Anyway, so this book is about Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah in the bible. At first, her life doesn't seem so terrible, despite the fact that they don't have any indoor plumbing, or an actual house for that matter, but that's not what the author focused on anyway. This story is about Dinah, whose voice goes unheard in the Bible. There was one act of violence in her life, a huge act of violence, and her life is changed forever. Her story is so painful, it's sad. This is what has me crying in about the last fifty pages. Her life has had so many painful things, and she dies happy. No, no, that's not right. I suppose I have to tell you a little about Dinah, herself. Dinah is the daughter of four different mothers, and she gains something from each one. She heard stories about their lives since she was born that she isn't even sure if her first memories are her own.
You would think that a girl like her would have some personality problems, or wouldn't have her own voice in this story with four different mothers and multitudes of brothers, but her voice is soothing, and she recalls each memory with the emotion that each deserve. The love that is shown within the family before the violent act is soothing and calm. Like being wrapped in your mother's arms, which is what I suppose the author wanted you to feel. Then the violent act and all the things that go wrong in her life after it happens. It's so painful because you, the reader, know, that this was something that is plausible, but because we see the outcome of the whole thing we find it so stupid because by the time that violent act happens, we already feel like we are a part of Dinah, and we only want what's best for her, but that's not how it goes and humans are greedy.
So, after this violent act things happen to Dinah that are painful on multitudes of different levels. We feel her pain and her sadness at each thing, yet she doesn't let the pain get to her. She doesn't put on fake bubbliness and pretend nothing bad never happens, no, she faces it by letting it move through her, recognizing it, and learning from what happens and begins to make her own happiness. This doesn't happen all at once, rather it takes her until she's too old to bear children to get through it completely, and find happiness. In the last fifty pages, it seems like all the things that made her unhappy or sad or angry come back, but she doesn't take revenge, neither does she make everything seem happy and like nothing bad ever happens. She lived through it, she knows what happened, and she understands how it happens, and she's willing to let things go and make the best of what she has. I don't know what it is, but the last fifty pages are so painful and insightful and somewhat sad.
Anyway, I guess what I'm getting at is that this story affects the way you look at things, and maybe not just things, but people. Everyone has their bad things, but seeing Dinah growing up, and wishing for things, and not get everything she wants, and yet ending up happy is something that I believe everyone should learn. Not getting everything you want isn't bad, and it can change you for the better. I'm sure if the violent act hadn't happened Dinah would have gotten everything she wanted, but she might not have been as happy or as peaceful as she'd been with the life she had gotten.
Anyway, this story has just stuck with me even though it's been hours since I finished it, and I've done a bunch of things since reading it, but I don't believe it'll be leaving my thoughts for a while (especially since I have a paper due on it next week).
I suppose I wanted to go from writing about my learnings in the book to something I'm learning right now from the blog posts I've read this past week, however, I got sidetracked.
I've been reading a lot of blogs lately that talk about your passions, and figuring out what your passions are, and etcetera. From what I've learned, passions aren't something that comes with you when you are born, you have to create your own passions. I realized that the only thing I'm passionate about is reading. It's something I've mastered, almost. I don't know how you would determine when someone is a master of reading, how you would measure that, but I consider loving to read and willingness to read even when there are other things to do (like watch TV, which I actually don't watch that much anymore, except for House. I just love his character.). I think I've been trying to find other passions since eleventh grade when one of my English teachers asked me if I could write about something other than books, please? It struck a chord because books were my love, my joy. If anyone said anything badly about my books, I would begin to see them in a different light. Sadly, my mother had once made a mention that I should sell some of my books that I don't read so often, and I was completely shocked. Which I couldn't figure out why until a week later when I realized that I thought my mother knew how much they meant to me, and that just mentioning of getting rid of a few showed that she really didn't understand my passion, completely. She liked a good book, too, and so did my father, just not as much as I did.
So, anyway, around that time I began to think of what else I was good at, but I couldn't think of anything, really, and I was one of those people who figured it would come to me sooner or later. However, it wasn't until last year that I looked back to when I was younger and loved to draw, and then I started to draw a lot more. I realized that while I had thought I was okay, and I was, I mean, you could tell I was drawing a person, but I joined an online community of drawers, and realized I wasn't even half as good as some people my age were, and I began to draw a lot more seriously. I think that drawing could become a passion, if I continue practicing.
It also wasn't until last semester when I had absolutely not English classes that I realized I wanted to write. When I was younger I had a bunch of start up novels that were spur of the moment things, but because I never really got into them, and would only write when I had a great idea, I stopped putting my ideas down and only wrote when I had to. During the summer last year, I had an idea that while I may not be able to complete a novel, I could at least try a short story, which I used to think were ridiculous. How could it be a good story if it was short? I used to wonder. However, I really liked it. I wrote two during the summer during times of inspiration. One, I actually edited, but I think that it deserves some more editing since I took my English 204 class, and one is a really, really rough draft. Like drawing, I think writing will become a passion if I begin to write more often.
I think I just need to go to bed earlier, and not procrastinate my homework, so I can get up in the morning and write for 20 minutes a day (and, you know, fit in exercising into that plan, too.). I just need to learn to work harder and with more focus on my homework during the day so I won't have to worry about it later in the day. And so I don't get sick from stressing out about three papers in one week (of course, it didn't help standing outside for an hour in 40 degree weather in a light jacket.).
I'm happy, though. I'm realizing that I need to make some changes and that the only way to do that is to be the change I want to see. It helps living with someone as hard of a worker as the lady I'm living with. She asks me, "How's the homework going?" and things of that sort, so I feel guilty when I'm not doing my homework and surfing the net. I admire her very much, especially when she goes to bed later than me, and wakes up before me, I wish to be more like her, and Dinah, but not quite like them. I like my quirkiness.
No comments:
Post a Comment