Forgiveness and Goodbyes: A Tribute to Jane Austen

 One of the first things I do before writing a retrospective of a Jane Austen novel, is to sit down and search the internets for reasons why other people loved the book.  It's nice to see other people's perspectives and find solidarity in the opinions we have in common.  As I began researching various views of Persuasion, I came across this- "If you've ever felt your family didn't treat you the way they should; if you've ever been misunderstood, misled, or misguided in any way, then Persuasion will speak your language.  If you've ever yielded to the opinions of others over what your heart told you to do, if you've ever given up someone because you were told you had to, if you've ever wasted even a tiny bit of this short life holding on to resentment instead of opening up to forgiveness and love, then you will get your second chance to make things right with Persuasion." If that doesn't make you jump to pick up a copy immediately, I don't know what will.

This novel was Jane Austen's last.  She died before it was ever published.  The amount of beautiful and hopeful life truths packed into only a couple hundred pages is a testament not only to Jane's prowess for understanding human nature, but to how much a writer grows and matures throughout her career.  This a mature story- it has a quiet hopefulness only a woman who has lived, seen, and understood could write.  It's subtle, tragic, joyous, and all together wonderful.

That quote I mentioned before really gets to the essence of this book- it's about forgiveness and second chances.  Someone told me once, about an older couple so obviously in love, yet not without their struggles and imperfections.  This person told me, "he loved her because and despite of where she came from."  This woman wasn't easy- she was hurt and broken and ill used in her past.  She was withheld the love we all so much desire need as we are growing.  But this man, this loving and patient man, could see past her jagged edges and loved her in a way she had never experienced or thought possible- completely and unconditionally.

That was the real life love story I was thinking of while reading Persuasion.  Anne Elliot is over looked, mistreated and abused by her family.  Jane writes about it in such a way that it makes you heart break for Anne when she is dismissed time after time and made to feel insignificant and voiceless.  The man of her dreams- the wonderful and gentle Mr. Wentworth- stands before her, asking her to walk with him forever.  She is forced to say no.  She is so controlled by her family- her vain, judgmental, awful family that think Wentworth lacks both breeding and wealth  to marry an Elliot. This is where the real life example and the literature diverge. Mr. Wentworth- being young and passionate and human- leaves, hurt and confused beyond consolation.

It's here we get another life lesson from Mamma Jane.  Holding on to things- resentment, betrayal, anger sadness, hurt, and pain- does absolutely no one any good  When you do that, hold on to toxic things that spread and pollute, your perceptions of things will eventually become malignant.  You can so easily miss the forgiveness standing right in front of you, screaming and begging you to snatch it up and hold it close.

After many years, Mr. Wentworth and Anne are eventually reunited in true Jane fashion- through a series of coincidences.  He is now a captain in the Navy, just as handsome, and much more wealthy.  She is still under her family's abusive thumb and still desperately in love with Captain Wentworth.  Despite all logic and reason, she secretly hopes, in that palce where all woman hope for impossible things, that he will have forgiven her.  He hasn't.  Time has not healed all his wounds and his embitterment and resentment is palpable.  The only thing that hurts more than losing your first love is having their pain and hatred paraded in front of you over and over and over again.

I'm telling you, this story is seriously heart breaking.

But, thankfully, it's about forgiveness- no the lack-there-of.  And the all-to-relatable pain we witness Anne having to endure make her and Captain Wentworth's reconciliation all the more beautiful.  Wentworth writes Anne, inarguably, the greatest letter in the history of the post.  He is honest and apologetic and vulnerable- but more importantly, he finally forgives her.  He let's go of all that betrayal and ego.  Once his malignant perception of her is is cut away, he can finally see what's truly in front of him: a girl who was never given a chance or taught to fight for what she wants; a girl begging for love and respect; a girl he never stopped loving, not even for a minute.  And so, he loves her- because of and despite of where she came from.  That is the most miraculous kind of love, because it rests entirely in forgiveness.

I started this off telling you why someone else loves Persuasion.  Now let me tell you why I love it.  I love it because it's about a lonely girl who's misunderstood and undervalued.  It's about her chance to redeem all of that- to become bold and heard and loved.  It's about letting go so you can let someone in. It's about freeing yourself, about forgiving people- accepting the burden of pain they've placed on you and no longer blaming them for it.  This story is about Hope.





I could end this post with that- in fact, that was a right fine ending and I debated whether or not I should continue on.  But the authoress that has taught me so much deserves a few lines more.  This post isn't just about forgiveness and hope- it's about saying goodbye.  Persuasion may have taken me the longest to finish.  I would read only a few pages at a time- drinking in those final words the way you would with an ill friend during her last days.  Eventually I read that final sentence on the final page of her final novel, and my little hand was reluctantly pried away from her weathered, grandmotherly grasp.

Jane Austen fans are easy to poke fun at.  On the surface they we seem positively out of touch with reality.  But really, when you go through this experience, when you let Jane guide you through the murky waters of the human condition (armed with a subtle wit and a bonnet), something happens.  You are suddenly more in touch with your reality than you ever thought possible.  Looking back through my posts about Jane, I am amazed at the lessons I unearthed and the parts of myself I discovered.  And all of them so personally and providentially relevant- it creates quite the emotional response.  And, embarrassing as it is to admit, I am currently fighting back tears as I write this, surrounded by people in a coffee shop.  These tears, this emotion, is about loving a woman who lived decades before myself and yet somehow reached through the ether to touch my life now.  It's about saying goodbye to a friend and accepting the sadness that they will never speak new words into your life again.

Except, here's the amazing thing about the written word- the magic Jane and I both hold so dear- her words will never go away.  They are printed and permanent. I may never read anything new from Jane, but the messages she speaks into my life are and will be endless.  It's not really goodbye when her presence and influence are as infinite as I am.

I'll take this last bit of space to say thank you to you, Jane.  Thank you for teaching me, challenging me, entertaining me, and inspiring me.  Yours are not simple love stories- they are complex portraits of the fragile and diverse human spirit.  In part, it will be for you and what you stood for that I pour myself into observation and understanding.  It will be for you that I mix universal truths with clever wit and poetry.  It will be for you that I seek to inspire, encourage, and befriend with my words.  In short, it is because of you that I will write.

Peter Pan Complex, Jane Austen Style

For a little over a year, I've been reading Jane Austen novels and writing round-about life lessons that only sort of have something to do with the book.  This particular goal has been one of my most formidable- as odd as that might sound.  I learned about choosing reason over passion, choosing to be authentic in relationships, choosing to be vulnerable and take risks on people, and choosing to let go of those things in the past that can really hold back my present.  These are not small life lessons.  These are things that have shaped the way I look at myself and interact with the world.  I'm not saying I've mastered all or any of them.  I'm just saying, they're a big deal.

I thought Northanger Abby wasn't going to be such a big deal.  Austen wrote it to be a parody in response to the gothic novel- which was in vogue at the time- and to discuss the commercial aspect of marriage, which also happened to be in vogue.  Her heroine, Catherine, isn't exactly heroic.  The first line of the book reads, "No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine."  Her family's a little crazy and over crowded, with a moderate income- neither destitute or wealthy.  There is nothing romantic about an average economic state.  Catherine herself "bloomed" later than her peers, led a sheltered adolescence, and reads books better than she reads people. And that is her tragic flaw.  She prefers imagination over reality.  So much so, she creates a story in her head, leading her to believe the father of the man she loves murdered his mother. This ends up being false and Catherine goes home feeling embarrassed and mourning the loss of love. (Don't worry, it's  Jane Austen novel, they end up together in the end).  

In my younger days, ages 16-21, I'd definitely say I could related to Catherine.  And I think that's why she's one of my favorite heroines. It's the same reason I unabashedly listen to Taylor Swift all the time occasionally.  It brings me back to those days when I actually thought life was like, well, a Taylor Swift song.  True, life seemed to be much more interesting back in my Catherine Morland days, but it was also much more disappointing.  As it turns out, unreal expectations hardly ever get met.  It's a lot like what I wrote after reading Sense and Sensibility- letting reason prevail over passion.

Catherine and I learned the same lesson- life isn't about drama.  And I don't mean the reality TV, screaming and fighting, sort of drama.  I'm talking about the romantic kind of drama- the kind that happens when you let your imagination trickle into your reality.  The kind where you think life is going to be like a romantic comedy, or that no one will notice if you suddenly start talking with a southern accent (yes, I was weird).  When Catherine learns this lesson it marks the end of her adolescence and the beginning of adulthood.  And after re-reading my previous post about choosing reason over passion I realized I, too, began to leave behind that wonderstruck, eternally optimistic, head in the clouds, girl behind.  I left her behind for a grown up realist whose mantra seems to be, "low expectations, no disappointment."  And that's just... kind of sad. So here we've reached the main point I'm taking away from this book- growing up really really sucks.  I quite miss believing my life was going to turn out like a best selling novel.  And there is a part of me that very much wants to ignore credit card bills, insurance companies and FAFSA applications, in favor of building a fort, turning on a flashlight and reading Charlotte's Web until I fall asleep.  

But there's a second part to this.  True, growing up can be truly awful, but it doesn't come without some redeeming factors.  Yes, I have obligations that I really don't want to deal with.  Yes, the "fantastical" part of my identity seems to be waning in favor of a realist with low expectations.  It seems to be easy to forget the tumultuous embarrassments and let downs I was subjected to when my imaginations seeped into my real life.  Because, like I said, high expectations rarely ever get met.  So redeeming factor number 1: a cooler head makes for less embarrassment and disappointment.

And let's not forget all the amazing things I get to do now that I am an "adult" (I still can't own that term completely)- things I dreamed of doing before this growth spurt.  I get to be independent.  I get to travel.  I get to spend my money on whatever I was (for better or for worse), and no one gets to tell me when to take a bath or what time to go to bed any more.  Adulthood is truly something else.

I really didn't want to write about this- the sadness of growing up.  At the end of Peter Pan, there's a line about the grown up Wendy that reads, "You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls."  I am not that girl.  I didn't want to write about this, because I really don't know where this leaves me, or anyone for that matter.  Growing up is not an option, it's a reality.  I can't change the fact that I have bills to pay, I don't want to go back to confusing fantasy with reality, and I'm certain I'll never be eight years old again. The best you can do is appreciate and acknowledge that person you used to be- that dreaming, optimistic girl that believed in fairies and world peace. You can accept that you are not that person anymore.  And most importantly, you can smile because you got to be that person for a while.  And maybe, you can build a fort out of pillows and blankets in your closet and read Charlotte's Web by flashlight- because you're an adult and no one can tell you not to. 

Keep Calm and Craft On

"Absolutely, anyone can craft. Stick a fistful of pencils into a potato and you've got a pencil holder. Who can't do that?"


Amy Sedaris said that and I think she's nailed it.  Crafting is one of the few pass times in our world that still allows for imperfections- glorifies them even.  There is nothing like running your fingers along a slightly crooked stitch and imagining your grandmother sitting at her sewing machine, natural light pouring in around her, distracted by something outside the window, ending in a slight imperfection that will fuel imaginations for generations.  I love the stories that live in every handmade quilt, window treatment, pillow, or wall hanging.  These are the things we pass on to one another because they mean something, not because they are perfect.


The act of crafting is also wonderful for the creative brain.  The repetitive nature of working with your hands can clear a cluttered mind and inspire you in entirely new ways.  Nothing can compare to molding and transforming different textures, colors and smells into something new and even more beautiful.


This year I've been trying to embrace this tactile side of creation.  I've loved the process, the frustration, and the reward.  To hold something in your hands that you created is empowering and cathartic- especially when you get to give that new creation away to someone you love.


Earlier in the year I started small and made pillows out of some t-shirts for The Joplin Kids in Denver.  I wish I had pictures of them to share.  They were bulgy, a little crooked, and super soft and squishy.  To see these little people I love so much snuggle the pillows during nap time and say "they smell like Sarah" was the most rewarding feeling in the world.  


Most recently I made some gifts for my sure-to-be-beautiful niece, who is due in May.  My wonderful friend Katrina walked me through the process of bobbins, measuring, stitches, and seam rippers with a lot of patience and little cursing (on my part).  But in a couple of days the end product sat in my suitcase bound for Denver, wrapped up in coral fabric, waiting to be placed in my sister's hands.  I fussed over the imperfections when she opened it, of course, but she really really loved it all.  Bibs, wash clothes, and a hooded towel.  I really wanted that soft baby skin to be warm and snug after baths, so I splurged a little on extra soft terry cloth and ridiculously cute fabric.  It seems this little girl has me wrapped around her finger, even from the womb. 

For everyone reading this, thinking to themselves, "I'm not crafty," I have news for you- You Are.  If I can create things like this- and let go of the inner critic that tells me everything that come out of me must be perfect- anyone can do it.  I'll let Amy Sedaris leave you with one last bit of encouragement: "If you craft, and you should, craft with abandon and don’t judge your work. It’s the process that’s important, not the final product. Remember, for every person who deems your project crap, there is another person who hasn’t seen it. The only person you have to please is yourself, and what do you know about art?"

What's a Mulligan, and Here's What I Thought of Emma

Some of you may have noticed that March 1st has come and gone and Jackie and I have not posted our end-of-year wrap up posts.  Congratulations to Genevieve who seems to be the only one of us that has her business together.  I can't wait to read the second half of all her accomplishments!  As for Jackie and I, we're in need of a bit of an extension.  Just a couple of weeks, we promise.  We discussed it and decided there are times when it's best to set goals and a timeline and, at the end, take a step back and evaluate what you achieved and what you didn't.  But there are other times when you just need to feel good about what you've accomplished, even if it means taking a bit more time than you anticipated.  So, we're asking for a Mulligan.  Maybe?  I'm not very good at golf.


That being said, I'll jump right into my post about Emma, which I finished a few weeks ago.

It's common knowledge that, for a story to be worth reading- to be a story at all- there has to be change, character transformation.  And I believe the stories we write and read are derived from the universal way our lives are lead.  "If story is just condensed versions of life, then life itself may be designed to change us so that we evolve from one kind of person to another."  Donald Miller said that and, fair warning, there's going to be just as much talk about him in this post as there is of Jane Austen.

What we can take away from that quote by Donald is that we change because life is happening to us, which I won't argue with.  But what if we look at Emma.  Emma certainly goes through a character transformation, but the change came from the choices she made and the acceptance and consequences she had to choose to learn from.  Emma was a bad friend to people.  She let her entitlement and boredom cloud her judgement into treating other as less than herself and pawns she found pleasure in moving about and watching collide.  Only the approbation of a trusted and respected friend opened her eyes to her indecency and, at times, cruelty.

So, in this respect, life didn't happen to Emma.  She didn't have to throw her hands in the air, accept a situation she had no control over, and embrace the transformation that was sure to follow.  Emma actively created a bad situation for herself.  She treated Mr.s Bates cruelly.  She convinced Harriet to turn down a proposal from the man she loves based on his lower station.  She flirted openly with a man who turned out to be engaged to really amazing woman.  A woman Emma had known since childhood, made a snap judgement about, and dismissed as boring and unworthy.  All of her pain was self inflicted.

For me, it's so much easier to accept the things I have no control over- to look at them objectively, learn from them, and move on.  But it's the self inflicted pain that's the hardest to get past.  How do you stop focusing on the "how could I let this happen" to get to the deeper meaning, the stuff that leads to character transformation?

I wish I was better this.  I wish I could fill the rest of this space with "this is what happened in my past, this is what I learned, and here's something insightful you can quote to your friends."  But the truth is I'm quite bad at it.  My version of embracing the past is letting enough time go by so I start to forget whatever it was until something or someone comes along to drudge it all up again.

The best I can come up with is that maybe it's a combination of the two- the choices I make, both good and bad, are life happening to me. And the most dangerous thing I can do is tuck them safely away to that dark corner in my mind, the one with the cobwebs and thick layer of untouched dust.  Even though I did have control over those situations I can still throw my hands in the air- not just to accept what life has thrown at me, but to let those choices go, to admit that they happened, to understand why they had to, and to embrace the transformation that will ensue.  Every bit of my past is part of my story, which is still being written and moving toward something much more grand and consequential than any one mistake or bad choice I've made.  And that kind of makes the whole mess a little exciting.

Now, because he is much wiser than I, I'll end on one last insight from Donald Miller: "I want to keep myself fertile for changes, so things keep getting born into me, so things keep dying when it's time for things to die.  I want to keep walking away from the person I was a moment ago, because a mind was made to figure things out, not to read the same page recurrently."

So go out, embrace your transformation, and live a page-turning life.

Sarah Checks In

Fair Warning:  This will not be an informative, enlightening, or exciting post.  But read to the end if you want to feel a little bit better about yourself.

As our year here at Shake the Dust comes to a close (a little later than every one else's), I've been examining my goals, figuring out which ones to power through and which ones need to be let go.  As it turns out, I think I'm going end up doing pretty well.  But at the risk of counting my chickens, I'll just leave it at that.

Here's where I'm at and what I'll be working on in the next couple of weeks:

1. Weight Loss: Still feelin sassy- and that's what counts!
2. Incorporate Artist Dates once a week- I'm on one right now.
3. Finish one of my two writing projects- I plan on spending the entire day at this coffee shop, hashing out this short story.  No telling where that'll leave me, but the hope is that I'll be finished in the next couple of weeks. 
4. Get something published- I have some ideas about this that I'd rather not share just yet...
5. Get out of the city once a week, out of the state once a month, out of the country once a year- There are talks of going to Canada.  Stay tuned.  
6. Read through all of Austen- Half way through Emma at present.  Two more to go after that! 
7. Complete my Denver Bucket list before I leave:  Check!
8. Minimize- Check!
9. Find somewhere to volunteer at in Portland- Emily and I are pursuing an opportunity at a women's shelter.  I'm looking at working in their children's program.
10. Get in contact with Heartline and others to solidify a plan for Haiti for next summer- I know of at least one person, potentially two, who absolutely want to go next year.  I've emailed a few contact and have been referred to a few other people.  Now it's just up to finding a need we feel comfortable fulfilling and working out logistics.
11. Embrace my crafty side.  Learn to sew, crochet, paste, and spread glitter around on construction paper- My wonderful friend Katrina and The Penny Farthing has offered to help me with some hand made gifts for my beautiful niece-to-be.  If you check out Katrina's blog and see all the beautiful creations she has posted there, you'll know I am in good hands!

So that's where I'm at!  I wanted to take this opportunity to thank you all for sticking with us through this process.  You didn't have to read about us talking about our lives every week- but you did.  And the stories of how we have inspired you have been invaluable in keeping us going at Shake the Dust.  We love you.  You're wonderful.  And keep reading!  We have still have a few weeks to go :)

Waiting in Lines at H&M: Where Sarah Learned the Art of Letting Your Mind Wander

Today I went on an artist's date.  I woke up a little panicky.  About what, I'm not sure.  Taking myself on a date isn't exactly like going on a typical date.  I mean, I'm pretty comfortable with myself, I don't mind if I don't shave my legs, and I don't have to worry if I think my jokes are funny or if I have food in my teeth- because I know my jokes are hilarious, and so is having food in my teeth.  But seeing as I get panicky over most things, I rolled out myself out of bed and told myself to got over it.  I showered, dressed, procrastinated, brushed my teeth, and procrastinated some more.  I trudged downstairs and said a disgruntled goodbye to Emily.  I headed downtown to Powell's for some quiet reflection surrounded by my three dearest friends- words, characters, and can't-turn-the-page-fast-enough plots.

I perused the variously themed rooms- Rose, Purple, Green; Children's, History, Classical Literature.  After searching in vain for this beautifully illustrated copy of Emily Dickinson's My Letter to the World and purchasing a short book about writing novels, I perched myself in the cafe against the wall of windows, across from the Buffalo Exchange.  In front of me was a vanilla latte and a copy of Emma.  To my right was a devout chemistry student taking up three seats with her work and listening to Lil Wayne at a level most otolaryngologists would disapprove of.  The garbled hip hop did not frame my reading of Jane Austen well, but there wasn't anywhere else to sit, and after a while you just get used to things like that.  It wasn't until she left to go to the bathroom, and my brain let out a sigh of relief, that I realized I wouldn't be able to ignore her quite as successful when she returned.  So I packed my things, took a final sip of that vanilla latte, and headed to Antrhopologie to see what sorts of inspiration awaited me.

I love Anthropologie, to point of hating Anthropologie.  I used quite a bit of restraint, but seeing that "Sale" sign by the front door was rather ominous.  Artist dates are not excuses to buy things you don't need, however, so I kept myself to the books and little trinkets that tend to set my imagination afire.  There's something about perfume puffs and the tinkling of those delicate tea cups that I simply can't resist.  Surrounding yourself with beautiful things can do nothing but aid in the creative process... Right?  I left with beautiful copy of Anne of Green Gables, a book of inspirations by Paulo Coehlo and a delicate, tinkling tea cup.  

Next I took myself (and my newly acquired books and china) to H&M, where I had a gift card to work my way through.  People in Portland are a little intense when it comes to H&M.  Really, the dressing room lines, the clothes scattered every which way and the dazed looking employees are a little silly.  But I struggled through it, finding some very preppy things to wear to a "Soul Dance Party" tonight (very well then, I contradict myself).

I should mention that I forgot my phone this morning.  At first blush, this was a panic-worthy revelation.  But a few hours and some deep breaths later, I realized that I could, in fact, get along fine without it.  It wasn't until I stood in line for a dressing room at H&M that I really started to miss the little guy.  But, as 5 minutes turned into 15, which turned eventually turned into 30 and so on, I noticed something odd taking place.  Rather than distracting myself with Facebook statuses and Twitter updates, I was... thinking, imagining, conjuring and creating.  Recently I've been worried about my lake of creativity and increasingly shortened attention span.  But just 3 hours without my phone, and I was coming up with ideas for a novel, framing new blog ideas, and thinking of how very much Emma and I are alike.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be getting out of these artist's dates- I'm not exactly short on alone time and the concept was beginning to feel a little trivial.  But the process of intentionally carving out a block of time where you are forced to communicate with no one but yourself- even if you're doing something you might be doing otherwise- can be truly monumental.  It's just like creating space and time for a couple to come together to reconnect, communicate, and get to know one another again.  I had almost forgotten how wildly my mind can work when it's allowed to wander at will.  It was refreshing and encouraging to know that I am always a fountain of new ideas, I just need to allow opportunities for my imagination to do what it does best.

What started as an apathetic attempt to fulfill a goal I'm being held accountable to, turned into a really beautiful experience of getting back in touch with the parts of myself- my nuances- that are lost, forgotten, and overlooked  on a daily basis.  This is an artist's date at the core and I highly recommend them for anyone wanting to recharge, reconnect and remember the little qualities that make them extraordinary.

Mansfield Park- an Incestuous Tail of Impropriety, and What Sarah Learned from It.

We start with the sweet, humble, and good Fanny Price.  Her wealthy uncle, Sir Thomas, brings her to Mansfield Park at  a young age, in hopes of avoiding an unfortunate love match between Fanny and his own sons-- should they meet later on in their older, more attractive, and passionate years of the mid-twenties.  The idea is that they will grow up as brothers and sister and, therefore, never consider one another as a love match.  I'm sure you already know where this is going.

Sir Thomas is married to Lady Bertram, a rather lackadaisical woman with good intentions but very low motivation.  They have four children- Tom the playboy; Maria the diabolically flirtatious, easily bored trollop; Julia the immature, overly excited sidekick; and Edmund the righteous, moral, soon-to-be-clergyman.  As they grow together, Maria and Julia torment Fanny, Tom stresses her out with his unscrupulous behavior, and that leaves Edmund.  Fanny finds solace in their mirrored values and he takes her under his attendant wing from an early age.

Sir Thomas ends up having to leave the Park for an extended amount time to see to some business in Antigua.  Enter the Crawfords.  Henry and Mary Crawford are the siblings of the local clergyman's sister.  Earlier I described Maria as "diabolical" but, compared to these two, that's a bit unfair.  Perhaps I should just say she's bored and kind of bitchy.  Henry is rather short and really quite ugly.  All he has to rely on is his charming personality. And, to compensate for everything he's lacking, he makes women fall in love with him for sport.  Despite Maria's engagement to a rich oaf, Henry takes her on as any good sportsman takes on a challenging prey,  And all the while, he leads Julia on by both insulting and complimenting her enough to make her irreversibly devoted to him.  The beautiful Mary Crawford decides to sink her teeth into Edmund (because he's seemingly rich and handsome).  But when she hears of his plans for the cloth, she immediately begins to belittle him in hopes of guiding him in a more profitable direction.

Eventually they all make some bad choices- they put on a play (apparently an immoral thing to do back in the day), Edmund falls in love with Mary, Fanny gets jealous but she hardly ever speaks so he has no idea, Henry breaks Julia's heart, Maria gets married to said rich oaf, Henry falls in love with Fanny but has an affair with Maria leading to her divorce, Edmund is still in love with Mary, Tom falls and hits his head in a drunken stupor- this inexplicably leads to a fever and a near death experience, and Julia runs off with the guy who suggested the horrifying play 200 pages earlier.  Eventually Edmund realizes Mary is a waste of time and a horrible human being in general.  He finally decides that he's totally in love with Fanny because she's lovely and good and everything Mary is not.  And the two cousins who grew up together as brother and sister lived happily ever after.

Incestuous, right?

Okay, so now you're up to speed on what took me about 10 times as long to get through.  But what is Jane Austen's point in all this?  Is she really into "keeping it in the family?"  Does she have a thing against beautiful girls?  Or perhaps she was feeling especially dramatic and bitter at this point her life and wanted to write about rich people mucking up their boring, spoiled lives.

All of those things could very well be true.  However, without having to make rather large inferences about Jane's personal history, we know that virtue is a big theme in this book.  Good morals are rewarded, while those without seem to get their comeuppance.   Fanny is constantly attempting to find the correct reaction to situations.  She has to walk the fine line of knowing her place and standing by what she knows to be right.  When the idea of putting on a private play at Mansfield comes up, she is desperately against it.  But, knowing no one will listen to her opinion on the matter, she lets them do as they will.  However, when asked to participate, she staunchly refuses, despite seeing Edmund and Mary growing closer during every rehearsal.  Her internal dialogue is a constant debate of what she ought to do.

I've been feeling like this a lot lately.  An unwritten goal of mine has been to be more intentional in my relationships.  The further in I get, the more I find myself constantly searching for the "appropriate."  What should I say, what choice is best, and how can I impact this situation to the betterment of both people involved.  That kind of inner dialogue presents a constant dilemma- when does an intentional relationship become simply a checklist of do's and don'ts?  Always trying to do the "right thing" often leaves me feeling non-present and detached, clinical even.  And, in a frightening revelation, that's kind of comfortable to me.  If I always fly above the relationship/friendship/dating weather, I'm really not in danger of feeling any sort of disappointment, rejection, or [insert negative feeling here].

This is not to say I don't get attached to my relationships, or that I don't care about the people in my life.  Because I do- sometimes to a fault.  And it is because of that I always want to "do right by them."  It all comes back to my constant inner struggle to be real and open and vulnerable, but also mature, responsible and "virtuous" (if I may use an Austen term).

Honestly, I didn't like Mansfield Park much.  And if I handed in this "analysis" to an English professor, they'd hand it right back to me and say I'd missed the boat.  But it's not about that.  It's about these weird, unrelated-to-the-plot messages I get from Miss Austen as I read her stories.  I sat down to talk about the dangers of making bad choices out of boredom, and ended up with this recently unearthed truth: that I still really struggle with being intentional with people and what it means to truly invest and be present in relationships.

So cheers to Jane for keeping my eyes set on living a well-balanced life.  And here's to not flying above or below any sort of relationship, but right through the crux of it.  If you have any thoughts on how you live intentional lives with intentional relationships, I'd love to hear about them in the comments section!

What's Wrong with Sarah

What is wrong with me?

There are many answers to that question but they all differ according to the context of what is being asked.  In this particular instance, I am alluding to the fact that no matter what I do, I get no thrill from writing anymore.  I'm sure you've notice my prolonged absences from the blog.  But I've also been neglecting my personal blog, my journal, and the fiction pieces I've had hanging over my head for the past two years.

It's like the minute the thought "I ought to sit down a write something" comes into my head, this switch flips.  It literally feels like a steel barricade comes slamming down, separating my creative juices from whatever receptors send them to my typing fingers.

The mere thought of writing used to get me so jazzed.  I used to go to Stellas at 6 am on Saturdays with my friend AJ and we would write for hours, except that it generally felt like no time at all.  I'd get so wrapped up in my characters, what they were doing and where they were leading me.  The pure adventure of it was enough to get me up that early on my precious weekends.  But now I have this steel barricade.  And this complete apathy towards writing.  But the more I remind myself of things like this last paragraph, the more I want to delve back into my practice.

I've moved, I've settled, and now I'm just wasting time.  I don't have any real excuses to hide behind other than, "I don't know what's wrong with me."  But the idea of just getting over it and writing through that barricade makes it seal itself even tighter.

Two of my goals are to finish a piece I've been working on and to publish something.  I have until March.  And really, I could probably man up and finish one of the stories I've been working on.  The publishing thing has got me a little weak at the knees though.

I haven't asked our readers for much help throughout this process, and maybe I should've a while ago.  But I'm asking for it now.  I'm probably going to need to some encouragement, inquires, and thoughts on how the heck I'm going to pull this publishing thing off.

And I have some questions for you all: Have any of you felt this way about something you loved?  It doesn't have to be writing, it could be anything you were/are passionate about.  Are you still struggling (maybe we could commiserate) or did you come out the other side?  I could use thoughts, tips, advice, anything really to get me out of this slump.

Sarah and the Art of Shameless Eating

One goal I've been really avoiding is the first on my list- weight loss.  I've avoided writing about it and avoided it physically.  Mentally it's been quite pervasive.  Really I haven't written about it because, unless your succeeding, it's rather embarrassing to talk about. So far I've defined this goal in two different ways: to lose as much as possible and to lose 10 pounds by the time I got to Portland.  Neither of these has exactly been accomplished.  But, like I said, I have been thinking a lot about this goal, which is the first step to integrating it physically... right? But I should explain what exactly I've been thinking about.

I've been thinking- I kind of like myself, you know, just the way I am.  It's odd to say that out loud, or rather, type it determinedly.  When I set that goal, all I felt was guilt.  Guilt that I ran two miles instead of three.  Guilt that I ate more than I should have.  Guilt that I wasn't fitting into an unrealistic size or image I had set for myself.  But now I have this new found reverence for my body- the way it heals itself, the way it knows just what i needs to be at its best.  I'm learning to listen to it and take queues from  within myself to know what the true meaning of "healthy" is.  

Since moving to Portland I've had a flux of emotions over the issue.  There are a lot of healthy people here.  And I mean, a lot.  And that can be intimidating and sometimes soul crushing.  There are also a lot of really really really good places to eat.  And that can be hard to avoid or deny.  And to round it out, generally the people around this town are happy- they walk around with this glowing contentedness.  And I've been thinking a lot about what makes someone happy and healthy.  Is it a number?  Is it a notch on your belt?  Or is it found in an ice cream carton?  Really, it's found in none of these.  It's from a sense of enjoyment and a fulfilling life.  And I'm sorry, but if I'm killing myself over a number on a scale, forcing myself to run so far I throw up, I am not enjoying myself.  Just like I'm not feeling fulfilled after I eat a bunch of junk filled with sugar, chemicals and preservatives.  It's a balance found between being able to enjoy really good food living a life not defined by what I ingest.

A dear friend was in town the past week and it was then I started to really consider my relationship with food and my body's health.  We ate.  Oh how we ate.  But generally the center of those meals wasn't the food.  Everywhere we went was delicious, don't get me wrong, but the main object of those meals, seated across from each other, forks in hand, was conversation, bonding and creating a moment in time that could be remembered.  Remembered for the relationship being cultivated as well as the wonderfully crafted and delicious items going into our mouths. Had I been worried about calories or whether or not I'd be able to work that brie and toast off the next day, I would have missed out on some really beautiful moments we had together.  One of my favorite moments was at a French bakery.  When our server asked if I'd like the wheat toast or the butter croissant with my eggs, we both looked at each other- the server and I- as if to say, "Is that even a question?  Of course I'll have the butter croissant.  And the dark chocolate mousse to follow.  And a mimosa while you're at it."  Being at that patisserie has got to be one of my best memories with my friend.  We drank our mimosas, ate our croissants and cake and deliciously hand crafted egg dishes and then toasted to the best cup of americanos we'd ever had (and yes, we used real  cream and real sugar).  And in the middle, we talked about our futures and what scared us, laughed about shared secrets only true friendships breed, and grew closer than ever.  That is what makes a meal.  Calories be damned, I regret nothing.

But let's not forget the "healthy" part of the equation.  In a real world we can't all go around eating butter croissants, justifying them because we had a good time doing it.  No no, my arteries would not appreciate that.  If I'm going to indulge, I'll indulge- and that's the fact of the matter.  But it's not going to be on a bag of generic brand chocolate chips or a carton of cheap ice cream.  It's going to be on the good stuff- made of pure ingredients and put together in an artful and deliberate way.  And yes, those things are usually expensive, which means it probably won't happen that often.  But when it does, oooh mamma, I won't be holding back.  Because, as it turns out, Weight Watchers was wrong- LOTS of things taste better than skinny feels.  (And shame on them for creating such a damaging and limiting mantra).

Exercise is something to be considered as well, of course.  And that too should be as good for the soul as it is for the body.  I love yoga.  I really really do.  I think it's worth the investment because it is so wholesome for your body and heart.  I have never felt like I did when I was going to yoga three or four times a week.  I plan on getting back into that.  I may be done running for a while. I only did it because it was the fastest way to my weight-loss goals.  But, generally, I hated ever mile of it.  I'm determined to exercise in ways that make me happy.  Because, seriously, what's the point otherwise?  I bought a Groupon for a pilates-yoga-arobic studio that I'll be checking out soon.  After I've used that up I'll be taking ballroom dancing lessons!  It may not be the high-impact, get-thin-quick route to go, but I can pretty much guarantee I'll be enjoying myself.

So, basically I've decided to not drive myself crazy with this weight thing.  Is there a bit more of me then there used be?  Well yes, but I'd like to believe a little more Sarah Van Wyke in the world isn't such a bad thing.  Does that mean I have an ass, curves and a bit of a belly?  Well, it's still a little embarrassing to say so, but yes.  Yes I do.  And instead of longing for the days when everything will lie flat like the body of a jr. high boy, I'll just use what I've got- love on it, embrace it, and flaunt it in the most flattering and classy ways.

I'll leave you with a quote by Elizabeth Gilbert from Eat Pray Love.  I feel like it applies to my own adventure here in the Pacific Northwest.  Just replace "Italy" with "Portland" and you've got what I'm trying to say in a nutshell.

"I did not know yet what I deserved.  I still maybe don't fully know what I deserve.  But I do know that I have collected myself of late- through the enjoyment of harmless pleasure- into somebody much more intact.  The easiest, most fundamentally human ways to say it is that I have put on weight.  I exist more now than I did four months ago.  I will leave Italy noticeably bigger than when I arrived here.  And leave with the hope that the expansion of one person- the magnification of one life- is indeed an act of worth in this world.  Even if that life, just this one time, happens to be nobody's but my own.

Sarah and the Art of Being Fragile

It's been a while, I know.  But, instead of presenting you a list of reasons why I've been so aloof (moving, adjusting, laziness, etc), I'll just say "sorry" and jump right back into it.

I finished Pride and Prejudice a few days ago.  I've been trying to think of what to say about this story that hasn't been said yet.  While reading it, I was trying to think of the characters as if they had been written about today.  Because a lot of the issues, character flaws, and circumstances are still timely.

Elizabeth is strong willed, a quick wit, intelligent and fun loving.  To put it in a more current light- she's that girl that shares at least 30 mutual friends with you on Facebook.  And I'm sorry for the cliche, but she's beautiful inside and out.  You want to hate her, you really really do.  She's lovely and talented and well loved by everyone.  But the more you see her at parties, you just can't help but want to be her friend because she's so genuine.  Try as you might, you love this girl and can't wait to go get coffee together.  However, she's not perfect- thank God.  In Elizabeth's case, she's quick to judge- but, in keeping with her genuine sort of character, it's never totally without warrant. In many instances, it seems she makes snap judgements out of self preservation.

Darcy is stoic, to put it pleasantly.  Really he's emotionally cut off from almost everyone.  He's the guy that doesn't even have a facebook.  Or if he does, he's got like, one photo album of his sister's piano recital and has never posted a status.  He's mysterious, to be sure, but also kind of an ass.  If you were to send him a friend request, he'd definitely click ignore if he thinks he doesn't know you well enough.  Darcy's insecure and shy- two qualities that usually present themselves as aloof and and "judgey."  He is pretty judgmental about Elizabeth's mom being a nutter and her sisters being flighty, empty headed and boy crazy.  He's that guy that grew up under the stifling label of "old money" and closed himself off after being only pursued because of his wealth.  Again, self preservation.

The last post I wrote about Jane Austen was about self preservation as well- being the mistress of yourself and being quiet and reserved enough to protect the joy and volume with which you live your life.  But this is a slightly different take on it.  I think she might be saying that when you guard yourself too closely you tend to judge too harshly.  Elizabeth overhears Darcy say one snarky thing about her and from then on she can only see the nastiness in him.   She already had it in her head that because she was poor and her mom was crazy that no man of any sort of value (both monetarily and otherwise) would ever want her.  The insult she overhears from Darcy only adds to that insecurity and makes her shut him out.

Darcy's no saint either.  Like I said, he's incredibly guarded.  Like I said, he's spent his entire life being surrounded by people only wanting him for his money.  He can't function in social situations and falls back on being pompous because that's easier than opening up to people.  It was only when the two of them were vulnerable with one another that they were able to soften their hearts and open up a bit more, and eventually fall in love.

We've all been like this.  Being judgmental seems to have been encoded in us from birth.  Let's be honest, putting people into boxes makes us feel better about ourself.  But even worse, I'm guilty of searching for the bad in someone and fixating on it because I'm scared of liking them too much.  This can be true of friendships or romantic relationships.  They send up one red flag and that's all I need to call it quits.  Or I see them talk to another girl and throw in the towel because "I don't compete."  It's easier to give up in the beginning than be disappointed down the road.  And there's something to be said for that- the self preservation I talked about last time.  But there's also something really beautiful when you're open and are vulnerable with someone- when you take the risk to trust someone enough to place your honest and delicate confessions in their hands.  I'd like to say that Jane has inspired me to put myself out there completely with the strangers I'm meeting on a daily basis in my new home.  But honestly, I'm not in a place right now where I want to be so fragile.  Moving across the country, away from everything familiar, and being rather uncomfortable everyday is enough of a challenge.

For now I'll just keep my eye out for potential Darcy's- people who are more than meets the eye- and try to stay as open as I can.  And if they say things like "thither," "bewitched," and "I ardently admire and love you," I may be open to a possible courtship.

Sarah Says Hello

I tried to post last week.  I really did.  But as I sat on the floor of my half empty room, sweltering heat swirling around my head and the weight of a late night (early morning?) hanging down on my eyelids, all the words that came out sounded flat and meaningless.

Let's flash forward to today- I'm sitting at the Random House Cafe on Alberta, the sky is overcast and the breeze outside is refreshing.  I have a vanilla latte in front of me (because that's what Jackie always orders and I miss her today).  I'm not in Denver anymore, but I don't feel entirely out of place.  Things don't feel unfamiliar to me here- you know that uncomfortable feeling you get in a a different place you just don't get.  No, things just feel new here.  Things feel good here too.

The weeks leading up to this moment in this cafe on this street in Portland have been many things: a whirlwind, emotionally draining, emotionally encouraging, but mostly unforgettable.  I've been trying to come up with a word to describe what it feels like to have people in your life that love you enough to go along with a long and ridiculous list created solely to satisfy my every whim.  Things like going to Lakeside and camping out in the back yard.  Acting like an 8 year old at Water World and ambushing friends just to make sure I got to see them before I left.  That word still evades me, but perhaps a wordsmith greater than myself will think of something.  During those weeks, I had about one emotional outburst every day- whether my friends knew about it or not- not because I was afraid to go to Portland and leave them behind, but because I was afraid they'd leave me too.  I guess I should stop talking in past tense here because it's a fear that's sticking around.

I am afraid that I'll come back home and things will be different- because things were really great when I left.  I'm afraid I'll come back and my good friends will be acquaintances.  No matter how much they say it won't happen, I still worry.

I don't worry about falling on my face here.  I don't worry about finding a job, or doing well in school, or living in a place that suites me.  I worry about my relationships and my community- it was something I was just starting to get the hang of before I left and now I worry it won't be there when I come home.

This post isn't about my goals so to speak, it's just to say hello, and that I miss you.  It's to say I want to work hard to still be your friend from far away.  It's to say come visit me soon and let's write letters.  It's to say I promise to not forget your birthday and will you call me on mine?  It's to say I'm doing okay, don't worry about me, and how are you?  And it's to say I love you.  More than anything it's about that.



If you're so inclined, leave me your address in the comments section (or email) and I'll send you letters or postcards :)

Sarah and the Art of Minimizing

Make that HAD a lot of clothes.

As my departure date draws nearer, my list of things to do over the next four weeks has been growing; it seems that things are being added faster than they are being checked off. But over the past few days I have managed to officially completed one of my goals: Minimize.  On Monday I got rid of nearly all of my clothes; I traded them in at consignment stores for some higher end items that will last longer and keep me dry during the rainy months (which I'm told are January through December, with a slight break in August).

I also cleaned out every hiding spot I've created in my apartment. There's the nook between the bookcase and the window where important papers go to die; the drawers in my desk that have become a graveyard for old (and ugly) stationary and over-sized thumb tacks I apparently thought would be a wise purchase at the time; under my bed where the huge tote bags, satchels, and luggage found their permanent resting place; and, most frighteningly, "The Linoleum Room." The Linoleum room is a spare room that came with our apartment. It has linoleum floor s(hence the name), a sink, awkward and unusable shelves, and windows that lead to the fire escape, that, unfortunately don't open for various reasons. When we moved in, we slid all our odds and ends that didn't have an immediate home into The Linoleum Room with wonderful intentions to sort through them later. Then we made the mistake of hanging up a curtain in the doorway so you wouldn't be able to see the mess. A year and half later, the odds and ends are still there, with many more additions that have settled in quite nicely.
Saturday I forced my way through box on top of box filled with unused decorations, birthday cards, board games, cleaning products, and miscellaneous mementos. My mantra: "Do I really want to pack this?" And if there was still some hesitancy: "Will this really fit in my Honda Accord?" The answer was usually a resounding NO and the Good Will on Broadway is now fully stocked with all the junk I've collected since I moved out of my parent's house 5 years ago.

I looked around The Linoleum Room, with linoleum floors now actually visible and my brain felt so much lighter. I turned to my closets, opened the doors and examined the few articles that survived the purge. My shoulders didn't feel quite as heavy as they did a few days earlier. Even though I'll be going to Portland with nothing but some picture frames and my books, and will most likely be that girl that wears the same outfits every week, I feel so liberated. All that "stuff" was only holding me back. It's hard to wrap your mind around a major life change of any sort when you're anchored by so much stuff.  And it really was just "stuff." None of it meant anything important, none of it was hand made or given to me out of love or importance. It was plastic and cheap and making me feel toxic without my even knowing it.

I tried to look at the experience as an artist's date.  I was able to sort through several boxes of great memories and flip through some old journals and laugh at what a changed woman I am.  But being able to purge so much was also a great exercise in reconnecting with my right-brained self.  As a creative individual, de-cluttering the mind is so important; you have to push away the clutter to let the inspiration trickle in. Creating a clutter-free environment is a huge part of that. I'm a big believer that the space you make around yourself is a reflection of what's going on in your mind. I've proven that fact in my own life time and time again: when I'm distracted or depressed or stressed, the environment around me starts to mirror that with piles and messes and acclimation's.

Handing bag after bag to the employees at Good Will and looking back at my empty car and thinking about that empty Linoleum Room and empty closets, I could feel my mind open up a bit. I didn't feel so weighted down and the task of packing up a Honda Accord didn't feel so daunting. Getting to check that off my list was HUGE and now I'm wondering what to do for the next four weeks before I leave. (Just kidding, I still have plenty to do).

But now I have to ask for advice, and I think it might resonate more with our female readers.  As I was cleaning out those over-sized bags under my bed I came across... The Boyfriend Box.  You know, the box you keep little trinkets you collected from various relationships over the years.  All of the things I've kept only represent truly good memories, and as I flipped through the items I couldn't help but smile in remember the spirit in which they were given.  But, as usual, those good memories come with the crappy realization that are, in fact, only memories.  So, my question for you fabulous readers is: Should I take the box with me to Portland or do I throw the whole thing away?  Have you dealt with a similar situation and if so, how?  Did you burn the box?  Because I'm thinking that might be kind of fun.  Just kidding.  Sort of.

Sarah's Thoughts on Goodbyes, Portland, and Dead Sharks

Today I had to say my first goodbye; the first goodbye of many.  My dear friend Sarah Petrak is leaving for the summer to work at an artist’s retreat located in an old, restored barn.  Her courage is such an inspiration and I believe only truly beautiful things lay in front of her.  We are both stepping out into the world, embarking on new journeys.  Unfortunately, our journeys will be taking us to entirely different regions of the world: Her to Ireland, me to Portland.

Yes, Portland.  Quite soon actually. 

I had the whole saga typed out and then I decided that, in this case, where I’ve been isn’t quite as important as where I’m going.  But here’s a summary: I was going to go to Portland State University about a year and half ago.  But I got a job with a family I loved, moved in with a really good friend, and started to think a certain someone (of the male persuasion) was possibly worth sticking around for.  He wasn’t, but everyone else was and I’m glad I didn’t go then.  There was a lot I needed to do in Denver both inward and outwardly.  Had I moved then, I’m pretty confident it would’ve been an emotional disaster.  

A few months ago though, the universe sort of shook my world up a bit.  And with guidance and support from some very wise women in my life I decided to be a little rash and spontaneous.  A few weeks ago, my Aunt Jennifer said, “I really feel something is waiting for you in Portland.”  It was with that sentence that something lurched inside of me and I decided now is my time:  Around July 15th, I will be driving out to Portland to make a new home for myself in a new city with new adventures awaiting me.

It’s all an exhausting combination of excitement, fear, and uncertainty.  I’m sad to leave family and friends behind, especially those adversely affected by my picking up and leaving so suddenly.  But the support and concern I’ve gotten from everyone so far has been overwhelming- almost to the point of making me want to stay and never leave such encouraging creatures.  But, like Jennifer said, there’s something out there waiting for me.  My job now, is to find it.   

As far as the blog goes, this all effects my goals quite a bit.  The point of a goal is to remain constant and keep you structured, especially when life throws you for a loop.  But I’m also reminded of Woody Allen’s wonderful metaphor of a dead shark.  To survive, sharks must keep swimming.  Without constant movement, they simply die.  Woody Allen was talking about relationships in his case, but I think the same can be said of life in general.  My life needs to keep moving and progressing or else I’ll wither into a state of mediocrity.  And with a fluid life, there comes a need for a certain amount of fluidity in goals.  So I’ve reworked some of the plans I had for the year to  better compliment the adventure I’m embarking upon.

Here’s the new (and improved) list:

1. Weight Loss: 10 pounds by the time I get to Portland.
2. Incorporate Artist Dates once a week- What a great way to explore a new city.
3. Finish one of my two writing projects- I have no excuses now: no school, no job, and I can wander around Powell’s for inspiration. 
4. Get something published- I’m looking into literary magazines and such in Portland.  Also, there seems to be loads of freelance opportunities out there.
5. Get out of the city once a week, out of the state once a month, out of the country once a year- Mini road trips to Seattle and the northern Oregon?  Yes please.  
6. Read through all of Austen- Half way through Pride and Prejudice and I have no plans to stop now.  
7. Complete my Denver Bucket list before I leave:  Bucket list coming soon!
8. Minimize- I’m selling and donating anything and everything I don’t have an immediate need for.  If it doesn’t fit in my car, it pretty much has to go.
9. Find somewhere to volunteer at in Portland- hopefully comparable to Art from Ashes.
10. Get in contact with Heartline and others to solidify a plan for Haiti for next summer- Actually going to Haiti in 2010 just doesn’t make sense, for reasons outside of my control.  There is still lots of work to be done for this year though.
11. Embrace my crafty side.  Learn to sew, crochet, paste, and spread glitter around on construction paper- This one gets to stick around!  Just last week I made something simple but oh so fun. I’ll share later.

Sarah and the Art of Sense and Sensibility

I finished Sense and Sensibility last week.  It took me way too long- I started it at the beginning of the semester and hardly had time or the energy to read a chapter a night.  This one wasn't my favorites, probably because it took so long to get through.  There's not much to the story itself- it's heavily driven by dialogue. The characters really drive the book.  To me, they are the point of the whole thing and are the only reason I finished it.  I felt like I owed it to them to see them through to their somewhat happy ending. 

Here's the basics: It's a story about two sisters, slighted by their half brother and his jerk of a wife who inherit of their father's postmortem wealth and promise to take care of the girls (including their mother, and younger sister)... but only sort of.  Their lack of wealth drastically dwindles their marrying prospects (of which no one can think of anything else) and launches the reader into Austen's point: which will prevail and land you a man-  passion or reason?  

Marianne, the younger Miss Dashwood (the middle daughter actually), is the former.  She was my girl.  She loves the arts and she's kind of got that arm over the forehead, "oh woe is me" thing going on.  Elinor Dashwood, the eldest, is the stuffy, responsible one who choses to silently bear the burdens of her family and acquaintances without asking for help and without making a big deal out of anything.  As I started the novel, it was Elinor I pitied and almost couldn't stand.  I wanted her to feel something or at least admit that she upset or happy or in love dammit!  But she didn't.  She remained tight lipped and calm through the whole thing.  

Let's start with Marianne, the girl after my own heart.  She's creative and passionate, always wearing her heart on her dainty little lace-trimmed sleeve.  This kind of emotional showboating eventually comes back to bite her in the bonnet.  She falls for this guy Willoughby.  He's tall, he's got dark hair, stormy eyes and he saves her after she's fallen down a hill and twisted her ankle... in the rain, on his horse.  She was hosed from the start.  Did I mention he's rich?  Or at least will be when his aunt kicks the bucket and he gets her estate.  Marianne swoons, she obsesses, she flirts, and she certainly doesn't use discretion.  The poor, optimistic thing eventually feels the pain of putting way more into a relationship than you ought to and imagining it's something that it's not.  It cuts her deep. 

Eventually Willoughby leaves her, jetting off to London with no explanation and no letters in his absence.  Marianne writes and writes to him, even going to London herself with the hope of reuniting.  There she learns the truth- he's engaged to a woman of higher social standing and wealth than herself.  Willoughby then returns her lock of hair and all the despearte, pleading and passionate letters she sent to him over the months.  After the jerk marries that rich little git, Marianne really loses it. She cries all the time, hardly eats, and wanders around in the rain so much so she almost dies.  She almost DIED because she allowed herself to love someone and feel something so deeply.  

Wait a minute.  Wait a minute, Jane Austen.  Are you saying you're not a fan of this emotional forthcoming thing?  You almost killed off a main character because she was too passionate?  I thought you and I were soul sisters, but now I'm just... confused.  

{Insert pause to reconsider past life choices-especially romantic ones}

Okay, after deep reflection, this is what I've decided.  I give you all permission to present me with a Darwin Award if I die over a guy that never loved me in the first place.  I was Marianne, once upon a time (and not so very long ago).  In fact, I've spent the majority of my "boy crazy" years like her with very little success- okay NO success.  You get into Jr High, realize that these creature with the Y chromosome are not so bad, and you want so much to have that slow motion kiss in the rain while "happily ever after" is spelled out in shooting stars behind you.  Let's be honest, that just doesn't happen (I'm sorry if you're a tween and I've just prematurely jaded you).  I think it took longer for me to realize that than other girls, which could explain my shoddy dating record.  Let's chalk it up to my overactive imagination and unrelenting optimism of love.  Here's a small, albeit epically embarrassing, sample of the shenanigans I used to pull: concocting ways to trick them into couples skate at America On Wheels, asking them to school dances (over and over and over again), trying to make them jealous at Lakeside with fake boyfriends (actually I was trying to get the enlisted "fake boyfriend" to realize how awesome it would be to actually have me as a girlfriend in real life- double agent style).  I won't go on- especially not to more recent escapades, which are less epic and contrived, but still shameful.

It didn't take one epic love affair to get me to change the way I look at dating.  It probably took about 19 years of rejection and being passed over for the girls with blue eyes, prettier hair, and less neurotic tendencies.  I remember thinking once, probably over a juice box and reading my American Girl Magazine, that I would rather be hurt a million times than not be optimistic about love.  You can all groan, it's okay.  I am.  

I'm sure I'm not the only girl to pull those kinds of shenanigans and make epic declarations about the power of love.  Maybe it's a right of passage thing- you have to go crazy before you can be sane.  The passionate ones have to learn first hand, the rational ones learn from watching the passionate ones wander around in the rain reciting Shakespeare's Sonnets.  I think, after these 19 years of running around crazy, I'm finally ready to be sane, and maybe give Elinor's perspective a chance.

Like I said, Elinor is ruled by sense and regulation.  She is the mistress of herself and only shows the emotion she deems necessary for the situation.  Even SHE is burned by love when we find out the guy she's in love with, Edward, has been engaged since he was 16 (he basically says he doesn't love the other woman and only proposed because he was bored).  He still loves Elinor, though.  I think he loves her quiet and peace- the fact that she doesn't run around hollering about her affections for him (ehem, Marianne).  He's kind of an awkward guy, so it works for him.  And in the end, he comes back to Elinor and they live peacefully ever after, with nothing to worry about but having enough pasture for the cows.

I don't think I'll ever completely be an Elinor (I'm still not sure I'd want to be).  And I really don't think that if I start to shut up my emotions and learn to "grin and bear it," Hugh Grant in a cravat will burst into my life and I can finally buy that cow I've had my eye on.  It just seems that Jane Austen is advocating for a bit self discretion here- no, self preservation.  Maybe she's trying to say that creativity is important, and passion is fun, but a woman's own well being and happiness is important enough to be preserved.  I mean, even though Elinor totally gets burned (and yeah, her heart is broken), she doesn't let it consume her, she's able to see the bigger picture to realize that even if Edward doesn't come back, she can still find peace and happiness in other things.  And though Marianne will always be a bit of a nutter, after her brush with death she levels out a bit and realizes that the soft spoken and endearingly tragic, Colonel Brandon ain't so band after all.  Reason prevails. 

So what's my point?  I'm afraid it's not going to be an entirely well-rounded one.  I'm still crazy.  I've still got a run away imagination.  And I've definitely had my fair share of Willoughby's (okay, maybe just one).  But now I'm armed with the knowledge that I'm the mistress of my own self.  I'm able to be quiet and reserved enough to protect the joy and passion and volume with which I live my life.  

I am also now obsessed with cravats and ready to read about Mr Darcy's.  On to Pride and Prejudice!