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.