Temple Pics

My camera wouldn't turn on today.
I think she needs new batteries.

Blech

Have you ever felt like you just didn't want to be at home? Like everyone's in a bad mood and you just want to get away? I sit among siblings shooting insults at each other and biting each others' heads off at the slightest thing... and then, when they're not yelling, they're annoying you badly enough to make you want to yell. So you do one of two things: You either take a deep breath and talk to them calmly about it, or you take part in the pandemonium, yelling at them and listening to them yell at you and hearing, over the top of everything, "WHO STOLE MY TOAST?!?"
Then you leave again. Or lock yourself in your room and refuse to come out until everyone is ready to be nice. Or maybe there's nothing you can possibly do, so you just sit there and hope it will go away. Don't you hate those days? Doesn't everybody else hate those days? Gee... I wonder why they still exist.

Life...

I stood by the fence of the Temple site, my camera poised over the green mesh, and pushed the button- but not before the green light began to blink red, and the lens pulled back in of its own accord. I grunted in frustration. "Look, I know you're tired," I said to the camera, "but I just need this one picture, and then you can have a break until we get to the steps of the Tabernacle. Then I need you to turn on for one picture- just one- and then you're done for the day. Please?"
I looked out of the corner of my eye and saw a nice-looking man walking across the street towards me. "Taking pictures?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, "I have been every day since they started on it. But my camera's out of batteries."
"Really?" He said. "What are you going to do with the pictures?"
"I have a blog," I said, "That speaks of the project, and I'm going to put together a slide show- a fast one, blipblipblip- for my Seminary teacher."
We talked then about my teacher, and a little about my project. As we talked, I took the batteries out of the camera and flipped them over, switching their places around. After a few more tries, with no results but the blinking red light, I finally got green and hurried to take my picture. The conversation continued all the way down the street; I told him about my homeschool, and how, although it is a little more complicated than regular school sometimes, I've learned so much more in this short time than I would have thought possible, especially since I haven't even figured out my curriculum yet. How much more free I feel. Then came the time for us to cross to separate streets, and I implored my dear friend the street light in a whisper, "Please hurry, so my friend can go across his street." My light friend's hand then turned to a little blue person, and I hurried across, looking back to see my new friend cross his street safely. I hadn't even asked him his name.

Lately, I have not known what I can possibly write about...

Have you ever felt like your life is so boring that you have nothing to say to anyone at all? Or that your life is too complicated to explain? Yes. That is me for the past couple of weeks. And now, since I have nothing to write about, I will give you an inspirational quote to lift your spirits. I hope.

"Our self-esteem need not be shattered by failure, if a kind of resilience and bounce can be developed early in life. "Picking ourselves up off the floor" can be best learned where there is "friendly" floor; where the risks are not so great, and love and support are there to assist us. In the home there can be praise which can balance off our occasional failures." -Neal A. Maxwell

I Have a Swollen Taste Bud

Or two, or three... Not only that, I think I may have permanently bruised my shin on a table at lunch today, and I doorbell ditched a house for someone who wasn't even home. I was sitting there scared he'd look out the window and see me... tsk tsk. No chance for that if he wasn't behind the window. But it was fun, and I got to know my friend better, so it was all good.
Lately, I haven't had anything to write about at all. I feel like my brain is just empty of everything but little quotes and silly stories. But then, I guess... posts don't exactly have to be long. So I'll write the one thing I can think of to write at this moment: ...
I forgot.
Oh well.

Me and my Blank Mind

I feel... blank. So blank that I can't even think of a synonym for 'blank'! I can't think of anything to write. I had a bajillion ideas when I was on the way home, but I can't think of any of them now! This is driving me absolutely up the wall, across the ceiling, and down the other wall! Therefore, I end up in the same place I started! Therefore, this accomplishes nothing! I am still on the floor with nothing in my head, even though I've been across the expanse of two walls and a ceiling! And you know what else? I think that if anyone tries to understand my point here, they will have to read it five or six times before they realize that my point is that I don't even have a point! And now I have given away my point, so the point of my last sentence is now pointless!

The Latest Shooting

So many people are getting shot lately! This morning was epic- a trained gunman was rolling dramatically across the walls, when unfortunately, he failed to hide himself from my ninja eyes, and I trained my gun on him. "Freeze!" I ordered, and he turned his eyes on me and froze for a few seconds, and then, with speed unbeleivable to someone as fantastic a gunman as I, he unfroze and shot and ran out the open door before I could do so much as blink. I flew up against the wall with a screech, and then crumpled to the ground. Then I heard my sister's voice: "*Nathan!"
I heard her footsteps run past me as I lay convulsing (with laughter, but you don't know that,) on the ground. Then her voice again: "Nathan! You. Killed. My. Sister!" Then she stormed back into the school right past my still convulsing body to the choir room. She didn't even greive. I think she only yelled at Nathan out of a sense of duty.
The Lion at least helped me up.

When you read this, you probably laughed. And I must admit, so did I. But what this incident brought to my mind was this: people really don't care as much as they used to. When I was younger, any portrayal of violence brought bile to my throat and nausea to both my physical body and to my heart. A nauseous heart is rather uncomfortable, I must say. Any thought of inflicting harm such as this on another human being caused me to feel sick for that time and for a while after. But as I've watched more violent movies, and played more violent roleplays, and made light of others' pain, I've found that my senses have been dulled, my mind has become accustomed to violence- maybe not as much as others', but too much for my liking. I laugh as I pretend to kill. And as I think of this, it sickens me. I'm not saying any of us are bad people for playing these shooting games, for I still play them myself. It just starts me thinking...

*Name changed for his personal comfort and safety. :)

The Joy in Shooting People

Lunchtime started out as a crying fest. Every one of us had something to be upset about; the girls with their hoods on to cover their faces and rubbing each others' backs, the guy (there was only one,) clenching his fists and punching the table, his muscles taut, his breathing shallow. We were all just a little riled up. Then one girl got up and decided to go play the piano to make herself feel better. We all followed her. We listened for a few moments, and then the guy left, presumably to punch someone to releive his tension. Another guy came in, this one a guy none of us knew well, and listened with us. Then I took over the piano and played what I know of Road Trip, by Jon Schmidt, which lightened the mood considerably; everyone in the room started dancing to it and laughing at each others' moves. Then our guy friend started playing; slow-mo songs, dramatic and mysterious songs, anything off the top of his head. By this time, the original pianist and I were the only other people in the room, so we danced together, slow-mo'd together, and then had a showdown and shot each other. I killed her, 'cause she missed. Then I brought her back to life. We snuck around the piano, peeking at each other above and below it, over the pianist's head, around the edge of the keyboard. Then, at the same moment, she shot at me above the piano; I shot at her below. I lost my head, and she was crippled. Then we decided to lose the violence, and I chased her around the room, listening to her scream: "You'll never take me alive!" Then she slipped on the carpet and I sat on her.
This went on for some time. Then we heard the bell ring, signifying that the choir class would soon be arriving, and our dramatic pianist went to sit in his seat. My sister came in the room then, and began to play A Thousand Miles, by... well, I don't know who it's by. But she played it, and we sang along. I sang to our former pianist, I sang to my friend, I sang to the Lion who came in for his class, (but he looked at me wierd, so I went back to singing to my friend.) We danced together, our voices breathless, we danced with the boys coming in for class. By the end of the song, the Choir room was almost full, half of them watching us and listening. Then the bell rang for class to start, I said goodbye, put my shoes back on, (I had taken them off,) and went home.
What started out as a desperate attempt to comfort ourselves became a happy memory that will last us eternity.

"So, I'm gonna try lighting things on fire now..."

So far, it seems, Homeschool is a boy's dream. My brother is currently designing a hovercraft out of a paper plate, an old spool that's run out of thread, and a cheap balloon. Next, he's going to create a chemical compound he can douse the craft in so he can light it on fire without burning the actual hovercraft; he'll probably melt a couple baloons in the process, not to mention the incineration of multiple plates, (and he's going to have to buy his own thread spools,) but think of all you can learn about air pressure and chemicals... just by burning a paper plate! Expeditionary learning truly is the best way to learn, in my opinion.
Of course, the things I'm doing are quite different from the things my brother is. I will gladly burn something, but I would prefer not to go through the mental strain of trying not to let it burn, especially when I'm the one who lit it on fire. I simply see no logic in the ambition. But, I suppose, if he can make this work, he could be the creator of the world's first hovercraft... and a fireproof one. Big cheer for brother! I'll just settle down and be whatever I end up being- not and inventor, I almost guarantee it- and watch my brother succeed in his endeavors while I succeed in mine.

The Excruciation of Typing

Okay, okay, I take it back, it's not excruciating. But it hurts.
My friends and I have this game we play- we pile all our hands on top of each other and the person on the bottom has to pull their hand out and slap the hand of the person on top. Then the next person goes, etc.... It sounds all fun and good, but the thing about my friends is, they slap hard. Well, so do I, but that's beside the point. So we were playing this game, (in this case only two of us,) and I lifted my hand to slam it down on his. Before I did, another friend told me that if I licked my hand it would hurt him more, so I slobbered across my palm and slapped it down with all the strength my arm could muster at the moment. He yelped in pain, (although he wouldn't be particularly happy if he knew I called it yelping.) Now, this was all a part of the game, so his pain wasn't my problem. (Sarcasm.) The problem was that as he yelped in pain, so did I. The very tips of my first two fingers had come into contact with the table as hard as my palm had hit the back of my friend's hand, but since the table is much harder than the back of his hand, I thought surely my fingers hurt more than his hand did. I had to quit the game because those two fingers were aching with an ache I hope never to have to encounter again. I wished I'd at least cut off the nerve endings so I couldn't feel it. Numbness sounded blissful.
Now at this point, you're probably thinking, "Yeah, right, your fingers couldn't have hurt that bad," and I think you're right. But it did hurt! It was one of those hurts that seems to linger in the background and bother you and bother you and bother you until you freeze the place to numbness. So I stole his milk because it was cold and put my fingers on the outside of it until they were relatively numb.
As soon as I got home, I injured my fingers again.
I had seen a jar of pickles and desperately wanted some. Of course, my fingers do not usually erupt in pain at the slightest pressure, so I thought nothing of them as I picked up the jar and began to pry it open. But it wouldn't open. I twisted the lid harder. I put all my fingers firmly around the jar and twisted harder than I had yet, expecting the jar to pop open at any moment. The jar didn't pop. But I felt like the arteries in my fingers did. I cried out in pain and almost sucked on my fingers, but decided against it. My little sister hopped up and ran over to see what was wrong. Now, if you ever have to ask your little sister, who's four years younger than you, to open a jar of pickles because your fingers hurt, you probably know how I felt. I folded my throbbing fingers in front of me and looked at her imploringly, imagining how hard she was going to have to fight not to laugh at me. "I can't open it," I said in mock sorrow, "And I really want a pickle." I opened my eyes wide and hoped they sparkled the way Puss's did in Shrek. She just laughed and opened the jar. I ate my pickles.
My next challenge was the piano. I sat down to play the song I'm currently learning, but the first key I played was played with one of my afflicted fingers. I hope you never have to see a fifteen-year-old homeschooler playing the piano with pained noises every other beat, because it rather ruins the effect of the song. Or, rather, I hope you do, because it must have been quite entertaining; I just hope the person playing the piano feels the same way.
Last, I sat down to type this post. It's one of the longer ones, so I hope you're grateful. ... :) And when I look at the tips of my poor, swollen fingers, they are purple. Usually purple is my favorite color. Right now, not so much.
I hope it was entertaining to listen to stories of my pain. At least then someone could benefit from it.

A Very Short Post

I cant think of anything in particular to write about, but I feel like I should write. I'll just say this: I am so grateful for friends who care and who let me feel what I'm feeling and help me let it go instead of trying to convince me that I shouln't be feeling it. I will always be thankful that I went through the thins I did, even though they're hard, because without sadness, happiness is empty. My life is fuller with the things that I've learned now than it ever was before, and I'm so excited to jump in and learn more...

Scattered Ideas from my Life Experience

A thought: If ever you need an anger release, go find a guy friend and see how hard he'll let you high five him. (Unless you're a guy, then I guess you can play hit-for-hit.)

Another thought: If someone offers to punch someone for you, it's usually not a good idea to let them.

Aaand another: Never try to read a chapter book with a six-year-old.

Are you sick of my thoughts yet?: If you're mad at someone, don't be a jerk about it. It only gets worse.

Number Five: Don't be sickeningly patient with them, either. Just be logical.

Nummer Sechs: Is the fact that I still have thoughts to give a sign that I've learned from waaay too many mistakes? I should have just listened to my mother.

A quote: "Advice- a peice of wisdom from a person who probably first heard and ignored it a long time before you were born." -A Dictionary of Silly Words About Growing Up

An Idea: Good book. ^ You should read it.

An extremely stupid sentence: "What? I'm not talking!"
(I've actually said this before.)

A preconceived notion: That kid looks like a punk. I don't like him.
(This I have also said, though not in words.)

An insult: (Which I have actually used,) You paltry accumulation of sham prestige!

Some advice: Think about the meaning of the sentence before you just get out the Thesaurus and look up Synonyms for insulting words. Luckily the translation of the insult above makes slight sense.

A question: Can anyone here tell that I am at this time attempting to better my mood?

Peach Days

Saturday was Peach Days, which alternated between fun and stressful, but I had a good buddy to back me up so I guess I was okay. I usually try to put some kind of inspirational thought in each post, but all inspirational thoughts are lost on my runaway train. Went on the wrong tracks or something, I guess.... All that's left in my mind right now is a multitude of images of dogs; big dogs, small dogs, medium dogs; Dobermans, Spaniels, Great Danes, and Woofers, (not an official breed). All through Peach Days, everywhere you turned, there were dogs. That may have been my emotional salvation for the first part of the day. Every time I saw a dog, I pointed it out to my good buddy the Lion, (he knows who he is,) and every time he'd shake his head and squint at me with an expression that seemed to say, "What one earth is wrong with you?" He continually asked me why I like dogs so much; he didn't get it. I eventually just shot back, "Why do you like Video Games?" and enjoyed the speechlessness of the next few moments.
I also went to the melodrama prepared for this certain event and enjoyed myself immensely, sitting with a friend's family and helping manage the children while the friend (hopefully) enjoyed his part in the play. I listened to yet another friend's expressions of love towards the damsel onstage and booed at the villain along with everyone else. I then determined that next year, I am most definitely going to participate in the melodrama.

Tough

I'm feeling like a pessimist today; I guess I should say something optimistic. I feel like writing something angry and complainful, (not a word,) like the fact that one of my friends thinks I'm a complete jerk and another completely won't talk to me, and yet another doesn't talk to me simply because he just doesn't anymore. I'm feeling the loss of multiple friendships and it's tearing at my soul and shattering me to peices. So tonight when I say my prayers, I suppose I'll thank God for the many learning experiences I've had this past little while and the wonderful people I've had the privledge of knowing, even if I don't know them anymore or they're slipping from my grasp. I'll ask Him to bless them in their endeavors and ask if He can help me let them know that I love them and I'll be there if ever they come calling... And then I suppose I'll sit with my thoughts, and then I'll go to bed. And then maybe I'll dream about my uncles helping me find someone's house, like I did last night, or of a giant snake eating people, like I did a while ago. And I'll have to move on. Sad, but if you don't know how to be sad, how can you know what it's like to be happy?
     "Love is never wasted, for its value does not rest in reciprocity." Neil A. Maxwell (a very wise man)

Food for Thought

Isn't it interesting that the people we know the best are the ones we love the most? You first initial thought is: Of course they are. That's a well-known and obvious fact. But what's wierd is that those people- the people we know the best- we know more of their flaws than others do. The people who don't know them see mostly one side of them- usually the good side. So why do we love them more than the people who haven't observed their flaws? Why do we love people more the more we learn of their weaknesses and faults and anger management and whatever problems they may have- why? I love my brother more than I love the sweet, problemless girl down the street- even though we've fought and screamed and spread rumors about each other and stolen each others' stuff- even though I've never fought with nor insulted nor been insulted by the girl down the street- still I love my brother more. A blunt statement- but why is it? The only conclusion I can come to is this- there must needs be opposition in all things. In other words, that enemy who has hated you since kindergarten and has only ever done mean things to you and vice versa... how about their friends? They must see something good. So why don't you give it a shot? It doesn't mean the bad things will go away... only that the good will be more apparent.

Rain

When I was doing my hair this morning, I remembered the words of a dear friend yesterday in Seminary: "You should straighten your hair tomorrow..." I sighed and got out my straightener. Why not? I hadn't done it in a while and I had the time.
It takes me about half an hour to straighten my hair; today it was almost exactly that. I finished, almost forgetting to turn off my straightener; the last time I forgot, my baby sister stepped on it and... well.
As soon as I got downstairs, my daddy noted that it was raining. I looked out the window and mentally denied this comment; it wasn't raining. It was pouring. My daddy dressed in a rain suit to go check on the chickens. I asked my mom for a ride to school; if I rode my bike my hair would become a waste of time. School was school; nothing much different except that I got a lot of comments on my hair. If I straightened my hair every day, I wondered to myself, would I get this many comments when I left it curly?
Lunch came around, and more rain. I went over to sit with my sister and her friends, but my sister was in line for her food, so I just sat next to one of her friends and talked about the rain. Then we decided that it would be worth the wet to go and dance in it. We went outside and pranced in the rain; my hair was quickly soaked almost to the second layer. The two of us decided to go inside and find more dancing partners. We got mostly denials. This caused me to wonder why people are all so afraid of other people. We're all people; what's the difference between a wet person and a dry one? How about the difference between a dancing person and one who's stationary? Most of us spend our time watching the precious few who will go out and dance in the rain, who will put themselves out. But there's so much of the people that watch that no one ever sees. Isn't it sad?

Another Post

As soon as I got to the Tabernacle on the way home today, I realized I had again forgotten my camera. I then remembered how, when my mother read my blog yesterday, she corrected me and reminded me that it was her camera. So, once again, I forgot my mother's camera. As I rode away from the Temple site, I remembered that the Seminary Teacher I talked to yesterday was the very man who had given me the idea for my Temple Picture Project, and he didn't even know that I was doing it, let alone posting it on my Blog! I don't think he even knows that I have a Blog! Another realization made: I don't even have a best friend. When I'm feeling sad and my mommy (bless her) is too busy to talk, who do I call? No one. I just hope that someone makes my day and calls me. *Sigh*. Life is so busy and full of things that are hard to remember. So full of problems. But how else do you learn, right? So we get up, brush ourselves off, and go play the frequently key-deprived piano until we feel better.

Ouch

I was at lunch, minding my own business, eating my friend's fries, and being insulted by my best enemy, (not to mention insulting him back,) when I heard my name being called across the lunchroom. "Jenicaaaaaa!"
I quickly got up (doubting there would be fries left when I came back,) and went over to my dear junior friend, who was waving at me emphatically.
"Guess what!" he called when I got to him.
"What?" I asked, hoping to sound equally excited.
"I got a car! It's so old, I can't even get in it reverse..." He went on to describe his Honda, (I think he said it was a Honda,) and we came to the conclusion that our car-loving parkour friend would hate it. We laughed together over this. I went back to my table and listened once more to puns about my face, and then on the way home, the chain came off my mother's wobbly-handled, borrowed mountain bike as I made my way uphill from the High School towards home. When I got to the Tabernacle, I realized I didn't have my camera with me, so I'd have to come again through the hot sun to take temple pictures later. I sat down on the steps to the Tabernacle to do my personal study and found that I had smeared the grease from my bike chain all over the fragile pages of my scriptures. I went the rest of my way to my home, and on the way, talked to my old Seminary teacher, (Who's working at the Middle School currently.) I got home and decided, despite the prospect of another bike ride in the hot sun, the probability of losing my chain, and the grease on the pretty, gold-lined pages of my scriptures, that I was going to, in the words of yet another Seminary teacher, "Make myself a good day." And you know what? It works.

What should I post about today, mom?

I was emailing a good friend of mine about the meaning of life when I heard a 'thunk,' and a "DUNCAAAAN!" I tore my eyes away from the screen an looked at the kitchen table, where I saw the smoothie my mom had just barely made arrayed across the table in a great pool. I saw it seeping through the cracks and mymom with her head in her hands, which, doubled with Duncan's laughing shock, made for a rather comic picture- except that my mom was not feeling very comical at the moment. I immediately got up from the computer to help, scooping the smoothie off the table and dumping it back into the pitcher. This turned out to be a mistake: my mother wasn't sure if she wanted to feed table-contaminated smoothie to small children. After replacing the smoothie in the pitcher, I told Duncan to go get a rag and please wipe up the smoothise on the floor, while I washed the streaks off the table. My mom combatted that as well, saying, "No, there's too much on the floor to use a rag," and got out the carpet cleaner. She then asked me to help her move the table so she could reach the spot, but first she wanted to pull it apart a little so we could wash the smoothie out of in between the table leaves. Eventually, we cleaned out the table, and then we prepared to pick up the table and move it so we could clean the carpet underneath... or so I thought. I picked up my end of the table to move it, while my mom, with the tought in mind of pushing the leaves back together, pushed her end towards me. The legs on her side of the table both ended up on the floor, as did my mother and I, in an attempt to put them back on the table, (for table legs do not belong lying on the floor.)
"What should I post about today, mom...?"

Another One Of My Projects

One of the hardest things for anyone to do is to put themselves out there on a platter for the world to judge. I don't even know who will be reading this, but whoever would like, please help me make it better.

The meal hall is crowded, as always. The originally nondescript wall is covered with graffiti, the marks of students of years before. Names, pictures, scribbles. In the corner opposite from me, a group spray paints the wall in the biggest blank space left; slowly but surely, every meal hour, a dragon grows there. Now, he has teeth. I watch a skinny girl, who looks about fifteen, give the teeth grooves and shadows with sometimes small, sometimes larger swipes of her can. I marvel at the different shades of spray paint put in the exact right places, thinking, how on earth can someone make something so real out of a spray can?

I hear loud talking behind me. “Yea, Jay should be here soon, I don’t know why she’s not here yet.”

I turn quickly towards the sound of Kity’s voice, and spot her sitting with a boy our age, whom I recognize from the portrait on his registration papers.

Kity is on the opposite side of the table from him, her back turned to me. I sneak up behind her and poke her softly in the sides.

“Nice try, Jay. But honestly, how many times have I told you I’m not ticklish?”

“Your dad can tickle you. I’m just hoping that someday, so can I.” I sit down next to her.

“Jared, Jay. Jay, Jared.” Kity says, motioning between us.

“Hi, Jay.” His voice is smooth, suave; the type of voice that makes children giggle in admiration. I wonder how he is with kids.

“It’s actually Jaida. Kity’s just… like that.”

Kity laughs. “Jay. Duh. It’s like Ah dumb, but different.”

“Don’t make fun of Adam, Kity.” I say, sympathetic to the cause of her latest ex-boyfriend. They never did last.

Kity huffed. “You went out with him, too!”

“No, dear, that was a double date. You were with Adam; I was with… um… what’s-his-face.”

“Well, miss Jaida, I’m feeling conveniently ignorant of that fact at the moment.”

“It seems to me that you are often conveniently ignorant.” I say teasingly, as I feel my face contort into the silly expression that Kity so frequently reminds me I’d never want to see.

“It’s rather convenient.” She says, smirking. I give her a cheesy smile back.

“That smirk is so attractive,” I say sarcastically, and I watch as a pink flush appears in her dark-skinned cheeks.

She covers it smoothly. “I know,” she says wistfully, and mimes holding a mirror as she plays with her hair a little, smirking at the nonexistent glass. Jared sits across the table from her and tries to be the mirror, copying her every move and smirking comically back at her. She looks at him sharply and he immediately puts both hands in his lap and rolls his eyes around, pretending to study the meticulously graffitied wall. Kity suppresses a giggle.

“You guys…” I grin and shake my head.

Kity pretends to glare. “What?”

“You’re such flirts.” I stand to take my empty tray to the garbage at the end of the room, leaving Jared’s laughter and Kity’s ‘humph’s of protest fading behind me.

Thoughts

You know, as I paced today with my thoughts, one thought in particular came to mind- fat people can fall in love just as efficiently as skinny ones, catholics as mormons, goths as goodie-goodies. You don't have to agree with a homosexual's views to love them and view them as the child of God that they are. Mentally challenged kids have a soul as beautiful as anyone else's- more tangible, even, in their innocent observations and constant wonderings. Even things so simple as who 'knows how' to flirt... things seemingly so life-changing and important now, but what of then? There's a person inside every body, no matter how fat or skinny, comprehensive or slow-minded. Black or white. Why do we differentiate between human beings? If we could see their souls, we'd all be in awe and wonder at the beauty of them- the sweetness and the purity- the good. Let us see, then, in pure eyes, eyes of love, the ones that God uses. Let us excercise Charity as Christ did.

Scenic Views...

My legs are noodles, my head's pounding, and my lungs are convulsing, as if the air simply can't come fast enough. I rode my bike home from school right after lunch. Home release- homeschool. It used to be a devil's word- internet classes, math tutors, not enough time to spend with those wonderful people we call friends- but now it's become the word of angels. Time to myself, to learn what I want to, grow in my own way. To write stories or paint pictures or play pianos with missing keys, or to sit down and read a book for a couple of hours. And then my projects. Projects as simple as riding my bike to the tabernacle and back for three pictures each day, or as complex as learning to fix my bike with nothing but my daddy's tools and my own expertise... which, when it comes to mechanics, is meager. But... when you do these things, and remember what you did, meager can come to full, full to overflowing; even when the person learning is an artist attempting to fix a bike. God made our minds to learn and to grow, to survive in the harshest of places, to consider every possibility and act on it; so even when I'm only in school for three hours a day, I can learn as much as those in the classrooms- and even make time for my friends.