Home For The Holidays

I LOVE Christmas. 

I am hopelessly, faithfully, desperately, wonderfully devoted and in love with Christmastime. I understand why so many people find this time of year depressing, but I never get hit with clouds of sun-deprived despair until after my 12 days of Christmas have come and gone. In York, the Christmas decorations were already up when I arrived here...on the 6th of October. There were plenty of somewhat harvesty decorations, and even more rows of Halloween decor and costumes, but these items were merely nestled in between and dwarfed by already glittering aisles of Christmas. Since Halloween the city has been enveloped in holiday cheer. As I walked around city centre today doing my last-minute gift shopping I felt like I was swept up in the live-action Grinch film with Jim Carey. If people had been dressed in more elaborate, colo[u]rful dress and had somehow sprouted funny noses and hair-do's I might well have believed I was in Who-Ville. The north of England, where I am living, claims that it doesn't get much snow on a typical year, but this month has been a-typical, and there has been quite a lot of snow-so much, in fact, that some major transportation authorities in the region have resigned. The snow and ice are only just melting, in time for Christmas, and the city, until now, has been a winter wonderland these last few weeks. It's been lovely. The cracks of the cobblestone streets were filled in with ice, which was treacherous to walk on but magnificent to look at. I, however, came prepared with L.L.Bean winter boots, so while lots of crazy girls were slipping and sliding in rain boots or (more commonly) stilettos, I was embracing my inner Maine-iac self and taking warm, confident steps.  I've been asked quite a bit lately why I've chosen to go home this vacation, rather than stay in the UK to experience what Christmas is like over here. The rest of this entry will hopefully answer why I'm going 'home for the holidays.' The Maine Christmas Song...

My house in Maine last Christmas. Yes, those are icicles.

The animals snuggling in front of the fireplace. It's my favorite place in my house too.

Out snowshoeing in the woods behind my house

Happy at Home

The cousins with Nana and Poppop

Christmas in my family means 13 of us finding our way to my Nana and Poppop's in Long Island. Cousins, Siblings, Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, (these days significant others), all find our way home for Christmas from wherever we happen to be around the world. For me, the days leading up to Christmas have always been built excitedly around the long drive from Maine to New York. While everyone sleeps in the car, my Dad and I stay up talking and singing together, and it's been this way since I was born I think. Since the advent of the Ipod I've taken on the role of keeping the music going most of the time, but 'Christmas With Delilah' is always on call, and we have fun tracing her from station to station as we travel further south. Annual highlights of the drive include passing by a gigantic cockroach statue(?) in Rhode Island, who, at Christmas, is given a huge red nose and antlers to wear by the extermination company he represents. We also stop in Mystic, Connecticut, most years, just before we board the Cross Sound Ferry.

On the Cross Sound Ferry

It's one of my favorite places in the whole world, and it's one of the most magical places I've ever been when it's sparkling with lights. We make quick stops at Munson's candy shop where my brother used to always get a fresh, chocolate dipped banana and I would get peanut brittle or pistachio fudge. In more recent years my sister seems to get decadent truffles or chocolate "crayons." My Dad usually rushes us along so that we won't miss our boat, but my mom always comes through, taking my hand, running

Gazebo In Mystic, Connecticut

with me past the beautiful log shops, classic church, and duck-filled pond, over to the Scandinavian store-it's been my favorite store in Mystic since the source of the better part of my 300+ angel collection closed down a few years ago after a lifetime of visits and last-minute Christmas purchases. Leaving Mystic we drive on to the ferry and ride across the Long Island Sound, my dad snoring away while we eat grilled cheese sandwiches, play board games and arcade games, read magazines, etc...Then, when the time comes, we walk out into the cold, coastal air, and the sea salt means we're almost home. The last two hours of the trip are always my sleepiest. I think I sleep through them simply because I've learned how wonderful it is to wake up to the feeling of the car slowing down and pulling in to my Nana and Poppop's development. When we walk inside my Poppop will hold me while long minutes pass. He gives the greatest hugs in all the world. My mom told me that when she first went home to meet my Dad's family, before they had even said a single word to each other, my Poppop took her in his arms and just held her for seemingly hours, and she cried feeling so cherished. I live for those hugs and mushy kisses. They're like the kisses in old, black and white movies. They feel classic and entirely full of love. My nana gets tinier and tiner by the visit, and as warm as my Poppop's hugs are, I feel like I'm holding onto a delicate china doll when I cuddle into the sweater-wrapped hugs of her, her soft hands cupping my face while I look into her beautiful teary eyes. We have the same eyes, my Nana and I, and we are kindred spirits in a way that I can't possibly explain.

Nana, JoJo

Getting my license, moving to Jersey, and being able to sneak her out in the middle of the night for midnight cheesecake and tea at assorted diners has defined our relationship for the last few amazing years. Christmas Eve is the most special night of all for me. I could even go without ever opening the presents the next day if I could keep the traditions our family has always had. My Mom cooks an unbelievable meal while all of us get dressed up for church, so by the time we get home it's all ready and waiting. But first we head to Ascension Lutheran for the Christmas Eve candlelight service, and I get my fill of vestments and stunning music. When all of us cousins were young we could fit on one pew, but as the family's grown now we take up nearly two. We still act like kids though, sneaking messages to each other throughout the service, trying to make our parents laugh. All of this until the lights go down and the candlelighting begins. That's when the congregation sings Silent Night, when my Poppop kisses my Nana's forehead while she leans on his shoulder and cries for the beauty of all. It's also when we giggle at my amazing Aunt RaRa who cries at everything because she looks at all of us and feels so happy. And I listen to my mom's beautiful voice, and I listen to my Dad improvising far more beautiful harmonies than the ones that are written, and I just sigh because in that moment life is so perfect. There have also been those years when my brother accidentally lights my sister's hair on fire while passing the candle...but he got the flame out quick so all was well. Interestingly enough he's also lit my hair on fire in the past, during the ice storm of '98 actually. Once we pile back into the car we carol sing our way back to the house where we eat tons and tons of delicious food. Once the meal is over and cleaned up and Nat King Cole's Christmas cd has come to an end, everyone runs around the house putting out presents. It's incredible, and so much fun. My pile always goes under the organ...it's been that way since I was born. Coincidence? I think not. When the piles are out, everyone else bundles up, gives hugs and kisses goodbye, and heads home, but my family stays. That's when Mom brings out the Christmas jammies. If you are amongst the body of friends who have lived with me you may have noticed that nearly all of my pajamas are Christmas-themed. This is largely due to the fact that I've been collecting Christmas jammies every year of my entire life, and I love them! As soon as we're comfy in new pj's and looking especially ready for Santa to arrive my sister and I sprinkle reindeer food on the lawn (for those wondering...this is a lovely blend of glitter and oatmeal) and put out a plate of cookies for a certain giant elf, and carrots for Rudolf, Vixen, and the others. Then it's off to sleep, or rather, hours of giggling and pretending until we believe that we hear hooves on the roof. In the morning when we wake up, always ridiculously early, we run into the living room and dive into our piles, and my Mom at some point sneaks away into the kitchen to make a delicious breakfast for the whole family, filling up the house with yummy smells that mix in a magical way with the smell of wrapping paper and scotch tape. Naps are my favorite annual activity on Christmas day. I am a huge fan of taking naps, but I inevitably have the deepest, most fulfilling sleeps on this particular day of the year, in this particular place, surrounded by these particular people who make up the loud, crazy, hilarious, affectionate family I'm blessed to call mine. Since you asked, that is why I'm going home for the holidays, and that is why I am so happy, right here, right now.

Another time-honored tradition is the trip I take every year into NYC with my little sister. We go in and do every quintessential Christmas thing we can find to do in the city-Rockefeller Center, Macy's windows, FAO Schwartz, you name it and we're there. This year will bring a special trip to one of our all-time favorite spots in the city-Alice's Tea Cup

Unsent

I found myself writing a letter today

when the paper slipped and cut my hand,

but just before I sipped it dry

I let the blood-drops dripping stay.

They kissed each page with crimson stain,

telling secrets my mouth can not.

I read my words and wondered why

I write down things I'll never say.

-Nia Rhein

This Morning

This morning I got up early,

stretched, yawned, 

poured a cup of coffee,

thought of you,

looked out my window

without a view, shivered a little

while the air went colder. Then,

something changed-

a reminder it's not yet spring.

Blue became white, and 

I watched the rain 

turn into snow.

-Nia Rhein 

This is a true story. It happened this morning. And it was incredible. 

I woke up earlier than usual today, and I went and sat at my desk, daydreaming out my window. I don't have much of a view from my room; the window just looks out through a row of trees (which are particularly dreary right now during wintertime) onto an open field behind a horse farm. I sat there sipping a cup of tea, actually, sleepily watching the quiet world outside. I had the window open to let some fresh air into my room. It was raining heavily but the air wasn't freezing. Then, very suddenly, a breeze blew in, and the temperature of the air shifted in a split second. It was instantaneously frigid, so cold I had to shut it out, and as I was watching the rain fall, in that split second, I watched while the rain halfway down my vision fell to the ground, and above that line of sight was snow. Literally half of the water appeared dark blue, while the higher portion of that same sky had already frozen into white flurries. If I'd looked up and seen a man with headphones on, shaking a box of fake snow I wouldn't have been startled. It was one of the most incredibly breathtaking things I've ever seen. I should really wake up early more often...

Set Your Mind On Things Eternal

Also to be titled, My First Performance in York Minster!

Tonight as I was singing, worshiping, praying, and thinking "oh my God...this is so cool," I was also admittedly thinking up clever Facebook statuses and Tweets that could sum up my experience in 140 characters or less, but the possibilities just kept piling up, at which point I thought, thank God I have a blog!

I was greeted at the Minster this evening by my director's husband, whom I had never met before. Upon meeting him, however, he asked my dear friend Angela and I if we were sopranos, or, if we could read music *cue laughter. I replied quite quickly that we were one of each, and this fun tone continued to permeate throughout the rest of our lovely night. The music in the service was far from perfect, but it was perfect for me and what I needed to experience to feel spiritually and musically fulfilled during this Advent season. 

 I got to the Cathedral for an early call, just as Evensong was finishing up. I accidentally captured the last 'Amen' from the choristers on video while I was walking around taking pictures and feeling special in the roped off areas which were closed to the public. Here is that moment for your viewing/listening pleasure:  Advent Evensong At York Minster

While I was wandering around the Minster waiting for the rehearsal and service to begin I noticed one of my brilliant Masters supervisors, Peter Seymour, sitting alone, reading in the choir stalls (also roped off by this point), so I went and sat with him and we talked and joked a while, which was really unexpectedly sweet and nice. I had to cut it short to head into a small chapel where everyone involved in the logistics, etc...of the service were congregating for prayer. At this point we were directed to branch off into small groups to pray for various pieces of the logistical-spiritual puzzle. I noticed the gentleman who turned to form a prayer group with me and two others was wearing some lovely vestments, and then suddenly realized that this was because he was the Right Reverend Cyril Ashton, Bishop of Doncaster, and featured speaker of the night. We laid hands on him at a point, after which he turned to say that it would be our fault if he didn't do well this evening. What an awesome man. There are times in life when you know you are in the presence of greatness and wisdom; I felt that tonight in an overwhelming way, and it was such a blessing to stand there praying in such an intimate way with him, long before the service had even begun. It was equally nice to be standing alongside and sharing this with Angela, a great woman and Tudor historian, who's become one of my most precious friends across the pond.

Happily wandering, as I so often do, before the Service

After this we processed in to our places, to a gorgeous, freezing cold congregation of upwards of 2,000 people. That was pretty fantastic to look out into. It was a few minutes yet before the service started, and I noticed the Very Reverend Keith Jones, Dean of York Minster, was sitting just in front of me. Ask me how I feel about vestments sometime and I'll happily indulge you. But for now I'll just say I love them...a lot...and he looked really awesome (and much warmer than we were) in his long, billowing cape. Soon after I noticed him there he got up and walked over to me and a few other sopranos, and looking straight into my eyes he smiled and said, "I hope you've worn your warm undies tonight!" ......Last thing in the entire world I expected to hear from the Dean of York Minster just before the service began...but I hope I never forget that moment for the rest of my life. When we informed him we hadn't but wished we had he continued on to offer his. Oh my. SUCH a good night. Just after this the lights went down and off we went, and off I went into Minster bliss. The nearly two-hour program was built around carols, anthems, dramatic sketches by Riding Lights religious Theatre Company, scripture readings, and two talks/sermons by the Bishop of Doncaster, but it was anything but exhausting. I didn't even notice how freezing I felt until it was time for me to take up my lantern for the choir's recessional. This was the highlight of my entire experience, but when my lantern was passed to me I suddenly became aware that my hands were frozen and I could hardly feel them. It was so cold! Friends in the audience/congregation said that I looked especially serious and focused when I stood up-the concentration was entirely due to the fact that my internal dialogue was "Don't drop it, Nia. DO NOT DROP IT. You can feel your hands, you can feel your hands..." And I didn't drop it. I carried it in a long, beautiful line to the back of the Cathedral, and as soon as we started singing all of my concern was swept away. I couldn't stop myself from smiling, was almost laughing it was so exquisitely beautiful to be part of.

When I reached the end I turned around and saw the rest of the choir following behind, and I realized that we looked exactly like the deleted scene, The Passing of the Elves, in Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring. Sam says to Frodo, "I don't know why, but it makes me feel sad" when he sees the elves singing, lanterns in hand, passing into the West. Tonight I was with them, and we were passing into a Heavenly realm, and Sam, it was everything but sad.

Every Time A Bell Rings

"Every time a bell rings an Angel gets its wings" is one of the most famous quotes in Christmas cinema, right along with "Humbug," and "God bless us, everyone," but for the purposes of this entry it is also the first major line I ever spoke on stage, when I was 7 years old and cast as Zuzu in a production of It's A Wonderful Life. Since that defining moment in my existence I've been Birthday and Christmas gifted more bells than I can count, but that is not important. What is, or what feels important right now, is that I have heard bells ringing all over York since I arrived here, but British bells are different from bells at home-they sound magical in their own way, but it's different somehow. They're heavier, less vibrant maybe, and I wonder lately if a song like Josh Groban's Bells of New York City can mean as much to someone here as it does to me. I never really posted about my trip to see Josh perform in London a few weeks back, but I should have, so I'm going to give some brief highlights here. I'm not sure what came over me but in the middle of the concert, as he was introducing this song (probably my favorite track on his new Illuminations album) I shouted out to him "Josh! My friends are playing this with you next weekend-Westminster Bell Choir!" referring to the Christmas tree lighting at Rockefeller Center in which the bell choir of my alma mater were featured on stage with him. We had a cute little interaction and then he sang, and I swooned. As if this didn't leave me giddy enough I was then rewarded for waiting a long while in wintry London air by getting his autograph as he was leaving the church/theater, at which point he called me "hun." Since that night I've admittedly felt an overwhelming desire to be back in New York, back where everything is bright and alive, where bells ring the way my soul feels. The Christmas magic in York is achingly beautiful, but until I have my Macy's windows, a visit to Rockefeller Center, and a trip to the angel tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art I know I can not/will not feel wholly fulfilled. Bells of New York City has become my Christmas anthem of 2010, and every time I listen it makes me more excited to get home, and also slightly afraid of how hard it's going to be to come back, as much as I love it here, as evidenced by my previous post(s), like Ten Things I Love About Yo[u]rk

For the first time in my life I don't have a five-year plan; it's become clear rather suddenly and painfully that the 5-year/forever plan I've spent a very long time wanting will never become a reality. So, I'm claiming the rest of this Christmas season as mine, and I'm taking the time to reclaim my heart, to reclaim my self, and to quiet myself enough to listen and hear whatever it is God is trying to tell me. It's time to hear His voice instead of my own. And, along the way, when I get to hear the real bells of New York City, I will be ok, and I won't let them make me sad, and who knows? Maybe I'll even get my wings.

Click to watch: Westminster Choir College Bell Choir with Josh Groban at Rockefeller Center

There's a pale winter moon in the sky coming through my window
And the park is laid out like a bed below
It's a cold, dark night and my heart melts like the snow
And the bells of New York City tell me not to go

It's always this time of year that my thoughts undo me
With the ghosts of many lifetimes all abound
But from these mad heights I can always hear the sound
Of the bells of New York City singing all around

Stay with me, stay with me
A refuge from these broken dreams

Wait right here, awake with me
On silent, snow-filled streets

Sing to me one song for joy, and one for redemption
And whatever's in between that I call mine
With the street lamp light to illuminate the grey
And the bells of New York City calling me to stay
The bells of New York City calling me to stay

Make You Dance: My Nonny...

 My sister nicknamed me Nonny when she was only a few months old, and Nonny I've been ever since. I just found this on her blog : )

Make You Dance: My Nonny...: "Two weeks too long,Your hand too far.Your voice too quiet for your life's volume.A painting for you i have sent,But you, yourself are not he..."

Two weeks too long,

Your hand too far.

Your voice too quiet for your life's volume.

A painting for you i have sent,

But you, yourself are not here... 

I LOVE this kid...home to Maine in 12 days : )

I should be sleeping, but...

Why I'm Awake

-Nia Rhein

"You should be asleep."

If I could I would answer: 

I'm awake 

because I'm wondering,

whenever it is I finish wandering,

will yours be the hand holding mine?

And would it worry you to know

that I wish it always? Or,

that what I want most in all of this world

is to drink wine 

and laugh at something funny, 

wherever, for ever,

with you.

Ten Things I Love About Yo(u)rk

 I realize I've been posting a lot of my own poetry, but I think it's time to appreciate the poetry of my rather remarkable new, very old city. 

I could go on and on listing reasons why I love York-I've considered adapting one of my I <3 New York t-shirts by crossing out the "New"-but I'll try to narrow my selection to a top 10 highlights for now.

1. The Markets- 

When I was a little girl I used to play on my own in the field outside my house and pretend that I was collecting all sorts of treasures-dandelions, blackberries, queen anne's lace, grape leaves-to take to market (embodied by the treehouse my big brother and I shared) and sell. Now I'm living in a place where open air markets actually happen every day. No matter the day of the week or weekend there is undoubtedly some festival going on featuring international vendors calling out on the streets a la Christina Rosetti's Goblin Market

"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy;
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye,
Come buy, come buy."

Fortunately, these olives, cheeses, and breads have not poisoned me into near madness, as intoxicating as they may be. They do, however, provide at least fifty reasons-one for each vendor-to take the long, healthy walk into city centre as often as I'm able.  

2. The Noah's Ark Bouncy House-
 

and other assorted Christ(mas) themed amusement rides set up just past the market never fail to give me a giggle. I'm tempted to stop and take a picture nearly every time I pass by, simply because it is incredibly cute. There are loads of tiny children running about with adorable British voices (North Yorkshire accents at that) and occasionally calling out "Mummy" to the bundled up moms waiting patiently nearby.

3. The Train Station-

 

I love how connected I feel to the world here. I have, and have always had, insatiable wanderlust, but in York it is not a burden to bear any more. The train station (one of the locations featured as Platform 9 3/4 in the Harry Potter films), is beautifully close to the University, it's easy to navigate, and I've had delightful conversations with taxi drivers each time I've had to hire a cab there. I tend to start by pointing out to my driver that they are driving on the wrong side of the road...it never fails to get a chuckle and ease any tension that might exist due to the give-away that is my funny, foreign accent. With a regular schedule of research and rehearsals I have not traveled as extensively yet as I might've hoped to, but it has been two months to the day now since I flew into Manchester from Boston, and I've made getaways to London and Scotland. Still, I love knowing the option exists and is so readily accessible should I feel the need to hop on a train, or plane, and go-yet more proof that this place and I were destined to be together, even if only for a little while.

4. The Smell-

Whenever I travel I tend to unintentionally leave with a particularly nice souvenir-the memory of that place's smell. Whenever I go home I know that my house in Maine will smell like cinnamon and Snuggle fabric softener, and my Nana's house in New York smells like decades of warm, comforting meals, and newspaper. When I first arrived in York I wasn't sure what this place's distinct smell was, but then a breeze came through, and I discovered that the air here smells sweet and rich with the smell of chocolate from its hidden factories, especially on a breezy day. It's as if the city's determined to be fairytale worthy, and so, in addition to the rest of its magic, it decides to smell like chocolate too. Fact: I don't like chocolate. But, I do like the smell of it, even more so now that I smell brownies in the air every day.

5. The Nuns-

There is an abbey here, behind a thick, stone wall, in which a group of nuns stay, live, and never come outside of the gates. I'm told once they go in they stay forever inside and spend their days praying for the city and its inhabitants. I find it so comforting knowing that they're there. Their prayers are most welcome, and every once in a while I spare a prayer for them too.

6. Betty's-

is a perfect tea house, designed to replicate the interior of a luxury cruise ship. "In 1936 the founder of Bettys, Frederick Belmont, travelled on the maiden voyage of the Queen Mary. He was so enthralled by the splendour of the ship that he commissioned the Queen Mary’s designers and craftsmen to turn a dilapidated furniture store into his most sophisticated branch yet – an elegant café in the land-locked location of St Helen’s Square. Today, as you sit in Bettys surrounded by huge curved windows, elegant wood panelling and ornate mirrors, you can almost imagine yourself aboard a luxury liner." Taking tea at any time of the day is a luxury I've quickly become adjusted to. In the middle of choir rehearsals everyone inevitably stops for a tea/coffee/biscuit break at least once. It's perfect. Not in the mood for a cuppa? That's when Betty's mulled wine, served hot and spicy, comes into addictive play. 

7. Christmas-

I LOVE Christmas, and it's everywhere in York. It's been everywhere since before Halloween. More on this another time, as we get closer to the Holidays. It really deserves a post entirely its own. For now let it suffice to say that York is Christmas magic incarnate.

8. The Minster-

I was 13 years old when York Minster came into my life for the first time. Sitting in my 7th grade history class one of my most influential teachers of ever showed us slides of cathedrals and artwork around the world in order to demonstrate architectural development over time. From that moment on I knew I had to sing here someday. Evensong is sung every night, and I go as often as I can get there. I'm learning how to be spiritually fulfilled by listening, rather than actively singing, and it's been a surprisingly challenging transition for me. To not be the singer, but to be the one internalizing the intensely beautiful has forced me to quiet myself long enough to listen, and hear, and know. I do get to sing there this weekend for a carol service, and I know I will be meditating a lot on what it was like to be 13 years old, wondering if one day, maybe...and now to be nearly 23 years old, processing at long last into the nave, carrying a lantern in my hands, and singing carols by candlelight into this massive, extraordinary space...

9. Barbakan-

is my favorite restaurant in York, and so far it's my little secret, until now of course. I dare any of you to come try it with me...Barbakan is a tiny, Polish cafe, which I happened upon with friends on the walk into city centre from Uni, and have not stopped going to since. They offer amazing Eastern European cuisine for extraordinarily reasonable prices. The exchange rate is awful on this side of the pond, so I'm hyper-conscious of these things, but I never feel guilty when I indulge at Barbakan, in part because the food and atmosphere are so fulfilling, comforting, and wonderful, but also because it really is inexpensive! It's small, warm, cozy, and it's the yummiest food I've accidentally found in the whole, wide world. 

10. The Night Life-

is bangin'. There are, I admit, more vibrant, modern cities nearby, like Leeds, Manchester, and even London, but I have an amazing time out every time I go out in York. I have a fantastic group of friends who make up a beautifully international crew, and when we pair up with cheap, intense drinks, good music, and a dance floor or two, our nights-into-mornings on the town are always epic. There is a huge demand for atmospheres in which we can lay aside research at the end of a long week and escape into wondrous postgraduate oblivion, and the city answers the call with just enough venues to keep us drinking and dancing the nights happily away. My personal favorites thus far: Fibbers, The Duchess, Willow (so trashy and so good), & Vudu Lounge. One of these nights I'll get to Club Salvation, a Medieval church-turned pop night club.

Independent Love Song

Thank you, Thesaurus.com. I feel complimented : )

Believe it or not, I love single life. No, really, I do! Like most people who might make this claim, I admittedly would happily exchange my bachelorette lifestyle when my prince decides to sweep me off my feet-damn you, Prince William, for not being my happily ever after-but, still, right now, I am happier than I've ever been. As evidence, I feel the best I've felt since probably 6th grade, when I was 12 years old and had my first "boyfriend"...We broke up when he broke his neck...I know that sounds awful, but seriously, I was 12 years old and I was clearly not ready to have and to hold for better or for worse! Sort of kidding...the breakup was pending prior to the broken neck, though I can admit my poor timing was (hysterically) insensitive. Anyway, that's another story for the memoirs someday. Tonight, today, whatever it is right now in the world wherever you and I are, for all of the uncertainties I have about what is going to come after this rather extraordinary adventure I'm on right now, I am the most sure of who I am that I've ever been. I'm told my [love] life is a bit cinematic, and I suppose it's true...I'm not quite sure why or how I get swept up in these stories, but somehow they happen, and they're fleeting and lovely, and my friends laugh and tell me I need to compile them into a book. But, these love/lust stories of mine are as impermanent as I am at this point in my life...and then come these nights, like tonight, when Miss Independent sighs a little, and I realize I am living this utterly romantic life and yet...I really miss forehead kisses.

A forehead is NOT a sexy thing.

So why can't I stop thinking, then,

about yours when I think about you?

I must really love, it. I must really love...

Oh, I hope someone, 

someday will like my 

forehead, too.

The Night Thief

I happened upon this picture by a graphic designer, Chow Hon Lam, a while ago, and thought the creature seemed as frightening as whimsical, but I think if I saw him I would want to follow and see where he was taking the stars. I imagine him bringing them to market and trading them for drink, or things of far less value than starlight. It must be the crooked back and curly shoes...He calls it "Sky Thief" and I call my response "The Night Thief"

It was night when it came,

woke me with a pebble

tossed soft against a pane

so the glass wouldn't shatter,

but rang piercing treble,

'til torn from a dream

I heard it whisper my name.

I tried to sleep

for fear of the air

but the shadow could seep

so I stood at the sill

to be taken somewhere,

stretched my hand to the thief,

and felt myself leap. 

I expected to fall

and found, instead,

our feet flew up walls,

grazing chimney and tree.

Far away from my bed,

seeming ever more small,

I breathed in it all.

I doubted my sight

beneath blue-black cape

while he plucked from the night

into crinoline bags

what was not ours to take-

glittering stars, brilliant white,

tucked away in secret, extinguishing light.

By chance, then, he saw

in my face something sad,

cupped his hand to my jaw,

took me quickly away

to his people, wing-clad,

and houses of straw,

each collecting a star while I watched in awe.

Night after night I wait at the sill

while hours pass,

wondering if he will

come back to find

my wonder lasts,

to see me, still,

bags in hand, ready to fill.

~Nia Rhein~

http://www.threadless.com/profile/890856

The Tickling Wind

My younger sister, Rebekah, has the silliest, sweetest soul of any little girl in the world. Every day she becomes less the baby I love and more the little woman I cherish. But her spirit amazes me over and over again the more she and I grow up together. She's a gifted writer, and has the most refreshing imagination. I'll probably get the story wrong, but I think she had to write a short excerpt for her French class, and when she read it to me in English I was completely struck by the images she had imagined. Better to simply share, I think, than to try to describe. She calls it "The Tickling Wind."

 One Fall day a leaf named Amelie wakes up.

She is surprised to see that there are small, yellow patches spotting her green skin.

She is also very cold and very thirsty, but her mother (tree) told her that one day this would happen.

Day-by-day she turns more and more yellow.  

She thinks that the more yellow she turns the more ticklish she gets when the wind blows. And she doesn't like it.

One day when she is completely yellow the tickling wind blows so strong that while Amelie is laughing she falls off of her tree and flies everywhere.

She lands on the ground and falls asleep for the winter.

The language is so simple, in part because she had to translate her story into French, but I think also because it's meant to be a children's story. Within that childlike perspective is so much beautiful, unadulterated innocence, all the while, though, painting this incredible portrait of eternal sleep. Anyway, in turn, I wrote a sort of response to my sister's story. I'll also call mine "The Tickling Wind"

 The Tickling Wind
 ~Nia Rhein~

A little girl watching a tree caught my eye.

She thought the leaves were giggling

in the wind whipping by.

"That ticklish one there," she smiled and sighed,

"is going to fall from all its wriggling!"

The air was chilled with wintertide

when her once-green leaf turned yellow and died

But I thought, "she's right...it's happily wiggling"

A story so sweet of life passing by. 

  Video-Leaves Falling

24 Hours

24 Hours

of new born ice on aged rock,
melting, ever,
farther from mystic beginning
into vital flooding-life.
24 Hours of falling,
a cold blanket,
on every inch of stony street,
'til I wrapped up in the warmth of you
and fast became slush-you should have warned me-

and was shoveled away.

~Nia Rhein~

...Scribbled this on the bus ride home from a weekend trip to Edinburgh, Scotland. One day became unexpectedly wonderful-one of the [love]liest weekends of my life- and then ended, as these things always seem to do.

A Knight's Poetic Journey

This is what came out of a sleepless night and some searching into the literary and mythical history of Gog and Magog that my high school English teacher, Frank Brown led me to; I would invite anyone seeking inspiration to investigate these figures as well:

Lost in the deep thick of a forest, green,
I, weary from wandering, stopped to take rest.
Beneath rain-kissed branches,
laden with fairy fruit, dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell, at once, into a dream.

A voice came ech'ing o'er the chilly air,
singing a spell to wake me from sleep.
The emerald trees began to murmer,
their strange music whistling through the breeze in my hair.
A far off maiden was whispering my name in a meadow,
I knew not where.

I broke through the thicket to find her,
my armor flashing in the moonlight, pale.
At last there came a clearing in the woodland, wild,
And a muteness befell me, so lost was my will.
Before me danced giants, trampling the green mantle bare.

Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
like ancient stones of milk-white marble,
men or beasts they leapt through fire,
in time with tongues of dragon-breathed flame.
And in their midst a girl was standing,
A garland of petals through her golden hair tied.

My brow was damp with melted dew,
my brave skin torn by bramble and rock,
when she saw me hiding and bid me come.
I took up my sword, but at once set it down
And went running, instead, to her eyes' piercing hue.

And the earth seemed to rumble
when seeing me they laughed
in tones afore unheard by any man.
We danced in the deep as if old, long lost friends
while streams were hissing and sloshing froth.

Their hands were stained, but not with blood-
with juice of berries, warmed in hot sun.
But thieving light came and morning broke.
The milk-white marble was turned to stone
And in place of my giants four mountains stood.

And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we danced away night
But in her place a trinket I found-
an amaranth swaying, still casting a spell.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall...

I chose the image of the amaranth because it's usually red or purple, a mythical symbol of love and immortality, and then after i wrote the poem I found this verse, which got me thinking about my image of giants:

Look at the amaranth:
on tall mountains it grows,
on the very stones and rocks
and places inaccessible.

I wrote this intending it to be set to music, but in this early draft it turned out to be not especially settable rhythmically. Then I tried messing with format a bit without destroying the dramatic flow, but it changed the character of my giants, and even my knight-

A wanderer lost in a forest, green,
Beneath rain-kissed branches dripping with steam,
I sighed for sleep and fell into a dream.

I woke to the echoing fae-kissed air,
and I saw through the thicket before me out there-
Giants were trampling the green mantle bare.

Clad in aprons of flapping hide,
they were tearing down trees when someone cried
and I saw in their midst a maiden was tied.

The earth seemed to rumble when seeing me they laughed
in tones long reserved for those of their craft.
Through dragon-breathed flame was my only path.

But a thief stole the night and morning broke.
They turned to stone and I awoke.
In place of my giants stood mountains in smoke.

And she, in an instant, vanish'd from sight,
from the distant wood where we met in the night
but a trinket I found in her place, bathed in light-

An amaranth swaying, as if to me call.
Now here I sit beneath four mountains, tall,
guarding this flower 'til next night shall fall.

I liked this second attempt, although still probably a bit long for him to set musically, especially on a time crunch with the music due in November... but then I started daydreaming about my friend, about home, about being across this great, big ocean (as I'm now living in England), and, ultimately, wishing it would dry up so it might be easier to cross over.

I wake and yet feel still asleep
'til off I drift into a dream
where giants tear down heavy trees,
through dancing flames forge golden beams.
I beg them, "Stop! and quiet, be-
drink up this brook, this cursed stream.
When it is dry then I may reach
the far off one who calls to me."

Funny how the simplest, most honest expressions of ourselves sometimes turn out to be the most special.