Monday, May 29, 2006
since hell froze over
I went to choir practice, proving once again how futile oaths are. Ted has finally beaten me into submission after nearly three years of trying to make me attend. I don't sing, I argued in the beginning, and at that time I didn't. Then I lived with April for two years, and then Tarythe, and now Emilie, Caitie and Cassidy. In there were friends like Bryan who thought a past time wasn't a past time unless it included singing. So I guess I sing now. That doesn't mean I sing well, or that I will sing in front of people. Jam sessions with Ted have made me less self-conscious, but I have seen how exacting he is even in casual events when it comes to music. How can I step so far out of my comfort zone as to try to sing with a group? I'm probably crazy, or maybe it's this whole self-improvement kick I've been on all my life. Probably though it's Ted. Because he asked me to go. At least I can lay any blame on him; I told him I'm no singer, and he knows my proud and vain manner which makes learning painful for me; so if he can work with that, that's his business. My job is showing up, and I did that.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
hiking mad
I went hiking last night with three of my roommates and Ted. Ordinarily I would love hiking--truth be told I still loved it--but ordinarily I wouldn't have been dehydrated before ever driving to the starting point. My body felt weak as I left work, every cell crying out for water like a caricature of a Sahara-wanderer. But my friends were going. Actually, they had already left. Why did I follow them without so much as changing into good shoes? Because I was mad. Note that there are several definitions for mad, eight according to dictionary.com, and all connotations applied to me last night.
I can't explain all my reasons for being mad, but one was that I was tired of feeling left out. I go to bed early now, or try to, and invariable hear about what my friends did together three nights after the event. I don't particularly enjoy listening to the "do-you-remembers" floating around, especially as they are followed by "Oh, no, wait, she wasn't there." I have missed Ted, the night owl, and I have missed Emilie whom I have not seen much of in recent weeks. I have felt lonely.
And I have felt mad, angry at my many different emotions. My determination to go hiking while fatigued and dehydrated resulted from a desire to punish myself. I've done it before, on the treadmill, hitting a full-sprint of eight mph without warming up. As soon as I recognized the reason behind my need for speed, I hit the automatic stop button. I would not harm my body because I was sad, so instead I walked home and had Caitie give me a massage; much more healing all around. This time, however, I didn't stop, and the effect was more punitive than I had anticipated.
Ted was the only one who saw my anger, when I first encountered him coming down the hill to meet me on my way up. I didn't want to talk about it, I told him, because I wanted it to go away. I thought it had when we rendezvoused with the others. Whether or not the emotion had faded by the time we hit the steep up-hill doesn't really matter. Anger had carried me to that point, and my muscles didn't have the ability to keep me going.
I began to let others pass me by as I took the back, stopping whenever necessary to drink (I cannot drink and walk at the same time). Later, as my body wore down I became emotional. I stopped at one point--the first long pause where the others quickly outstripped me--because the pain and senseless emotion overwhelmed me. I nearly began to cry, tightening my already inflamed throat until I thought I would vomit. When my eyes teared, I grew alarmed. Sweet water, which my body couldn't afford to lose more of. I counted, I breathed, I closed my eyes to bring calm.
That's when I felt Debi's hand on my shoulder. She remained with me the rest of the hike. On the way up she served my pride, by letting the others continue on without us at points, though they still waited a lot. She did the same on the way down, but there she aided me even more.
My body had been tired since six that evening, besides the general fatigue that accompanies certain times of the month, and we reached the peak at ten. That's when tiredness was no longer noticeable as a feeling or emotion; it simply was I. Perhaps it was my early-to-bed training. At any rate, walking down the mountain, I didn't have strength to lift my feet sufficiently over jutting rocks and roots. Those shoes that I hadn't bothered changing neither supported my ankles nor had enough traction to stop me from sliding.
Instead, Debi did. She walked behind me and first, and caught me in many near falls. After a while she switched to my guide, telling me where to step and more often then not letting me grab her hand, shoulder or back for support. I never asked for her help, and she never offered it. Instead, as I stumbled my hand came in contact with her, waiting calmly to lift me up. At one point my foot caught in a root and I flew forward with that sensation of inevitable face-planting. A hand hit my hip, steadying me in place.
That is not to say that I didn't fall often. I did. And hard. Usually the other three had gotten ahead around a bend or past a tree, so I hope they did not see. In one fall I shredded my knuckles and landed on my thumb trying to catch myself. Another time I rolled my ankle, but refused to let Debi tell the others to wait. They had just done so for Caitie, but I was embarrassed, extremely so, by my slow pace and weak state, and for my emotionalism. At another time I slipped at an angle and landed hard on my leg, twisting my knee and pulling my calf muscle. The more I fell, the sloppier I became.
I was shaky and tired and fighting a constant battle against tears, when I slid to a bumping stop on the ground behind Emilie. Ted walked back as I stood and tried to persuade me to walk with him. Please, he offered. Please, I begged. He held his hand out to me from where he stood on lower ground, and I kept my hand against his, trying to push it gently away. The humiliation almost overwhelmed me.
The whole scenario was a repeat of Fat Man's Misery almost two years before, when before the hike was over I found myself lagging severely behind. I had been out of shape from a summer of lethargy as well as dehydrated from lack of preparedness. Ted hiked with me then too. I couldn't stand to see him for weeks after that. The memory embarrasses me now. Today, however, I am not so out of shape as I was then (though help me I had a dream where I gained thirty pounds!) and I know that my lack of fluids was more than thirstiness. I was seriously sick, but still I did not want attention drawn to it, and I did not want to slow up Ted, he whose outdoors stamina is a source of pride and identity for him.
I managed to make him go on, but when the road widened out, his pace slowed. I caught up without increasing my speed at all, and we walked in silence, listening to the Gardner sisters walking in front and singing. Debi caught up with them. Ted's comment on how we were all walking as if we were drunk made me smile and realize that he had found a way to condescend to me anyway. Emilie and Caitie would not ordinarily outstrip him. He apologized for being a "bully-headed pig" and I didn't say a thing. Mostly because I felt like asking forgiveness too. I felt like begging for it, or simply whispering "I'm sorry" with as much dignity as I could muster. Since I could muster none, I simply walked until I reached the car.
I drove away without comment, and when I arrived in the Riv parking lot I sobbed in the driver's seat. I cried myself to sleep in bed, with two bottles of Gatorade sitting on my side table. I failed to drink either, and woke up still sick. I have been drinking all day (and having it go straight through) and still the headache persists. The bloody knuckles, non-opposable thumb, and the sore knee are not the worst results from yesterday. The low points are the embarrassing looks, the "are you okay?" glances that acknowledge my weakness and imply the inquirer's acceptance of it. That is the worst.
So I guess that's it. I'm still mad at myself, but for a whole new set of stupid actions. In the end, hiking changed very little, except the view.
I can't explain all my reasons for being mad, but one was that I was tired of feeling left out. I go to bed early now, or try to, and invariable hear about what my friends did together three nights after the event. I don't particularly enjoy listening to the "do-you-remembers" floating around, especially as they are followed by "Oh, no, wait, she wasn't there." I have missed Ted, the night owl, and I have missed Emilie whom I have not seen much of in recent weeks. I have felt lonely.
And I have felt mad, angry at my many different emotions. My determination to go hiking while fatigued and dehydrated resulted from a desire to punish myself. I've done it before, on the treadmill, hitting a full-sprint of eight mph without warming up. As soon as I recognized the reason behind my need for speed, I hit the automatic stop button. I would not harm my body because I was sad, so instead I walked home and had Caitie give me a massage; much more healing all around. This time, however, I didn't stop, and the effect was more punitive than I had anticipated.
Ted was the only one who saw my anger, when I first encountered him coming down the hill to meet me on my way up. I didn't want to talk about it, I told him, because I wanted it to go away. I thought it had when we rendezvoused with the others. Whether or not the emotion had faded by the time we hit the steep up-hill doesn't really matter. Anger had carried me to that point, and my muscles didn't have the ability to keep me going.
I began to let others pass me by as I took the back, stopping whenever necessary to drink (I cannot drink and walk at the same time). Later, as my body wore down I became emotional. I stopped at one point--the first long pause where the others quickly outstripped me--because the pain and senseless emotion overwhelmed me. I nearly began to cry, tightening my already inflamed throat until I thought I would vomit. When my eyes teared, I grew alarmed. Sweet water, which my body couldn't afford to lose more of. I counted, I breathed, I closed my eyes to bring calm.
That's when I felt Debi's hand on my shoulder. She remained with me the rest of the hike. On the way up she served my pride, by letting the others continue on without us at points, though they still waited a lot. She did the same on the way down, but there she aided me even more.
My body had been tired since six that evening, besides the general fatigue that accompanies certain times of the month, and we reached the peak at ten. That's when tiredness was no longer noticeable as a feeling or emotion; it simply was I. Perhaps it was my early-to-bed training. At any rate, walking down the mountain, I didn't have strength to lift my feet sufficiently over jutting rocks and roots. Those shoes that I hadn't bothered changing neither supported my ankles nor had enough traction to stop me from sliding.
Instead, Debi did. She walked behind me and first, and caught me in many near falls. After a while she switched to my guide, telling me where to step and more often then not letting me grab her hand, shoulder or back for support. I never asked for her help, and she never offered it. Instead, as I stumbled my hand came in contact with her, waiting calmly to lift me up. At one point my foot caught in a root and I flew forward with that sensation of inevitable face-planting. A hand hit my hip, steadying me in place.
That is not to say that I didn't fall often. I did. And hard. Usually the other three had gotten ahead around a bend or past a tree, so I hope they did not see. In one fall I shredded my knuckles and landed on my thumb trying to catch myself. Another time I rolled my ankle, but refused to let Debi tell the others to wait. They had just done so for Caitie, but I was embarrassed, extremely so, by my slow pace and weak state, and for my emotionalism. At another time I slipped at an angle and landed hard on my leg, twisting my knee and pulling my calf muscle. The more I fell, the sloppier I became.
I was shaky and tired and fighting a constant battle against tears, when I slid to a bumping stop on the ground behind Emilie. Ted walked back as I stood and tried to persuade me to walk with him. Please, he offered. Please, I begged. He held his hand out to me from where he stood on lower ground, and I kept my hand against his, trying to push it gently away. The humiliation almost overwhelmed me.
The whole scenario was a repeat of Fat Man's Misery almost two years before, when before the hike was over I found myself lagging severely behind. I had been out of shape from a summer of lethargy as well as dehydrated from lack of preparedness. Ted hiked with me then too. I couldn't stand to see him for weeks after that. The memory embarrasses me now. Today, however, I am not so out of shape as I was then (though help me I had a dream where I gained thirty pounds!) and I know that my lack of fluids was more than thirstiness. I was seriously sick, but still I did not want attention drawn to it, and I did not want to slow up Ted, he whose outdoors stamina is a source of pride and identity for him.
I managed to make him go on, but when the road widened out, his pace slowed. I caught up without increasing my speed at all, and we walked in silence, listening to the Gardner sisters walking in front and singing. Debi caught up with them. Ted's comment on how we were all walking as if we were drunk made me smile and realize that he had found a way to condescend to me anyway. Emilie and Caitie would not ordinarily outstrip him. He apologized for being a "bully-headed pig" and I didn't say a thing. Mostly because I felt like asking forgiveness too. I felt like begging for it, or simply whispering "I'm sorry" with as much dignity as I could muster. Since I could muster none, I simply walked until I reached the car.
I drove away without comment, and when I arrived in the Riv parking lot I sobbed in the driver's seat. I cried myself to sleep in bed, with two bottles of Gatorade sitting on my side table. I failed to drink either, and woke up still sick. I have been drinking all day (and having it go straight through) and still the headache persists. The bloody knuckles, non-opposable thumb, and the sore knee are not the worst results from yesterday. The low points are the embarrassing looks, the "are you okay?" glances that acknowledge my weakness and imply the inquirer's acceptance of it. That is the worst.
So I guess that's it. I'm still mad at myself, but for a whole new set of stupid actions. In the end, hiking changed very little, except the view.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
lesson plans
An entire lesson in literature from one paragraph:
"A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to emphasize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this. That is all; class dismissed."
~ From Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi
"A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to emphasize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this. That is all; class dismissed."
~ From Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi
strengths and weaknesses
The money still has not arrived from the VA. After I checked the mail this afternoon I shrunk into a little ball and rocked for a while. When I stood up and managed to go about my business, only my body uncoiled. My spirit is still compactly boxed, sitting at times in my stomach and at others in my throat. I feel small, uncertain and weak.
At such times of emotional insecurity I want metaphorically to bury my head in the sand. So, today I am grateful for the small strengths I possess--that I went to dance class and spun without losing the footwork; that I have not marked days of of my calendar since my white board read 68; for the fact that I don't know how many days ago 68 accurately measured my countdown; that I got two A's on two tests in as many days; that I managed to make my savings account have more than my checking; and that I went running when I wanted to sleep away my loneliness.
For these things I am grateful. But above all I am grateful for the knowledge I have that it will all work itself out in the end--the money, all of it. Knowing that the Lord is at the helm, despite not knowing where he is steering me, is a great strength.
At such times of emotional insecurity I want metaphorically to bury my head in the sand. So, today I am grateful for the small strengths I possess--that I went to dance class and spun without losing the footwork; that I have not marked days of of my calendar since my white board read 68; for the fact that I don't know how many days ago 68 accurately measured my countdown; that I got two A's on two tests in as many days; that I managed to make my savings account have more than my checking; and that I went running when I wanted to sleep away my loneliness.
For these things I am grateful. But above all I am grateful for the knowledge I have that it will all work itself out in the end--the money, all of it. Knowing that the Lord is at the helm, despite not knowing where he is steering me, is a great strength.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
pied beauty by gerard manley hopkins
Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-colours as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
For skies of couple-colours as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
suppression
Caitie has a book called Feelings Buried Alive Never Die, and its premise is that the reason we develop suceptabilities to certain ailments is due to emotional weakness. This book even lists many physical manifestations of some emotional sicknesses. For instance Caitie developed diarrhea and vomiting only a week after going through extensive visualization exercises with her mom. The cause of such illnesses: "a rejection of a visualization...." Weird.
My ailment has been my throat. I get sick rarely, but when I do it is in my throat and I lose my voice. The root problem: suppressed feelings of anger. I began to watch and about a week after I would be really mad, my voice would go. In between bursts of anger, my throat often got itchy when I was grumpy. The contradiction: I never got sore throats in high school, and back then I suppressed everything.
Last Wednesday my feelings got hurt really badly, and I spent all day Thursday trying to reconcile my feelings with my reason. Thursday night my knees began to ache. All day Friday my hips were in a lot of pain. If I continue in physical activity I am okay, but if I sit or stand at all, all my joints freeze up. The book suggests that painful joints are a result of suppressing feelings of hurt. What the--!
I have been aware for a long time that I have problems dealing with emotions. But in the last few years I have become so much better. Really! I even went to counseling for a year, and my counselor was so excited the first time I cried in front of him. Granted, that was the last time I went...over a year ago. But now I am wondering, is it because I am aware of the emotion I feel that when I hide them my body rebels? To get rid of this ache--which is now spreading to my back and preventing use of a back pack--must I tell my friends these irrational feelings I have? Or can I just take a muscle relaxer? I'm already sucking on cough suppressants to numb my newly sore throat. Man, this is getting serious.
My ailment has been my throat. I get sick rarely, but when I do it is in my throat and I lose my voice. The root problem: suppressed feelings of anger. I began to watch and about a week after I would be really mad, my voice would go. In between bursts of anger, my throat often got itchy when I was grumpy. The contradiction: I never got sore throats in high school, and back then I suppressed everything.
Last Wednesday my feelings got hurt really badly, and I spent all day Thursday trying to reconcile my feelings with my reason. Thursday night my knees began to ache. All day Friday my hips were in a lot of pain. If I continue in physical activity I am okay, but if I sit or stand at all, all my joints freeze up. The book suggests that painful joints are a result of suppressing feelings of hurt. What the--!
I have been aware for a long time that I have problems dealing with emotions. But in the last few years I have become so much better. Really! I even went to counseling for a year, and my counselor was so excited the first time I cried in front of him. Granted, that was the last time I went...over a year ago. But now I am wondering, is it because I am aware of the emotion I feel that when I hide them my body rebels? To get rid of this ache--which is now spreading to my back and preventing use of a back pack--must I tell my friends these irrational feelings I have? Or can I just take a muscle relaxer? I'm already sucking on cough suppressants to numb my newly sore throat. Man, this is getting serious.
g.i.v.e.r.
I may never grow up. At least, at this pace, it seems unlikely. I have changed my mind yet again in regards to what I want to be. Oh, I still want to write, to be a mom and to do family history work, but now I have another idea to add to that list. Lately I have become infatuated with the idea of starting my own school. Emilie and I planned it. The school would start as a multi-family home school between the four roommates, but it would grow as we solicited students from the community. Always very small scale, but very very effective and fun.
Emilie would teach music--in later years in would be elective, but starting out as part of the core curriculum in elementary. Caitie would have many roles besides teaching science. She wants to be "that person who when the kids get cut tells them to suck it up and quit crying." "The school nurse?" I asked her. "Yeah! That's it."She would also oversee dance and self-defense. Cassidy heads up math and history. I would teach English and social sciences, including government, economics, sociology, and philosophy (all those things I debated majoring in!) Maybe I could also be the librarian?
Emilie and I discussed hiring out for other positions, but she eventually decided that we would marry out for those jobs. All four of us girls would marry men with normal day jobs so our financial drain of a school wouldn't be responsible for supporting the family. These men, however, must also have skills necessary for the survival of our institute. An accountant was Emilie's first concern. I volunteered to take business classes but instead Cassidy has offered to marry a Marriott school grad.
We're marrying Ted because we love him and because his skills in music can complement Emilie's, and he can build a fire. We all love camping and want to do character-building retreats, but I cannot build a fire for the life of me.
We need a handyman, though he can of course have a different day job if he likes. I just want to be able to ask someone free of charge what ought to be done about the leaky faucet. Nathaniel Gardner has been selected as one who is good with his hands. He is too young for me so he falls to Cassidy; he'll just have to major in accounting when he decides what he wants to be when he grows up.
Other requirements included dentistry (because apparently this school is turning into a commune and we'll never go outside the family for anything), advertising, dancing, gardening, knowledge of computers, ability and willingness to cook dinner, and gospel knowledge (for life in general but also for seminary teaching). So if you know someone with these qualities who wants to be part of something small but good, please email me immediately. It's never too soon to marry....oh wait....
Caitie's options for marriage are fairly open. I've recommended Matt Bushman for character across the board. My choice is Steve Gardner for his name. If I marry him we can call the school the Gardner Institute of Education or something like that. Or maybe the Gardner Institute of Very Educated Retards so we could tell people that we are G.I.V.E.R.s Oh the possibilities!
Emilie would teach music--in later years in would be elective, but starting out as part of the core curriculum in elementary. Caitie would have many roles besides teaching science. She wants to be "that person who when the kids get cut tells them to suck it up and quit crying." "The school nurse?" I asked her. "Yeah! That's it."She would also oversee dance and self-defense. Cassidy heads up math and history. I would teach English and social sciences, including government, economics, sociology, and philosophy (all those things I debated majoring in!) Maybe I could also be the librarian?
Emilie and I discussed hiring out for other positions, but she eventually decided that we would marry out for those jobs. All four of us girls would marry men with normal day jobs so our financial drain of a school wouldn't be responsible for supporting the family. These men, however, must also have skills necessary for the survival of our institute. An accountant was Emilie's first concern. I volunteered to take business classes but instead Cassidy has offered to marry a Marriott school grad.
We're marrying Ted because we love him and because his skills in music can complement Emilie's, and he can build a fire. We all love camping and want to do character-building retreats, but I cannot build a fire for the life of me.
We need a handyman, though he can of course have a different day job if he likes. I just want to be able to ask someone free of charge what ought to be done about the leaky faucet. Nathaniel Gardner has been selected as one who is good with his hands. He is too young for me so he falls to Cassidy; he'll just have to major in accounting when he decides what he wants to be when he grows up.
Other requirements included dentistry (because apparently this school is turning into a commune and we'll never go outside the family for anything), advertising, dancing, gardening, knowledge of computers, ability and willingness to cook dinner, and gospel knowledge (for life in general but also for seminary teaching). So if you know someone with these qualities who wants to be part of something small but good, please email me immediately. It's never too soon to marry....oh wait....
Caitie's options for marriage are fairly open. I've recommended Matt Bushman for character across the board. My choice is Steve Gardner for his name. If I marry him we can call the school the Gardner Institute of Education or something like that. Or maybe the Gardner Institute of Very Educated Retards so we could tell people that we are G.I.V.E.R.s Oh the possibilities!
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
sanity my love
I thought that we had a relationship that would withstand time, Sanity and I, but now I know it isn't so. Because any other potential relationship drives this vital one into dust. My Sanity is a very dramatic sort, and if ever I show an inkling for someone else, he leaves me. I, luckily, am very loyal, and I try to cling to Sanity with every part of me, fighting Infatuation, to hold on to that commitment. But Infatuation was too persuasive this time, making up dreams and fantasies that I can't resist. I didn't even notice Sanity slipping away, until one morning I woke up, ticked a day off on my calendar and immediately began the roller-coaster ride of emotions, gift from Infatuation. Sanity had abandoned me. I needed to be committed. Why, oh why, didn't anyone save me from my idiocy? Now I have the pain of separation, no matter which choice I make--to go back to Sanity, who will always be waiting, or to pursue Infatuation until he leaves me penniless in a foreign country.
I choose...
I choose both, to live the life of an adulteress, holding hands with Sanity on one side and Infatuation on the other. My strong protector Sanity will close all the doors left open too long by Infatuation, those that lead to ridicule and pain. The day dreams will go away, but I'll never quite forget they were there. Maybe I can get some homework done, and maybe I can make some sensible friends. That is, when I'm not checking email like a madwoman and writing stories on my laptop. I need Sanity and Infatuation in my life, and I think in the end I will be glad of them.
I choose...
I choose both, to live the life of an adulteress, holding hands with Sanity on one side and Infatuation on the other. My strong protector Sanity will close all the doors left open too long by Infatuation, those that lead to ridicule and pain. The day dreams will go away, but I'll never quite forget they were there. Maybe I can get some homework done, and maybe I can make some sensible friends. That is, when I'm not checking email like a madwoman and writing stories on my laptop. I need Sanity and Infatuation in my life, and I think in the end I will be glad of them.
Friday, May 12, 2006
i'll take a number 7
Last night I cheered myself up as I often do: I spent time with my best friends (all but Cassidy who had to work). We went to eat at the Olive Garden ordering fancy drinks, appetizers and entrees. A celebration in gluttony. I decided it was my favorite of the deadly sins, until I looked back over the day. Yesterday was a celebration of all seven. Kevin Spacey would be proud.
sloth--five episodes of Gilmore Girls
lust--did I not mention five episodes of Gilmore Girls? to better specify, all the cute ones with Jess.
jealousy--I wanted my friends all to myself! Sorry new people, you must find your own friends.
greed--I want more Gilmore Girls!
gluttony--mmm chicken alfredo, artichoke dip and a mango daiquiri with lime
pride--I didn't play anti-nephi-lehi when it came to the pillow fight with Ted last night.
wrath--when Matt made comments during volleyball. "No, no, don't get up. I got it." Good!
But my favorite was gluttony.
sloth--five episodes of Gilmore Girls
lust--did I not mention five episodes of Gilmore Girls? to better specify, all the cute ones with Jess.
jealousy--I wanted my friends all to myself! Sorry new people, you must find your own friends.
greed--I want more Gilmore Girls!
gluttony--mmm chicken alfredo, artichoke dip and a mango daiquiri with lime
pride--I didn't play anti-nephi-lehi when it came to the pillow fight with Ted last night.
wrath--when Matt made comments during volleyball. "No, no, don't get up. I got it." Good!
But my favorite was gluttony.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
laundry life-line
I am sitting at the computer watching the time count down until my laundry is dry. Then I can unload it. Then I can run away. My laundry is the only thing holding me to this spot right now--to this place physically and metaphysically. I'm letting go and slipping, and I have about 11.46 minutes until my last finger slides off the edge to which I am holding. Then, so help me, I am running away to the Quasimodo of Pretty, a park, the zoo, Disneyland, somewhere. Make that 9.78 minutes; I had to look up how to spell Quasimodo.
Last night I was country dancing and having such a marvelous time that my roommates noted on how much different I am than I used to be. Next minute, I turned around and walked out. I would have walked home except for my fear of dark roads and bad men with mustaches, so Cassidy escorted me. I was too restless to get ready for bed and too indolent to do something fun. All at once my enjoyment disappeared. My body figured out that something was bothering me before I did. It told me to go home, and then my emotions caught up. It took my mind another day before I knew what was wrong.
During that said day, I stayed up way too late, slept in later, skipped all but dance class--the only one I wanted to skip--and narcotized myself with five episodes of Gilmore Girls. Five. You know, it may have been six. Finally I mentally shook myself as hard as I was able. The difficulty lay in that my head was stuck somewhere in a gigantic pile of sand. I saw what I was doing, cutting my legs out from under me, indulging in laziness like a form of substance abuse. Were I a drinker, I'd be on my way to AA (I am legal now). As it is, I found a sudden need to do at least one thing productive.
That's where the laundry comes in. Five loads. And in 2.21 minutes those loads will be gone, and I will forget that reality exists. I will stop loving classes, I will stop going to my job, I will stop even caring what day of the week it is. All because what? Because I am in denial, mad that I don't have better control over my emotions.
The alarm is going off now. Maybe I'll wash a load of towels. 42 minutes. In 42 minutes I'll let go.
Last night I was country dancing and having such a marvelous time that my roommates noted on how much different I am than I used to be. Next minute, I turned around and walked out. I would have walked home except for my fear of dark roads and bad men with mustaches, so Cassidy escorted me. I was too restless to get ready for bed and too indolent to do something fun. All at once my enjoyment disappeared. My body figured out that something was bothering me before I did. It told me to go home, and then my emotions caught up. It took my mind another day before I knew what was wrong.
During that said day, I stayed up way too late, slept in later, skipped all but dance class--the only one I wanted to skip--and narcotized myself with five episodes of Gilmore Girls. Five. You know, it may have been six. Finally I mentally shook myself as hard as I was able. The difficulty lay in that my head was stuck somewhere in a gigantic pile of sand. I saw what I was doing, cutting my legs out from under me, indulging in laziness like a form of substance abuse. Were I a drinker, I'd be on my way to AA (I am legal now). As it is, I found a sudden need to do at least one thing productive.
That's where the laundry comes in. Five loads. And in 2.21 minutes those loads will be gone, and I will forget that reality exists. I will stop loving classes, I will stop going to my job, I will stop even caring what day of the week it is. All because what? Because I am in denial, mad that I don't have better control over my emotions.
The alarm is going off now. Maybe I'll wash a load of towels. 42 minutes. In 42 minutes I'll let go.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
bureaucracy
Up until this point I have been relatively sheltered from the bureaucratic processes of complex organizations. For me to get anything done I had merely to ask my parents. Sometimes they dealt heavily with me and made me ask the other parent too. That's the worst I had it. Now I am dealing with the Department of Veterans Affairs. Not only is the VA a government branch, but it is also severely underfunded. Thus, when I ask them for money, they do everything they can to put off payment.
I got the letter in the mail a while ago, saying that yes I was entitled to full educational benefits from the VA. That is 695 dollars a month (I'm sure it used to be 700 but then they wanted to spread the money farther and torture the accountants who work in the basement). All I had to do was provide proof of current enrollment at my college and then pick the date for the benefits to begin. I could back date it to July 2005 when I became eligible. So that's what I did. I faxed them my paperwork, saying yes please send me a very big check. Instead of a big check in the mail, I got a letter asking me to do the whole thing over again. You must select a date, it said. The following letter attempted to talk me out of backdating my benefits. You won't get more money up front by choosing July. Another problem was that I had only provided proof of enrollment since January, not July. I'm sorry, I thought, I didn't realize that current enrollment went back to the time I started kindergarten!
Today I called the toll-free number (so help me, if I get charged for that, those Veterans will remember what war looks like!) and was put on hold for eight minutes before someone took the call. They asked for my social security number, then my name, then my mailing address. I'm sorry, but if my file didn't come up with the social then they need a new filing system. Or is it proof they want? I'm sure someone stealing my identity would know my name and address. I could mail in a blood sample if they'd like. I told him my problem.
They said I picked the wrong date, but I was told I could pick any date.
I have here that you can pick any date.
I know! But it won't let me.
Have you filled out an application?
Didn't you just say I could pick a date?
Yes.
Then obviously I filled out an application.
And I have here that you were approved.
Funny, that's what I heard as well.
So, all we need is for you to pick a date between, let's see....July-
July 22, 2005 and February 1, 2006
So you already know this?
I want to pick July.
I see.
If I do will I get a check for the back payment to that month?
Absolutely.
I will get a check for all the months since July?
Yes.
Then I pick July.
Are you sure you want to do that?
YES!
Okay, just one second...okay, you're all set. The payment department will calculate the money and get it sent out to you.
That's it?
Yes.
You just did it?
You said July, right?
Yes.
Yep, all set.
Thanks.
I hung up the phone wondering why on earth they couldn't have done that in the first place. I had to get an extension on my tuition because they sent a confirmation letter instead of a check, and all it took was thirty seconds to do it. God bless America, but Satan can have the Government.
On the plus side, when I drop out of college for lack of funding and join the circus, I will be expert at jumping through hoops.
I got the letter in the mail a while ago, saying that yes I was entitled to full educational benefits from the VA. That is 695 dollars a month (I'm sure it used to be 700 but then they wanted to spread the money farther and torture the accountants who work in the basement). All I had to do was provide proof of current enrollment at my college and then pick the date for the benefits to begin. I could back date it to July 2005 when I became eligible. So that's what I did. I faxed them my paperwork, saying yes please send me a very big check. Instead of a big check in the mail, I got a letter asking me to do the whole thing over again. You must select a date, it said. The following letter attempted to talk me out of backdating my benefits. You won't get more money up front by choosing July. Another problem was that I had only provided proof of enrollment since January, not July. I'm sorry, I thought, I didn't realize that current enrollment went back to the time I started kindergarten!
Today I called the toll-free number (so help me, if I get charged for that, those Veterans will remember what war looks like!) and was put on hold for eight minutes before someone took the call. They asked for my social security number, then my name, then my mailing address. I'm sorry, but if my file didn't come up with the social then they need a new filing system. Or is it proof they want? I'm sure someone stealing my identity would know my name and address. I could mail in a blood sample if they'd like. I told him my problem.
They said I picked the wrong date, but I was told I could pick any date.
I have here that you can pick any date.
I know! But it won't let me.
Have you filled out an application?
Didn't you just say I could pick a date?
Yes.
Then obviously I filled out an application.
And I have here that you were approved.
Funny, that's what I heard as well.
So, all we need is for you to pick a date between, let's see....July-
July 22, 2005 and February 1, 2006
So you already know this?
I want to pick July.
I see.
If I do will I get a check for the back payment to that month?
Absolutely.
I will get a check for all the months since July?
Yes.
Then I pick July.
Are you sure you want to do that?
YES!
Okay, just one second...okay, you're all set. The payment department will calculate the money and get it sent out to you.
That's it?
Yes.
You just did it?
You said July, right?
Yes.
Yep, all set.
Thanks.
I hung up the phone wondering why on earth they couldn't have done that in the first place. I had to get an extension on my tuition because they sent a confirmation letter instead of a check, and all it took was thirty seconds to do it. God bless America, but Satan can have the Government.
On the plus side, when I drop out of college for lack of funding and join the circus, I will be expert at jumping through hoops.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
that's one, one day!
My birthday came, was wonderful, and fled, leaving behind it a naked spot on my white board. There I had counted down the days until my crowning victory of turning another year older. Now, I could either start over with 364 days or find something new toward which to look. And 364 is such a large number. Alas, so is 72, but that's what the board now says. Tomorrow it will read 71, and in about two months I will be able to bear looking at the teasing integer. Probably. I almost wish I didn't know how to count.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
paul simon is my hero
Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo
But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold
And the animals will love it
If you doIf ya do now
Something tells me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
The monkeys stand for honesty
Giraffes are insincere
And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
Zebras are reactionaries
Antelopes are missionaries
Pigeons plot in secrecy
And hamsters turn on frequently
What a gas
Ya gotta come and see
At the zoo
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo
But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold
And the animals will love it
If you doIf ya do now
Something tells me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
The monkeys stand for honesty
Giraffes are insincere
And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
Zebras are reactionaries
Antelopes are missionaries
Pigeons plot in secrecy
And hamsters turn on frequently
What a gas
Ya gotta come and see
At the zoo
Friday, May 05, 2006
canonical
A new language has developed from my joke. Overheard:
Ben was actually flirting with me!
Maybe he had a change of heart.
He's converted and ready for baptism!
Most men convert to Caitie.
But she hasn't baptized them yet.
Are you converted anywhere?
Oh no.
Ben was actually flirting with me!
Maybe he had a change of heart.
He's converted and ready for baptism!
Most men convert to Caitie.
But she hasn't baptized them yet.
Are you converted anywhere?
Oh no.
the new religion
Why do we sweat? I asked Caitie, the future MD. To flush out toxins. That is the same reason we sneeze and cough when we are sick, and the same reason that we cry when we are sad. It's all to rid the body of its imperfections. So, I reasoned with them, if expelling fluids is cleansing, wouldn't that make kissing like baptism? After a momentary pause, the girls ran with it.
But you're getting back fluids too.
So? They're different fluids.
After I kiss someone I develop different quirks than I previously had?
Yes.
Then, if I kiss someone I may develop the habit of swearing.
You shouldn't kiss a boy who swears.
Kissing is rather cleansing.
I guess I've never been baptised.
Was kissing Jon was like baptism...to the wrong church?
Perfect! I am so blogging this, I cried running to my room. Only the screams of their laughter, results of a tickle war in which Caitie has no mercy, drew me back to their circle. I shrieked my own torture at merely watching their antics. I can't stand tickling, though I absolutely adore it. Our romp became more violent until we felt need to repent. I guess we need some religion in our lives.
But you're getting back fluids too.
So? They're different fluids.
After I kiss someone I develop different quirks than I previously had?
Yes.
Then, if I kiss someone I may develop the habit of swearing.
You shouldn't kiss a boy who swears.
Kissing is rather cleansing.
I guess I've never been baptised.
Was kissing Jon was like baptism...to the wrong church?
Perfect! I am so blogging this, I cried running to my room. Only the screams of their laughter, results of a tickle war in which Caitie has no mercy, drew me back to their circle. I shrieked my own torture at merely watching their antics. I can't stand tickling, though I absolutely adore it. Our romp became more violent until we felt need to repent. I guess we need some religion in our lives.
Friday, April 28, 2006
washington dc
I have found my place in life. I am not talking about a path or some transcendental thought like that. No, I mean a literal place where I belong: Washington D.C. I've always wanted to visit, but
now I'm going there to stay. April lives there, Tarythe is moving there, Alyessa is heading that way, Ted and Dave may decide to follow Amy there, and a Bushman is looking into it. Not to mention that Heather is only a short drive away. To this point, I had always thought that I'd have to build my own compound in Spain in order to have so many of those I love gathered in one city. Now I see my error. I lacked patriotism--may I be forgiven--and missed on the vision of this better way. We shall live in the Nation's Capitol and eat Freedom Toast every morning. God bless America.
now I'm going there to stay. April lives there, Tarythe is moving there, Alyessa is heading that way, Ted and Dave may decide to follow Amy there, and a Bushman is looking into it. Not to mention that Heather is only a short drive away. To this point, I had always thought that I'd have to build my own compound in Spain in order to have so many of those I love gathered in one city. Now I see my error. I lacked patriotism--may I be forgiven--and missed on the vision of this better way. We shall live in the Nation's Capitol and eat Freedom Toast every morning. God bless America. Thursday, April 27, 2006
smell-o-vision
I daydream at work. I run away from the tedium into my mind with all its various stages and plays. Sometimes I fantasize, or write my books, or sometimes I remember real events. Each plays before me like a movie, dominantly visual with some auditory support. And much like movies, my favorite parts are where the sound and visuals have little to do with one another...you know, like in montages. April will agree with me here. So it goes that I don't experience three of my senses mentally. I do not smell, taste or touch my thoughts--I've decided to let MGM or Willy Wonka take over research into those areas. But today I hit on a breakthrough.
I was remembering a past event, slowly processing it into a daydream. I saw the entire situation, somehow third person watching myself. It's odd to visualize oneself in situations; at least, I find it odd despite the fact that that is how I always see life. I saw the image and I heard nothing. I decided to zoom in, and suddenly I saw through true memory's eyes, first person and almost too close. But I gasped when I suddenly felt the sensations. I touched cotton. I looked at my hands in front of me, seeing them resting idly on the metal counter at work, while in my vision I clung to cotton, soft and dry against my fingers. I felt pressure against one half of my body that came from nowhere but this recollection. My head, held erect in reality, felt relaxed as it rested on another surface. I let go of the image when I smelled him, part deodorant, part cologne and part that smell that comes from under the skin that sticks to one's clothes and is somehow completely unique. I felt like I was dropping a hot pan, releasing in protective instinct, as I let the cafeteria at the Cannon Center pound my senses once more. My chest felt tight with the surprise and fear of such an experience. And then I wanted it back.
I feel now that my writing has been as my thoughts--only two-fifths the depth it could have been. It is a strange new world to imagine, with all that detail always demanding attention like a separate character. This person--these people of scent, touch and taste--will assault me from every side now, pulling at me when I have nothing left to give. Yet, if I am going to be as good a writer as I have always hoped, then I will give something anyway. In return I believe I will find a store of greatness, of life--scary and delicious--waiting to be translated by me onto paper.
I was remembering a past event, slowly processing it into a daydream. I saw the entire situation, somehow third person watching myself. It's odd to visualize oneself in situations; at least, I find it odd despite the fact that that is how I always see life. I saw the image and I heard nothing. I decided to zoom in, and suddenly I saw through true memory's eyes, first person and almost too close. But I gasped when I suddenly felt the sensations. I touched cotton. I looked at my hands in front of me, seeing them resting idly on the metal counter at work, while in my vision I clung to cotton, soft and dry against my fingers. I felt pressure against one half of my body that came from nowhere but this recollection. My head, held erect in reality, felt relaxed as it rested on another surface. I let go of the image when I smelled him, part deodorant, part cologne and part that smell that comes from under the skin that sticks to one's clothes and is somehow completely unique. I felt like I was dropping a hot pan, releasing in protective instinct, as I let the cafeteria at the Cannon Center pound my senses once more. My chest felt tight with the surprise and fear of such an experience. And then I wanted it back.
I feel now that my writing has been as my thoughts--only two-fifths the depth it could have been. It is a strange new world to imagine, with all that detail always demanding attention like a separate character. This person--these people of scent, touch and taste--will assault me from every side now, pulling at me when I have nothing left to give. Yet, if I am going to be as good a writer as I have always hoped, then I will give something anyway. In return I believe I will find a store of greatness, of life--scary and delicious--waiting to be translated by me onto paper.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
birthdays
Tonight Nora, Jason, Jamie and I celebrated with my dad his birthday. This leads me to one thought. My birthday. And yes, it's in twelve days. Remember that.
Monday, April 24, 2006
rainy days and mondays
Over a year ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was the day I recognized my failure in so many fields. I went to my dad for comfort and on the drive home, the Carpenters' Rainy Days and Mondays played in the background. Even as I sobbed, I sang along. This year, the anniversary of the day went rather well, and I let it pass. I thought that was the milestone I had to reach, and I admit to being slightly disappointed that it was so nondescript. Today, however, I realized that today is the day I was meant to reach, and I feel that it truly means something that I listened to Emilie sing that same song as we drove home from my Dad's house. I wondered briefly to myself whether Heavenly Father would inspire someone with Carpenters' lyrics, before I nodded with certainty. Of course He would. That one chorus told me so many things that I needed to know.
I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.
Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.
Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?
Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.
This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.
Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.
I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.
I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.
This is my A.
I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.
Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.
Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?
Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.
This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.
Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.
I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.
I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.
This is my A.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
mirth and matter
sigh not so ladies,
sigh not so.
men were decievers ever.
one foot in sea
and one on shore
to one thing constant never.
then sigh not so
but let them go
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey, nonny, nonny!
D&C 104:10 And I now give unto you power from this very hour, that if any man among you, of the order, is found a transgressor and repenteth not of the evil, that ye shall deliver him over unto the buffetings of Satan; and he shall not have power to bring evil upon you.
sigh not so.
men were decievers ever.
one foot in sea
and one on shore
to one thing constant never.
then sigh not so
but let them go
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey, nonny, nonny!
D&C 104:10 And I now give unto you power from this very hour, that if any man among you, of the order, is found a transgressor and repenteth not of the evil, that ye shall deliver him over unto the buffetings of Satan; and he shall not have power to bring evil upon you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)