages that have gained pencil marks as I've been reading...
It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.
I wasn't actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.
"You always have a green light that burns all night at the end of your dock." Daisy put her arm through his abruptly, but he seemed absorbed in what he had just said. Possibly it had occurred to him that the colossal significance of that light had now vanished forever. Compared to the great distance that had separated him from Daisy it had seemed very near to her, almost touching her. It had seemed as close as a star to the moon. Now it was again a green light on a dock. His count of enchanted objects had diminished by one.
His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people - his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself...So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.
She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.
And there you have it: some things that F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote. Now I'm off to finish the book...
Monday, July 18, 2011
On Writing, and Reading.
I find that I really, really want to write.
"Good thing you have a blog," you're probably saying. And it's true, this is a good outlet for me for the writing creativity to flow, letting me write about what I want to write about instead of writing about what my professors would have me write about. And yes, sometimes I write awesome things that people love and comment on with multiple exclamation points or link to their own blog or facebook page. And yes, sometimes I just recount my day with mildly amusing commentary. And yes, sometimes I stare at my computer screen for an hour before deciding that there is nothing in my brain to be written, and post a YouTube video instead.
The point is, I like to write. I like to weave words together into sentences and present familiar ideas in innovative ways, or present innovative ideas in familiar ways. I like to make the complex simple, and the simple complex. Writing is like painting - you begin with a completely blank canvas, a blinking cursor on a white computer screen and with twenty six letters and the occasional punctuation mark, you create something that can shake people's minds, that can move people to action and challenge their perspectives. Words themselves are fascinating, if you stop and think about them...but it's the way that the words are put together that makes them truly remarkable.
But, even though I know that I like to write, sometimes something pushes me into an even greater love of writing - reading. More specifically, reading something that reflects the sort of things I like to write, or would like to write, or something that is reminiscent of my own writing style. Things like exceptionally well-crafted young adult novels, when vital themes are developed in a reader-friendly way that isn't excessively flowerly in language but possesses all the trappings of masterful storytelling. It's when I read those things that I remember that I want to write, when I think "I can do that" in a way that isn't arrogant, but inspiring.
Writing and Reading both are beautiful, unique experiences that are capable of empowering the human soul. Isn't it too bad, then, how sometimes the beauty of it gets hammered out?
I've been a student continuously for no less than 18 years. In that time, I've read a lot, and I've written a lot...and I've gotten burnt out a lot. Forced to read things I don't want to read and to write things I don't want to write, I lose the desire to read and write those things which I do want to read and write. This blog has helped keep me more accountable to writing - there have been days where I have procrastinated 10 page papers for entire afternoons, yet spent an hour and a half voluntarily writing a blog post. Reading is what really begins to fall by the wayside...when all your homework is reading, pages upon pages upon pages, you really don't want to read in your free time.
And how unfortunate that is...because I love to read.
When I have vacations (such as the present) I remember that I love to read, and read I do. But during my school semesters, reading for pleasure is the last thing on my mind...even though those are the times that I could most use the escapism that a good book offers the mind.
So here's to reading: reading with the excitement of a child waving their favorite storybook in their parent's face, demanding them to read it just one more time before they go to sleep. And here's to writing: writing with the flair of an artist than with the drudgery of an overworked grad student.
Here's to the love that goes into every well-written text and well-read book.
"Good thing you have a blog," you're probably saying. And it's true, this is a good outlet for me for the writing creativity to flow, letting me write about what I want to write about instead of writing about what my professors would have me write about. And yes, sometimes I write awesome things that people love and comment on with multiple exclamation points or link to their own blog or facebook page. And yes, sometimes I just recount my day with mildly amusing commentary. And yes, sometimes I stare at my computer screen for an hour before deciding that there is nothing in my brain to be written, and post a YouTube video instead.
The point is, I like to write. I like to weave words together into sentences and present familiar ideas in innovative ways, or present innovative ideas in familiar ways. I like to make the complex simple, and the simple complex. Writing is like painting - you begin with a completely blank canvas, a blinking cursor on a white computer screen and with twenty six letters and the occasional punctuation mark, you create something that can shake people's minds, that can move people to action and challenge their perspectives. Words themselves are fascinating, if you stop and think about them...but it's the way that the words are put together that makes them truly remarkable.
But, even though I know that I like to write, sometimes something pushes me into an even greater love of writing - reading. More specifically, reading something that reflects the sort of things I like to write, or would like to write, or something that is reminiscent of my own writing style. Things like exceptionally well-crafted young adult novels, when vital themes are developed in a reader-friendly way that isn't excessively flowerly in language but possesses all the trappings of masterful storytelling. It's when I read those things that I remember that I want to write, when I think "I can do that" in a way that isn't arrogant, but inspiring.
Writing and Reading both are beautiful, unique experiences that are capable of empowering the human soul. Isn't it too bad, then, how sometimes the beauty of it gets hammered out?
I've been a student continuously for no less than 18 years. In that time, I've read a lot, and I've written a lot...and I've gotten burnt out a lot. Forced to read things I don't want to read and to write things I don't want to write, I lose the desire to read and write those things which I do want to read and write. This blog has helped keep me more accountable to writing - there have been days where I have procrastinated 10 page papers for entire afternoons, yet spent an hour and a half voluntarily writing a blog post. Reading is what really begins to fall by the wayside...when all your homework is reading, pages upon pages upon pages, you really don't want to read in your free time.
And how unfortunate that is...because I love to read.
When I have vacations (such as the present) I remember that I love to read, and read I do. But during my school semesters, reading for pleasure is the last thing on my mind...even though those are the times that I could most use the escapism that a good book offers the mind.
So here's to reading: reading with the excitement of a child waving their favorite storybook in their parent's face, demanding them to read it just one more time before they go to sleep. And here's to writing: writing with the flair of an artist than with the drudgery of an overworked grad student.
Here's to the love that goes into every well-written text and well-read book.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Reading Frindle.
As I'm sure you're aware, (and if you are not aware, you soon will be), I am home for a 2.5-week vacation before summer classes start up. Being in the realm of my childhood, I have access to every possession and relic of my past that hasn't been thrown away or donated yet. Stepping into my room is like stepping into the past, frozen in time. You never really know what you'll find in there.
Last night, I found Frindle.
Since blogger was down, I opted for some extra reading time. I've been leisurely reading Pride and Prejudice on and off for about a month, but I'd left it downstairs in my backpack and didn't fancy journeying below to find it. My one-floor apartment has clearly spoiled me, and turned me against stairs. Besides, there are some nights were Jane Austen-esque English isn't calling out to one's tired mind, and last night was one of those nights. So, instead, I started poking around the bookshelf in my room, to see what I could find.
Let me introduce you to my adolescent-era bookshelf. It's a nondescript white thing with three shelfs, with the top shelf buckled in from the weight of the books sitting on top of it. Top shelf: Classic literature, alphabetized by author (what of it?). Here you'll find your Jane Austens, your Mark Twains, your William Shakespeares, etc. There is also currently a large stack of foreign books from my French Lit class last year occupying the front part of the shelf, along with a pocket German dictionary. On the middle shelf, you have your oversized souvenir/coffee table books, a small "non-fiction" section, and a collection of children's/young adult novels. The non-fiction and the fiction are separated by a giant jar of seashells, with a ceramic rendition of Aladdin and Jasmin on the flying carpet and a heavy gold metal teddy bear chilling alongside the books. The bottom shelf is reserved for scrapbooks, yearbooks, old CDs, and the three editions of Who's Who Among American High School Students books that we thought were necessary to own. Go figure.
As its title might suggest, Frindle was found peeking out on the middle shelf, amid the children's novels. I remembered that I loved Frindle as a kid, so I took the book off the shelf, and plopped down on my old twin-sized bed to read it.
For those of you not familiar with Frindle, let me give you a quick plot synopsis: Nick Allen, a fifth grade student, is one of those kids who is particularly good at distracting teachers and derailing their lesson plans enough to get through class with no homework assigned. One day, to stall for time, he asks his English teacher where words comes from, but instead of distracting her, the teacher gives him an assignment to report on the dictionary (which the teacher loves to the point of worship). After creating his report, Nick decides to make up a new word: frindle. By doing so, Nick wants to prove to his teacher that words are silly, and that even words that aren't in the dictionary can be as important as "real" words. He and his friends take the following oath: "From this day on and forever, I will never use the word 'pen' again. Instead, I will use the word 'frindle,' and will do everything possible so others will, too."
What unfolds is a "war of the words" between pen and frindle, with teachers on one side and students on the other. Eventually, the frindle affair catches media attention and catches the eye of product designers, and the word becomes more and more commonly used until, ten years later, Nick's made-up word winds up in the dictionary. It is at this point that Nick's fifth-grade teacher, the most anti-frindle of all, reveals in a ten-year old letter that she was rooting for frindle all along, and knew that her opposition to it would be the best aid in continuing its usage. It really is quite the clever story.
Reading Frindle last night, I was kind of amazed by it. I have this semi-secret ambition to be a published author (or at least, to write things that people will read, such as this blog), and I think it's awesome how Andrew Clements (the author) packed such important themes into such a simple story. I last read Frindle sometime around 1997 - the author had signed my copy of the book on that date, lending me the assumption that I received the book that Christmas from my grandmother, who always had some signed children's book on hand to give as a gift at Christmas to me or my sister. In 1997, I liked Frindle because it was a fun story about words, and about a teacher and a student who were against each other and became friends. Now, fourteen years later, I like Frindle because it shows how one person, one action, one small idea can change the world.
When you're a kid, you kind of believe that you'll change the world one day. At every graduation you encounter, this idea is reinforced, and it's not until you spread your wings and fly headfirst into that post-graduation brick wall that you realize that changing the world is harder than you think it is. I think this is primarily because, out in the real world, you start to realize just how small you actually are. I don't mean small physically, I mean small compared to society, to the world, to the universe. The voices that matter are the presidents and the celebrities of the world, and if you are neither a president nor a celebrity, and you spend most of your time in places where no one knows your name, effecting actual change becomes quite the daunting task. The big ideas of childhood get packed away in boxes while you deal with the day-to-day of "grown-up" life. When you start that new chapter of your life, away from family familiarities and college victories, and you become just so-and-so of apartment #238475, the weight of commonality starts to press on you, until by feeling like "one of the crowd" you start to lose sight of that individuality that once caused you to dream.
Who are YOU to change the world?
What can YOU possibly do?
You're JUST a person.
Nothing great is going to come of YOU.
Might as well give up now.
But then, there's Frindle: a story that reminds us that even the most silly of ideas, if taken under the right circumstances and leadership, and with the right dedication and integrity, can actually change things. The unusual can become usual, until people forget that the thing was ever unusual in the first place.
This was the other interesting idea put forth by Frindle: that even the normal things were made up by somebody, at some point, and they only seem normal because we decided they would be normal. Take this conversation between Nick and his teacher, Mrs. Granger:
"Nick swallowed hard, but he said, 'I don't think there's anything wrong with it. It's just fun, and it really is a real word. It's not a bad word, just different. And besides, it's how words really change, isn't it? That's what you said.'
Mrs. Granger sighed. 'It is how a word could be made up brand new, I suppose, but the word pen? Should it really be replaced by...by that other word? The word pen has a long, rich history. It comes from the Latin word for feather, pinna. It started to become our word for pen because quills made from feathers were some of the first writing tools ever made. It's a word that comes from somewhere. It makes sense, Nicholas.'
'But frindle makes just as much sense to me,' said Nick. 'And after all, didn't somebody just make up the word pinna, too?"
What sorts of things might we consider normal that are ripe for change, even if we may not realize it? Who is to say what is normal anyway? Who decided that a pen would be called a pen, and not called a frindle?
It's amazing to me how often we willingly try to live up to certain standards of "normalcy" in our lives, whether through beauty or fitness or education or occupation or salary or anything else. Do we even know where these standards came from? Who got to decide what would be normal, and what would not be? Why can't these things be changed? Moreover, why can't we change what is normal?
Quite a lot to think about, coming from a children's book.
It's amazing to me how often we willingly try to live up to certain standards of "normalcy" in our lives, whether through beauty or fitness or education or occupation or salary or anything else. Do we even know where these standards came from? Who got to decide what would be normal, and what would not be? Why can't these things be changed? Moreover, why can't we change what is normal?
Quite a lot to think about, coming from a children's book.
Sometimes, all it takes is one person who decides to make a change. One person, who has the leadership charisma to make others follow, and encounters the opposition necessary to make others take notice. One idea that catches on, spreading from one person to the next. All it takes is one.
So let's all go out there and change the world...one frindle at a time.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
My New Success Scheme
I have a new scheme for academic success: to make reading my primary hobby.
I've discovered this trend in my life where my primary hobbies have become 1) Facebook, 2) YouTube, and 3) TV. That's healthy right? Not so much. But they're like a vicious cycle of electronic addiction. I tend to leave my computer open and on all the time because my internet is really finicky for some reason, and the wireless doesn't like to connect to my laptop when I first turn it on, even though the computer is less than 10 feet away from the router. In order to avoid undue frustration, I just turn my computer on, and leave it on.
The problem with this, though, is that then the internet is ALWAYS there, giving easy access to unproductive hobbies #1 and #2. And, when I've watched all the YouTube videos I care to, and Facebook gets boring, I turn the TV on in the background to make hobby #1 more interesting.
See the cycle?
But then, I had this brilliant idea! Instead of having these pointless things be my hobbies, I'm going to make READING my hobby. I'm going to make READING be the thing that I do most often, and my go-to activity when I have some length of time to fill.
The beauty of this plan is that I have a GIGANTIC amount of reading to do for classes before the end of the semester, especially if I want to pull my church history grade up from the depths to which I expect that unfortunate midterm has caused it to plummet. More and more, course reading has become this seemingly insurmountable task, and I avoid school stress by avoiding class reading and trying to get by on the bare minimum. It doesn't take a genius to know that that's not a good study technique. But, if I can make studying seem like this cozy time of me snuggling up with a book, it won't seem as intimidating. That's the theory, anyway. And, of course, reading will include fun books too, to balance things out.
So, two plans for moving forward.
First, Don't have the computer open unless it's necessary for 1) Classwork, 2) Work work, 3) Skype Dates, or 4) Non-excessive facebook/email/youtube time. And, of course, blog-writing.
Second, READING IS MY NEW FAVORITE THING TO DO.
I've discovered this trend in my life where my primary hobbies have become 1) Facebook, 2) YouTube, and 3) TV. That's healthy right? Not so much. But they're like a vicious cycle of electronic addiction. I tend to leave my computer open and on all the time because my internet is really finicky for some reason, and the wireless doesn't like to connect to my laptop when I first turn it on, even though the computer is less than 10 feet away from the router. In order to avoid undue frustration, I just turn my computer on, and leave it on.
The problem with this, though, is that then the internet is ALWAYS there, giving easy access to unproductive hobbies #1 and #2. And, when I've watched all the YouTube videos I care to, and Facebook gets boring, I turn the TV on in the background to make hobby #1 more interesting.
See the cycle?
But then, I had this brilliant idea! Instead of having these pointless things be my hobbies, I'm going to make READING my hobby. I'm going to make READING be the thing that I do most often, and my go-to activity when I have some length of time to fill.
The beauty of this plan is that I have a GIGANTIC amount of reading to do for classes before the end of the semester, especially if I want to pull my church history grade up from the depths to which I expect that unfortunate midterm has caused it to plummet. More and more, course reading has become this seemingly insurmountable task, and I avoid school stress by avoiding class reading and trying to get by on the bare minimum. It doesn't take a genius to know that that's not a good study technique. But, if I can make studying seem like this cozy time of me snuggling up with a book, it won't seem as intimidating. That's the theory, anyway. And, of course, reading will include fun books too, to balance things out.
So, two plans for moving forward.
First, Don't have the computer open unless it's necessary for 1) Classwork, 2) Work work, 3) Skype Dates, or 4) Non-excessive facebook/email/youtube time. And, of course, blog-writing.
Second, READING IS MY NEW FAVORITE THING TO DO.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Snow! And Monthly Goal Check-Up
So even though I still don't think all those people were justified in buying out all the chicken...Dallas did get hit with somewhat treacherous conditions today. After freezing rain throughout the night, I woke up to the following sights:
I treated my snow day in the proper way: laying about in panda pajamas all day, watching movies, and drinking hot chocolate. As a rule of thumb, I don't use snow days to try and get ahead on schoolwork; I'll do whatever necessary amount of work I would usually do, but treat the rest of the day as a vacation day from God. If the weather forces me to relax, who am I to disagree? :)
In other news, it's February 1st: we are officially a twelfth of the way through 2011. Can you believe it? It seems like the month went by really fast. Anyway, I've decided to take the first of every month to do a goal-check up, and see how I'm doing in accomplishing things.
As perhaps you recall (but I don't expect you to), I chose 5 big goals to focus on for January: Rejuvenate my Relationship with God, Make CCFOF Work a Priority, Create a Budget, Exercise 2x Per Week, and Read for Fun. Well, I'm happy to report that I've made good progress on all of these things!
First: Rejuvenate Relationship with God. This one still needs work, unfortunately (though, to an extent, it will always need work...). Happily, I've made steps towards getting involved in a church: most importantly I've found one to attend, and second most importantly, I've gotten involved with a women's small group that meets every week. So I'm not only GOING to church (something that I was barely doing at all last semester), but have started to make connections with people there. Good stuff. For this month: I need to make personal quiet times a priority...choose a specific time to read the Bible every day, and then DO it. One of my professors has us meditating for 10 minutes every day (you get odd homework in seminary), so hopefully I can build quiet times around that.
Second: Make CCFOF Work a Priority. This has been QUITE well achieved; my paycheck was at its maximum level this pay period, meaning that I actually worked every day (or went back and made up hours I missed). I've started working first thing in the morning, after breakfast. This keeps me from falling into that laziness and procrastination that comes with working from home. For this month: Plan out weekly tasks in advance, for better productivity. Our annual prayer campaign is coming up and that means lots of translating, and lots of organizing lots of small groups across the country and around the world. Yeah. Productivity in work is important right now.
Third: Create a Budget. Well, budget is created. In a few days I'm going to take my bank statement and see how well I lived up to it. For this month: Keep track of expenses. I created the budget mid-January, so last month I didn't really get to LIVE by the budget, I just made it up. My first expense of the month: the soundtrack to "500 Days of Summer." Write it down.
Fourth: Exercise 2 Times Per Week. HECK YES! I've actually been exercising for half an hour a day, 5-6 days per week. I've also lost about 5 pounds since the beginning of January, and lowered my BMI a bit. Woot! For this month: Keep doing things like that...
Fifth: Read for Fun. This goal is still in progress. I was doing really well with it over winter break, but back in the world of academia, it's kind of fallen to the wayside. I'm still reading "The Man in the Iron Mask," and quite enjoying it when I actually read it. It's quite long, so I'll be enjoying it for quite some time :)
So I'm making good progress! Looking back at that intense planner (which I haven't been using day to day, but where I've been listing mini-tasks to accomplish monthly goals), I've marked "Yes" on more goals than "No" in terms of their completion (I actually just realized that that's not what that column is for, but it's my planner so whatever). And, I think there's something to be said for keeping my New Year's Resolutions up for an entire month :)
Hopefully tomorrow I'll devise the plan of attack for February.
 |
| (That's Ice.) |
In other news, it's February 1st: we are officially a twelfth of the way through 2011. Can you believe it? It seems like the month went by really fast. Anyway, I've decided to take the first of every month to do a goal-check up, and see how I'm doing in accomplishing things.
As perhaps you recall (but I don't expect you to), I chose 5 big goals to focus on for January: Rejuvenate my Relationship with God, Make CCFOF Work a Priority, Create a Budget, Exercise 2x Per Week, and Read for Fun. Well, I'm happy to report that I've made good progress on all of these things!
First: Rejuvenate Relationship with God. This one still needs work, unfortunately (though, to an extent, it will always need work...). Happily, I've made steps towards getting involved in a church: most importantly I've found one to attend, and second most importantly, I've gotten involved with a women's small group that meets every week. So I'm not only GOING to church (something that I was barely doing at all last semester), but have started to make connections with people there. Good stuff. For this month: I need to make personal quiet times a priority...choose a specific time to read the Bible every day, and then DO it. One of my professors has us meditating for 10 minutes every day (you get odd homework in seminary), so hopefully I can build quiet times around that.
Second: Make CCFOF Work a Priority. This has been QUITE well achieved; my paycheck was at its maximum level this pay period, meaning that I actually worked every day (or went back and made up hours I missed). I've started working first thing in the morning, after breakfast. This keeps me from falling into that laziness and procrastination that comes with working from home. For this month: Plan out weekly tasks in advance, for better productivity. Our annual prayer campaign is coming up and that means lots of translating, and lots of organizing lots of small groups across the country and around the world. Yeah. Productivity in work is important right now.
 |
| www.ccfof.org. Check it, yo. |
Third: Create a Budget. Well, budget is created. In a few days I'm going to take my bank statement and see how well I lived up to it. For this month: Keep track of expenses. I created the budget mid-January, so last month I didn't really get to LIVE by the budget, I just made it up. My first expense of the month: the soundtrack to "500 Days of Summer." Write it down.
Fourth: Exercise 2 Times Per Week. HECK YES! I've actually been exercising for half an hour a day, 5-6 days per week. I've also lost about 5 pounds since the beginning of January, and lowered my BMI a bit. Woot! For this month: Keep doing things like that...
Fifth: Read for Fun. This goal is still in progress. I was doing really well with it over winter break, but back in the world of academia, it's kind of fallen to the wayside. I'm still reading "The Man in the Iron Mask," and quite enjoying it when I actually read it. It's quite long, so I'll be enjoying it for quite some time :)
So I'm making good progress! Looking back at that intense planner (which I haven't been using day to day, but where I've been listing mini-tasks to accomplish monthly goals), I've marked "Yes" on more goals than "No" in terms of their completion (I actually just realized that that's not what that column is for, but it's my planner so whatever). And, I think there's something to be said for keeping my New Year's Resolutions up for an entire month :)
Hopefully tomorrow I'll devise the plan of attack for February.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)