Author: Melissa Snyder

Melissa Snyder https://awriterbecoming.wordpress.com Melissa Snyder is an introvert with a flair for the dramatic in her writing. She is a wife, mother, teacher, compulsive writer, voracious reader, and fierce defender of Love and Imagination. She likes to write about faith (her own and faith in general) and self and emotion and society and hobbies, as well as revealing the myriad paracosms that inhabit her mind. These paper bullets of the brain live in her blog and on Facebook where she endeavors to write about life and Imagination boldly and share honestly.

Descriptions – written April 2, 2003

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Some of you may have seen these before but they remain some of my favorite writings. I need to expand upon them, I think. 🙂

 

1.

She smells like sweet musk and cigarette smoke, pungent and lovely with a tint of ashy rot. She is the epitome of artsy, wrapped in the aroma of white chocolate caramel cappuccino. Her clothes are unassuming, random pieces pulled together in a style that fits only her.

Her voice is soft velvet, always pondering, brooding. A pen is poised between her fingers like a cigarette of ink and plastic as she voices her opinions, clearly aloud. The sound of her voice is intelligently soothing, her pursuit of knowledge beautifully calming.

 

2.

He looked like Irish mist and sunshine, a body slender like a kendo stick, with strength to make you weep.

A man of many voices, yet what fits is the springy lilt of the Emerald Isle, comforting and sweet. Like your favorite storyteller reading your favorite book while you are cuddled in bed beneath your favorite blanket.

His stature is comfortable, somewhat approachable; his voice warm, laced with laughter.

 

3.

Eyes like thunder and feathers, hands like brick mortor and lamb’s wool. He speaks of freedom, not flippantly like most of this world, but seriously. Serious as death. But this freedom means slavery. No, not slavery. Servanthood. Enslaved to love by my own choice. Not a doormat but a wash-cloth. Not a spine of jelly but a basin of water. Not slavery but servanthood.

 

4.

She is brutally honest but awfully kind, the strongest woman that I know. If not the strongest, then the wisest, If not the wisest, the cleverest. If not the cleverest, the most devoted. If not the most devoted, the kindest…for she cared for me. She is a child of nature with a flair for the dramatic. Not gorgeous but the most beautiful woman I know. Her huge are like being submerged too deep in the ocean, and I love them. Her kisses speak words language never knew, and no one ever defended her little freshmen so valiantly and stalwartly.

She begs of me not to put her on a pedestal yet my love fashions a small one against my will. One where I can still reach my arms up and wrap them around her tight. More of a footstool.

 

5.

She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; kind of spicy along the edges. She’s secretly creative and, at times, creatively secretive. She can bite your head off one second and smooth away your troubles the next. She’s better than a diary because she doesn’t only listen; she talks back, too. She has strength beyond imaginings, yet goes weak at the sight of her daughter. She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; but just a tad spicy along the edges.

 

6.

The ghost of Tolkien, Beowulf, and Sigurd walks around in daylight. A laugh incomparable by dwarvish jests and love of books long enduring. He is like a wizard summoned for the Fifth Age, to lead and teach until his task is done. He has all the time in the world and a heart to outlast it all. A Maiar in tweed.

 

7.

A soul of fire, a mind of sharpened edge. A secret world held in her mind, of detail and depth incomparable. A hand gentle yet strong to grasp the sword and skillful with pen.

I love her presence, her laugh like a Highland song. An old soul full of memory of beauty. A bard of myth. She searches for voices from the past, listening to the tales they tell. She learns from the previous generation to pass it on to the next. A scholar and warrior, comforter and commander. Her heart speaks with a voice beyond her years, with a voice beyond time.

Quasi-Daily Writing – June 20, 2012 – “Idyllic Dreams”

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I’m sitting here in the den with the window open, listening to the early Morris Street morning. It’s quiet, calm, peaceful. How could I want to live anywhere else? Some of my friends love the crush and bustle of city life, but there is no way I could do that. Cities make me feel small and closed in, insignificant. Yes, I am a person who likes to be able to fade into the background and observe, but I want that to be my choice, not a reality by bent of where I live. The sounds of the city crowd in on my ears, distract me, turn me about. The wind tunnels they become in the winter bowl me over. The anonymity by necessity makes me feel isolated. Now, please don’t misunderstand me. Cities have their very, very good points, too. Museums and shopping malls and wonderful places to discover to eat. And friends, don’t forget friends. But it’s not for me. I learned this rather quickly. I need a touch of country somewhere.

Ben and I were driving through Randolph County one lovely afternoon and, as I looked out over the burgeoning cornfields, the rippling wheat, and the treeline beyond – so much green! – I thought to myself, “This is what I always wanted.” And I did. The beauty and idyllic peace of ‘country life’ is something I dreamt of constantly as a child growing up in the Caribbean. I wanted gardens full of flowers, birds singing in the trees, butterflies in the daytime, and fireflies at night. And I have that now.

Treaty House at Story Inn (Story, Indiana)

We spent our honeymoon and fifth wedding anniversary at the Treaty House in Story, Indiana. Now, seriously, you can hardly ask for my idyllic than Story. No TV, no radio, no cell phone reception, up in the hills of southern Indiana. In the spring and early summer, it is just wonderful! Quiet, beautiful, the air still enough to hear the horses nickering in the nearby fields while the fireflies flit by your head. One of my favorite things was just to walk along the road there with Ben in the late evening, holding hands and reveling in the whispering roar of the leaves rustling overhead like ocean waves, the clean breeze, and the oncoming night as the fireflies began to wink into being. Needless to say, I love it there and plan for us to go back for our tenth anniversary and as many as we can handle after that.

Here, at home, I still have the idyllic. There is a huge oak tree in our backyard that overshadows a swingset left behind by the previous owners, where we have hung a bench swing. It’s perfect on cool evenings, to sit out and listen to the noise of the tree die down as children are bustled inside for dinner and evening tv, though during the summer, “come inside time” does get later and later. We also have a firepit out back that can make for some very romantic and reflective evenings.

Every little girl wants a cottage of her own some day.

Even though I live ‘in town’, I still have that country loveliness I always dreamed of. All that’s missing most of the time is a proper, hobbitish sort of dress for me to wear. Because, of course, my dear friend Courtney and I fully intend on someday retiring to a lovely little English country cottage some day. With a darling garden for us to sit and Courtney will teach me to make the perfect loaf of bread. You know, like you do. 🙂

New Developments – June 11, 2012

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Last Friday, I had my first prenatal appointment. Oh, for those of you who don’t know, I’m  about three months pregnant. My new OBGYN is very nice, I like her. I got go through all the mortification of a pelvic and breast exam, but we also got to hear the baby’s heartbeat. It was loud and strong. I know that made Ben feel really good, to know that something is actually there. That it’s not a mistake or a fluke or anything like that. I would hate to have done something like that to him with my body.

Yesterday was rough for me. I was tired and moody (read: angry, annoyed, teary) and I hated every minute of it. The cookout with Ben’s parents was nice and I got a few quiet minutes with Ben by the fire after they left, before we put it out. And I apologized to him for my moodiness that day. I think part of me what overwhelmed with what he wanted to do; he’s looking into getting a new vehicle, something with 4-wheel drive, since the baby will be born in mid-winter. That, along with needing to get our Caliber fixed and the possibilities of renovations to the house for the baby…the money involved in all of this scares me a bit. I’m doing my best to take it one day at a time, but I think yesterday I was dealing with just being scared and overwhelmed by it all.

We’re having a baby! Ben had his freak-out moment last night when we went to bed, which caused me to start a bit, too. Though he made me chuckle, saying, “No, this is my freak-out moment. We can’t both freak out at the same time. You be encouraging.” He has been encouraging and gentle through my every freak-out moment since we found out, many of which have been accompanied by tears. They aren’t nearly as explosive now but that nervousness, that worry never actually leaves. I just hope the old wives’ tales aren’t true and it doesn’t affect the baby.

Quasi-Daily Writing – April 15, 2012

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I was just thinking about the commandment in the Old Testament: “Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy.” Also, in Genesis, it notes that, during the creation process, that God rested on the seventh day. I understand that weeks can be very hectic, even with church and families and whatnot. But I had another thought today.

Today is one of the most gorgeous days I have seen in a long while. It’s sunny with a few clouds, beautiful breezes, and it’s lovely-warm outside. I have the doors and windows open in the house, breeze sweeping through and freshening the air, cleaning out the stuffiness and filling my house with the lightness of spring. If for no other reason, I think that commandment holds true for no other reason than for the opportunity to sit back, relax, take in, and appreciate days like this.

Day like this fill me with a profound sense of beauty, peace, happiness, and love. Days like this make me feel like leaping and shouting for joy. How does the song go? “I wanted to ring out the bells and fling out my arms and to sing out the news!” I am guessing that part of this elation is also the sense of freedom that I feel, what with my grading all done and filed away, the sense of accomplishment that I feel at having a clean desk back at school. I am supremely content in this day.

And that is a wonderful thing to be able to say! ^_^

So. You’re now a Pensieve.

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I’m angry. I’m unbelievably, bloody angry! And I’m getting angrier by the minute. I JUST started Romeo and Juliet yesterday; we read the first half of Act I, Scene 1, and my principal has already gotten 2 phone calls this morning from parents about the translation in the No Fear Shakespeare book. Did I not tell them that this is the version the kids would be reading? Did I not suggest that you look at the book beforehand? I know life is busy. God, don’t I know it? I didn’t write the book. I bought it two years ago with administrative approval! I bought it to HELP YOUR CHILD BETTER UNDERSTAND SHAKESPEARE! The man was not a saint! He was a human and a writer who knew his audience. His jokes are dirty! And now you want me to CENSOR Shakespeare? Really?!

And I don’t just feel angry. I feel GUILTY! I feel like I should have foreseen this and cut it off somehow. And I probably should have. I should have remembered that some of my kids are intensely sheltered, like I was, and that this might have embarrassed them to read and talk about in class. I should have known they’d report it to their parents. I should have given parents another heads up on the book before we started yesterday. I should have done better!

How can I make it right? How can I fix this? I feel awful. I feel like running into the stairwell and crying and hiding for the rest of the day. I’m embarrassed; I’m humiliated; I feel like a horrible teacher; I’m angry! But you know what? Here’s what I’m going to do.

When my advanced classes get here, I’m going to sit them down and talk to them. I’ll tell them that I’ve been made aware of some concerns and disapprovals, and that, in my excitement to get started with the play, I failed to take all of their feelings into account. I will express my regret, apologize to my students, and ask them to forgive me, and I will tell them that I will figure out a way to balance and make it right. I will be honest with them that I am upset and angry, but that I am not so at them. I am angry and upset with myself for it all and for possibly embarrassing anyone or setting anyone at odds with their families.

It’s all I can do.

So that’s what I will do.

I’ll cry about it later.

Quasi-Daily Writing – March 31, 2012

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“On Fountain Pens”

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I love fountain pens! Absolutely adore them. When I write with fountain pens, I find that my words are prettier, more stately. They were made for letters, notes, calling cards, and the like. I could easily see myself sitting at a secretary of a morning, replying to mail. A few acceptances here, a few declinations, a letter to my mother, a congratulatory note to a friend. It’s why I am working to get back into letter- and note-writing to my friends and family. It’s a beautiful skill and habit. I very much enjoy what I see and feel when I write. I also love receiving letters in the mail that are NOT bills or the like to be taken care of. I know that I am remembered and cared about through those letters.

Part of me – a huge part – loves to see my mind poured out on paper. I love the evidence of my thoughts. I have told some that, a great deal of the time, I feel less than adequate mentally because of

Part of me – a huge part – loves to see my mind poured out on paper. I love the evidence of my thoughts. I have told some that, a great deal of the time, I feel less than adequate mentally because my brain doesn’t move at the same pace as others’. It often takes me a long time to consider concepts and ideas before I can reach a conclusion or opinion about them, and there is no physical evidence of that process. So I fear that people often think I’m not thinking or that I won’t think about things. When I write, the evidence of cognitive thought is there on paper. Proof that I actually do think! Amazing, huh?

Quasi-Daily Writing – March 21, 2012 – “Remembering Puppy Love”

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“Remembering Puppy Love”

I have been getting an excellent lesson in love and longing over the past week or so and didn’t even realize it. My “duty period” is 7th grade lunch. Over the past few days, the students have changed up seating arrangements for the last quarter of the school year, and I have noticed a new (to me, at least) couple. She’s the only girl at the table but she sits right next to a boy who has been a relative thorn in my side through lunch all year. And, now, he’s as docile as a lamb. They sit close together, his head bowed so he’s shorter than she is, and they talk very quietly together all through lunch. I don’t think I’ve seen either of them eat since I noticed them. They just concentrate on each other, holding hands underneath the table where they think no one will see. It’s utter tunnel-vision, to the exclusion of everyone else at the table.

A few points to this.

1: I have never seen this boy so calm, so quiet, and so attentive to ANYTHING or ANYONE since I have known him. The girl he is with isn’t one of the “pretty” cheerleaders. She’s a dark-haired girl with large, sleepy eyes, and a very low-key air about her. Perhaps she is rubbing off on him – a “gentling influence”, might we dare to suggest?

2: One day, when he wasn’t at school (or at least not in the cafeteria), she sat in complete silence for the entire half hour. Didn’t speak to anyone that I noticed. And on her face was a look of…loss. Of longing. He wasn’t there and she wanted him to be. Desperately. I saw her look around a time or two and I sensed a lonesomeness with which I am intimately familiar. Her other half was missing and it was painfully obvious that she missed him.

3: When they are together, their focus is together. Yeah, they may comment about others in the cafeteria but his attention is on her and hers on him. He doesn’t leave her. Now that the weather is warm once more, the boys and girls can go outside to play after they eat on their respective days. Normally, he would jump up and head out to play basketball or what have you. But no. He doesn’t leave her side. She is his whole world for that half hour that they have to be together and talk about whatever they want and hold hands (surrepitiously, so they believe).

I started thinking about that today and what a beautiful lesson it is. I want to always be that way with the man I love. I want to be gentled by him. I want to always miss him deeply and horribly when we have to be apart. Now, I am a rather independent person (comes part and parcel of being an only child) but I want to always feel like part of me – part that is IMPORTANT – is missing when he is not around. I even want to always feel that ache that isn’t soothed unless he’s there.

I want to focus on him when we are together. I want that tunnel-vision where he fills all of my eyes and is all I can see, feel, do, hear, etc. I WANT that! I know that, beyond the initial puppy love, something like that takes time and intentional to cultivate, and I have found that I want to work at that. Much harder than I have been.

I want that puppy love feeling. As a friend suggested, it may just even be that it’s second-nature now so that I don’t notice it. But I want to be intentional about it.

**EDITED**

Quasi-Daily Writing: February 16, 2012 – Another Apple, Another Point of Bliss

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So I guess I really am an apple-for-the-teacher kind of girl. I made myself as cute as can be to the cafeteria ladies today to beg an apple from the service container waiting for the 6th graders after I finished 7th grade lunch duty (why DO the youngest children eat last, I wonder?). I bit into it and that cold sweetness burst in my mouth, causing a dumb grin on my face, I just know it. There’s something about a sweet, chilled apple that just makes me happy and relaxed and cool and…ahhhhh!

And I needed that moment today. It’s not been a particularly difficult one, just busy and tiring and worrisome. All I want to do is crawl back into bed and sleep away the rest of the day. It may be the grey skies, it may be the rain, but something is pulling me down, trying to curl around me and keep me there with it. Hopefully, it won’t.

Quasi-Daily Writing – February 10, 2012

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Author’s Note: It’s a rare and odd thing when I am inspired by myself or, more accurately, something that I own. Perhaps it is arrogance, perhaps it’s just early morning bleariness but here you have it. And, yes, entirely fictional paper bullet of my brain. It came to me while brushing my teeth, if you must know. ^_^

She snuck quietly from bedroom to bathroom without incident, not wanting to have to bother to put on her clothes for just a quick trip. She made it, unseen and unheard, took care of business, and then made ready to leave again. Opening the bathroom door quietly by degrees, she poked her head out and looked around to make sure the coast was clear. She was in nothing but her underwear, after all. The black bra was simple enough, no decoration. No, what drew the eyes were her panties.

They were cheeky little concoction of silken leopard-print interspersed with the turquoise eye of a peacock’s tail, the same color turquoise as the lace that edged the little undergarment. They sat low on her hips, accentuating the S-slope of waist to hip and showing off the darling little dimples in her lower back; they also hugged her derriere, the lace showing off a curve that inspired the imagination what else lay beneath.

Naturally, she never thought of these things when she put them on; she just wore them because she liked them, because they made her feel pretty. Of course she didn’t think about the men whose brain might be broken by a bit of silk and lace. Especially not the one who saw them that night. He’d slipped out of his room much as she had hers, trying not to wake anyone for sound travelled quickly. He exited his door, just as her head was turned the opposite way, as she slipped out of the bathroom. He paused upon seeing her, his eyes taking in all facets of her body in those undergarments in less than 10 seconds.

Unfortunately, where he paused was right where the floor creaked and, as it groaned, she paused. No. Froze is more the appropriate verb. Slowly, ever so slowly, her head turned to look at him over her shoulder. As Juliet once said in far more verbose terms, she was glad that it was dark and he could not see her blush. In the shadowed hall, they just stared at each other for a minute until, finally, she reached up and pressed a finger to her lips in the gesture that every person has known since childhood.

Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. Don’t move.

And, with that, she was gone. Back down the hall, into her room, the door closing quietly. Meanwhile, he was left to ponder how turquoise and leopard-print could make such a pretty pairing.

Quasi-Daily Writing – February 6, 2012

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This has long been on of my favorite songs. As a little girl, I used to watch the 1965 “Rogers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella” with my mother, and this song has stuck with me over the years. I find that it’s rather apropos for me, truth be told, with the imagination that I have developed all my life. When I was a child, my favorite thing to do was play pretend, insert myself into stories, into movies, into games. But, then again, if you’ve been reading this blog, you know that.

Some of my most fun moments as a girl were when I’d imagine a world all my own, and play out stories with characters and friends that only I could see. It was freeing, it was fun, it worried my parents understandably, but I loved it. Imagination is a power that I reveled in and that I will never give up. I only hope that I can pass it on to my own children someday.