reflection

Saturday Newsletter: October 30, 2021

Desolation By Sabrina Lu, 13 (Ashburn, VA), published in Stone Soup October 2021 A note from Caleb Happy Halloween, Dia de los Muertos, & Samhain to all who celebrate! For a good scare make sure to check out writing from our 26th Writing Workshop on horror! This week I want to draw your attention to Renee Wang’s brilliant short story, “Memories,” and the artwork that accompanies it, Desolation, by Sabrina Lu. Both of these pieces are linked by the concept of inner reflection. “Memories” is placed within the frame of a man reflecting on his life; Desolation is presented to us through an aerial perspective so that the viewer looks down at the snow globe, as if inspecting it from a new angle, searching for some kind of epiphany. In “Memories,” the man turns inwards in order to escape his “retirement home… as grey as his soul.” In Desolation, we can imagine someone who’s grown bored of looking at their snow globe in its traditional manner and has thus changed their means of perception. But, as we learn by the end of “Memories,” and as is hinted by the title of “Desolation,” neither of these efforts brings happiness: the man deserts his memories for the pleasure of the cherry tree, while the aerial view of the snow globe—an item often associated with the comfort of nostalgia—makes the artist think of desolation. Regardless of these works’ ultimate conclusions surrounding the fruitfulness of reflection or of a change in perspective, this week I want you to pick an object from your house that you’ve grown used to seeing in its typical form. Once you’ve chosen this object, I want you to look at it in a completely different manner—upside down, sideways, from above, from below, anything that’s different—and either take a picture, draw it, write about it, or do some combination of all of these. This exercise is intended to push you outside of your comfort zone and reveal things you didn’t know you knew. As always, if you are happy with what you create and think that our editor, Emma Wood, might like it for Stone Soup, then please submit it to us via Submittable! Until next time, Highlights from the past week online Don’t miss the latest content from our Book Reviewers and Young Bloggers at on our blog! Madeline Schor, 13, wrote a stellar essay—”Awareness… Reflection… Awareflectness!”—that relied on a distinct, serpentine memory in order to explore themes regarding climate change, the power of reflection, and the COVID-19 pandemic. From Stone Soup October 2021 Memories By Renee Wang, 13 (Champaign, IL) Theodore Colin looked out from his too-small chair in his roach-ridden room. The majestic cherry tree stood outside, greeting him as always. It was the only color in his life; his retirement home was as grey as his soul. He recalled, as if it was seared into his brain, what his doctor had told him yesterday: he would have only a few days to live. As he’d dragged his feet back to his room, he could hear his nurse weeping, and when he’d told his friends yesterday, a few tears trickled down their faces. As he’d delivered the news to his sister, his only living relative, he could remember the silence that had followed. It was ironically loud. When he had gotten back to his prison, he sat down at his chessboard, randomly moving pieces about. He pushed it away in disgust. But even though the news saddened those close to him, he himself did not grieve. That night, his eyes were sore from staring into space. He could feel the chronic illness eating through him like a mold. It had gnawed at him unflinchingly for so many years, consuming the very thing that was keeping him alive. He rubbed his head and looked up. Again, the flowering cherry tree that stood outside his window was there to smile at him. Even though it was painfully pink, the same color as the cancer that was killing him, its long branches swayed like grass, waving to him, inviting him to relive the memories of his glorious younger days. Suddenly, he was hit with a snowball of nostalgia as he was brought back into his memories. Continue reading “Memories” here… Stone Soup is published by Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup Inc., a 501(c)(3) educational nonprofit organization registered in the United States of America, EIN: 23-7317498. Stone Soup’s advisors: Abby Austin, Mike Axelrod, Annabelle Baird, Jem Burch, Evelyn Chen, Juliet Fraser, Zoe Hall, Montanna Harling, Alicia & Joe Havilland, Lara Katz, Rebecca Kilroy, Christine Leishman, Julie Minnis, Jessica Opolko, Tara Prakash, Denise Prata, Logan Roberts, Emily Tarco, Rebecca Ramos Velasquez, Susan Wilky.

Awareness, Reflection… Awareflectness!

Madeleine Schor, 13 (Palo Alto, CA) Awareness, Reflection… Awareflectness! Madeleine Schor, 13 I have a particularly vivid memory from last autumn. While tidying up my room, something unexpected caught my eye. It was an eerie morning. A newborn day, holding fresh potential, yet also carrying the threat of losing itself to the sea of all the days before it in that somber year, 2020. Out of the blue, I found my old memory box. Ooh, I thought, I haven’t looked through this in a while. The top slid open easily, and my Halloween costume from three years ago overflowed in a pile in front of me. At that time, I was going through a Harry Potter phase, and that year I had dressed up as a golden phoenix. Finding the costume was strange since I didn’t remember putting it in my memory box: it was almost as if it had been waiting for me. I smiled to myself. The golden phoenix is said to be the most prominent symbol of change and rebirth. When the time comes, a phoenix dies in a brilliant show of fire and ashes. The descendant of the original phoenix rises from its ancestor’s ashes, stronger than before, and the circle of life continues. Finding my costume made me think about how much the world has changed over the last three years. This time of year, kids of all ages used to go door to door and trick-or-treat on Halloween with their friends. With our new normal, Halloween will be very different, and I am still trying to wrap my head around how it might look. This season also typically brings anticipation for the holidays and gathering and celebrating with family. With the current COVID-19 pandemic, that will be strange this year. Speaking of strange… Wednesday, September 9th, as you may remember, was the day when the skies were heavy with darkness. Some people referred to this mysterious episode as “Doom’s Day.” I don’t know about you, but I had a hunch that there was a deeper, more spiritual meaning behind the physical darkness outside my window. Something besides the smoke from the wildfires. I went about my day attending Zoom classes for school, noticing that the day started to look more and more like night. As I was writing my heart out in an assignment for my humanities class, I heard some commotion in our hallway. Tipping toes and whispering voices filled our house. I tried to ignore it for a long while, but couldn’t help wonder, What is going on? I closed my laptop and pushed my chair away from my desk. As I opened my door, I heard a word that had never been uttered inside our home before. “Snake.” I walked out and saw my mom with an expression of shock written all over her face. “Snake! It’s a snake! Right here, in our hallway. Someone must have left the door open!” And, as if on cue, a long, slim, gray body started making its way gracefully across the floor. Wait, was this thing real? Is this a prank? But, as I got closer, I could tell from its smooth, slithering movements that it was very much real… and alive… and moving – with purpose. There was something different about this creature. Something ethereal. She (or he?) was in no particular rush to go back outside. Not a dangerous type either, luckily. Most snakes that I’ve seen up close coil up, ready to strike. But no, this snake was peacefully slithering about, minding its own business, checking out the room and the vibe. I was not afraid of this slender serpent. However, the world seemed to slow before my eyes. I thought this whole scenario playing out in front of me was splendidly curious! This was turning out to be an even stranger day than I could have ever imagined. I peeked outside and noticed that the skies had turned ever more dark and fiery orange. Still, my intuition was telling me this was a sign of something with great importance. But what? Later that day, after we gently escorted the snake out of the house (it crawled up in one of my childhood toys, seemed comfortable there, and was taken out with the toy), I was curious and researched what snakes may symbolize. According to some ancient beliefs, snakes may be signs of change and rebirth. That makes sense, I thought to myself. They do shed their skin and transform. That day, I was stunned by a small-boned creature with a significant amount of purpose. It made me realize that these challenging times have allowed ALL of us, who were very busy before, to pause due to microscopically tiny organisms with tremendous amounts of power. As we have learned how to reorganize our lives into a new normal, each day often presents us with a new set of challenges, and they bring us a reason to reflect. Every day is unique. There may be a stronger feeling of being “out of control.” However, each day holds many blessings in its heart. Even simple things in life—the sun rising, birds singing, a breeze of clean air, unexpected visitors—enrich our lives. We are all lucky to be here, on Earth, in this wonderful human community. We could call this type of change and rebirth – awareness and reflection – awareflectness. I like that. Not every sign has to be life-changing. For example, every day has a beginning and an end. Yesterday, the sunset brought the day to a peaceful end. This morning. the sunrise unveiled a new beginning, encouraging us to make this day better than the last. Later today, the sun will set, hopefully leaving us feeling strong and accomplished with how we have grown. Sometimes we are too preoccupied to recognize what the world may be trying to tell us. Sometimes, the signs are subtle. For instance, the whispers outside my door when I was writing that day. They were alerting

Reflecting on a Fault, a personal narrative by Ismini Vasiloglou, 12

Ismini Vasiloglou, 12 (Atlanta, GA) Reflecting on a Fault Ismini Vasiloglou, 12 It is always so very effortless to start. Ideas jumble around my head in whirlwinds, forming a cacophony of inspiration and infectious excitement. They fill my mind with a buzzing need I cannot ignore. To pick up a pencil is to breathe, to eat. It is an instinctual, primitive impulse, an irresistible temptation which I dare not resist. To pick up a pencil is to live. Yet things are not quite so simple. I paint an image of perfection, harmonious cooperation between pen and mind that does not last. As sentences form in my head, they struggle to ink into existence. My fingers feel weighty as my mind races past my poor, struggling fingers that can only type so fast. It is the tortoise and the hare, but in this story, the hare never sleeps; he only moves faster and faster until he stops and swerves in another direction. Half-finished stories sigh in silence, abandoned for new ideas. They sit lazily in their Untitled documents, waiting for fragments of a lost dream to return to me. They wait to be shaped and molded and typed on a page into a story worthy of the name. Only I am too afraid to steal the reins from the procrastinating beast which has conquered my world. I watch my characters silently sleep in their half-filled pages, weeping at their unresolved conflicts. I watch my settings sink into despair as they are overrun with my neglectful weeds. This is my fault. I know. Despite my teachers’ and parents’ beliefs, I do understand; my mind is a realm entirely within my reach. I can, technically, finish a story, but I can’t seem to fight my own laziness. This beast, this nemesis, was spawned from my very soul, and it is almost impossible to defeat oneself. Procrastination is a far more powerful enemy than any superhuman storybook villain. I know, I know, there are no excuses; there are no rightful reasons for my actions. Words have given me a chance at wings, but I have taken them too quickly without helping them to fully form. Now all I have is an extra weight on my shoulders as I fall asleep each night. It is not right to say there is a beast or a tortoise and a hare. There is only me. We all have our own self-imposed struggles and this is mine: an inability to finish, to see through long-term projects. And my failures affect others, too: the princess who has yet to escape her ivory tower, the citizens whose dictator’s cruel regime still reigns unchallenged, the captain lost at sea, doomed to never again set foot on land, and all of the other tales I have deserted so quickly that not a word of them was written, not a paragraph or a single page. However, I have come to a simple, comforting conclusion; my progress will not be instantaneous, for I cannot change overnight. I can, however, start small. I can start by finishing this reflection, just one letter, one word, one sentence at a time. This is me. Imperfect, flawed me. But I can grow. I can change—I am still malleable. I can take these wings words have lent me, mend them from their broken, unfinished state, take flight and soar.