Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

hands down

re·cid·i·vism A tendency to lapse into a previous pattern of behavior.

Again. Yet. Still.
Whatever.

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

singing my life with his words

I think everyone hears themselves in song lyrics. A good song is one you can sing to or say "dum di dum" when the words escape you. But a great song is one where you wonder how the writer got in your brain. Often it is just a line or two, little tidbits that I collect for my mental scrapbook. Lately I hear a phrase in every song, grin and think, Yeah I know how that feels. But every so often there is an entire song that throbs my heart and spins my mind. There are some songs that reverberate in me every time I hear them.

Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You" reminds me of Atlas Shrugged. I see a girl slouched over with the fatigue of living and fighting. She is in love with an ideal, one that must be embodied in some man, the man she will love, but she is weary with waiting. She is lonely for him.

Vertical Horizon sings the line, "You're waiting for someone to push you away,"in sensuous and disappointed tones. I hear the chorus and see characters from my own book trapped in a montage scene, as if in a movie of my imagination, and I feel powerless to write what I see and feel.

In 1993 I sat in a van for a family road trip to Colorado, our first vacation since our move to Texas. Nora had a Walkman to entertain her, and she let me listen to one song on it. Dreams by the Cranberries. It haunted me, and though I'm certain I didn't understand it, I did remember it. I heard it again five years later on the soundtrack to You've Got Mail. I sat up in my living room while the movie played and begged to know what that song was I was hearing. Years have passed and I hear it now and then on the radio. It still haunts me but means more to me now. The lyrics are simple, but I feel as if they are mine.

For Good. Tell me, my friends, have you ever seen me get through this song without crying? I finally drove to Target and bought the CD just because I knew I needed to have that song near at hand for all those times when I recall my friends with nostalgia and loneliness.

These songs are ones that I respect for the depth at which they strike me, but the point of this blog was actually my amusement at what other songs I have heard myself in lately. As each selection on the radio follows the last, my ears perk up and I think stupidly, yeah that's so true. Maybe it is the mood I have been in lately and this feeling of pseudo-intellectualism will pass. All the same, it seems a bit silly that I can suddenly "get" Celine Dion.

when nora cries, or how i fear the l word

Nora's face began that elegant contortion that suggests the imminent onset of tears. I stood and walked with her, interlinking my arm with hers for the small comfort that contact can bring. My heart melted, pooling somewhere around where her tears puddled. She didn't get her loan, for one thing. And oh how I know the frustration and ache that money can cause. Luckily I have unshakable faith in my mom that told me Nora didn't have to cry over lost financing. Sure enough mom called within a minute to offer a check, only one question asked: how much? No, something else had to be hurting Nora. He's not talking to me. What?! I managed to make it sound soft and concerned though a beast in my chest was roaring for blood. Someone--not some indefinable source of frustration, but an actual person whom I could conceivably hurt--had wounded Nora!

I cannot stand to see those I love in pain. This week has already been difficult for me in that respect. I saw Emilie cry when I couldn't make it all better, her tears giving heat to my heart that made it possible to hate my second-best friend, if only momentarily. Then there's the now almost-constant shadows in Caitie's eyes. No, I don't mean under her eyes. I mean just what I said. Cassidy's sick and Debi is constantly struggling. And now Nora.

Nora is special. She tries to be so tough, so strong and indomitable, but really she is rather soft and brittle. When she gets hurt, truly hurt by someone she loves, she never views him or her the same way again. While she dances through life in a normal manner, her soul looks with large pleading eyes at the offender as if to say, why? Why did you betray me when all I wanted was to love you? Man, it rips your heart to shreds. Mom slapped her for swearing, with Dad it was when our family fell apart and he kept secrets from us, Heather moved out on her in Boston, and I didn't get her noodles. Now he, that boy (said with all venom possible), isn't speaking to her because he is angry.

Is it just me, or shouldn't it be a little shocking that the weekend after she flies to see him, after they exchange the L-word, he should suddenly transform into Mr. Angry? So why doesn't it shock me? Because that is what I have come to expect. Oh cynical Audrey, my good sweet optimistic and romantic self says as she shakes her head sadly, what happened to the happily ever after you just witnessed with your friend Tarythe? Surely you don't mean-- but here I cut her off.

I have witnessed too many friends use that word or have that word whispered to them only to have their hearts broken mere moments later. I want to ask, so what does that mean to you, the words "I love you"? Dictionary dot com has ten definitions, but I want yours. Does it mean that you love me forever even when you don't like me and that you'll make it your goal to try to make me happy all my days; or does it mean that you really like hanging/making out with me until such a time as real or imaginary offense is taken or given; or does it mean that you want to show that you're a sensitive guy by sharing how much it's going to hurt you to break my heart into pieces when you say Goodbye in about ten minutes? Really what does it mean to you?

As I say this I look almost challengingly at my softer self, demanding a response. Her eyes brim with tears, and once again I am saddened that someone is hurt, not able to do anything even though she is I. I hope, she whispers, showing yet again how determined she is to be good, I hope you're wrong. I see that she believes me; after all it is too easy to convince my vulnerable side to be afraid of never being loved. But I shake my head with fatigue. I hope I'm wrong too.

Wrong or right I am now facing time as the zealously protective guardian of my loved ones. It's not a role to which I have ever been assigned; it just kind of happens. Perhaps I am merely a defensive person, but honestly I try not to take offense at life and her offerings. When it comes to people I love, however, when it comes to Nora, I just won't stand for some things.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

blast

I got an interesting email this week. Okay, the email itself was poorly written and so full of noncommittal small talk that I felt bored in the two seconds it took me to read the stupid thing. Hey. How are you. I'm the same. How's life. Mine's good. Ask Emilie, this is not an exaggeration. What made it less boring and more painfully annoying was the name signed at the bottom. Jon. I haven't heard from him in nine months, since the last time he sent an email entitled How's Life? Jon is a nice guy, a really good guy, but I have a complete lack of curiosity when it comes to him. I wanted to reply civilly to the letter, to prove that I too am a classy person, but then came the rub. Do you mind if I read your blog now so I can see how you're doing? No! You still cannot read my blog. The heat flared up again almost instantly as I recalled my anger at his intrusion a year ago. It's quite ridiculous, really, that I can't let go of past emotions. But isn't that what he's doing too? Why this fascination with my blog when we haven't spoken for a year? If he wants to know how I am, he can ask...or better yet ask Ted. He can ask Emilie who can ask me. She and I can have a nice chat, a quarter of which can be passed back up the line.

I'd like to call his curiosity annoying or to label him pathetic, but such a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.

censored

I guess I am not ready for the broadcast vulnerability of the blogging world. It turns out I do care who reads my blog. It changes what I write. And right now, for the last three weeks and for the next period of that same time frame I cannot write the absolute truth. Too bad.

right back at you

Generally, the answers to prayers fall into three categories: yes, no and maybe. However, I have had impressions much more deep than these single word responses. At those times, Heavenly Father turns my prayers back on me, a Socratic method of teaching. I struggle with understanding, but in the end I find a greater trust in Him and a new, clearer perception of my problem.

Once I went to the Lord with a burning, imperative question. I had to know the direction my life was meant to take. How else was I to follow His plan for me, if I didn't know what He wanted me to do? I asked, I begged, I fasted, and then I went to the temple. There I got my answer, so clear. It was a quiet voice that simply asked, "do you really want to know?" Through my mind flashed scenarios of just how much I could screw up my destiny if I were in charge of it. While my mind said shakily, yes I want to know, my heart cried out, no don't tell me! That answer was a no, but so much greater than the answer was the understanding. He explained nothing to me, but peace came anyway, peace to say, I'll wait and see.

Another time I felt the answers were hard in coming, I took myself to the small cluster of pine trees near the track at Helaman Halls. I couldn't decide which course of action would be best between two favored paths. Should I or shouldn't I? I felt only a shrug from the Spirit, a rather unsatisfying answer, like when a friend listens to your confidences and doesn't think the situation so important as you do. "What do you want to do?" asked the Spirit. So I said, if this were my choice, completely without guidance, I would do it this way. I paused. If that's okay with You, take away the distractions. Instantly there was peace, and I was contented with my decision. It is not that the Lord did not care, but that either choice suited Him equally well. This was a maybe.

Yesterday I got a yes, the most bizarre yes I have ever heard, and the most satisfying. My emotions have been like a rollercoaster. I needed to carry daisies with me just in case I needed to know how I felt about any new emotional development. Do I like him? Am I angry? How does macaroni and cheese sound? Am I jealous? Do I like him? My thoughts and feelings ran in circles around every issue imaginable. I cried not only at Gilmore Girls but also at Brawny Paper Towel commercials. Then I laughed in the middle of anger. So help me, these feelings were like PMS on steroids. I couldn't sort it out. I went to the Lord.

Tell me how to feel, I asked. I know I could sort it out for myself, but what if I do and the way I feel is contrary to what You'd like? It would save us both time if You would tell me how I am supposed to feel about him, about her, about this, about that. And what do You think about Luke and Lorelai ending up together; I'm having a hard time with that one too?

Silence.

I changed tactics. Okay, I'll try to listen to my feelings more, I promise. But will You still be there? Don't let me go astray. Watch my reactions, shape situations. If I listen, will You be there to help me know how to feel about it? Just tell me as it comes up. Thanks.

I went about my weekend with no clear signals. Life was usual. Actually, life was not routine. I went camping and slept in the back of a pickup truck. I went on paddle boats and played volley ball for the first time in years. The ordinariness came from the people with whom I surrounded myself: my four roommates and Ted. And my emotions were clear, my thoughts nonconveluted. I felt like myself before the flood, but I didn't feel any wiser or more far-sighted.

When I got home, I knelt in prayer before getting some much-needed sleep. "So," my prayer asked me, "how do you feel?" I contemplated momentarily before whispering, I know. Oh most gracious Father, it's not what I thought, not what I expected, not what I saw coming at all. This is not the answer I thought You would give. But this is how I feel, no buts about it anymore. What I thought I wanted, what I had decided You wanted for me, is no more. Here is my heart, Father, what do you see? A burning, swelling breathlessness seized me that said something very prosaic, like: "That's exactly what I expected you'd find if I gave you time. Good girl."

That was my Yes, and now I am left with more questions than answers. For instance: what now? The Spirit, alas, doesn't deal rhetorically.

rocking horse winner

I have had two images in my head for days now, maybe weeks. One is me diving off a cliff, arms spread wide not caring when someone catches me though the air streaming past my face is growing more ferocious and the ground is racing nearer; I don't care because I know I'll get caught before I hit the bottom, even if only barely. The next image is from D. H. Lawrence, the Rocking Horse Winner. When I think of that, my eyes flinch open and I see how very close the ground really is and wonder why haven't I been caught yet. I force my breathing to calm once more and my body to relax in free-fall. Instead my tension is transferred to a little boy feverishly racing his rocking horse to the finish line. There must be more money. There must be more money.

My short-term loan was due today.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.