Purple Journal 1

(These are in no particular order, but usually the stuff within a journal is from the relatively same time period.)

Chran lisa tasare ilnava ren.
Tambave galesan amarei olnava ren.
Ave Kyrie.

Are Stamuna til nellavore
Sanareve fanan.

(I don't ask. Neither should you)

Meiou, Meu, Elan

(There are sometimes random names scattered throughout)

Aleu, Amara, Ashe, Arien, Aya, Aerill

The rain is alive - it moves and it breathes, it strengthens and weakens. You can see it in the lake moving in wonderous waves as if in racing.
A girl about Melissa's age, running with her own personal beaver stick, her shirt is either tie-dyed or soaked - I can't tell which. Her jeans, light and splattered by the rain. Leaning on her stick, she stares at the sea and sky for the wonder it is due.
Half of me want's to run and dance in the rain like Christy, feet in the mud and arms outstretched. But the other half of me is perfectly content to sit here in the fragile shelter and watch it from afar.
A rainstorm is something you can never hope to capture. But writing, and music together may help me to remember it. There are some things in life that there are no subsitutes for. Cao standing beside me, pants rolled up sloppily, one higher than the other; and to no effect, both were thouroughly soaked.
The sopping pink shirt says "Flavor of the Week", and as I stare into her rain soaked, exhilerated face, the name fits so well.
The music changes - violins. The rain begins to slow but...
Christy comes up and informs me with that straight face that makes everything she says that much funnier;
"Ok, my shorts are dry, but my shirts soaking wet." Turning to me as if I am expected to come up with a divine explanation.
There's this artist wandering around with a charcoal sketchpad. I tried to make small talk, but I don't think she gets it. We are both trying to capture the rainstorm.

There have been moments of bright inspiration, but something here is missing. It's not quite the same. The leaves have fallen from our Gryph-Bush.

Christy's sleeping bag is very creative - a cracker jacks bag with the classic "Suprise Toy Inside."

"Ellie! I'm trying to sleep! Don't hit me with pillows!"
"I Didn't."
"Then who did?"
"No one. It wasn't a pillow."

I was on the long bus. And I think it was my fault. Because I was sitting there all content, about an hour into it, and I was happy because I had my friends there and was listening to music and I thought to myself that if the bus ride went on forever, I would be happy.
And then it did. And I wasn't happy. I think sometimes we all feel like we want to stay somewhere, hold a moment in your heart forever. But you can't.

(That is a short excerpt from one of my Talking Stick speeches. I rather forgot the rest, but it was about how our experiance at the Blue Mountain Camp can't last forever, but our journey with god can, and should.)

(Here this journal ends... but I think it ties in very closely with another one, because I'm pretty sure I have notes from the same trip there.)