The Social Porcupine

"You have such a colorful life," many a friend have told me in recent years. I always smile (in bright pink or yellow, right, though my teeth remain white) and say thank you (with a respectful shade of brown), and say it's all fun (green is life ya know). But something about the statement of my colorful life irks a dark, black part of my conscious. You see, my life hasn't always been colorful. Or wait ... it always has been colorful. But not with the shades or colors I like.  You see, much of my life has felt grey. You know, dull and pointless. It had its times of pastels ... almost, there were colors I liked, but "Why did they have to be so faded and out of reach of what I really wanted?"  Or, those times of life, when everything was awkwardly fluorescent shades of "I'm trying to colorful, but I'm really going to hurt your eyes". You see, my life has ALWAYS been colorful. But it's only now that it's of the colors th

With a touch of wistful melodrama, I'm here to announce this happy day! The Korner is no more, but Keturah still intends to poke around on the blogging world for some time yet to come ;D  Guys.  I did it.  I changed my blog name. Keturah's Korner has become a huge part of my identity, as was all that pink and green. For nearly seven years!!!  And now it's... all gone.  Changed.  Refined and narrowed.  I really like how it's looking and feeling around here.  I hope you all do, too!  I finally made the big decisions this last week when one of my houses was canceled. I had most of the day free. And so I sketched the image for the banner. (That sketch took me hours. ) And made all the appropriate changes.  This place also now has a "real" website.  www.thesocialporcupine.com Well. Not much else to say... you can see it all ;D 

 "I don't know how to say what I need to say."  "Let's just chat for a bit then." And so we did.  Somehow, for a moment, all deep and difficult things became irrelevant, or at least a bit less serious, as we laughed and appreciated the simple blessings that were ours. In those moments of small talk, all the right things were said.  If we are honest, I think that deep conversationalists must envy small talkers: can they ever attain the spontaneity and freedom of simply not having to take care of every word? Indeed, all the "real" moments and discussions are but servants of light-hearted joys.  "Personally, I have a hard time finding friends with which I can have a real conversation," I've heard many say. "I just don't do small talk." I enjoy provoking, insightful dialogue  very  much. Obviously, or I wouldn't have  this  blog. Nor have the comment section open, etc. That being said, I think that small talk can too eas

"I want to live life," I said.  "You may!" Called all the books on the thrift store shelves. "Own and us a million lives shall be yours!" And yet, how easily I forfeited those lives when one particular life beckoned me to lay my bookish self aside and  travel.  I stopped hiding my hair under a plaid hat and became the fiery, sweet  Ruby girl  that one either loved or hated. I never had time to read, but I was making time to write stories, my only solace through those days when I wished for less drama and more tolerance, where I hated that I always had to defend beliefs I cared little for as I inwardly battled deeper questions none could understand because all they saw was that I wore dresses and didn't celebrate Christmas. I stepped on my first plane and sat by a boy for two weeks, a feat for a timid girl who couldn't carry a conversation with  any  guy, as I learned about some of what I  might  believe. I learned to love hiking, and suddenly it wa

 A faded grey sparrow's bright tune is abruptly interrupted by a strange sight. A young girl cradles a frog in her palm. Fear sparkles and falls from her eyes.  "Ought I to break your spell?" she asks the frog. "I could never bear to have you settle for me."  "Never would I settle for you! Nay, rather I yearn to settle with you!"  "But the first kiss may be unpleasant . . ."  The bird wonders over all this; at a pretty girl holding an ugly frog. It was clear that it wasn't so much she thought kissing this slimy thing would be distasteful, but that the creature would be disappointed by herself.  "It's not the first of which I dream, but each one that shall follow," the frog says.  "But . . ." Her lip quivers. "I'm such a horrid girl."  The frog croaks, "It is I that am the beast. Your kiss will save me."  The bird watches as the girl hesitates, fighting some uglier creature locked away, deep

Once upon a time, I wrote letters and I remembered people's names.  Last year I determined to do so again.  I want to be thoughtful; to put the right thoughts into my heart. Somebody told me, "How are you able to offer what people need if you're not putting yourself in other people's shoes?" Feeling misjudged, I wanted to retort, "But why must my own shoes not matter? Am I only to be judged by how I'm failing, my own insecurities disregarded?"  I never said those words, but I felt them for a long time. Bitterly. Part of me did want to be kind and understanding. But a large part of me wanted to be understood . And so, I stubbornly kept my worthless shoes on and refused to try on anyone else's.  (Isn't this a weird analogy? I mean who seriously wants to swap shoes? I don't want most people putting their feet into my shoes, I know. And my sarcastic self keeps thinking, "And it would be so pointless to try and walk around in some of thos