why does it happen?
If it a tree drops its leaves,
whom do you blame?
If a spider makes a web,
whom do you blame?
If a fish breathes water,
whom do you blame?
If a bird flies,
whom do you blame?
If a snake shakes its tail,
whom do you blame?
If the ground shakes
whom do you blame?
If the universe expands,
whom do you blame?
If a writer writes,
whom do you blame?
If a painter paints,
whom do you blame?
If a poet writes poetry,
how could you blame?
Football, or as we Americans call it, soccer.
Yes, I’m aware that the above is not a complete sentence. However, the winter sports season is my favorite, as I get to play soccer.
Now, I hate running. Even though I do cross-country in the fall and track in the spring, I am really not a runner. I wish I was, but I’m not and that’s just how it is.
That aside, I love running in soccer. I love the sprinting, and the distance. My friend Ally and I run at least two additional miles after practice every day.
Here’s the other thing: I’m terrible at soccer.
I played as a kid in one of those coed AYSO leagues. The only thing I remember from that was when a kid named Peter fell off the monkey bars near our practice field and got a concussion. I was sad because he was never the same when he came back, and I had a crush on him.
I played again in seventh and eighth grade on the school team, and wanted to play my freshman year of high school. But, I popped out my knee during cross-country and skipped a year, joining back up as a sophomore as left wing.
I’m currently the only left-footed player on my team, so I guess that’s something.
But back to the point, I’m awful.
I just can’t seem to get my kicks right and I don’t know why. But that’s ok; I don’t mind.
Who needs aim when you can just smash?
That’s what I do. I just barrel into whoever is in my way and pass it to the players on my team who actually have all that fancy ball-handling down. It’s a party, and I like it.
I love the physicality of soccer, the movement, the heat.
There’s something incredibly fierce about the pace and the nature of the game. It’s like an unexpected dance, the opposing team always has you guessing. You have to figure out how to move with them, anticipate their actions and take your queues.
Of course…I’m a horrendous dancer, but that’s mostly irrelevant.
Everyone has a favorite pastime, something they do when all else fails. Mine is watching movies. And let me be clear on something – I’ve watched a lot of movies.
It’s because of the amount of movies I’ve watched that I’ve decided to make this post.
To be honest, I’m not a very big fan of most the movies which are in theaters these days. There are a few here and there that get a laugh out of me, but other than that they just aren’t as good as others out there.
For example, The Dictator. This is by far not my kind of movie. I went to go see it when it was out with some friends, and despite the racism, sexism, and just plain offensiveness of this film, I actually found it quite funny.
A movie along the same lines which I didn’t particularly enjoy was 21 Jump Street. I mean, it’s funny, it’s got Channing Tatum in it (obvious plus), and it’s a good concept. But let’s face it. How many other movies are out there with the exact same story line? The answer is way too many.
Act of Valor came out last year, and I went to see it with my dad while my brothers were with my mom. This was a hard movie to watch, but that very possibly could have just been me. I have a tendency to be a bit squeamish at times. All in all though, I thought this was a good movie. An aspect of it which I found particularly interesting and appealing was the fact that the actors were real Marines. It added an element of reality.
Almost everyone has heard of the romance Dirty Dancing, and I’ll admit to having a small crush on Patrick Swayze. This film is decent. It has everything one could want in a romance. Dancing, rebelling against parents, guy from the wrong side of the tracks… You get the idea. But although I do love this movie, I don’t find it to be very original. At least not anymore.
The Rebound however is a movie I enjoyed quite a bit. It was funny, and although it was predictable, there was an element of difference to it. And I love Catherine Zeta-Jones. Especially in her other movie, No Reservations.
Bonfire Night commemorates the survival of King James I after a group of conspirators attempted to assassinate him and to blow up Parliament. The assassination plot is known as the Gunpowder Plot because the conspirators attempted to blow up Parliament with barrels of Gunpowder. The explosive expert of the conspirators was a man named Guy Fawkes, it was his job to smuggle the gunpowder in the House of Lords and ignite it. Unfortunately for Guy Fawkes (and the rest of the conspirators) he was caught before he could ignite the gunpowder.
Upon being captured Guy Fawkes was taken to the Tower of London where he was tortured and forced to give up the names of his fellow conspirators.
Fawkes, along with the rest of the conspirators, were publicly executed.
On the night the Gun Powder Plot was foiled, the 5th of November 1605, the English lit bonfires to celebrate the survival of their king. Thus Bonfire Night was born.
I was born in San Francisco, CA., but I grew up in a little town about 30 minutes outside of the city. Kentfield, the little town that absolutely no one has heard of.
Kentfield borders Ross, which is another – slightly bigger – town in Marin. Our street in particular connected, beginning at a market in Kentfield, and ending at the Ross school. Kent Ave., if anyone lives near there.
As a family, we knew every inch of that street. So often we would climb on our bikes and go to the park, where we would sit, play with the dogs, or climb the play structure. That’s where I first learned to ride a bike without training wheels.
Another of our favorite destinations was Marche aux Fleurs, a small French restaurant situated comfortably in a petite plaza, with a deck looking out. We went there so many times, that I got tired of spaghetti with butter and parmesan.
Who knew you could ever get tired of that?
One time at Christmas, we went for dinner, and I ordered a steak. I can’t remember what cut it was, or what delectable sauce they listed on the menu, but my god it was good. Every time we went back I would ask the owner about it. Sadly, it was a one time thing.
Then there was Woodlands Market. If you are ever in Marin, please please please make sure you go there. You will never find a better place to shop for food, I promise you.
Woodlands was also my favorite deli. Every so often we would go get a sandwich. I would immediately unwrap it, looking for the square of chocolate enclosed in the parchment paper.
On Saturday mornings, my brothers and I would plead with my dad, begging him to treat us to a breakfast of mickey mouse pancakes at the nearby Willie’s Cafe.
I hold so many memories from growing up in Kentfield. Some small, others more significant to me. I haven’t been back since we moved away, and over time I have lost the desire to. I want that small California town to remain exactly as remember it, not as the disappointment it may be if we were to visit.
You never really realize how big of an impact a place has on you until you leave that place.
OVS has stuck with me ever since I left. I first realized it the first day I got to Italy and read our host family booklet, which said that 95% of the students coming here had never had to make their own bed before. And I sat there saying to myself “YES! Thank you, OVS!”
To give you more insight I’ll make a list of the things that OVS has taught me and have stuck with me even though I’m across the atlantic in a completely new culture.
I eat milk and crackers all the time and have gotten my host family into it too!
During our orientation retreat to the sea I was able to keep everyone interested with cool fun facts that I learned from Ms. Davis.
I still do my homework during what would be study hall hour.
I think I’ve formed permanent calf muscles from climbing up the hill therefore the hills in Viterbo are a piece of cake!
I managed to tack up my horse within ten minutes at the barn I’m riding at here. Thanks to Ms. Gustafson and Ms. Wilson always rushing me to get in the arena!
We’re reading BEloved by Toni Morrison in my English class which requires intense annotating to understand and I can’t thank Mr. Weidlich enough for the endless annotating you made us do.
And more than anything, I have a nice reminder of you everywhere I go, due to this awesome Italian clothing store that happens to be called OVS. 
I miss you all dearly ❤ I’m excited to eventually be back with you all on the beautiful campus of the Ojai Valley School.
In my home, in a secluded corner of the living room lies a large table with thin white sheets of paper laying over it. Thin metal wires line the sides spanning the entire length. A straightedge lies in between these wires hanging millimeters above the paper.
A bushel of pencils held together by a rubber band lay in a ceramic cup outside the wire.
I still feel the carpet from when I was a small child playing around it.
It has moved from house to house, the table itself changes but the items don’t. Each house has been drawn on it. From the renovations of my first house to the house in Ojai being built. When I wake up in the morning I can hear pencils drawing lines and ideas becoming reality.
This has been an important part of my creative process and it has made me a more complete student.
Having a father who was artistic and built himself from scratch makes me want to do the same. The drafting table in my house serves as a monument to the hard work and art.
So when I wake up in the morning when visiting home I am inspired to become the best I can possibly be.
A flower cannot grow alone.
It must find soil to have a home.
It starts as a seed, it probably won’t survive.
The odds are great the seed will die.
It’s a small chance but the seed succeeds.
It must steal sunlight and water from the tenacious weed.
With hope and care the seed begins to sprout.
It must fend off the occasional drought.
After a while the seed is a fully-grown stem.
Mother Nature can no longer extinguish it on a whim.
The stem will contain an invigorating power.
On it will grow a beautiful flower.
The flower will soon shoot its seeds into the air.
Once again the tenacious weed must beware.
We came from darkness
In a flash, the universe was created
Molten rock, frozen metal and fiery space dust crashed and collided across the galaxy
Stars were born from clouds of gas, nebulae
The sun exploded in the vast blackness
Casting its newborn brilliance into the universe
Misshapen rocks were sucked into its gravitational pull
The third rock cooled just enough to create water
Tiny organisms evolved
With each passing millennium, they changed…
(The following is a work of fiction)
I walk into my third-grade classroom with my head down, my eyes purposely averting the stares of my fellow classmates. I sit down in the back, alone, as usual. My classmates began avoiding me long ago, and truthfully I am thankful for it.
The teacher comes into the room, a bright smile on her face. She’s young, and this is only her third year teaching. As she begins the lesson, she glances to me. I notice the moment of hesitation in her voice as he takes in my bruised eye, before she continues on with what she was saying before.
This isn’t the first time I have come to school bruised, and I know that at recess I’ll be pulled aside and asked what has happened. I’ll give the usual answer, “I ran into something,” or “I tripped.” But the excuse barely worked the last time, and I know that this time it will be harder to cover for Daddy.
As I suspected, I am pulled from the bench where I sit and eat, and taken to the principal’s office. When I walk in I notice the young lady sitting across from Mrs. Wilkon, easily making small talk.
The next hour goes as I suspected, with the young social worker asking me questions about my dad and what it’s like at home, with Mrs. Wilkon looking on.
By the end of it, I’m not so confident that they won’t be taking Daddy away from me this time. I consider this as I make my way home after school, retreating immediately to my bedroom upon walking in the door. That way Daddy doesn’t know I’m home, and can’t blame me for anything.
I go to school the next morning as usual, and the day after that as well. I’ve begun to relax, having not heard anything of the events a few days before. Then a week after everything has happened, I am once again called into Mrs. Wilkons office.
The social worker is there once again, and she explains to me in a calm voice that I am being moved to a foster family who lives nearby. She takes me home, and waits patiently while I pack my few belongings.
Daddy isn’t home, and she explains to me that he won’t be coming back for a very long time. I”m not very sad about it. We lost Mommy to cancer years ago, and since then Daddy hasn’t been the same. But now it’s just me, Rebecca, who’s still here.
It doesn’t take very long to get to the foster family’s house, and once we’re there I’m lead inside and introduced to my new parents and siblings. They show me the house, and finally my room, leaving me to unpack and settle in. They have a nice house, and seem like a nice family.
I don’t think I mind them too much.
It takes me a while to adjust to my new life, and especially to stop being so nervous all the time. My new family is nice, and they explained to me that they would never hit me like Daddy did if anything went wrong. I even find myself relaxing.
And I think to myself, I could get used to this.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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