whitney is just a talented person. she is one of those people that makes you say, “she is so talented and good at everything she does.”
i think the angel in charge of the talent line in heaven had a huge, fat crush on her because he kept giving her things she would be good at. he was like, “you are going to be a good writer, both prose and poetry. you are going to make people laugh with your distinctive humor. you are going to understand humanity and the needs of others. you are going to be close to those who love you and accept them for who they are. you are going to be smart. you are going to be witty (no pun intended). you are going to be charismatic. you are going to be really beautiful in every sense of the word. you are going to be humble. you are going to love everyone. you are going to be creative. you are going to think deeply. you are going to smile regardless of what circumstances accompany you. you are going…”
then the guy behind whit says, “hey pal, what about the rest of us?”
then the talent angel wakes up from his talent bestowals of whitney, and says, “yours is coming buddy. just wait. patience is a virtue. blessed are the quiet and even-tempered,” but before he scoots lovely whit aside and gives the dude behind her something mediocre for interrupting his talent dreams with whit, he secretly passes her 100’s of superfluous talents. then he gives her a wink and proceeds to sparingly dole out the left-over talents to the remaining persons in line (he is only given a certain amount for his shift in the talent queue and he gave the majority and all the good ones, mind you, to whitty.)
she is that gifted. or at least that’s how i see it when i am with her or when i consider her.
her poetry will shock you, not due to its content but because of its deep sentiment and its profound relation to the human experience; her thoughts are intriguing for her young age. her prose reads like poetry; it’s that good. i’d like to think she could attribute her writing prowess to a 10th grade english teacher and 11th and 12th grade yearbook advisor, but i think it’s that talent angel that deserves all the credit for whit’s fortes.
for whitney, a few poems to accompany her and drew’s stunning portraits:
By the Sea
Why does the sea moan evermore?
Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore;
All earth’s full rivers cannot fill
The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.
Sheer miracles of loveliness
Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Anemones, salt, passionless,
Blow flower-like; just enough alive
To blow and multiply and thrive.
Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike, yet all unlike,
Are born without a pang, and die
Without a pang, and so pass by.
–Christina George Rossetti
blessing the boats
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear may you kiss the wind then turn from it certain that it will love your back may you open your eyes to water water waving forever and may you in your innocence sail through this to that
Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. --Alfred Lord Tennyson Boats Boats sail in the river, And ships sail in the seas, But the clouds that sail in the sky, Are prettier than these. There are bridges on the river, Boats sail under them, We can see the birds, Like a road from the earth to the sky Boats are free like bees, Like flowers on trees. --Ankita Panda (next two- inspiration amelia lyon) Where Go the Boats? Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand It flows along forever, With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating Where with all come home? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my boats ashore. --Robert Louis Stevenson whit and drew, may the ebb and flow of your life always be steady. may the currents take you on adventures only your heart can map, and may your compass always
lead you to each other. thank you for sailing with me; can't wait to do it again. xoxo kam
p.s. keep up with a few of whit's talents, her writing and photography; check them out here.