Forever Meatless? Questions for the future

When I first made the choice to go meatless, there was an intent that I wouldn’t do it forever. I do very much want a nice hot dog and grilled burger. Let’s be honest, the alternatives can only do so much if your heart’s not in it…no veggie burgers allowed!

I want to be able to trust the meat suppliers in this country but I simply can’t bring myself to. I applaud those who are able to name Shadow and put him down for their Thanksgiving dinner later in the year.

Whatever you do, don't get attached. Don't even stare at this picture too long.
Whatever you do, don’t get attached. Don’t even stare at this picture too long.

I miss lamb and rice, curry goat…I miss all the good stuff! But until I get to a point where certain health issues or the environment (or spinach, e. coli paranoia) proves too difficult to keep it up – I guess I’ll have that hamburger.

But for now, I have enough faith that my experiences these last few years have given me enough confidence that I can manage it. I do hope to live in an area where meat is available to those like me; wanting to relive the days of old and fry up something good. It is then, I’ll tell the stories of my attempts and experiences of living in an meatless world shrouded by meat-eaters and those without regard for us. 

As the sun sets, maybe one my taste for meat will arise? By
As the sun sets, maybe one my taste for meat will arise? By

Have faith in your choices and happy nomming! This blog will be here and a personal document space for any future habits during my journey as a ‘meatless.’


A Descriptive Narrative on a Small College Campus –

The start of my first semester as a first-year at Elizabethtown College, the date is August 30, 2012…


The final statement is read aloud. Backpacks shuffle with freshly received handouts, and  itching feet scurry through the door. Down a flight of stairs, my feet lead me from the Steinman building and into the emerging sunlight. It disorients me for a few seconds, but I make my way towards the marble benches near the Commons. The benches are a bit warm, but the shade and quiet are inviting. I think I’ll start here.

As I sit, I notice the pine trees, still forest-green, a slight fragrance that is overshadowed by my body spritz and sunscreen. The green bug that crawls on the ground is a new sight and enemy. I scoot closer towards the other side closer to the black Hogwarts-like clock. A girl walks by me. I think she’s a runner. Either that or her shorts are abnormally unnecessary for my level of clothing security. The sun seems to hide behind the clouds for a bit and I notice a bit more people begin to emerge from their classes. A guy with really blonde hair and a maroon shirt shuffles by, in a pair of  mismatched flip-flops nearly tramples over a girl engrossed in her conversation about this upcoming Labor weekend. I feel weird eavesdropping but continue to watch for more strangers.

A girl, with a highlighter orange shirt, sits at one of the black metal tables reading a red, and very thick textbook. I shudder not from the sudden breeze that picks up, but from the very thought. College. I sit for a bit more and notice a few acquaintances pass by my little grove, inquiring as to why I sit here. Alone. One wears her dining service shirt; navy and unspoiled. Another wears a pair of flared jeans and hoop earrings. However both wear a smile and wrinkled eyes from the revealing sun. I tell them a bit about my assignment for a writing class. They don’t understand, and after a bit more of catching up and how-do-you-dos, they wish me luck and head off to their respective locations: a desk or a dish room.

The cicadas make their incessant buzzing that is jarring yet strangely calming. Just so long as I don’t see any near me, I continue to relax and take notes. My brown sandals stick out against the white stone, and a beetle high fives my big toe. I flick it away in annoyance – paying more attention to the herd of students that just appeared out of thin air. Talks of finding a seat at the Marketplace, a training session or a friend’s current dating dilemma remind me of my own. Not dating. Just of an appointment that I have with a peer counselor of mine. As I check my phone, it feels light, as it always does. The air does as well. No garbage odors, an absence of humidity and manure, and sadly chocolate.

It is however a beautiful afternoon; few clouds are in the sky. I walk slowly for a bit from the grove, smelling the pine again as I nearly bump into a girl with her headphones in her ears. I feel like I’ve just came from a trip in the woods rather than a sit on a somewhat secluded bench. However, my notes are taken, an appointment must be made, and a narrative I must write later this evening.


By Ragina Lashley

What I Think, How I feel about Creative Writing

What I Think, How I feel about Creative Writing


Ragina Lashley


I enjoy creative writing due to the many different ways someone can express whatever they saw, felt, or even heard that day or even that very minute. It can be written on a Post-It, a piece of old napkin, or on the back of one’s hand until they get to a nice sheet of blank paper. Or not. Those words can just be thrown into a pile of all the other words that seem to accumulate in an old drawer, over the years.


I am not a perfect writer, my grammar can be grating to read sometimes, but on most days, my main focus always is, “how can I fit these thoughts onto this medium? How can I best express myself in the short amount of time I may have?” I value note pads a lot. I also value the thoughts many people have, either aloud, or to someone else. But writing them down makes those thoughts really stand for something, especially, if that person manages to emerge so far ahead in terms of personal growth, or just age-wise, they can physically see, and even hear the voice that carries through that piece of paper.


I think creative writing is something that even the most serious, and rigid person, can find enjoyment in. Words are very powerful, they make up our everyday actions, even more so in this age of technology. And they can carry messages from the olden days, from more than a hundred years ago, waiting for someone to read them. And maybe even understand. Sometimes I wish I spoke the way I write. Sometimes. Aside from being a bit absent-minded, I find it a bit easier to write my thoughts down, than it may be to speak them aloud. Especially to other people. They can get tangled into a big ball of mush, or go winding and hiking through a damp, and mosquito ridden trail. All muddy, sweaty and blotted before they can brush themselves off, clean up, and everyone can see them for what point I was trying to make in the first place.


But maybe the journey, the trek of reading one’s creative expression is a bit more fun. Unless you are short on time, and that isn’t simply how you operate. Sometimes the thoughts that we may have to express, shoot out so fast, that the pen cannot reach the paper fast enough. Or the ink skips out before the final stroke of the letter is made. Other times, the thoughts we have can lull, like a spring Sunday morning, around 7:30 am. A cohesive, and clear bright blue, but not a cloud in sight.


I guess what I am trying to get at, is that creative writing can be anything we desire it to be. Ten words, a full page or a novel. Or even just one single word. Right in the middle of the white space. Some may find that, or any of that, tacky. But because of its intentions, I personally cannot find any fault with it. If it is organic from the mind, or an experience. If it is meaningful to you, or to whomever else chances upon it. It just is. It shouldn’t be anything less. At least I cannot find it to be fair to say, or even write.