Change

It's just a matter of time. The only thing you can control is how you deal with it.

Some Sentimental Glop

There's this wonderful boy.

I've known him all my life.

 

He's been a lot of things to me: competition, a playmate, a thorn in my side, an extractor of other thorns in my side, a leader, understanding, distressing, an example, a confidant, someone to tease, a teaser, a hero and a brother.

  

But mostly, he's been a friend.

He's been gone for a month now. I'm realizing that maybe it wasn't just him who didn't do his part to keep our bathroom clean.

I'm also realizing how grateful I am for his example. Even when I felt like I could stand on my own, I always had him to thank for treading the path that I followed. 

Point is, I miss this guy. 

 But I'm so proud of him, and I want the world--or whoever reads this blog--to know that.

After all, it IS the most wonderful time of the year.

Completed college applications. Submitted Sterling Scholar applications. Major tests of the week behind me. Now I can focus on the new season. I love you, Christmas.

Thank you, Elbow

I'm pretty sure that, when I created this blog, I committed to never, ever posting just a song. I'm breaking that vow. The good thing about breaking it now is that it's not because I'm hopelessly depressed or awkwardly in love and need to expell my feelings into the world through somebody else's creation. The good thing about breaking it now is that I'm in a dang good mood and I want you to be, too. Go listen to it.

One Day Like This: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SQIdXKz4sE8

Drinking in the morning sun
Blinking in the morning sun
Shaking off a heavy one
Yeah, heavy like a loaded gun

What made me behave that way?
Using words I never say
I can only think it must be love
Oh anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day

Someone tell me how I feel
It's silly wrong, but vivid right
Oh, kiss me like a final meal
Yeah, kiss me like we die tonight

'Cause holy cow, I love your eyes
And only now I see the light
Yeah, lying with you half awake
Stumbling over what to say
Oh, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day

When my face is chamois creased
If you think I wink, I did
Laugh politely at repeats
Yeah, kiss me when my lips are thin

'Cause holy cow, I love your eyes
And only now I see the light
Yeah, lying with you half awake
Stumbling over what to say
Well, anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day

So throw those curtains wide
One day like this a year would see me right
Throw those curtains wide
One day like this a year would see me right (repeat)

You are very, very welcome.

Decline

The golden evening sunshine glorifies the Autumn;
Vibrant, proud and regal.
It shakes its mane back and sits with its chest high,
Quite aware it is admired.
But the haughty basking stage is short-lived.
Chill sweeps down the mountainside,
Repressing Autumn's power, wringing it dry and draining it of color,
Humbling it to the brittle, washed-out state the rest of the world has succumbed to.
And we, powerless subjects to this new host,
Drop our eyes and respectfully murmur that this is just
As we retreat into the stale, manufactured comfort of heated houses
With bitter thoughts towards that snuffer of life,
There to hibernate in monotony 
Until color graces
the world
once
more.

An update

Dear world,

I just wanted anyone out there who has been faithfully following my blog (at least for the last four or five months) that I have an update on my dental habits. Remember that toothbrush I so heartwrenchingly replaced back in June? I confess that I cheated. I kept it. I didn't use it once, but I kept it in the little penguin toothbrush cup by my bathroom sink just in case. It was a comfort issue, you know? But I've decided that it's time to let go once and for all. I threw it away, world. I threw that little pink Colgate 360 away. You may hold your applause.

And just to make this post worth reading so you don't go away mumbling about how boring my life must be if all I have to write about is my dental hygiene (I couldn't blame you, I've written about it for 1/10 of my posts thus far), take a look at this picture. I've been glancing at this toothpaste label (the red part) for weeks, trying to assign it some metaphorical or philosophical significance, but I'm coming up dry. What does it mean to you? Or what could it mean to me? Creative responses are welcome and encouraged.

Your friend,
Me.

"A broken-winged bird that cannot fly."

An idea is dropped into existence and lands in my lap. I am distracted and busy, but I can't just watch it die without ever having a chance.

So I feed it. I learn its needs and wants and quirks and cares. I cradle it when it is afraid and I eventually trust it to comfort me when I am in need. What was once a chore morphs into an anticipated pastime. Then it grows into a pleasure and, finally, a necessity. I begin to realize that it has become more of a part of me than just important to me.

Then, all at once, when the world couldn't be rosier and any clouds are obscured by the light of their own silver linings, it takes flight.

It is wrong of me to watch it go with remorse. I raised it up for a purpose. How could it ever have served its purpose while bound to me? An idea cannot be concealed or it ceases to be an idea. It becomes a stagnant thought.

So I watch the traces of its flight through the sky from my place on the gray ground, often wondering whether it ever glances in my direction. Sometimes I hope it does. Sometimes I pray it doesn't. For there is nothing left for it back here. I gave it all I could give. It needs to find others to nourish it if it ever hopes to grow.

The only regret I have left is having to watch it take half of me with it.

Photo credit: Ellie Peek

You be the oxy, I'll be the moron.

Open your eyes.

Your head is heavy. Your mind is swimming in discombobulation. And you don't even know if that's a word.

You don't know if you just woke up from a deadening slumber or if you just started dreaming, but suddenly that's irrelevant. Know why? Because a chainsaw just dropped from the sky into your heavy hands.

You become aware of your surroundings. Either that or they materialize when you look up.

You are standing in a vast field of pyracantha bushes. They are ugly and twisted and vicious and yours is the only clearing you are aware of. The sky is dimming quickly. It's as if a dry storm is rolling over you.

So what do you do? Do you stay in the clearing where you know you are protected from being poked? Do you rev up your chainsaw and start hacking away at the nearest bush? Do you curl up and cry and wish you knew whether discombobulation actually was a word?

I don't know what you'd do. I don't know how many of you followers even live up to your name, so how could I know what you'd do if I can't be sure who you are? So I'll tell you what I'd do. What I do do, I should say.

Saturated in overconfidence, I heft that chainsaw, fiddle until I figure out how to start it, and swing it towards my hostile enemy. After aimlessly attacking the obstacle for a while, I realize that I'm not really getting anywhere. All I've gained is a million miniscule scratches and a sore arm. The incoming storm blocks out the light more and more.

Do I pinch myself awake (or asleep)? Do I set my jaw and keep working at the bushes and discover a pot of gold a few feet on? Do I remember that I came to my senses sitting on a dictionary and hurry to look up the word "discombobulation," thus settling my troubled mind because it is, in fact, a word?

Don't be silly. Of course not. I realize that I have several grenades conveniently tucked cozily inside my coat. So I take them out and start chucking them into the distant bushes.

Progress is a lot quicker now and somehow immensely more satisfying. I traipse the coarse wasteland with a spring in my step and a plethora of pins dangling from my fingers.

Oh, grand grenade. You always show up exactly when I need you to, offer me a broader perspective and never fail in making my life a little more colorful.

I can't honestly say I feel quite sane right now.

Twenty-seven of the last thirty-four hours spent at school.

Twenty. Seven.

On the upside, here's a thing.

And if you have never seen a woodchuck chuck wood, well, I guess we're in the same boat.

And now I'm writing a blog post...ironic.

How on earth do I go from studying modern conservatives in my government book to reading my art teacher's online opinion on food fermentation to studying Shakespeare's use of oxymorons in his sonnets in four minutes? I get distracted way, WAY too easily.

Simplify, simplify.

I'm working on my chronic attachment to useless things, as you can see ("mathom," in Hobbit lingo). Whilst being spiritually cleansed by Conference, I physically purged my bedroom. That was the plan, at least. It turned out that I didn't make it past my dresser. But this is a major improvement. This pile includes clothes I've had since I was in elementary school. I haven't worn most of these clothes for years, yet every time I went through my drawers (not to bear false witness; that didn't happen too often), I managed to fabricate some reason not to throw away the smallest, silliest, rattiest clothes.

But I'm ready to unclutter my life. My bedroom has always been the first thing my focus turns to when I'm ready for a change; I've rearranged, painted and redecorated to indicate new determination or style in my life. So far, senior year is a bit of a bane. Not in a bad way. But it's just a lot more than I bargained for. So I'm simplifying. As good old Thoreau once said, “As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness."

I'm hoping this commitment will give me more sleep and increased concentration with homework and more time for my family and friends. Wish me luck.

To whoever dropped that anonymous note in my backpack the other day and to whoever left those cookies tonight: thank you. Really. :)

There's something about rain that makes me wax poetic. Or at least think more than usual.

A familiar place. A frequently visited place. It is different. But not in a bad way. It's merely new, that's all.

The air is cool and the afternoon is begging me to slow down and live for a moment. So I sit. I pause. I recall. I wonder. And it doesn't overwhelm me today.

The rain begins right on cue. It knows what I'm thinking. After refelction, I understand what it is saying.

Some kinds of rain are only good for anger. Others accompany mourning. Some come bringing waves of nostalgia. Another kind embodies melancholy. But not today. Today, the rain sings renewal.

The Little Things Inspire

It had been a long day. The ACT in the morning, a pauso date (which shouldn't really belong in this particular list on account of the rest of the listed items' connotations; this was quite enjoyable, but it did add to the general amount of stuff in my day), being flung from a teeter totter (but this happened after work, so it ought to be cheating to write, too), answering for Homecoming and five hours of work kinda builds up on you.

Three hours into work, my manager came up to my co-worker and me and declared that the victor of a two out of three rock, paper, scissors tournament could get off early.

I lost.

So, as my last link to conversation clocked out and left with a skip in his step, I continued taking customers' orders, sympathizing with frustrated BYU fans and politely averting my gaze when couples--of which there seems to be no end on Saturday nights--discussed what they wanted to get with far more interaction that was completely necessary.

I wasn't unhappy. I just wasn't as upbeat as I normally try to be on counter. Then this one guy's order changed my perspective.

He was with a girl, but wasn't awkwardly all over her (as so many, for some reason, feel obligated to be. But that is a rant for a different post). He was polite and friendly and ordered without conflict. As I was sliding his credit card and waiting for the receipt to print, he smiled kindly at me. "How are you?"

Most people greet me somehow. The general gist is this: Someone walks in, I say, "How are you today?" Staring at the menu, they wander forward and say, "How are ya, I'd like a chicken sandwich, and that doesn't have onions, right?" Some even cut straight to the food without bothering with common niceties. But this guy was sincere. He was asking me how I was and looking at me and waiting for a response. It wasn't remotely flirtatious. He didn't even seem to be trying to impress the girl at his side. He genuinely wanted to know how I, a random little minimum-wage-earning cashier, was.

"I'm doing well," I said, smiling at him and offering him his ticket. I felt the sudden desire to tell him about losing the rock, paper, scissors tournament or mention that I was just a little worried about being able to finish all my homework. I didn't, of course. He walked away after that. But I still trusted him. I saw in him a genuineness that I've never seen to that degree in a stranger before. It was frankly inspiring. I want to be that person someday. Someday soon.

Milk goes bad after a few weeks in the fridge, but it rots a lot faster when you just leave it where you spilled it.

Some days, you feel bold. You feel significant because you're on top of the world. And the world doesn't mind it because it put you up there on purpose.

Some days, you feel like mud. And not the cute mud that little girls in yellow rainboots leap into or cross country runners smear like warpaint over their face. No. More like the kind of mud that smells like a cistern and gets stuck with a piece of gum in the tread of some really apathetic person's boots, and when they notice it, they scrape it out with a twig and smear it back onto the sidewalk while muttering something about the inefficiency of public walkways or taxes or something. And then it's just laying there, a scourge, a scar on a rough, unforgiving canvas, looking uglier and more offensive than ever.

And some days, you float.

Just a thought.

Midnight Rainfall

The cool air is fresh and young.

The driveway is wet and gravelly on the pads of my feet. The streetlamp's light overflows onto the pavement, blurring and multiplying tenfold in its depths.

There is something about its reflection that takes me back to another time spent with another feeling.

But, unlike most nostalgic sensations, it does not flit in then dance out of my mind. It lingers, accented by the steady plimmer of raindrops on the ground and car hoods and leaves of the maples. It wants to be remembered. It's waiting to be understood.

I cannot comprehend it.

I shiver, and my discomfort drives other thoughts away. I inhale once more, then retreat to a warm, dry and quiet refuge. The misunderstood memory is stifled with the muffled plimmer plitter on the roof.

But something from out there clings to my bare feet and follows me inside: the unbidden whisper of a reminder, "This is how it should be."

Ha. Ha. Real funny.

After a practically acne-free summer, three angry zits choose to rise to the surface the evening before picture day. Oh, fate, you funny thing.

Everybody, everybody wants to love

You know something? Agape is the Greek word that refers to the love God has for his children and the love a mother or father has for his or her children. Wikipedia cites that the OED says the following: "Agape is one of the Greek words that translates into English as love, one which became particularly appropriated in American Christian theology as the love of God or Christ for mankind."

Agape is also the exact Greek word for charity. Charity is love. English muddles it into a lot of other definitions, but that's what it is.

1 Corinthians 13:1: Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.

We're nothing without love.



We are, by no means, the perfect example of perfect sisterhood. But at least this kid and I have this whole love thing down. I can't imagine my life without her. Photo credit: Ben.

Sometimes, I mutter words under my breath just because I like the way they sound.

Not to talk about my dental hygiene again, but here goes.

Crest Cool Mint Gel. The most vile, repulsive poser for a mint-flavored toothpaste that there ever was. You stick it into your mouth, expecting the tingling rush that's supposed to come with anything minty, and a saccharine ooze meets your eager tongue. If I wanted to brush my teeth with plastic candy, I'd spread melted Hershey's bars on my toothbrush! And I'd actually enjoy that! Whoever could make the mistake of shaming the name of mint by including the word in that concoction's title? Who was mislead/stupid/drunk/ignorant enough to think that the two could have anything remotely to do with each other?!

And you know what's the worst part? I trekked all the way upstairs to the kids' bathroom. I braved my parents' bathroom in the dark while my mom was asleep. She is not a heavy sleeper, by the way. And you know what? We have a Cool Mint Gel infestation. It is the ONLY flavor in this household. Someone is trying to get me to stop taking care of my teeth or something. This is mutiny.

And I've been sitting here with my toothbrush between my teeth while I wrote up this post. How ironic that the stuff has been festering in my mouth this whole time.

But at least I'm trying new toothpaste, right?

Ode to Jean

There's this kid, right? She's intelligent and beautiful and nice and creative and talented and all that overrated junk. Most importantly, she says things to me like, "If you weren't my best friend, I would punch you right now."

She feeds me and gives me nice quotes. She drives me home when I miss the bus. She knows not to tell me when I look tired. When my world is speeding up, she reminds me that it's okay to take a break and eat some ice cream. She doesn't get offended when I point out when she's done something stupid that she needs to fix. I can call her with any problem, even if it's something as simple as having an off day. She can and does tell me her worst fears, even when they involve me (obscurely, of course. This isn't a parasitic relationship). In fact, we can talk about anything. She's practically flawless in every way.

Hang on. She hates my dog. And who could hate anything this cute?

I guess no one can be perfect.