Rare Blooms

Unique blooms grow atop Palisade Head in Tettegouche State Park.
Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin

"The soul always knows what to do to heal itself. The challenge is to silence the mind."

— Caroline Myss

"All writers, I think, are to one extent or another, damaged people. Writing is our way of repairing ourselves."

— J. Anthony Lukas

Fire in the sky

A fiery sunset descends from the sky, with a view from my apartment window.
Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin

“The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you."

— David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

Why writers write…

Long story short, I write all the time. I get paid to write for my day job, I write in my diary when I get home, and I write at just about every other chance I get, in order to release a river of ideas and observations.

I recently heard two interviews with famous writers through Minnesota Public Radio, one being “Wits” with comedian John Hodgman and author Neil Gaiman, and the other being “Talking Volumes” with my favorite author of all time, Chuck Palahniuk.

The piece I came away with was this: Writers write because they have to.

I have always secretly believed that this is true. Of course, there are a great many reasons people may feel called to writing. Writing is not limited to any select population, and it does not discriminate against any individual who decides to try their hand. But I also believe there is a certain population of us who simply must write. It is embedded in our mind, it is coded in our DNA, or it courses through our blood.

Why writers write…
We write because we must. We write because this is how we cope with our lives, because this is how we experience ourselves and the world that exists outside of us, because this is how we replenish our energy and sustain our own life source.

I feel called to writing in this way. And though I have started small by keeping a journal and writing articles and poetry, I hope that I can find the courage to approach this art form in the way that I long to.

As a born writer, I owe the world that at least. To test the limits of my creativity and attempt to leave my letter to the world.

Setting Sail

The Schooner Hjørdis sets sail on Lake Superior during one of our visits to Minnesota's North Shore.
Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin

"A poet’s state of mind is seeing the world with a double exposure, seeing undertones and overtones."

— Yehuda Amichai

A wish on 11/11/11

I made a wish on 11/11/11 — at 11:11 p.m., as it turns out. I missed the first 11:11 in the morning, but managed to catch it the second time around.

The legend is that the number 11 is lucky, so this November the 11th had people closing their eyes and wishing their hardest for that oh-so-elusive dream. I’m not going to disclose what I wished for. That’s the rule, you know. But what a strange year 2011 has been for me.

Getting out of 2010
By the end of the year, 2010 had become quite a drag for me and my loved ones. We were deprived of the time that we needed to be the best versions of ourselves, and our energy was zapped. I was working a dead-end job with little to show for it, and the stress of working nearly every single holiday was beginning to eat away at my enthusiasm.

As the year came to a long-awaited close, my boyfriend and I decided that 2011 was going to be our year. We became so set on turning our lives around that we toasted to it on New Year’s Day, even after all the excitement from New Year’s Eve had settled and faded into the past.

And 2011 did get off to a beautiful start. We secured stable jobs in our field in the Twin Cities metro, we both took a raise, my boyfriend embarked on his newfound dream by going back to school for another degree, and we began to look at expanding our living space to two bedrooms.

A turn for the worse
All of the excitement came to a screeching halt on April 24, 2011. On that fateful day, which also happened to be Easter Sunday, I received a call saying that four members of my immediate family had died in a car crash, including my parents and my 13-year-old twin brothers.

As of November 24, 2011, which also happens to be Thanksgiving Day, I will hit the seven month anniversary of that tragic event. It’s usually a day to be thankful, a day to celebrate all the good in our lives, and a day to be with our families.

Though I will be with some extended family on that day, I will not be with my two surviving siblings or any of my parents’ brothers and sisters. It will be difficult not to think instead of the family that I lost when a 76-year-old driver ran a red light seven months ago. It will be difficult to focus on the positive side and to count the things I am thankful for. And though I will not be with my family members who are hurting the most, I will do my best to be part of the celebration.

One thing is for certain: My life will never be the same.

11/11/11
I am still holding out hope for my wish to come true.

Even through all the grief and pain that I have experienced over the last seven months, there have been moments of beauty, moments of passion, and moments of true, unfaltering love.

So, let me end on a positive note. Let me end this excruciatingly long blog post by saying that I still have hope. There is still a spark within me that wants to ignite my passions and become a full-fledged flame.

Let 2011 wander where it may. I’ll be setting my sights on 2012.

Wintry Evening

I chased this sunset to the lake behind the valley, for what turned out to be an incredible view.
Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin

Talking to yourself in your sleep

So, here I am, starting a new blog, sitting at a brand new desk with all the frills. And though I am not quite sure exactly what I will end up writing in this blog, I am going to try my best to be honest.

After all, keeping a journal — while sometimes therapeutic — is like talking to yourself in your sleep. Slurs of half-formed thoughts flow onto the page in a fit of passion, and then what? Not only are you unaware of any point you made at the time, you’re also out of luck if you wanted any objective feedback.

This is what gives: In the last five years, I have managed to uproot myself from Ohio — where most of my family lives — move to Minnesota, get a job on the night desk writing and editing for small town newspapers, and transition to a career in marketing and communications at a private university.

The outlook is not too shabby, though there are some days where I wake up and feel as if I recognize little about the environment I live in.

Were inner circles always so difficult to infiltrate? Did I always apologize to people for little inconveniences? Have I always had this much stuff? Was it always this cold in the later months? And how did I not notice how excruciatingly short the days were as we approached the winter solstice?

From here, it appears that the most agreeable direction to go is up. These are the accomplishments I only dream about achieving some day:

• Freelance Writing — I long to see my name in lights, and to be published in one of those popular glossy magazines, of which I subscribe to a few.

• Graphic Design — What I wouldn’t do to incorporate my amateur design skills into a professional position someday. I had a taste of this at the newspaper, but only about 10,000 people would view my front page, and I wasn’t always on the editing desk.

• Publishing Poetry — The words just sort of flow out of me, especially in desperate situations. It seems only natural that they should flow to readers as well.

• Writing a Novel — As much as I love the little I know about graphic design, this is my dream job: To become a published writer, and to keep pumping them out as a source of primary income. I guess that means I need to write a book first, though.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…"

— Jack Kerouac