"How will we ever know what's actually possible without reaching beyond our limits into the impossible?" (unknown)
Optimism, pessimism. The glass is empty, the glass is half-full. Preparing for the worst, hoping for the best...
Why is it that we're afraid to think positively? And even if we do have the courage to vocalize our ambitions, we're admonished: "Don't set your hopes too high," or, "Just remember, it's very competitive." Even the word ambitious has a negative connotation. Since when did the encouragement, "Dream big" become "Be realistic?" How will we know the scope of realism unless we push our limits?
Somewhere along the lines, we grew up and were asked to set aside our dreams and prepare for failure. There are "back-ups," "safety nets," and "just-in-cases" that permeate everyday life. To an extent, these are smart, but even so, we are merely packing away a piece of ourselves for failure.
-Ashton
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Which would you choose?
I should be working on my first draft, instead I keep pressing the Stumble! button in my browser, which probably betrays how I got this image. I feel torn between these two doors; I want both. I notice the spot or stain on the back of the young child's gown and wonder what was gone through to get to such a monumental choice. How the child's body seems to be pointed toward 'dream' yet the face points toward 'reality' seems to point toward this indecision. I can see the child choosing a door on a whim and regretting it years later. Yet, I also see the child standing there frozen in indecision for eternity, pulled tight between two forces beyond control.
In many ways I am like the child. I like both worlds and I wish that there was a way to traverse the unique world behind both doors at the same time; dwelling in the dreams filling my mind with wonders; and feeling the embrace of a loved one, having conversations deep into the night, and being able to share laughter with a friend. Just as I feel liberated by living through these dreams, reality has a way of allowing us to relieve that tension by being able to share it with someone else. To reference LZH's most previous post: in reality we can connect to others, find similarities that would never exist if we didn't find them.
But I am still sitting here, draft unwritten still looking to the doors wanting answers. I wish I could break down both doors before making the choice between one or the other. I feel like I have done a disservice to the dream door, but that is its nature; potentiality- it is beyond knowing, while reality provides a comfort.
Perhaps I will choose a door someday, perhaps sometime I won't be paralyzed by the choice, but as for now I think I will turn away from these doors and explore this black and white tiled room, surely it will have more interesting things to capture my attention than two closed doors screaming with promise and certainty.
-Dustin
In many ways I am like the child. I like both worlds and I wish that there was a way to traverse the unique world behind both doors at the same time; dwelling in the dreams filling my mind with wonders; and feeling the embrace of a loved one, having conversations deep into the night, and being able to share laughter with a friend. Just as I feel liberated by living through these dreams, reality has a way of allowing us to relieve that tension by being able to share it with someone else. To reference LZH's most previous post: in reality we can connect to others, find similarities that would never exist if we didn't find them.
But I am still sitting here, draft unwritten still looking to the doors wanting answers. I wish I could break down both doors before making the choice between one or the other. I feel like I have done a disservice to the dream door, but that is its nature; potentiality- it is beyond knowing, while reality provides a comfort.
Perhaps I will choose a door someday, perhaps sometime I won't be paralyzed by the choice, but as for now I think I will turn away from these doors and explore this black and white tiled room, surely it will have more interesting things to capture my attention than two closed doors screaming with promise and certainty.
Monday, January 26, 2009
To Laugh...
Last night, my dad called me for computer help. He couldn't get a CD to open up on his desktop and had made many attempts to do so. He sounded tired and old, a tone that makes my heart ache. After we figured out that there wasn't much I could do 500 miles away, he said it was OK. He would figure something out.
Then he paused. "What was I going to say?" he pondered. See, I know this trick. It's the trick that makes the other person have to continue the conversation, a sign that you don't want the conversation to end, but can't think of anything remarkable yourself to keep it going. I didn't give in.
He finally asked me question about work and I took the bait. I ranted to him for about five minutes straight, not even realizing that I was this unsettled about the subject of my rant. Throughout the conversation, I could hear my dad chuckling to himself. I ignored it until the end and then felt my rant get more riled because of the chuckling.
I'd like to think that my dad heard himself in my voice, the chuckling a moment of recognition between father and daughter who are so much more alike than they'll ever admit. I'd like to think that my dad heard my mother in my voice, the chuckling a remembrance of how hot under the collar she used to get. I'd like to think that my dad heard me, my voice of anxious unsettlement and my neverending search for his approval, even if disguised as laughter.
~LZH
Then he paused. "What was I going to say?" he pondered. See, I know this trick. It's the trick that makes the other person have to continue the conversation, a sign that you don't want the conversation to end, but can't think of anything remarkable yourself to keep it going. I didn't give in.
He finally asked me question about work and I took the bait. I ranted to him for about five minutes straight, not even realizing that I was this unsettled about the subject of my rant. Throughout the conversation, I could hear my dad chuckling to himself. I ignored it until the end and then felt my rant get more riled because of the chuckling.
I'd like to think that my dad heard himself in my voice, the chuckling a moment of recognition between father and daughter who are so much more alike than they'll ever admit. I'd like to think that my dad heard my mother in my voice, the chuckling a remembrance of how hot under the collar she used to get. I'd like to think that my dad heard me, my voice of anxious unsettlement and my neverending search for his approval, even if disguised as laughter.
~LZH
Sunday, January 25, 2009
What happened tonight, in slow, calm, and calculated prose- I began blogging at least three or four separate times today, but quit, not knowing what to write at all. Finally, I began. And finished. I was really proud of what I wrote. It didn't suck. And I lost it. All of it. I don't know where it went, but it's gone, its poignancy lost forever, turning in the cogs of my sadist computer.
First I mourned. I was devastated, and made no effort to hide it. Then, with quivering lip and watering eye, I attempted to reconstruct it. I wrote the first two paragraphs and gave up, even sadder than I was when all of it was gone.
And the interesting thing about it is this- I would almost guarantee that what I remembered was incredibly similar, if not identical, to what I originally wrote. But typing it as a mere imitation, while the ghosts of my firstfruit words still hung in the air and whispered to me was too much to bear.
I've never experienced this before, because I always write a hard copy before I type anything of meaning. It feels as if a very dear friend has left without warning, and I know nothing of his return. I don't know if I will ever write of it again, which is a shame.
Where has it gone? I fear it will haunt me forever.
First I mourned. I was devastated, and made no effort to hide it. Then, with quivering lip and watering eye, I attempted to reconstruct it. I wrote the first two paragraphs and gave up, even sadder than I was when all of it was gone.
And the interesting thing about it is this- I would almost guarantee that what I remembered was incredibly similar, if not identical, to what I originally wrote. But typing it as a mere imitation, while the ghosts of my firstfruit words still hung in the air and whispered to me was too much to bear.
I've never experienced this before, because I always write a hard copy before I type anything of meaning. It feels as if a very dear friend has left without warning, and I know nothing of his return. I don't know if I will ever write of it again, which is a shame.
Where has it gone? I fear it will haunt me forever.
How easy it can be for us to forget we are all on different paths in life. We look at others, watching, waiting for them to fall so we have the chance to admire our own steady steps, or maybe we find ourselves wanting what others are handed along their journey. However, little do we realize watching others live their lives, walk their paths, it only allows us to stumble and lose sight of our own path. I remember in high school, when I would hit a rough patch and hang my head, my best friend's stepdad would give me a hug and tell me, "Keep your chin up, kid." I never gave this saying much thought until my junior year, when my best friend used is as the close to her stepdad's eulogy. Ever since then I tell myself every day, especially lately, "Keep your chin up, kid..." because you'll miss your whole life if you go through it with your head down, keep your eyes forward so that you don't lose sight of what waits for you up ahead.
But as I'm writing this, I can only think, what if I don't mind veering off the path every once in a while? After all, isn't that where all the fun comes from??
-LR
But as I'm writing this, I can only think, what if I don't mind veering off the path every once in a while? After all, isn't that where all the fun comes from??
"We can never judge the lives of others, because each person
knows only their own pain and renunciation. It's one thing to feel that you are
on the right path, but it's another to think that yours is the only
path." Paulo Coelho
-LR
Awaiting Departure
Sometimes I feel like the title of this post is the title of my life. I don't know where I'm going yet, or haven't gotten to a place where it's important yet. I think about it all the time, but the funny thing about time is that my time is not God's, just as His is not mine. I'm waiting though for the purpose to smack me in the head ... it usually does. Then my departure will take place, and I'll arrive somewhere to begin the next journey.
When people ask me where I'm from, I either tell them a non-specific location like Kansas or spout off a five minute explanation of every place I've lived for my entire life. It's been that way since I first began college. My dad, with whom I'd been living, moved after I started my freshman year. My "home" has traveled with me also to Nebraska, Kansas, Florida, and back to Nebraska again. Home is not the place, but the people in my life. The ones who are are never the same, but they become "home" or normal for me. I interact with, listen and speak with them about life, love and interests. They become my family, kind of. Home resides with my dad though, which doesn't make sense.
I'm still in college now, but will not be in a few short months. Ask me where I'll go or what I'll do, and I have no answer. My life sits in the ever-changing quick sand of fluctuation and change. Ask me if I'm worried, and I'll respond, "Yes, but something's always come my way." By chance or God, operating from the seat of my pants is dangerous, but is my chosen way of life.
I, like others, have a second chance in life. Viewed however people view the so-called chances, I know that my purpose is there, but haven't found it yet. Some find passion in making movies, teaching or acting as missionaries; I ...
I like poetry.
Becca
When people ask me where I'm from, I either tell them a non-specific location like Kansas or spout off a five minute explanation of every place I've lived for my entire life. It's been that way since I first began college. My dad, with whom I'd been living, moved after I started my freshman year. My "home" has traveled with me also to Nebraska, Kansas, Florida, and back to Nebraska again. Home is not the place, but the people in my life. The ones who are are never the same, but they become "home" or normal for me. I interact with, listen and speak with them about life, love and interests. They become my family, kind of. Home resides with my dad though, which doesn't make sense.
I'm still in college now, but will not be in a few short months. Ask me where I'll go or what I'll do, and I have no answer. My life sits in the ever-changing quick sand of fluctuation and change. Ask me if I'm worried, and I'll respond, "Yes, but something's always come my way." By chance or God, operating from the seat of my pants is dangerous, but is my chosen way of life.
I, like others, have a second chance in life. Viewed however people view the so-called chances, I know that my purpose is there, but haven't found it yet. Some find passion in making movies, teaching or acting as missionaries; I ...
I like poetry.
Becca
Disease
The hurt has been welling up inside of me. A wound shut prematurely, covered with a quick Band-Aid, never allowed time to breathe. Now there is an infection, oozing with green puss. It has contaminated my thoughts and has seeped into my bloodstream. It is getting worse.
Is there a way to solve this problem, numb the pain? Some say amputation is the answer. Gangrene may set in, making removal the only option. But is there a better way? A way that will save the limb, do away with the disease safely, with no casualty? Why is it that the removal sounds less agonizing than the hard work it would take to save the extremity?
Another option I have heard is be vulnerable to the other person, tell them your feelings and concerns and you can fix it together, because you both care! It sounds good on paper, but has my newfound pessimism made me skeptical?
Am I the problem? Could I be more diligent, forgiving and understanding? A doctor cannot act alone; usually a whole team of doctors and nurses tends to a patient’s needs. Grey’s Anatomy would not be a hit if Dr. Grey flew solo.
There are many questions, symptoms, but no solution. For now, I sit waiting, hoping that I will not have to make a choice, that things will resolve without me having to do anything at all; by some medical miracle, the infection will go away.
Reality will soon awaken me to realize that cancer untreated usually does not go away. It will grow, infect and take up residence until it has done its damage.
Limbs are lost, body parts removed, scorned by life’s disappointments and let downs. It is a surprise that when we die, assuming we die at a ripe old age, there is any of us left to bury.
RW
Is there a way to solve this problem, numb the pain? Some say amputation is the answer. Gangrene may set in, making removal the only option. But is there a better way? A way that will save the limb, do away with the disease safely, with no casualty? Why is it that the removal sounds less agonizing than the hard work it would take to save the extremity?
Another option I have heard is be vulnerable to the other person, tell them your feelings and concerns and you can fix it together, because you both care! It sounds good on paper, but has my newfound pessimism made me skeptical?
Am I the problem? Could I be more diligent, forgiving and understanding? A doctor cannot act alone; usually a whole team of doctors and nurses tends to a patient’s needs. Grey’s Anatomy would not be a hit if Dr. Grey flew solo.
There are many questions, symptoms, but no solution. For now, I sit waiting, hoping that I will not have to make a choice, that things will resolve without me having to do anything at all; by some medical miracle, the infection will go away.
Reality will soon awaken me to realize that cancer untreated usually does not go away. It will grow, infect and take up residence until it has done its damage.
Limbs are lost, body parts removed, scorned by life’s disappointments and let downs. It is a surprise that when we die, assuming we die at a ripe old age, there is any of us left to bury.
RW
Betty's Wisdom
"Ask your mom. I bet she has a Betty Crocker cookbook." My friend from Indianpolis is visiting this week and she says that no woman should be without the Betty Crocker cookbook. So when do I get mine?
I am 22 years old. I am not married. I cook at night for myself while I watch Wheel of Fortune on my 20-some inch TV. Maybe Betty could help me spice up my recipes, but I don't know how much better Mac 'n Cheese could get.
But I do believe in the powers of Betty. She tells me when my batter is overmixed, which part of the cow a T-bone steak comes from, and how to prepare meals made with soy for my healthy friends.
Betty is 88 years old. As far as I know Betty is not married. I hope she watches Wheel of Fortune. And to spice up Mac 'n Cheese all you need to do is add a 1/4 teaspoon of ground mustard and Worcestershire sauce.
I am 22 years old. I am not married. I cook at night for myself while I watch Wheel of Fortune on my 20-some inch TV. Maybe Betty could help me spice up my recipes, but I don't know how much better Mac 'n Cheese could get.
But I do believe in the powers of Betty. She tells me when my batter is overmixed, which part of the cow a T-bone steak comes from, and how to prepare meals made with soy for my healthy friends.
Betty is 88 years old. As far as I know Betty is not married. I hope she watches Wheel of Fortune. And to spice up Mac 'n Cheese all you need to do is add a 1/4 teaspoon of ground mustard and Worcestershire sauce.
Sunday Depression
I don't know what it is, but there is something sinfully depressing about Sundays. However, I can't seem to pinpoint the reason why. I can find no obvious reason. After all, Sunday is technically still part of the weekend. There are no classes, no work, and usually no meetings. I should be feeling completely liberated and relaxed. So why does this weekly dose of despair always seem to settle on Sunday afternoons?
Sunday mornings are usually fine. I think it's because there is a routine to Sunday mornings. I wake up at 8:30, get dressed, leave campus around 9:05 with a car-full of friends, and arrive in Goehner for church by 9:30. After church we come back and usually socialize while eating lunch in the cafeteria. Lunch is the bookend to my Sunday morning routine.
After lunch, I have no defined structure. I might go back to my room and take a nap. Maybe I'll clean. But more likely than not I'll settle down on the couch to watch an afternoon movie. Which is another interesting point: Sunday afternoon movies are different than movies I would watch any other time during the week. Sunday afternoon movies are those touching yet slightly depressing movies like: Simon Birch, October Sky, Pay It Forward, and Finding Neverland.
Following the cinematic heart breaker I'll reluctantly begin on homework. And this is where I think the despair sets in. You realize that the weekend is over and it is time to get stuff done. You realize that you have an entire week of responsibilities before you and you can't help but feel a little bit overwhelmed. Which is ridiculous since we really have no reason to dread Mondays because we face them every week. We should be used to them by now.
Fortunately, this weekly Sunday depression seems to dissipate after supper...when it just turns into a normal weeknight. I've survived another depressing Sunday afternoon, I just wish there was some way to avoid them in the first place.
Carson
Sunday mornings are usually fine. I think it's because there is a routine to Sunday mornings. I wake up at 8:30, get dressed, leave campus around 9:05 with a car-full of friends, and arrive in Goehner for church by 9:30. After church we come back and usually socialize while eating lunch in the cafeteria. Lunch is the bookend to my Sunday morning routine.
After lunch, I have no defined structure. I might go back to my room and take a nap. Maybe I'll clean. But more likely than not I'll settle down on the couch to watch an afternoon movie. Which is another interesting point: Sunday afternoon movies are different than movies I would watch any other time during the week. Sunday afternoon movies are those touching yet slightly depressing movies like: Simon Birch, October Sky, Pay It Forward, and Finding Neverland.
Following the cinematic heart breaker I'll reluctantly begin on homework. And this is where I think the despair sets in. You realize that the weekend is over and it is time to get stuff done. You realize that you have an entire week of responsibilities before you and you can't help but feel a little bit overwhelmed. Which is ridiculous since we really have no reason to dread Mondays because we face them every week. We should be used to them by now.
Fortunately, this weekly Sunday depression seems to dissipate after supper...when it just turns into a normal weeknight. I've survived another depressing Sunday afternoon, I just wish there was some way to avoid them in the first place.
Carson
Holes by Staple Gun
There are two holes in my ceiling. You might not believe me when I tell you how those holes got there, but it’s the truth. There are two holes in the ceiling because of a staple gun.
I wanted to be handy last Christmas, so I asked Santa for a toolbox. Apparently I was a very good little girl that year because not only did I get a 35-piece toolbox set, but I also got a staple gun with it. I can’t quite explain the way my eyes lighted up that Christmas morning as I pulled off the wrapping paper and gazed at the blue and grey toolkit that held all those tools. And the staple gun, with its sleek red handle and box of 600 assorted size staples. It was magical.
Then came the Christmas Lights. In the previous year they had been looped around the wall with tacks and my roommate and I were determined to replicate the look. Unfortunately the walls of Ruth C seem to not want to cooperate with the tacks and after countless tries we were unable to successfully keep them on the wall. Then it came to me…the staple gun. If I was super careful could I not staple gun the lights to the walls?
Unfortunately the first set of lights where punctured by a staple and had to be thrown out after I plugged them in and green smoke and sparks came out. The second string, though, I was very very careful with. I made sure that no holes were made in the strand, but the ceiling wasn’t as lucky. Apparently there’s a metal strip that goes along the wall and if you try and put a staple in it, the popcorn ceiling breaks apart, showing the metal strip. And I did that, twice.
So there are two holes in my ceiling. But, there are also some really cool Christmas lights that are now hung up. So I think it’s a fair trade. I only ask that you don’t tell SLO, I hope that when checking out they don’t notice.
Perfect Story
What does it take to create a perfect story? Is it something that dances upon the emotions of the reader, or something more visceral? I think some would point to the great works of literature by Dostoevsky, Hugo, Shakespeare, Chaucer. But those aren't stories, those are works of literature. A story can encompass so much more; we find them in pictures, conversations etc. Still none of this answers what it is in a story that makes it good, let alone finding something of a story that happens to be perfect. Some would scoff at the idea of a story being perfect, but I find no reason to say that it doesn't or can't exist. What if it is out there somewhere, just waiting for some innocent to scribble it into existence, utter it into existence, draw it into existence, or even act it into existence. I think it starts with our definition of what a story is. From Marriam Webster's dictionary: "an account of incidents or events." There are two things that are especially poignant I just noticed applied to this rambling. The first is the word that begins the title of this blog: submerged. I think that we pull incidents or events up and display them for others to see. The second, is the next word in the title: truth. It doesn't tell us what kind of truth it is or even who's truth it is. All we get is some sort of truth that needs to be pulled from the dregs. Perhaps one of us will find such a perfect story in our pulling up. But the most important question that needs to be asked is what do we mean by the perfect story? Is it the same for all, or do each of have a different understanding. I think if we work out what it really means to be perfect (not just what we have been told it means by dictionary or other authority) we may find the story waiting to be told.
Dustin
Dustin
Title.
I couldn't think of a title for this. I think that that is just one more indicator of the fact that this week was ... well... weird.
It has been the strangest week for me. I feel so out of it. It's like I just realized I was actually a snake who was shedding her skin and adopting a new personality. I am not sure if it is just the stress of being in my final semester of college or something, but I am seriously just in a weird mood. If anyone knows me they know that I am pretty extroverted. I thrive off of people, yet all week I have felt like digging a hole under my bed and chilling out there. I keep finding reasons to stay in my room... like completely rearranging it (at midnight...) and instead of doing homework, I would much rather watch TV. America's Next Top Model--to be exact. So, what is the deal with these pre-graduation jitters? I started wondering if maybe I wasn't just pushing away because I know that the end is near. What a silly defense mechanism!
...Or maybe I think that if I lock myself up in my room I will actually buckle down and force myself to job search. *blech!* I just don't like the way that sounds. "Job search." It definitely does Not roll smoothly off my tongue. Instead it sticks to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. This immediatly makes me think of a dog with peanut butter in his mouth. Except when dogs have peanut butter in their mouths they eventually swallow it. I wish I could be so lucky. Instead, I know this word vomit also known as "job search" will eventually come out, then turn into an action instead of a thought and then turn into a career.
Not like I don't want a career... I just would much rather fast forward a year so I don't have to deal with goodbyes and hellos. Leaving old friends and meeting new ones. I don't do well with endings or beginnings... I guess I'm just more of a "middle (wo)man." Unfortunatly, change is inevitable in life. In fact, maybe it is the only thing that can truly be counted on.
Emily
It has been the strangest week for me. I feel so out of it. It's like I just realized I was actually a snake who was shedding her skin and adopting a new personality. I am not sure if it is just the stress of being in my final semester of college or something, but I am seriously just in a weird mood. If anyone knows me they know that I am pretty extroverted. I thrive off of people, yet all week I have felt like digging a hole under my bed and chilling out there. I keep finding reasons to stay in my room... like completely rearranging it (at midnight...) and instead of doing homework, I would much rather watch TV. America's Next Top Model--to be exact. So, what is the deal with these pre-graduation jitters? I started wondering if maybe I wasn't just pushing away because I know that the end is near. What a silly defense mechanism!
...Or maybe I think that if I lock myself up in my room I will actually buckle down and force myself to job search. *blech!* I just don't like the way that sounds. "Job search." It definitely does Not roll smoothly off my tongue. Instead it sticks to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter. This immediatly makes me think of a dog with peanut butter in his mouth. Except when dogs have peanut butter in their mouths they eventually swallow it. I wish I could be so lucky. Instead, I know this word vomit also known as "job search" will eventually come out, then turn into an action instead of a thought and then turn into a career.
Not like I don't want a career... I just would much rather fast forward a year so I don't have to deal with goodbyes and hellos. Leaving old friends and meeting new ones. I don't do well with endings or beginnings... I guess I'm just more of a "middle (wo)man." Unfortunatly, change is inevitable in life. In fact, maybe it is the only thing that can truly be counted on.
Emily
Organized Like My Mother
I have never been an organized person. Not like my mother who cleaned the bathtub for a stress reliever. In high school I would throw my clothes around the room until the piles were dresser high. My notebooks are always full of loose leaf paper, the important mixed with the unimportant. My mom had to force me to put away my dishes and doing cleaning chores were my least favorite. So why, now that I am in college, does a single dirty dish in the sink make me cringe? Why do my boyfriend's loose water bottles and forgotten jackets strewn around my room cause little bickers between beloved? It seems the roots my mom long ago planted are beginning to blossom. It is not only in the realm of clean that I find myself becoming more and more like her, it is the way I talk, the way I dress and how I give advice. I look at my shadow as I run down the roads of Seward and I see my mother's stride. I am beginning to do a double take at the way that I write lists and the way that I sit in my seat. Isn't it interesting? Isn't it ironic? I am becoming my mother...and its pretty exciting.
Winter
Today as I waited in the doughnut line at church, I had a short conversation with the lady behind me. I asked her how her week was, and she said, "It was okay. Today I woke up and thought, 'We're one day closer to spring.'"
Some winter days I agree with that, but many times I can't. In late fall, I actually can't wait for winter to arrive. I suppose I like that I can wear my fun, warm sweaters and winter clothes. But I think I just love the season itself, with days full of swirling snow and crisp, cold nights where my breath freezes in my nose. I love winter. But yet the time does come when I eagerly await the thawout brought on by spring, when the trees will start budding and the tulips will rise from the soggy soil. I can begin to work in the garden and sit outside on the porch.
When asked her favorite season, my mom once said to me, "I like every season when it comes." This is how I feel. Spring brings new life, summer is filled with swimming and bike rides, autumn flashes a color show and harvest, and winter brings the glitter of snow. I don't think I could ever live in a place with one 'season' like the tropics, or Florida, or Arizona. I would get depressed, waiting months for the next season to arrive (and it wouldn't).
So even though winter has those days I don't like, I know spring will be here soon enough. And when it comes, I know I will be ready for it.
~Jessica
Some winter days I agree with that, but many times I can't. In late fall, I actually can't wait for winter to arrive. I suppose I like that I can wear my fun, warm sweaters and winter clothes. But I think I just love the season itself, with days full of swirling snow and crisp, cold nights where my breath freezes in my nose. I love winter. But yet the time does come when I eagerly await the thawout brought on by spring, when the trees will start budding and the tulips will rise from the soggy soil. I can begin to work in the garden and sit outside on the porch.
When asked her favorite season, my mom once said to me, "I like every season when it comes." This is how I feel. Spring brings new life, summer is filled with swimming and bike rides, autumn flashes a color show and harvest, and winter brings the glitter of snow. I don't think I could ever live in a place with one 'season' like the tropics, or Florida, or Arizona. I would get depressed, waiting months for the next season to arrive (and it wouldn't).
So even though winter has those days I don't like, I know spring will be here soon enough. And when it comes, I know I will be ready for it.
~Jessica
Fate, Destiny, or Just Pure Coincidence?
I've always struggled with these three above ideas. Which one is really behind some of the unexpected things that happen to us in life? I believe, to a certain extent, that God is in control of the choices and decisions we make in our lives. He gives us free will to make some of our own choices in life, but I can't help but think that He is behind some of these "coincidences" in our lives. I'm not sure that we can always quite comprehend the impact that He has. The idea of fate and destiny, to me, are no more and no less than God at work. I can't explain it any other way. I don't believe that there is some strange and mystic power of the universe guiding us through our time here on earth. It just sounds sort of absurd. God puts people, opportunities, and choices in our lives for a reason. He knows what move you're going to make next before you even make it. He has a plan, a plan that I sometimes wish I knew, but I think that is the thrill of living. Not knowing the unknown. Not knowing what's around the next corner. Not knowing what twist of fate, destiny, or pure coincidence that God is going to throw at you next.
Snow Days...
I love snow… I really do! Every winter when I was in elementary and high school I can remember waking up almost everyday to call the school hotline in high hopes that there would at least be a late start – even though those days sometimes seemed longer then the days where we were at school all day. Just the thought of not having to go to school on time, I enjoyed. Now, I still love snow… but when I look outside and see that it’s snowed knowing that I have to drive somewhere I cringe. Watching snow fall is usually pretty and relaxing, but the stress of ice and snow together, not good. I remember when that movie “Snow Day” came out so long ago… we never had quite that kind of adventure when I was that age. But, I think a snow day on a campus with so many other people could be a blast! I highly doubt it would ever happen…but ya never know...
The door
The door stands, although crumbling. The light from inside draws me in. What lies beyond? On the other side of this door stands something so highly desired by those on the outside--the unknown. Curiosity drives. And drives...
Rebecca Kaaz
I <3 Photos.
I love photographs.
Ever since my mom let me take her 35mm to school at the end of 7th grade, I've been infatuated with taking pictures. I went to a public school that year (the only year I ever attended public school) and there were so many people I didn't know that my mom didn't want me to pay for a yearbook. Instead she sent me to school with her camera so I could take my own pictures of all my friends--which I did.
Since then, I've had a variety of cheap or disposable film cameras used to take pictures of my life until college. Things really kicked off when I got a digital camera for graduation from high school. I could finally take unlimited photos! So I did.
My freshman year of college I took almost 500 pictures total. Sophomore year I took almost 800 plus the many I took in my photography class. My junior year I went crazy: over 3800 photos. This number also combines photos I took from other people's cameras--but most are my own. So far this senior year I'm almost at 1500. I haven't taken as many as last year for some reason. I blame the fact that my best friend got a new camera so we like to use hers instead of my almost four year old camera.
Did I find more to photograph as the years progressed? I'm not really sure why I take more and more pictures. I think junior year I developed a best friendship with a girl who loved photos as much as I did so we took obscene amounts. This year I don't seem to be as photo-obsessed. I wonder if I don't do things that are photo-worthy this year. But since I like photos of everything and anything, it shouldn't matter. Maybe it's the new people I hang out with this year. I don't want to scare them with my photo-obsession. Maybe it's time to reevaluate myself and start taking more pictures again. I have a little over three months left at Concordia and I want to remember everything--pictures help me with that because my memory isn't great. It's time to get back to documenting my life in photos. I don't care if people call me obsessed or crazy. I need the memories. I have a fear of forgetting or missing a photo opportunity.
I'm only 21 years old and I have almost as many personal photo albums as my family has combined. I imagine my house post-graduation to be covered in frames with pictures everywhere. I have all my pictures on my computer, backed up on discs, printed in albums. I have such an attachment to my photos. Of all the things I own, my photos would be the most devestating to lose (in a natural disaster, fire, robbery, etc.).
I guess that's all I've got to say about my photo-obsession. I'm not even sorry.
--Alicia--
Ever since my mom let me take her 35mm to school at the end of 7th grade, I've been infatuated with taking pictures. I went to a public school that year (the only year I ever attended public school) and there were so many people I didn't know that my mom didn't want me to pay for a yearbook. Instead she sent me to school with her camera so I could take my own pictures of all my friends--which I did.
Since then, I've had a variety of cheap or disposable film cameras used to take pictures of my life until college. Things really kicked off when I got a digital camera for graduation from high school. I could finally take unlimited photos! So I did.
My freshman year of college I took almost 500 pictures total. Sophomore year I took almost 800 plus the many I took in my photography class. My junior year I went crazy: over 3800 photos. This number also combines photos I took from other people's cameras--but most are my own. So far this senior year I'm almost at 1500. I haven't taken as many as last year for some reason. I blame the fact that my best friend got a new camera so we like to use hers instead of my almost four year old camera.
Did I find more to photograph as the years progressed? I'm not really sure why I take more and more pictures. I think junior year I developed a best friendship with a girl who loved photos as much as I did so we took obscene amounts. This year I don't seem to be as photo-obsessed. I wonder if I don't do things that are photo-worthy this year. But since I like photos of everything and anything, it shouldn't matter. Maybe it's the new people I hang out with this year. I don't want to scare them with my photo-obsession. Maybe it's time to reevaluate myself and start taking more pictures again. I have a little over three months left at Concordia and I want to remember everything--pictures help me with that because my memory isn't great. It's time to get back to documenting my life in photos. I don't care if people call me obsessed or crazy. I need the memories. I have a fear of forgetting or missing a photo opportunity.
I'm only 21 years old and I have almost as many personal photo albums as my family has combined. I imagine my house post-graduation to be covered in frames with pictures everywhere. I have all my pictures on my computer, backed up on discs, printed in albums. I have such an attachment to my photos. Of all the things I own, my photos would be the most devestating to lose (in a natural disaster, fire, robbery, etc.).
I guess that's all I've got to say about my photo-obsession. I'm not even sorry.
--Alicia--
Malice in the Palace
So, for my GS 301 project I'm directing the play at my old grade school. I help out every year but I've never been fully in charge of it. This year we're doing "Malice in the Palace" which is basically the story of Esther but a funny musical version of it. Last year we did "The Rockslinger and His Greatest Hit" aka David and Goliath and I can't remember what we did for the two years prior to that.
Anyway, this year I have a dilemma. I'm headed to Geneva in a few minutes to have a meeting with the teacher who was my teacher. She's wicked awesome and we have a lot of fun together. We're getting a pizza and assigning roles, solos, and talking about when we're going to start practice and blocking and stuff. It's gonna be fun stuff.
My dilemma is, the last time we talked we discussed the possibilities of who should be who and I only have three girls. Two 8th graders and a 3rd grader. One will be Esther, the other a narrator and the other one will be just one of the chorus people, the local population. Anyway, so we need a queen Vashti which shouldn't be hard since she only has to scream 'No!' after being told she needs to come to the palace and then she gets banned.
However, we also need Haman's wife. Since we don't have enough girls for it Nicole - the teacher - thinks that I should step in which is fine because I like acting and when I'm up there I get them really into it by being really dramatic and using voices and stuff but this role is just going to be awkward. First off, I'd be married to one of my 6th graders and he's really short so I'd have to play her on my knees, and secondly, the lines we say to each other are just plain creepy. No one should call anyone their 'persian peanut' or their 'precious kumquat' and they should definitely not call anyone their 'succulent fig!' Seriously?!
So, I'm off to the meeting now. Maybe I'll be able to pawn off the role to somebody else. Wish me luck!
- CK
Anyway, this year I have a dilemma. I'm headed to Geneva in a few minutes to have a meeting with the teacher who was my teacher. She's wicked awesome and we have a lot of fun together. We're getting a pizza and assigning roles, solos, and talking about when we're going to start practice and blocking and stuff. It's gonna be fun stuff.
My dilemma is, the last time we talked we discussed the possibilities of who should be who and I only have three girls. Two 8th graders and a 3rd grader. One will be Esther, the other a narrator and the other one will be just one of the chorus people, the local population. Anyway, so we need a queen Vashti which shouldn't be hard since she only has to scream 'No!' after being told she needs to come to the palace and then she gets banned.
However, we also need Haman's wife. Since we don't have enough girls for it Nicole - the teacher - thinks that I should step in which is fine because I like acting and when I'm up there I get them really into it by being really dramatic and using voices and stuff but this role is just going to be awkward. First off, I'd be married to one of my 6th graders and he's really short so I'd have to play her on my knees, and secondly, the lines we say to each other are just plain creepy. No one should call anyone their 'persian peanut' or their 'precious kumquat' and they should definitely not call anyone their 'succulent fig!' Seriously?!
So, I'm off to the meeting now. Maybe I'll be able to pawn off the role to somebody else. Wish me luck!
- CK
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Artistic Eye
I am currently taking a photography course and just attempted to complete my first assignment of taking photos. As I was wandering around the Haymarket in Lincoln trying to find the best places to shoot, it became apparent to me how taking a class like photography can completely change how you view the world around you. We've been learning about contrasts and angles and all other sorts of styles and techniques to taking great photos that it has become ingrained in my mind and everything I see I tend to view from an artistic standpoint. Just looking outside now I find myself wondering how that sign might look in a photo, or the row of trees down the sidewalk that are just lightly dusted with snow. It's interesting to me how easily our minds can be influenced like things such as a photography class. I'm now wondering if this new artistic eye that I seem to be developing will somehow assist me in this class when I am writing. I feel like I am more observant about the details of what I'm seeing so perhaps it will be easier for me to describe a scene through my writing. One can only hope!
-Shelley
-Shelley
Monday, January 19, 2009
Renewed in Purpose Once More
I can never stray too far. I've been through times where my faith and convictions are strong, and just as often I've have periods of weakness and going on without purpose. Last year was a time where I gradually felt and saw my purpose fading away. That sums up the entirity of 2008: I lost much of who I am. Tonight I feel renewed once more. I see my purpose clearly. I won't mention the events and/or people that spurred this because those involved deserve their privacy and I deserve a bit of mine as well. I will say that I again see the entirity of my life shaping me for my purpose in life. What I've seen, done, and the people I have encountered have affected me greatly. Especially people. Everyone has talents that drive their purpose, and tonight I was reminded of mine. My talent is in being there for people through the best and worst of times. Some help others through donations of material wealth, others donate their time to do something with that material wealth, and still others donate what is very personal to them to others. I am none of these. What I donate is emotional support. I've been told that I'm a good guy, that I'm nice, caring, and so on and so forth. These compliments are nice, but that isn't what drives me. The best feeling in the world for me is when I can help someone through the bad times and get them to smile again...to know that everything is going to be fine. I don't claim to have the answers to solve all problems. In fact, I can't really recall a single time my advice has had life altering effects on anyone. It may have at some point, but I don't have to know that at all. When people need someone to listen to them...comfort them...be that emotional support they need, that's where I come in. My talent isn't for my own sake, but for others and I need to remember that. My talent is caring, and I couldn't ask for anything more.
-Josh
-Josh
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,talented and fabulous?Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.We were born to make manifest the glory ofGod that is within us.It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,we unconsciously give other peoplepermission to do the same.As we are liberated from our own fear,Our presence automatically liberates others.—Marianne Williamson
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,talented and fabulous?Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.We were born to make manifest the glory ofGod that is within us.It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,we unconsciously give other peoplepermission to do the same.As we are liberated from our own fear,Our presence automatically liberates others.—Marianne Williamson
Sunday, January 18, 2009
What is.... insanity?
Dear Diary...
Just kidding!
So, being a first time blogger I am thinking this might come out a little bit... well... odd. So, bear with me, I apologize, don't mind me, etc. etc. First of all, I am not sure whether or not this is supposed to be a 'CNF writing sample-ish thing' or a 'blog about my life and what I witness in it' type of thing. SO, there is reason number one that I am a bit scatter-brained on this. Secondly, it is 1:34 a.m. and I just got back to my room after being in the Sower office working on The Sower since... drumroll please... 9:30 a.m. And it isn't quite finished yet (f y i). SO, since I literally have no other inspiration except for the things I have witnessed in the Sower office today (since that is the only place I've been); my very first blog is going to be about life between four walls.
To start, I may sound like I am complaining (which, don't get me wrong, I sort of am. Sympathy anyone?); however, in all reality, I love the time I spend in the Sower office. I won't lie, last year was hell. The walls were lovely shades of brown and taupe, with a side order of dust and dehydration. Plus, I was trapped listening to the musical musings of Bob Dylan (which, no offense to Dylan fans, is just not for me).
Luckily for me and my sanity, three of the walls are now crisp and white and one of the walls is home to a colorful pattern painted by yours truly (and Alicia!). I suppose the fact that I took the initiative and painted the walls and paid for the paint means that I shouldn't have said "luckily" huh? Luck really had nothing to do with it. But that's besides the point.
Fresh paint jobs aside, I also now have free rein over musical selection (especially because my wonderful managing editor tends to enjoy the same music as I do!). It's all Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears from here on out! Ok, maybe not, I do have to throw in some High School Musical 3 to appease Carson (*wink!*).
Aside from the new look and sound (and feel?) of the Sower office, there is also the joy/woe of spending entire weekends with Carson. I could sometimes refer to it as being trapped in a dungeon of doom and darkness; he regularly tries to fire me, plus he is such a perfectionist (yeah, he is one of those)! However, watching strange infomercials/SNL skits to keep our sanity (does that sound odd to anyone else?) and laughing hysterically about things as simple as writing the "perfect" headline, really just tickles me pink and makes it easy to spend 14 hours straight between four walls. You know what, I'm even going to go out on a limb and say that I don't think I would trade it for anything in the world.
Ok. Maybe I would trade it for somewhere around $1,000,000.
Anyways... this is getting really long and so I am going to stop writing, but here's a little refresher course for you: 1) the office is nice, 2) the company is nicer and 3) I have been in one room with one person staring at a computer for 14 hours... so, please, try not to judge this strange and random blog.
Now, I think that sleep will be the nicest of all.
Just kidding!
So, being a first time blogger I am thinking this might come out a little bit... well... odd. So, bear with me, I apologize, don't mind me, etc. etc. First of all, I am not sure whether or not this is supposed to be a 'CNF writing sample-ish thing' or a 'blog about my life and what I witness in it' type of thing. SO, there is reason number one that I am a bit scatter-brained on this. Secondly, it is 1:34 a.m. and I just got back to my room after being in the Sower office working on The Sower since... drumroll please... 9:30 a.m. And it isn't quite finished yet (f y i). SO, since I literally have no other inspiration except for the things I have witnessed in the Sower office today (since that is the only place I've been); my very first blog is going to be about life between four walls.
To start, I may sound like I am complaining (which, don't get me wrong, I sort of am. Sympathy anyone?); however, in all reality, I love the time I spend in the Sower office. I won't lie, last year was hell. The walls were lovely shades of brown and taupe, with a side order of dust and dehydration. Plus, I was trapped listening to the musical musings of Bob Dylan (which, no offense to Dylan fans, is just not for me).
Luckily for me and my sanity, three of the walls are now crisp and white and one of the walls is home to a colorful pattern painted by yours truly (and Alicia!). I suppose the fact that I took the initiative and painted the walls and paid for the paint means that I shouldn't have said "luckily" huh? Luck really had nothing to do with it. But that's besides the point.
Fresh paint jobs aside, I also now have free rein over musical selection (especially because my wonderful managing editor tends to enjoy the same music as I do!). It's all Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears from here on out! Ok, maybe not, I do have to throw in some High School Musical 3 to appease Carson (*wink!*).
Aside from the new look and sound (and feel?) of the Sower office, there is also the joy/woe of spending entire weekends with Carson. I could sometimes refer to it as being trapped in a dungeon of doom and darkness; he regularly tries to fire me, plus he is such a perfectionist (yeah, he is one of those)! However, watching strange infomercials/SNL skits to keep our sanity (does that sound odd to anyone else?) and laughing hysterically about things as simple as writing the "perfect" headline, really just tickles me pink and makes it easy to spend 14 hours straight between four walls. You know what, I'm even going to go out on a limb and say that I don't think I would trade it for anything in the world.
Ok. Maybe I would trade it for somewhere around $1,000,000.
Anyways... this is getting really long and so I am going to stop writing, but here's a little refresher course for you: 1) the office is nice, 2) the company is nicer and 3) I have been in one room with one person staring at a computer for 14 hours... so, please, try not to judge this strange and random blog.
Now, I think that sleep will be the nicest of all.
Reaction to Notecards
I still haven't quite figured out this Blog thing and what we're supposed to do...but maybe this is the right thing to do...or not. Either way I'll figure it out. I love that other people write things down all the time. Ever since college I've started writing down quotes. At the moment I used the "notepad" in my cell phone but it's full. Carrying a tiny notepad would be the best. Luckily I have paper everywhere around me so I'm usually not out of luck.
I'm a documenter of events. I like to record everything that happens to me, significant or insignificant. It gives great insight of my old self to my current self and maybe gives a preview of my future or possible self.
I just thought of it like that, though: using my "old self" through my writing to learn about my current or future self. A lot of the time I say things that even surprise myself. I wonder if I'm missing some connection between my mouth (or my fingers) and my brain.
I truly believe that CNF is about witnessing. Sharing something you witness, giving witness to your own life, etc. I have been journaling constantly since about 8th grade. It's fascinating to go back and see what "12 year old Alicia" was thinking and doing. Without my journals I would have barely any clue as to what I felt back then, nor would anyone else. Sometimes I share things I read in my old journals with friends who didn't know me back then...and it gives them great insight into who I am today, their 21 year old friend Alicia.
I also document because, sadly, my memory isn't the greatest. I could barely remember what I did on Friday night until I sat still and really thought about it. Finally I realized that I organized and rearranged my new dorm room and visited with a couple friends. Really basic events that happened only two days ago and yet I had a hard time recalling them. This is where writing down my significant and insignificant life events comes in handy. (Pictures also help.)
Well, I hope this is what I was supposed to do. It was a good time.
I'm a documenter of events. I like to record everything that happens to me, significant or insignificant. It gives great insight of my old self to my current self and maybe gives a preview of my future or possible self.
I just thought of it like that, though: using my "old self" through my writing to learn about my current or future self. A lot of the time I say things that even surprise myself. I wonder if I'm missing some connection between my mouth (or my fingers) and my brain.
I truly believe that CNF is about witnessing. Sharing something you witness, giving witness to your own life, etc. I have been journaling constantly since about 8th grade. It's fascinating to go back and see what "12 year old Alicia" was thinking and doing. Without my journals I would have barely any clue as to what I felt back then, nor would anyone else. Sometimes I share things I read in my old journals with friends who didn't know me back then...and it gives them great insight into who I am today, their 21 year old friend Alicia.
I also document because, sadly, my memory isn't the greatest. I could barely remember what I did on Friday night until I sat still and really thought about it. Finally I realized that I organized and rearranged my new dorm room and visited with a couple friends. Really basic events that happened only two days ago and yet I had a hard time recalling them. This is where writing down my significant and insignificant life events comes in handy. (Pictures also help.)
Well, I hope this is what I was supposed to do. It was a good time.
A Satellite View of Nebraska
In the basement of the library, if you go down the curving stairs and take a right, you'll hit a wall. Take a left instead and then another almost instantly. There it will be- A Satellite View of Nebraska, hanging grandly across from the legal books of the General Collection.
Nebraska, from outer space, is alien. A screaming, ruddy red represents a part of the land abundant in energy, or vegetation, while a variety of greenish and blue shades represent the land that is lacking. The colors swirl to make the shape we all have come to know as Nebraska, the shape whose very definite lines on our maps seem invisible whenever we cross into Iowa or Kansas.
A Satellite View of Nebraska says one very important thing to me, and it has nothing to do with vegetation. What we all see makes no difference- it's the places from which we are looking that does. The deep crimsons that converge with blues throughout the landscape whisper perspective, and I hope to remember this for my future seeing.
Nebraska, from outer space, is alien. A screaming, ruddy red represents a part of the land abundant in energy, or vegetation, while a variety of greenish and blue shades represent the land that is lacking. The colors swirl to make the shape we all have come to know as Nebraska, the shape whose very definite lines on our maps seem invisible whenever we cross into Iowa or Kansas.
A Satellite View of Nebraska says one very important thing to me, and it has nothing to do with vegetation. What we all see makes no difference- it's the places from which we are looking that does. The deep crimsons that converge with blues throughout the landscape whisper perspective, and I hope to remember this for my future seeing.
Rules
Plans are something that I've never been good at. Every time I try to make one, it usually ends up going very badly, and then I just get frustrated, annoyed, and angry. Spontaneity, however, can sometimes prove to be just as dangerous for me. If I have no structure at all, I go on these whims where I do what seems best at the time, rather than do what is best for the future. This, also, can result in frustration, among other things. I wish there was a balance, a fairness, in life. This idea is constantly thwarted by realists - those who would say that life simply is not fair and never will be. Although these people may be right to a certain extent, I sometimes wonder if they are the ones, perhaps, who have created this "unfairness" that life continually yields. Perhaps they have created the idea of planning and all of the rules that everyone need follow to not be disappointed in life. Where is the risk? Where is the wonder? Although a sobering feeling, the chance for failure sometimes seems attractive to me. "Learning the hard way" is something that we are all taugh to avoid, yet to me, it seems that those who have learned the hard way have learned and gained the most experience in life. A plan, if carried out correctly, can, no doubt, create a sense of self-accomplishent, but in my opinion, this feeling of self-accomplishment cowers below the feeling of uncertainty, not knowing what's around the next corner. Not knowing what life or time might throw at you next. Perhaps, I stand alone in my beliefs, but if being labeled as an unrealist is possible, jot my name down at the top of the list.
Mental Index Cards
Ever since I read the essay Index Cards I have taken the opportunity not to carry around index cards, I am not at that stage yet, but to examine the things in life that I would jot down on a card if I did that kind of thing. I am very amused at the things that entered my mind, little beautiful pieces of life that somewhere along the way I decided were no longer important to me. The wonderful everyday aspects that join their jabbing puzzle pieces together and make my life complete are so often overlooked, their individual beauty rarely has the chance to shine through. Last weekend I saw a classmate eating a sandwich that was diagonally sliced. Something that normally would have been skipped over, I took an interest in. In my head I jotted down triangular sandwiches for lunch. Before I knew what was happening memories of my childhood that had been dormant for years awoke within me. I remembered the lunches that I used to have with my mom after a hard day at kindergarten. The memories that we shared over a PBJ as I told her that "KaWah in my cWass caWed yeWow WeWow" (substitute the W's with L's- something that I could not do at age 5) . Little triggers like the diagonal sandwich have been flooding my brain since I read Index Cards and filling my mind with ideas for some compelling and personal Creative Nonfiction.
Dragon-Flower Boots
It's a little intimidating looking at this white screen and trying to think of something to write for everyone to see. I search deep within my soul to come up with a topic. Maybe the attacks in Gaza? No, I don't know enough about the situation. Maybe the presidential race this last year? No, too political. How about the weather we have been having? No, that's only talked about between people who don't know each other well enough to talk about something different. Then how about my flower print gardening boots? Yes.
I bought these boots a couple years ago even though I didn't have the money to do it. I take after my father who can't sleep at night so he buys things from infomericals. The thing that attracted me most to them was the color. After thoroughly examing the boots at home I'm surprised the woman who sold them to me didn't think I was on drugs. That is one of the most trippy designs I have ever seen with all its flowers and dragons. Nonetheless, these boots are beautiful to me. So please, don't be a hater of the dragon-flower boots, but love them as if they were yours.
"The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face." --Jack Handey
I bought these boots a couple years ago even though I didn't have the money to do it. I take after my father who can't sleep at night so he buys things from infomericals. The thing that attracted me most to them was the color. After thoroughly examing the boots at home I'm surprised the woman who sold them to me didn't think I was on drugs. That is one of the most trippy designs I have ever seen with all its flowers and dragons. Nonetheless, these boots are beautiful to me. So please, don't be a hater of the dragon-flower boots, but love them as if they were yours.
"The face of a child can say it all, especially the mouth part of the face." --Jack Handey
The Winter Of My Discontent
The cold air seems to punch me in the stomach as I walk out. I can't breath. Only gasps of air come out and it's as if the cold wind has knocked my mind blank of the process or the ability to think how to breath. Eventually the initial shock wears off and I find myself able to breath the cold oxygen into my lungs and move my feet forward. The path is frosted over, deceiving the walker into safety as if saying, "you won't fall on me. Take big steps, run if you want. I have no ice hidden underneath me." It lies though. I know it lies because I fell on it yesterday.
I keep moving, one foot in front of the other, seeing the destination in sight. All showing extremities have begun to turn unnatural colors and I chide myself for not grabbing a pair of gloves and a hat. Only a few more steps to the salvation of heating.
The warm air that blasts over me is like stepping into the rays of the sun. I shiver as the last bit of coldness leaves my body and smile. My skin tingles in response to the heat and I sigh in contentment. The warmth feels amazing but I only have to look back out the door to know that soon I'll have to go back out into the cold, facing the evilness of winter.
The next day I prepared myself with a sweatshirt, jacket, gloves, hat, and scarf. One last breath of heater oxygen and I brace myself for the weather. It never comes. Apparently it's 40 degrees today.
Rediscovering Opinions
I've recently come to the realization that I've been trained not to have an opinion. Being a biology major, I haven't been given many opportunities to think for myself; I've been given a text, read it, memorized it, and regurgitated it for an exam. It's been a long time since I was asked to interpret something... and this week I was asked, "What do you think the author is telling you?" I sat there, shocked. What am I supposed to think? Do I have an opinion? It's taken me a few days to realize that I do indeed have an opinion; it was merely buried beneath facts, figures, and useless quotes.
I've recently discovered an Icelandic band, Sigur Ros. One of the great things about this group is that many of their songs are sung in a made-up language, and the beauty of it is that you use the music to interpret the words and give them your own meaning. I just watched one of their music videos, Vaka #1, on youtube again. I don't usually get emotional when watching music videos, but this one was really powerful. I don't want to give it away by telling about it, so go and check it out on youtube... and draw your own, unique opinion.
I've recently discovered an Icelandic band, Sigur Ros. One of the great things about this group is that many of their songs are sung in a made-up language, and the beauty of it is that you use the music to interpret the words and give them your own meaning. I just watched one of their music videos, Vaka #1, on youtube again. I don't usually get emotional when watching music videos, but this one was really powerful. I don't want to give it away by telling about it, so go and check it out on youtube... and draw your own, unique opinion.
Centered on I
I find it very disconcerting that we spend our time delving into the lives of our friends. We know every person they have dated, kissed, hung-out-with, abhorred, and shunned. We spend our days recalling events for one another: "he was like... and then I was like..." and yet we know nothing of what goes on in our world. We don't know or try to stop the myriad of genocides going on in Africa; massive ethnic cleansing exercises. We don't know the history behind the current conflict in Gaza, but we are quick to damn the actions of the Israelis or the Palestinians. We voted for change in the last election, but we don't understand what that change will entail. This is evidenced by the fact that we don't understand what an economic stimulus package mandates; how it works. The only thing we want to know is when the check stamped with our name on it come in the mail.
We have become too focused on I. I don't mean I as in Dustin Haider, but I as in a constant looking-inward. We have become so focused on I that we push out the rest of the world, not only do we not recognize or understand the issues revolving around the genocides in Africa, we forget about the people we can help across the street. We don't see the single mother dumped by some crappy boyfriend. Or the poor couple who cannot put food on their table. Who are we to say that our lives are more important than theirs?
We have become too focused on I. I don't mean I as in Dustin Haider, but I as in a constant looking-inward. We have become so focused on I that we push out the rest of the world, not only do we not recognize or understand the issues revolving around the genocides in Africa, we forget about the people we can help across the street. We don't see the single mother dumped by some crappy boyfriend. Or the poor couple who cannot put food on their table. Who are we to say that our lives are more important than theirs?
The Importance of the Little Things
One doesn't fully appreciate the importance of something until it is done badly. At that point one can gauge the importance of that thing by how mad or frustrated they are by it being done in a way that isn't up to par with expectations. I've recognized this in some capacity throughout the entirity of my life, but this idea was made quite apparent this morning at church. It wasn't the pastors who bothered me, although I could make a point about the sermon being somewhat lacking in composition. It wasn't something the congregation did to offset me, either. Believe it or not, my issue was with the organist. I never appreciated how important the organist was in leading worship until today when our service was chosen to be none other than the Order of Matins. While the organist showed skill and practice with the hymns, she completely botched the musical portions of the Order of Matins, which is about 90% of the service. It wasn't just a little off, either. The timings and tunes were so off that the congregation as a whole could not follow along properly and the majority of the service consisted of the congregation making inarticulate sounds that sounded like everyone was speaking in different tongues of languages long dead. Now, not being familiar enough with the music is alright on its own, but when that lack of familiarity drags down something as important as a whole congregations' worship there's definitely a distinct problem.
Now, my point isn't to belittle the organist. I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for her poor performance today. What I want to illustrate is how frustrated I was and therefore showing how important the musical aspect of a worship service is to me. Upon reflection, I realized that I felt I did a disservice to God by performing poorly in church. Maybe it's just the Lutheran in me, but I felt guilty for that. I began concentrating on the organist's performance rather than what I was singing and for whom I was singing. I'll keep this in mind for when I begin to space out during church in the future.
-Josh [aka: Rath]
Now, my point isn't to belittle the organist. I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for her poor performance today. What I want to illustrate is how frustrated I was and therefore showing how important the musical aspect of a worship service is to me. Upon reflection, I realized that I felt I did a disservice to God by performing poorly in church. Maybe it's just the Lutheran in me, but I felt guilty for that. I began concentrating on the organist's performance rather than what I was singing and for whom I was singing. I'll keep this in mind for when I begin to space out during church in the future.
-Josh [aka: Rath]
Nature seemed more real to me as I walked to the bar last night for a change of scenery for my homework endeavors. I looked up at the sky. The tiny pinpricks of stars shone through the trees, and their beauty made me want to cry. I've seen stars before ... and even a night sky like the one last night, but it was so lovely after departing from the city lights of Orlando and Disney in general, where I didn't see many stars. As one who loves stars--I even wrote a poem about them--that separation was one of which I'm glad is over. Internal reflection helps, but when the inside is expressed in some way outside of myself I love it.
I thought of the natural night lights that God provides for us--the moon, stars--and wonder what it'd be like to have only those when I'm traveling. No roads or maps, but stars and the moon as heavenly guides to show me where I'm going. Nature represents God's artistry in a tangible way for my finite mind to grasp.
Becca
I thought of the natural night lights that God provides for us--the moon, stars--and wonder what it'd be like to have only those when I'm traveling. No roads or maps, but stars and the moon as heavenly guides to show me where I'm going. Nature represents God's artistry in a tangible way for my finite mind to grasp.
Becca
Why are there no B Batteries?
As I browse through the battery section of Walmart searching for the double A one's needed for my remote, I look over the different brands and compare prices. That's when I notice it. AA, AAA, C, D... But where's the B? There are two A's but no B's? I wonder, are they being discriminatory toward B's? But they can't be discriminatory toward B's since batteries actually starts with B's. Maybe, they chose not to make B batteries because it would sound stupid to say it aloud. "Hi, where can I find B-batteries?" Maybe they are just watching out for our already speech-impediment-stricken youth. Maybe the people that work for Duracell and Energizer actually care about their customers and don't want to make them sound stupid. Or maybe they just found it amusing to skip a letter in the alphabet. Either way, I salute you battery companies for helping me to not look any more stupid than I already do in front of the general public.
- CK
- CK
"Then comes the quiet of Christ to me"
"Then comes the quiet of Christ to me" --Joseph Campbell
Music. It may not be quiet, but I'm at peace. It is while singing or simply listening to music that I feel the quietness of Christ in me. No loud trumpet fanfare to announce His presence, but rather a reaffirmation that He is there. The amazement in my mind that as sinful human beings that someone can use our dirty, wretched selves to make excellent and beautiful music is a constant reminder of God's grace and mercy. The gifts God has given us, regardless of our fall from His will, to write the text and compose a score, are given for His glory alone.
Surprise
"Instead of telling our young people to plan ahead, we should tell them to plan to be surprised."
- Steve Correl as Dan in Dan in Real Life
It is the question I dread. "What are you doing after graduation?" I have learned to jokingly laugh it off. Where did the notion that we have to have life planned come from? Where is the sense of adventure and excitement in that? From my life, I know too well that plans can and do change. It is like you almost expect that plans won't work out. This may sound a bit pessimistic, but I feel it isn't. The way I see it, the little things that come up that were not anticipated can be some of the best things life has to offer. Think about it.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Silence
Tonight I ate at Panera Bread at South Pointe. Just looking around at all the different people... I like to sit and watch people and make up stories about their lives that are probably not true. There was a different crowd there tonight... some obviously on dates, a few sitting by themselves and others in groups. But there was this couple there eating that caught my eye. They sat in the corner by the door. Another couple came and the first couple obviously wasn't planning on seeing the second couple by the surprised look on their faces. It was as though they were long lost friends - the hugs, the "omgosh" as though she was saying "I haven't seen you forever." I really thought the one lady may cry. For the first five minutes of their meal, they talked nonstop as though they were catching up on old times... After the first five minutes, it was silent at their table, not because they were eating. Their food hadn't even come yet. They all stared at one another as though they were searching for conversation, but the silence was saying so much about their relationship, not that they don't talk or whatever, but just that they can sit there, with smiles on their faces, and enjoy one another's company without speaking.
No Pulse
January may very well be my least favorite month of the year. I think this is due to my education schedule. Classes always start at its beginning, and there are no days off. Or maybe it is from the weather, a monotonous gray mass, tossed about by the breeze. There is not even snow in the forecast. Or it could be from the letdown after Christmas. With these decreased stress levels, I am coping with the withdrawal from adrenaline that drove me through the gift-buying, the parties, the baking, and the decorating. There is nothing to arouse activity in the EKG monitor of my days.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Changes
I find that at the beginning of each new semester everything seems a little hectic. I have yet to fully figure out my daily routine so I constantly feel as though I'm missing something. Not only has my class schedule changed, but add a new soccer schedule on top of that and it seems as though I am constantly going and doing something. From work, to class, to lifting and practices sometimes it seems as though I will never have a spare moment this semester. However, talk to me in a week or so and I can almost guarantee I will feel much more in control and comfortable with my new schedule. I think it is simply all the changes that can sometimes throw a person out of whack. We all go through different changes all the time and it always takes time to adjust. Sometimes the changes are good, and other times they are not and it leads us to sit and long for the way things used to be.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Coffee Truth
From my morning Starbucks cup. I want to mark it down somewhere:
The Way I See It #76
"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."
~Anne Morriss
The Way I See It #76
"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."
~Anne Morriss
Saturday, January 3, 2009
The Act of Collection
The day after Christmas, Rosedale Mall, near St. Paul, Minnesota. I have reached my maximum family time and I've not been home more than 48 hours. Why I think I'll find an escape in a mall, I don't know. Out and about seems to be a better option than in and amidst.
I hit up my usual stores and get frustrated in the process. There's so many people everywhere and everybody seems to be in a bad mood. I walk fast and swerve to avoid missing so many texters and talkers. I wonder why people don't pay attention.
I finally end up in Borders and head upstairs where the crowd seems to be lessening. Being amidst books has always calmed me down. Perhaps, it seems, possibility is all around, just waiting to be uncovered or opened up or realized.
As I move around, I hear somebody say, "Hey, Nebraska." It takes me a minute to realize he's talking to me. A randomly picked sweatshirt has gotten his attention. I smile and walk over to him. "Are you from Nebraska?" He tells me he is, that he grew up there, that he lived in a little town that is now part of the big city. Who I guess is his wife standing next to him brushes her hair violently. He keeps talking.
I never know what to do in these moments, when clearly the other person is more interested in telling a story than paying attention to anything you might have to say. So I just stand there, honestly wishing I could fall back into the silence of the browse. But he keeps at it. He tells me that he's a retired military man, that he makes 85K a year and that he's trying to start up a personal training business. He tells me that 25 years in the military lost him his first marriage, that he wonders why his daughter has hooked up with a North Carolinian when she had the world at her feet. I smile and nod, wondering why it's me who keeps standing, unable to escape. I even try to end the conversation more than once, telling him that I'll tell Nebraska "hi" for him. But he keeps at it.
This time he asks me what I do for a living. I tell him where I teach and hesitantly tell him about my advanced degree work. It's something I never know about, because with one crowd, it appears I'm bragging. With another, they find ways to "up" themselves in my eyes, when really, I would never judge someone on the letters that follow or precede their name.
He's the latter. This sets him off on a whole new path. He's been a sociology professor at the University of Minnesota. His resume is 25 pages long or it could be, he says. He's thought about getting an advanced degree, but he just doesn't know. Because of a grapefruit sized brain tumor he had removed four years ago, he's considered mentally disabled. He'll never have to take the GRE. If an institution requires it of him, he can sue their pants off, he continues.
I try a few more times to move back, to point my attention elsewhere, to close off the conversation. The more I try, the more he keeps talking and adding onto his story. Years ago, he spent his own money on publishing his memoir, "My Walk with God," the story of the tumor. There are two chapter thirteens, but what do you get for paying thousands of dollars to tell your story, he asks me. He says he's always wanted to write another book, but have somebody else publish it. "English, huh?" he asks as if I should understand something implied in his question. I just smile and nod, wondering what on earth this interruption is supposed to teach me.
His next topic of choice is marriage. He tells me that if he knew then what he knew now, that his first marriage never would have failed. That he would have given time to it, instead of selfishly working on his career. He points to the woman who was brushing her hair earlier, who now browses herself amidst the shelves. "She's my best friend," he says. "It doesn't matter what someone looks like on the outside. It's inside that counts." He points his finger to his chest for emphasis. "A heart can be the most beautiful thing in the world."
I decide that I'm done trying to get away, to escape from the retired soldier who had a brain tumor who is married to his best friend. And as I seem to relinquish my escape route, he eases up. Perhaps his story is told. Life shared. And that's what he needed. Or maybe what I did. "Mike," he says as he extends a hand for shaking. As I introduce myself and hold my hand out, he grips it and looks me in the eye and says, "Pleasure. I'll let you get back to your shopping now." And I stutter, trying to apologize for wanting to get away, for not wanting to pay attention.
A week later, I continue to consider my conversation with Mike, at a random bookstore, with thousands of other shoppers. While talking to a lifelong friend and trying to recapture these Mike moments for her, she simply said, "You are a collector of stories. You tell them, you listen to them and you share them. Maybe this was supposed to remind you of the importance of the act of collection."
As I look a semester in the face, I truly desire for this space to be a collection of stories, of random moments pieced together, memories of seemingly unessential bits of life that are collected and written down and shared. Maybe it's not the meaning behind them that is the goal, but rather the paying attention, the sitting up and taking notice, the relinquishing of the easy escape,
I hit up my usual stores and get frustrated in the process. There's so many people everywhere and everybody seems to be in a bad mood. I walk fast and swerve to avoid missing so many texters and talkers. I wonder why people don't pay attention.
I finally end up in Borders and head upstairs where the crowd seems to be lessening. Being amidst books has always calmed me down. Perhaps, it seems, possibility is all around, just waiting to be uncovered or opened up or realized.
As I move around, I hear somebody say, "Hey, Nebraska." It takes me a minute to realize he's talking to me. A randomly picked sweatshirt has gotten his attention. I smile and walk over to him. "Are you from Nebraska?" He tells me he is, that he grew up there, that he lived in a little town that is now part of the big city. Who I guess is his wife standing next to him brushes her hair violently. He keeps talking.
I never know what to do in these moments, when clearly the other person is more interested in telling a story than paying attention to anything you might have to say. So I just stand there, honestly wishing I could fall back into the silence of the browse. But he keeps at it. He tells me that he's a retired military man, that he makes 85K a year and that he's trying to start up a personal training business. He tells me that 25 years in the military lost him his first marriage, that he wonders why his daughter has hooked up with a North Carolinian when she had the world at her feet. I smile and nod, wondering why it's me who keeps standing, unable to escape. I even try to end the conversation more than once, telling him that I'll tell Nebraska "hi" for him. But he keeps at it.
This time he asks me what I do for a living. I tell him where I teach and hesitantly tell him about my advanced degree work. It's something I never know about, because with one crowd, it appears I'm bragging. With another, they find ways to "up" themselves in my eyes, when really, I would never judge someone on the letters that follow or precede their name.
He's the latter. This sets him off on a whole new path. He's been a sociology professor at the University of Minnesota. His resume is 25 pages long or it could be, he says. He's thought about getting an advanced degree, but he just doesn't know. Because of a grapefruit sized brain tumor he had removed four years ago, he's considered mentally disabled. He'll never have to take the GRE. If an institution requires it of him, he can sue their pants off, he continues.
I try a few more times to move back, to point my attention elsewhere, to close off the conversation. The more I try, the more he keeps talking and adding onto his story. Years ago, he spent his own money on publishing his memoir, "My Walk with God," the story of the tumor. There are two chapter thirteens, but what do you get for paying thousands of dollars to tell your story, he asks me. He says he's always wanted to write another book, but have somebody else publish it. "English, huh?" he asks as if I should understand something implied in his question. I just smile and nod, wondering what on earth this interruption is supposed to teach me.
His next topic of choice is marriage. He tells me that if he knew then what he knew now, that his first marriage never would have failed. That he would have given time to it, instead of selfishly working on his career. He points to the woman who was brushing her hair earlier, who now browses herself amidst the shelves. "She's my best friend," he says. "It doesn't matter what someone looks like on the outside. It's inside that counts." He points his finger to his chest for emphasis. "A heart can be the most beautiful thing in the world."
I decide that I'm done trying to get away, to escape from the retired soldier who had a brain tumor who is married to his best friend. And as I seem to relinquish my escape route, he eases up. Perhaps his story is told. Life shared. And that's what he needed. Or maybe what I did. "Mike," he says as he extends a hand for shaking. As I introduce myself and hold my hand out, he grips it and looks me in the eye and says, "Pleasure. I'll let you get back to your shopping now." And I stutter, trying to apologize for wanting to get away, for not wanting to pay attention.
A week later, I continue to consider my conversation with Mike, at a random bookstore, with thousands of other shoppers. While talking to a lifelong friend and trying to recapture these Mike moments for her, she simply said, "You are a collector of stories. You tell them, you listen to them and you share them. Maybe this was supposed to remind you of the importance of the act of collection."
As I look a semester in the face, I truly desire for this space to be a collection of stories, of random moments pieced together, memories of seemingly unessential bits of life that are collected and written down and shared. Maybe it's not the meaning behind them that is the goal, but rather the paying attention, the sitting up and taking notice, the relinquishing of the easy escape,
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