This, my friends, is a treasure worth sharing. Somehow, I know exactly what he's talking about.
Litany
by Billy Collins
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.
December 23, 2009
December 17, 2009
delivery #176
As I was searching through a bunch of old documents to find sample papers for my graduate school applications, I stumbled across this little gem. It's a short piece I wrote for my creative non-fiction class a couple semesters ago. Some of you have probably seen this before, but humor me... it provided a moment of reminiscent laughter in a week that has been otherwise characterized by bleak and dull studying. Amusez-vous bien, mes amis.
Delivery #176
The heat in my car didn’t feel oppressive that day. I made my way to a little side street... what was it called? Lincoln? Jackson? Washington? It was the name of a president anyway. I turned up my music and inhaled the overwhelming scent of pizza. For some reason, delivering pizzas in your car day after day renders the “pizza” smell different than when you are actually eating the pizza. The “I deliver pizzas” stench is more like cardboard, old cheese and olives—whether or not there are any olives on the pizza, incidentally enough. The smell mingled with the scent of Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction body mist, with which I had drenched my car seats in an effort to mask the aforementioned Hungry Howies’ Pure Repulsion.
Though I had only been working at Hungry Howies for several weeks at that point, I felt like the routine was old, worn-in, comfortable. When I first applied for the job, I never imagined myself being “at ease” with delivering pizzas. The enterprise is often viewed as “man’s work,” much like plumbing, carpentry, or growing facial hair. Initially, all of my co-workers scoffed because, in their minds, my femaleness somehow prevented me from delivering as quickly, driving as adeptly, or navigating the local maps as proficiently as their male selves were inclined to do. I couldn’t decide which was worse: their taunting about my perceived weaknesses or their unrelenting reminders that my long hair and curves would produce more generous tips from the male clientele. From my perspective, the Hungry Howies uniform produced more of an androgynous appearance than an attractive female one. Every day I wore beat-up sneakers, khaki pants, an oversized maroon polo shirt that proudly bore the Howies logo, and a baseball cap with matching insignia: a blond boy whose head pops out of a pepperoni pizza, licking his chops in anticipation of the mouthwatering “Original Flavored Crust Pizza.”
In spite of the adversity I faced in the form of frumpy outfits and grumpy co-workers, I managed to prove myself as a pizza delivery girl. (At this point, it would be entirely appropriate to imagine a Mulan-esque montage in which I am trained to fight as a man.) When work was slow and I was stuck folding boxes at headquarters, I let my eyes wander over the giant map of Coldwater that Spencer, my boss, had laminated and taped onto the wall. I came to learn all of the street names and I even gleaned an idea of which were the “best houses”—a title earned purely on the basis of high-end tipping. Likewise, it was also important to know about the “bad neighborhoods.” In some cases, all that denoted was dysfunctional families, yipping dogs, and the likely appearance of a mullet or two. Other times, the area was intimidating enough that I allowed my male co-workers the satisfaction of taking the route for the sake of my safety. I didn’t play the “damsel in distress” card too often, though, for fear of tarnishing the image I had worked so hard to build.
I squinted to see the house number on Lincoln... Jackson... Washington? street and pulled my car over the crunch of a gravel driveway. I walked up to the door, tattered black pizza bag in hand, and knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
“Pizza!” I said, as though the word alone would be enough to excite someone off the couch to answer the door.
After several minutes, I began to wonder what to do. The house was old—splintered wood that had been painted a heinous color like olive green or cadet blue. I couldn’t tell exactly which because all that remained were the pallid chips of color that represented the house’s former glory. The windows were covered with the fading pastels of old Care Bear comforters and the rickety swinging doors were all shut and locked. I looked back at the ticket to insure that I was at the right house. Yep. 378 Linjacksington. Looking around to see if there were any signs of the family’s presence, all I saw were broken beach toys lying in the driveway and a variety of worn-out furniture, plastic silverware, and old magazines strewn haphazardly across the porch. I truly began to wonder if the customers were home, but then I heard voices coming from inside the house and I saw a pair of eyes peeking through the make-shift “curtains.”
“Okay, I know you’re in there!” I yelled, feeling like one of the detectives on Law & Order coming to arrest the suspect. I Mirandized the best I knew how: “I’m not sure what’s going on... but I have your pizza. And pop. It’s root beer.” I waited. No response. I guess the promise of impending soft drinks didn’t do the trick. Unsure of what else to say, I finally pleaded, “I need to see you so you can sign for your food!”
Confused and frustrated, I trudged back to my red Subaru Forester and grabbed the cell phone my mom let me borrow while I was on the job. The initial idea was that the phone would serve as a safety precaution for dangerous night routes. More often than not, the small blue device was used to hold lengthy conversations with my boyfriend in New Mexico during “boondocks” deliveries, or to ask a customer why 122 Park Drive didn’t exist, only to find that it was Park Avenue, not Park Drive. This time, I was calling my supervisor at headquarters.
“Hey Doug... yeah, listen. I’m at the house with the pizza and they won’t come to the door. What should I do? … Yes, they are here. … I have no idea why they aren’t answering… Of course it’s weird! ...Okay. I’ll be right back.”
I glanced back at the house and re-adjusted my cap. Just before calling it quits and hopping back into my car to bring the pizza back to Howies to sit in the heat-box, untouched all night…
“They’ll never come out.”
The mysterious voice came from a man who was casually sitting on the neighboring porch. Dressed in slacks and a Banana Republic sweater, he seemed very “out of place” in this area of town.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“They won’t come out,” he stated matter-of-factly as he leaned back and clasped his joined palms over his knee. “I’m their landlord and I came here to evict them. I left the porch as you drove in so that you might have some luck getting them their pizza. They’re in there all right, but it looks like they’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“Umm, okay. Thanks.”
Stunned, I hopped into my car and drove back to the store. Upon telling my co-workers the story, they all laughed and gleefully proclaimed, “Well, that’s a first!” I seemed particularly prone to having “firsts” at my job. The entire scenario might have been worth it if we had been allowed to split the unused pizza, but Spencer firmly upheld the policy that unused pizzas go straight to the trash. Supposedly, this rule kept the pizza-makers from intentionally “messing up” so that we’d all get a free lunch, but we all knew that Spencer just liked enforcing arbitrary mandates in order to produce an illusion of control in his life.
An hour later, we got a call from Mrs. Care Bear Curtains.
“Where’s our pizza?”
Delivery #176
The heat in my car didn’t feel oppressive that day. I made my way to a little side street... what was it called? Lincoln? Jackson? Washington? It was the name of a president anyway. I turned up my music and inhaled the overwhelming scent of pizza. For some reason, delivering pizzas in your car day after day renders the “pizza” smell different than when you are actually eating the pizza. The “I deliver pizzas” stench is more like cardboard, old cheese and olives—whether or not there are any olives on the pizza, incidentally enough. The smell mingled with the scent of Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction body mist, with which I had drenched my car seats in an effort to mask the aforementioned Hungry Howies’ Pure Repulsion.
Though I had only been working at Hungry Howies for several weeks at that point, I felt like the routine was old, worn-in, comfortable. When I first applied for the job, I never imagined myself being “at ease” with delivering pizzas. The enterprise is often viewed as “man’s work,” much like plumbing, carpentry, or growing facial hair. Initially, all of my co-workers scoffed because, in their minds, my femaleness somehow prevented me from delivering as quickly, driving as adeptly, or navigating the local maps as proficiently as their male selves were inclined to do. I couldn’t decide which was worse: their taunting about my perceived weaknesses or their unrelenting reminders that my long hair and curves would produce more generous tips from the male clientele. From my perspective, the Hungry Howies uniform produced more of an androgynous appearance than an attractive female one. Every day I wore beat-up sneakers, khaki pants, an oversized maroon polo shirt that proudly bore the Howies logo, and a baseball cap with matching insignia: a blond boy whose head pops out of a pepperoni pizza, licking his chops in anticipation of the mouthwatering “Original Flavored Crust Pizza.”
In spite of the adversity I faced in the form of frumpy outfits and grumpy co-workers, I managed to prove myself as a pizza delivery girl. (At this point, it would be entirely appropriate to imagine a Mulan-esque montage in which I am trained to fight as a man.) When work was slow and I was stuck folding boxes at headquarters, I let my eyes wander over the giant map of Coldwater that Spencer, my boss, had laminated and taped onto the wall. I came to learn all of the street names and I even gleaned an idea of which were the “best houses”—a title earned purely on the basis of high-end tipping. Likewise, it was also important to know about the “bad neighborhoods.” In some cases, all that denoted was dysfunctional families, yipping dogs, and the likely appearance of a mullet or two. Other times, the area was intimidating enough that I allowed my male co-workers the satisfaction of taking the route for the sake of my safety. I didn’t play the “damsel in distress” card too often, though, for fear of tarnishing the image I had worked so hard to build.
I squinted to see the house number on Lincoln... Jackson... Washington? street and pulled my car over the crunch of a gravel driveway. I walked up to the door, tattered black pizza bag in hand, and knocked.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
“Pizza!” I said, as though the word alone would be enough to excite someone off the couch to answer the door.
After several minutes, I began to wonder what to do. The house was old—splintered wood that had been painted a heinous color like olive green or cadet blue. I couldn’t tell exactly which because all that remained were the pallid chips of color that represented the house’s former glory. The windows were covered with the fading pastels of old Care Bear comforters and the rickety swinging doors were all shut and locked. I looked back at the ticket to insure that I was at the right house. Yep. 378 Linjacksington. Looking around to see if there were any signs of the family’s presence, all I saw were broken beach toys lying in the driveway and a variety of worn-out furniture, plastic silverware, and old magazines strewn haphazardly across the porch. I truly began to wonder if the customers were home, but then I heard voices coming from inside the house and I saw a pair of eyes peeking through the make-shift “curtains.”
“Okay, I know you’re in there!” I yelled, feeling like one of the detectives on Law & Order coming to arrest the suspect. I Mirandized the best I knew how: “I’m not sure what’s going on... but I have your pizza. And pop. It’s root beer.” I waited. No response. I guess the promise of impending soft drinks didn’t do the trick. Unsure of what else to say, I finally pleaded, “I need to see you so you can sign for your food!”
Confused and frustrated, I trudged back to my red Subaru Forester and grabbed the cell phone my mom let me borrow while I was on the job. The initial idea was that the phone would serve as a safety precaution for dangerous night routes. More often than not, the small blue device was used to hold lengthy conversations with my boyfriend in New Mexico during “boondocks” deliveries, or to ask a customer why 122 Park Drive didn’t exist, only to find that it was Park Avenue, not Park Drive. This time, I was calling my supervisor at headquarters.
“Hey Doug... yeah, listen. I’m at the house with the pizza and they won’t come to the door. What should I do? … Yes, they are here. … I have no idea why they aren’t answering… Of course it’s weird! ...Okay. I’ll be right back.”
I glanced back at the house and re-adjusted my cap. Just before calling it quits and hopping back into my car to bring the pizza back to Howies to sit in the heat-box, untouched all night…
“They’ll never come out.”
The mysterious voice came from a man who was casually sitting on the neighboring porch. Dressed in slacks and a Banana Republic sweater, he seemed very “out of place” in this area of town.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“They won’t come out,” he stated matter-of-factly as he leaned back and clasped his joined palms over his knee. “I’m their landlord and I came here to evict them. I left the porch as you drove in so that you might have some luck getting them their pizza. They’re in there all right, but it looks like they’re not going anywhere for a while.”
“Umm, okay. Thanks.”
Stunned, I hopped into my car and drove back to the store. Upon telling my co-workers the story, they all laughed and gleefully proclaimed, “Well, that’s a first!” I seemed particularly prone to having “firsts” at my job. The entire scenario might have been worth it if we had been allowed to split the unused pizza, but Spencer firmly upheld the policy that unused pizzas go straight to the trash. Supposedly, this rule kept the pizza-makers from intentionally “messing up” so that we’d all get a free lunch, but we all knew that Spencer just liked enforcing arbitrary mandates in order to produce an illusion of control in his life.
An hour later, we got a call from Mrs. Care Bear Curtains.
“Where’s our pizza?”
December 13, 2009
dec(ember)
Also known as my first attempt at poetry in far too long. Please leave any comments or suggestions (rip me to shreds if you must!) so I can get back in the creative writing groove.
dec(ember)
there is nothing so lovely
as a picket fence with two hands on it,
a honeydew smile,
a flash of genuine in an abyss of adulteration.
charmed moments breed miles of meditation:
hallowed hopes that reality can be as real
as a snowflake lazily drifting
earth-bound,
fixed (briefly yet eternally) in the evening glow of a
streetlight
dec(ember)
there is nothing so lovely
as a picket fence with two hands on it,
a honeydew smile,
a flash of genuine in an abyss of adulteration.
charmed moments breed miles of meditation:
hallowed hopes that reality can be as real
as a snowflake lazily drifting
earth-bound,
fixed (briefly yet eternally) in the evening glow of a
streetlight
December 1, 2009
(thanks) + (giving)
(thanks)
George, my new friend from the flight out of Salt Lake City
Michigan skies
A family who gathers around for an impromptu sing-along on Grooveshark
Mom and her fudge-making prowess… or everything-prowess, as the case may be
Freshly laundered sheets and down comforters
House marathons
Games with my little brother
Philadelphia cream cheese and consequent cheesecake experiments
Roxy and Jude, those little pooches whom I miss so dearly
The chance to finally play piano
Simply Apple Juice, nectar of the gods
Trees, trees everywhere!
Josh and Jess’ wedding photos
Movie theatre popcorn
The traditional sleepover with my niece and best friend, Alisha
Girl-talk with my sisters and nieces
Speedway Icees with Niki and Bradford
Chocolate chip cookies (alldayeveryday)
The miracle of finally deciding on a place to get dinner with indecisive Philip
Fulfilling conversations
The fact that the world is not currently coming to an end... to my knowledge?
Michigan drives
Free lunch at Olive Garden (“The meal’s on us, happy holidays”)
Airports
Limes
A sister who is willing to pick me up in Salt Lake and take me back to my Provo apartment
Knowing that everything is, somehow, going to be okay
Mostly: Mom, Niki, Bradford, Josh, Jessica, Ben, Uncle Mike, Mikey, Grandma & Grandpa Patterson, Sandy, Mike, Alisha, Olivia, Mykel, Cassandra, Regan, Delaney, Briana, Michelle, Sarah, Dan, Philip, et al.
Because it’s the people who really count, if I haven’t yet made that sufficiently clear.
(giving)
Now it’s the Christmas season and I need to be thinking of how I can show gratitude to all of those people and more (the whole wide world, if at all possible) by giving back. Our family decided to do something non-traditional, at least for us, by drawing the proverbial name-from-a-hat and buying a Christmas present for only one sibling. I picked Josh & Jess, our resident newlyweds. Would it be too conniving to buy them a baby bassinet?
(The answer is yes, by the way.)
George, my new friend from the flight out of Salt Lake City
Michigan skies
A family who gathers around for an impromptu sing-along on Grooveshark
Mom and her fudge-making prowess… or everything-prowess, as the case may be
Freshly laundered sheets and down comforters
House marathons
Games with my little brother
Philadelphia cream cheese and consequent cheesecake experiments
Roxy and Jude, those little pooches whom I miss so dearly
The chance to finally play piano
Simply Apple Juice, nectar of the gods
Trees, trees everywhere!
Josh and Jess’ wedding photos
Movie theatre popcorn
The traditional sleepover with my niece and best friend, Alisha
Girl-talk with my sisters and nieces
Speedway Icees with Niki and Bradford
Chocolate chip cookies (alldayeveryday)
The miracle of finally deciding on a place to get dinner with indecisive Philip
Fulfilling conversations
The fact that the world is not currently coming to an end... to my knowledge?
Michigan drives
Free lunch at Olive Garden (“The meal’s on us, happy holidays”)
Airports
Limes
A sister who is willing to pick me up in Salt Lake and take me back to my Provo apartment
Knowing that everything is, somehow, going to be okay
Mostly: Mom, Niki, Bradford, Josh, Jessica, Ben, Uncle Mike, Mikey, Grandma & Grandpa Patterson, Sandy, Mike, Alisha, Olivia, Mykel, Cassandra, Regan, Delaney, Briana, Michelle, Sarah, Dan, Philip, et al.
Because it’s the people who really count, if I haven’t yet made that sufficiently clear.
(giving)
Now it’s the Christmas season and I need to be thinking of how I can show gratitude to all of those people and more (the whole wide world, if at all possible) by giving back. Our family decided to do something non-traditional, at least for us, by drawing the proverbial name-from-a-hat and buying a Christmas present for only one sibling. I picked Josh & Jess, our resident newlyweds. Would it be too conniving to buy them a baby bassinet?
(The answer is yes, by the way.)
November 24, 2009
... so this is what you do at the library
After my conversation with Evan last night, I have the most delicious questions running through my mind.
Does God like cheesecake? And what kind of toothpaste does He use? Does the cheesecake taste good even after the teeth-brushing?
I love cosmic questions. Maybe even more than I am looking forward to the cosmic answers.
Does God like cheesecake? And what kind of toothpaste does He use? Does the cheesecake taste good even after the teeth-brushing?
I love cosmic questions. Maybe even more than I am looking forward to the cosmic answers.
November 19, 2009
leaves like butterflies
I’m sitting at my computer, the cursor blinking. Unforgiving. How am I to write about the conservative influences on France’s Third Republic or “l’Affaire Dreyfus” when all I can think about is what a coward I’ve become? Cowardly in that the very thing that has afforded me stability and a creative outlet my whole life is now falling short of expectation: my words. My speech. My voice. And I’m not talking about my appalling inability to not so much as flounder around an essay topic in French (although that is particularly apropos this evening as well). My disappointment springs from my inability to talk to Him.
Who is Him, you ask? Well, take your pick.
Life (the one in the black t-shirt with a predilection for winding roads and evenings of stargazing)? God? My father? My brothers? My blue-eyed best friend of yesteryear? That Canadian waiter in Edinburgh? The dozen or so men in my dance class who have to deal with my blundering, maladroit version of the Viennese waltz?
Dance isn’t such a bad analogy for this. Part of my problem in the face of constantly being told to “Relax!” is that… well, it seems nigh impossible. I have a hard time trusting that those sweaty-handed men can really get me anywhere without a fatal crash into the wall or, worse yet, an innocent passerby. Often, I am being swirled and spun into a dizzy frenzy, flying backwards and all the while never knowing when I’ll feel secure again. I want to love that feeling. I crave to love it. Yet, even after every vow to myself that today will be different, today I will relax, today I will trust… today becomes another fractured dream. My dancing will always be gauche as long as I refuse to surrender that little part of me to another person, or to my own embodiment even. And probably so will my life.
I don’t mean for this to be a postmodern lament on how my marginalized voice leads to a fractured identity, resulting in my disembodiment and consequent loss of phenomenological experience. (You can thank my literary theory courses for such lofty explanations.) Alls I really need is a good, hearty dose of courage. And maybe some chocolate milk. We Americans have this awful habit of saying “Good luck,” as though we move through our lives helplessly at the mercy of this Luck, who occasionally smiles down on the fortunate. Luck is kind of a fair-weather friend, though. I’ve found that the equivalent French phrase is much more awesome, as the French are wont to be: “Bon courage.” It’s not about happenstance anymore, it’s about having courage to face what lies before you and to tackle those things head-on.
I probably shouldn’t tackle anyone from my dance class head-on. But I should probably pretend to be graceful until the blessed day that I actually am.
Perhaps all of this is why, as I was contemplating what to post about, the first thing that came to mind was a butterfly-shaped leaf I found on campus. That is a much simpler topic.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfillment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness
Writing means never missing the meaning. Living means never missing the experience. I kind of need both. As always, salvation lies in the balance.
Who is Him, you ask? Well, take your pick.
Life (the one in the black t-shirt with a predilection for winding roads and evenings of stargazing)? God? My father? My brothers? My blue-eyed best friend of yesteryear? That Canadian waiter in Edinburgh? The dozen or so men in my dance class who have to deal with my blundering, maladroit version of the Viennese waltz?
Dance isn’t such a bad analogy for this. Part of my problem in the face of constantly being told to “Relax!” is that… well, it seems nigh impossible. I have a hard time trusting that those sweaty-handed men can really get me anywhere without a fatal crash into the wall or, worse yet, an innocent passerby. Often, I am being swirled and spun into a dizzy frenzy, flying backwards and all the while never knowing when I’ll feel secure again. I want to love that feeling. I crave to love it. Yet, even after every vow to myself that today will be different, today I will relax, today I will trust… today becomes another fractured dream. My dancing will always be gauche as long as I refuse to surrender that little part of me to another person, or to my own embodiment even. And probably so will my life.
I don’t mean for this to be a postmodern lament on how my marginalized voice leads to a fractured identity, resulting in my disembodiment and consequent loss of phenomenological experience. (You can thank my literary theory courses for such lofty explanations.) Alls I really need is a good, hearty dose of courage. And maybe some chocolate milk. We Americans have this awful habit of saying “Good luck,” as though we move through our lives helplessly at the mercy of this Luck, who occasionally smiles down on the fortunate. Luck is kind of a fair-weather friend, though. I’ve found that the equivalent French phrase is much more awesome, as the French are wont to be: “Bon courage.” It’s not about happenstance anymore, it’s about having courage to face what lies before you and to tackle those things head-on.
I probably shouldn’t tackle anyone from my dance class head-on. But I should probably pretend to be graceful until the blessed day that I actually am.
Perhaps all of this is why, as I was contemplating what to post about, the first thing that came to mind was a butterfly-shaped leaf I found on campus. That is a much simpler topic.
The moments of happiness—not the sense of well-being,
Fruition, fulfillment, security or affection,
Or even a very good dinner, but the sudden illumination—
We had the experience but missed the meaning,
And approach to the meaning restores experience
In a different form, beyond any meaning
We can assign to happiness
Writing means never missing the meaning. Living means never missing the experience. I kind of need both. As always, salvation lies in the balance.
November 17, 2009
lifelines
Maya Angelou is known to have said, “Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told, ‘I am with you, kid. Let’s go.’” Now, I’m not meaning to suggest that our dear friend Maya is a liar… but I’m wondering about the extent to which this is true. Come to think of it, some of the best times in my life have been when I’m willing to run around barefoot and harvest the day with reckless abandon. I have this fantastic image of Life and me having a go at the park and flying kites. Mine would be purple (because it’s my favorite color) and Life’s would be red (because red seems as though it should be Life’s favorite color if it isn’t already). I might take a moment to pause and ask Life, “Why are you so difficult sometimes?”
Life would just look at me with the earnestness of a child, not saying anything.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it…” I would stammer. “Hey, last one to the tree is a rotten egg!”
I don’t think Life would have a lapel, though. He’d probably be wearing a black t-shirt—black because it’s either the most beautiful or the most devastating color. After a lunch of PB&J’s with sun chips, Life and I would head back home. He would want to take the “scenic route,” over all the bridges and through dense thickets of forestation. Whenever I’d be tempted to complain and ask why we hadn’t just taken the highway, Life would say some cheesy thing like, “It’s not about the destination, but the journey itself.” (A line he learned from my cousin Keith after we spent two hours bushwhacking to finally arrive at a lone outhouse off a beach in northern Michigan when we were twelve.)
But you know? Keith and Life kind of have a point. It’s like when you’re a little kid and you keep whining to your parents, “Are we there yet?” not even considering that the state of being in transit can be wonderful. As I’ve gotten older, I have come to find that I love road-tripping, or driving just to drive. There is something about being in your car, listening to your favorite music, and watching the scenery whizz by as a world-montage, the stage for those thoughts you can only have in the quiet moments. As a lover of literature, it’s hard for me to admit this but… there are some things that just aren’t meant to be vocalized. Like the way I feel when I see the sun set behind the mountains as I’m driving back to my apartment from Springville and a beautiful Eric Whitacre chord seems to aurally paint the majesty I’m witnessing.
So, you know, Life being as wise and adventurous as we’ve learned he is… not sure he’d approve of the fact that I took an evening off from work just to sleep and hide from him. In fact, Life approves of very little I’ve been doing lately. We used to be best friends, you know. When we were little. Back then, we’d have the greatest of adventures. But now? Now we always seem to have these awkward encounters. I wish I weren’t so afraid of him. I wish I could just tell him how I feel and ask him why things have to be so… hard. He’s never liked that question. For being such a wise guy, Life can be really bad at sharing his feelings. Maybe the best thing to do is go stargazing. Life always seems to open up when I just allow him to be silent and look at the stars.
And imagine my luck: the Leonid Meteor Shower is tonight.
we're never where we want to be
that's okay with me
that's just the way it is, they say
it feels like make believe
that you're my history
but brother I've rediscovered you and
we're pushing on
we're passing through
and it won't be long
till I walk with you
tonight I'm down
yeah, I'm inside out
staring at the pictures in the album you forgot about
isn't it a shame
that times have changed?
but isn't it strange?
lifelines stay the same
round and round
I can't believe my heart has waited this long
all along, we've been children in a cold world
where wonder was lost, every day
and if love was a compass
oh, I've lost my way
Life would just look at me with the earnestness of a child, not saying anything.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it…” I would stammer. “Hey, last one to the tree is a rotten egg!”
I don’t think Life would have a lapel, though. He’d probably be wearing a black t-shirt—black because it’s either the most beautiful or the most devastating color. After a lunch of PB&J’s with sun chips, Life and I would head back home. He would want to take the “scenic route,” over all the bridges and through dense thickets of forestation. Whenever I’d be tempted to complain and ask why we hadn’t just taken the highway, Life would say some cheesy thing like, “It’s not about the destination, but the journey itself.” (A line he learned from my cousin Keith after we spent two hours bushwhacking to finally arrive at a lone outhouse off a beach in northern Michigan when we were twelve.)
But you know? Keith and Life kind of have a point. It’s like when you’re a little kid and you keep whining to your parents, “Are we there yet?” not even considering that the state of being in transit can be wonderful. As I’ve gotten older, I have come to find that I love road-tripping, or driving just to drive. There is something about being in your car, listening to your favorite music, and watching the scenery whizz by as a world-montage, the stage for those thoughts you can only have in the quiet moments. As a lover of literature, it’s hard for me to admit this but… there are some things that just aren’t meant to be vocalized. Like the way I feel when I see the sun set behind the mountains as I’m driving back to my apartment from Springville and a beautiful Eric Whitacre chord seems to aurally paint the majesty I’m witnessing.
So, you know, Life being as wise and adventurous as we’ve learned he is… not sure he’d approve of the fact that I took an evening off from work just to sleep and hide from him. In fact, Life approves of very little I’ve been doing lately. We used to be best friends, you know. When we were little. Back then, we’d have the greatest of adventures. But now? Now we always seem to have these awkward encounters. I wish I weren’t so afraid of him. I wish I could just tell him how I feel and ask him why things have to be so… hard. He’s never liked that question. For being such a wise guy, Life can be really bad at sharing his feelings. Maybe the best thing to do is go stargazing. Life always seems to open up when I just allow him to be silent and look at the stars.
And imagine my luck: the Leonid Meteor Shower is tonight.
we're never where we want to be
that's okay with me
that's just the way it is, they say
it feels like make believe
that you're my history
but brother I've rediscovered you and
we're pushing on
we're passing through
and it won't be long
till I walk with you
tonight I'm down
yeah, I'm inside out
staring at the pictures in the album you forgot about
isn't it a shame
that times have changed?
but isn't it strange?
lifelines stay the same
round and round
I can't believe my heart has waited this long
all along, we've been children in a cold world
where wonder was lost, every day
and if love was a compass
oh, I've lost my way
October 27, 2009
Of Relationships and Overalls
Do you ever wonder how people come up with such good one-liners? It seems like the best ones come out in natural conversation, like when my friend Nate and I were talking about dating.
"I'm just being myself. So if that doesn't work, I'm kind of out of options..."
This kind of brilliance was also manifest in his earlier observation about overalls, namely that "there is a good reason they are not allowed at BYU-Idaho." Although I'm not entirely sure what that reason is, I could venture a guess. While general human decency is usually not required in writing, I think BYU-I is trying to eliminate the option of being tacky.
So what if we could do this with other things? Mandate being classy, that is. We would see a lot fewer intimate "study sessions" on "chemistry" at the library (or anywhere else on campus, for that matter). More than likely, fewer students would be willing to plop down at the public piano in the Wilk and blast inane, repetitive music (the likes of which only belong on an EFY CD). Certainly, girls would cease justifying their tights as being pants, and nobody would try to conduct (or evade) extremely personal matters via texting.
But what do I know? Maybe girls who wear overalls or boys who mindlessly serenade innocent passersby in the student center are kind of perfect for each other. Maybe there is a place in this world for our quirky idiosyncrasies. Maybe one of these days, we'll find that "just being ourselves" is actually enough.
Until then, I think Plan B is to become a troglodyte. Preferably in southern France.
"I'm just being myself. So if that doesn't work, I'm kind of out of options..."
This kind of brilliance was also manifest in his earlier observation about overalls, namely that "there is a good reason they are not allowed at BYU-Idaho." Although I'm not entirely sure what that reason is, I could venture a guess. While general human decency is usually not required in writing, I think BYU-I is trying to eliminate the option of being tacky.
So what if we could do this with other things? Mandate being classy, that is. We would see a lot fewer intimate "study sessions" on "chemistry" at the library (or anywhere else on campus, for that matter). More than likely, fewer students would be willing to plop down at the public piano in the Wilk and blast inane, repetitive music (the likes of which only belong on an EFY CD). Certainly, girls would cease justifying their tights as being pants, and nobody would try to conduct (or evade) extremely personal matters via texting.
But what do I know? Maybe girls who wear overalls or boys who mindlessly serenade innocent passersby in the student center are kind of perfect for each other. Maybe there is a place in this world for our quirky idiosyncrasies. Maybe one of these days, we'll find that "just being ourselves" is actually enough.
Until then, I think Plan B is to become a troglodyte. Preferably in southern France.
September 27, 2009
ever guard us
Lord, accept our true devotion
Let thy Spirit whisper peace
Swell our hearts with fond emotion,
And our joy in thee increase.
Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.
Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.
Help us all to do thy bidding
And our daily wants supply
Give thy Holy Spirit's guiding
'Til we reach the goal on high.
Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.
Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.
May we, with the future dawning,
Day by day from sin be free
That on resurrection morning
We may rise at peace with thee.
Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.
Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.
We sang a beautiful arrangement of this hymn as our audience participation song at the BYU Choir Showcase this weekend. As the house lights went on and the crowd stood up, I could feel power as we all sang together.
If you ever want to feel less alone, sing a song like this. Better yet, sing it with hundreds of other voices echoing yours. After all, we're in it together. We're all running the same race.
Let thy Spirit whisper peace
Swell our hearts with fond emotion,
And our joy in thee increase.
Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.
Never leave us, never leave us
Help us, Lord, to win the race.
Help us all to do thy bidding
And our daily wants supply
Give thy Holy Spirit's guiding
'Til we reach the goal on high.
Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.
Ever guard us, ever guard us
'Til we gain the victory.
May we, with the future dawning,
Day by day from sin be free
That on resurrection morning
We may rise at peace with thee.
Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.
Ever praising, ever praising
Throughout all eternity.
We sang a beautiful arrangement of this hymn as our audience participation song at the BYU Choir Showcase this weekend. As the house lights went on and the crowd stood up, I could feel power as we all sang together.
If you ever want to feel less alone, sing a song like this. Better yet, sing it with hundreds of other voices echoing yours. After all, we're in it together. We're all running the same race.
September 11, 2009
mulled cider memories
When autumn comes, it doesn't ask
It just walks in where it left you last
You'll never know when it starts
Until there's fog inside the glass around
Your summer heart
There are several things about me that make me the odd one out from time to time. One of these is that, unlike many of my friends who are mourning the end of summer, I am celebrating the beginning of autumn. From the time I was very little, I have always loved this time of the year and cherished it as my absolute favorite season. Perhaps as someone who has been a student for the last fifteen years, fall represents new pencils and folders, books that smell oh-so-delicious and are begging to be read, and a fresh start. It's even in the air. It's crisp and cool. Suddenly, your senses pick up on things you never noticed in the summer: the crunch of a leaf underfoot, the smell of apples and bonfires, the light weight of a jacket in the breeze.
For me, there is something about this time of year that manages to bundle the past, present, and future all in one. Don't get me wrong, I have year-long nostalgia, but autumn has a special vibe to it. I look back and think, "Another year has passed? I'm already in high school... a senior in high school? A freshman in college? A senior in college?" (That last one is this year, by the way. And it's hard to imagine I've come this far.) It's a time of re-evaluation. I look back at where I've been and, with a brand new academic year, where I can be going.
September 2002 - My mom, my sister Niki, and my brother Bradford were in Indiana for two months during Bradford's radiation treatment. It was just me, Sarah, and Dad at home. None of us were very proficient in the kitchen, so we ate grilled meat with instant mashed potatoes and canned vegetables for almost every lunch. I can still taste it in my mouth, and in spite of what was going on, I really miss it.
September 2003 - This was my first year back as a full-time student at public school. I wore a plaid skirt my first day at Coldwater High. I spent most of my time working on the musical Godspell.
September 2005 - The beginning of my senior year at CHS.
September 2006 - The beginning of my freshman year at Brigham Young University. (For more on this, go here.)
September 2008 - One year ago, I came back for my junior year at BYU. It had only been one month since my Dad passed away.
It's funny what I remember about last year when I try to think about it. I remember the songs on Renee Olstead's debut album that I would listen to in the morning as I was getting ready for school. I remember the smell of the autumn spice and mulled cider candles we bought for the apartment. I remember the khaki green messenger bag I started taking to campus with me every day. It was the first time I really noticed how amazing the Timpanogos mountains look against the blue sky on a crisp autumn day.
Every year around this time, I make a point to walk by the bell tower. I only went there once my freshman year, yet somehow it emblemizes my experience here at BYU. That night I was wearing a brown courderoy jacket, leaning over the edge of the tower and looking out onto the panorama of campus, and talking with a good friend of mine about literature and camping and family. And I realized that this is where I am supposed to be.
What am I doing right now that I will remember next year?
It just walks in where it left you last
You'll never know when it starts
Until there's fog inside the glass around
Your summer heart
There are several things about me that make me the odd one out from time to time. One of these is that, unlike many of my friends who are mourning the end of summer, I am celebrating the beginning of autumn. From the time I was very little, I have always loved this time of the year and cherished it as my absolute favorite season. Perhaps as someone who has been a student for the last fifteen years, fall represents new pencils and folders, books that smell oh-so-delicious and are begging to be read, and a fresh start. It's even in the air. It's crisp and cool. Suddenly, your senses pick up on things you never noticed in the summer: the crunch of a leaf underfoot, the smell of apples and bonfires, the light weight of a jacket in the breeze.
For me, there is something about this time of year that manages to bundle the past, present, and future all in one. Don't get me wrong, I have year-long nostalgia, but autumn has a special vibe to it. I look back and think, "Another year has passed? I'm already in high school... a senior in high school? A freshman in college? A senior in college?" (That last one is this year, by the way. And it's hard to imagine I've come this far.) It's a time of re-evaluation. I look back at where I've been and, with a brand new academic year, where I can be going.
September 2002 - My mom, my sister Niki, and my brother Bradford were in Indiana for two months during Bradford's radiation treatment. It was just me, Sarah, and Dad at home. None of us were very proficient in the kitchen, so we ate grilled meat with instant mashed potatoes and canned vegetables for almost every lunch. I can still taste it in my mouth, and in spite of what was going on, I really miss it.
September 2003 - This was my first year back as a full-time student at public school. I wore a plaid skirt my first day at Coldwater High. I spent most of my time working on the musical Godspell.
September 2005 - The beginning of my senior year at CHS.
September 2006 - The beginning of my freshman year at Brigham Young University. (For more on this, go here.)
September 2008 - One year ago, I came back for my junior year at BYU. It had only been one month since my Dad passed away.
It's funny what I remember about last year when I try to think about it. I remember the songs on Renee Olstead's debut album that I would listen to in the morning as I was getting ready for school. I remember the smell of the autumn spice and mulled cider candles we bought for the apartment. I remember the khaki green messenger bag I started taking to campus with me every day. It was the first time I really noticed how amazing the Timpanogos mountains look against the blue sky on a crisp autumn day.
Every year around this time, I make a point to walk by the bell tower. I only went there once my freshman year, yet somehow it emblemizes my experience here at BYU. That night I was wearing a brown courderoy jacket, leaning over the edge of the tower and looking out onto the panorama of campus, and talking with a good friend of mine about literature and camping and family. And I realized that this is where I am supposed to be.
What am I doing right now that I will remember next year?
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