I saw a leprechaun today. He was holding hands and giggling and seemed to be a small mischevious sprite. Maybe he was holding hands with his pot-o'- gold at the end of the rainbow. Now doesn't that sound romantic? My favorite part was that both the leprechaun and the pot-o'-gold were a foot shorter than me. I'm just glad he found someone his size.
There seems to be a lot of pot-o'-gold hand holding on campus. Geez.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Mugshot
I realize I’ve been doing a lot of posts in the last day or so, but I had an fairly eventful Wednesday that I never blogged about and it is too good to not blog about.
Because Mom and Dad had symphony rehearsal, Michelle and I played the supportive family role and went to Alison’s first marching band performance and then William’s football game.
The marching band night was fun, we shadowed the players and laughed that the band-isms that I doubt will ever die. I felt a sad sense of nostalgia as I watched the Colorguard gracefully frame ad band and add a visual interest that honestly makes marching band what it is. But as soon as they showed the families “how they rehearse” I mocked them all in my heart and triumphantly cheered in my head, “Never again! Haha! Poor unfortunate souls! Stuck on the field, in the heat, rain snow and sleet!” I suppose I’m just a little bit glad that that chapter of my life has come to a close. It was fun while it lasted.
After we rushed to Will’s game and I discovered that I don’t know where Orem High is (as embarrassing and humbling as that is). They got creamed royally. But they all looked cute in football pants…
When Jeff and I went to drop off Michelle and Erin, Michelle realized that she didn’t have her keys. Classic. They decided to use the spare. Erin exited the car first and as soon as Michelle got out with a sad, discouraged look on her pouty face, I turned to Jeff and said “Let’s go find them!” We concluded that this would be a good way to serve them and add a little sunshine to their dampened, dreary evening.
We drove to Timpview, thinking that’s probably where she lost them. The gate as locked, the lights were off, but Jeff and I are both experienced fence-hoppers and didn’t feel the least bit impaired as we shimmied over the chainlink and dropped down onto the other side. Together we walked over to the west-bleachers, got out our pseudo-phone-flashlights and began searching for said keys. After repeated checking, we turned up empty handed and decided that going on the field (a likely resting spot for the keys) was a lost cause since it is so vast, our light source was so pathetic, and it was getting so late. So we plodded back up the hill to the fence and began climbing up it. I was straddling the top of the fence when a stern voice echoed from the asphalt patio below the field, “Hey! Stay where you are!”
Great.
Jeff and I finished getting over the fence but “stayed where we were.” I turned to Jeff and joked, “Should we put our hands up?” But we waited while a dark, stocky figure walked up to use while holding his much-too-bright flash light on our shocked, yet amused faces. He came around and unlocked the gate with all the authority a night guard at a high school could have, and walked up to us. We tried apologizing but he only answered our explanations and expressions of regret with, “You hopped a locked gate.” “We know, we didn’t think—” “You ignored the sign that indicated the track was closed.” “We’re sorry we only needed to—” “You’re trespassing.” “We just came to try and find my sis—” “It’s after dark. Stand over there.” He pointed to a few feet behind us and then pulled out is phone.
Perfect.
He opened it and held it close to my face. It hit me. He’s taking my picture. The sheer humor of it all tickled my funny bone and I let a snicker escape my lips. “You think this is funny?” Did I? I couldn’t imagine what could have been funnier at this moment to be honest. Should I answer honestly? Probably not a good idea right now… “No. Sorry.” I lied. I just got a mugshot! Not only that, I just got a mugshot ON A CAMERA PHONE. He then turned to Jeff and took his picture. How couldn’t this be funny? He then took our names and told us authoritatively that he “Will be reporting us to the administration.”
Now that’s a funny thought.
That was the cherry on top for me. I could only imagine the kick that the administration would get out of seeing my smirking face looking up at them from a pixilated camera phone picture on their desk with the name PAIGE CROSLAND written in a big black scrawl right next to it. They know both Jeff and I well, and we drove away laughing, but empty-handed. Poor stranded keys.
Fabulous.
Because Mom and Dad had symphony rehearsal, Michelle and I played the supportive family role and went to Alison’s first marching band performance and then William’s football game.
The marching band night was fun, we shadowed the players and laughed that the band-isms that I doubt will ever die. I felt a sad sense of nostalgia as I watched the Colorguard gracefully frame ad band and add a visual interest that honestly makes marching band what it is. But as soon as they showed the families “how they rehearse” I mocked them all in my heart and triumphantly cheered in my head, “Never again! Haha! Poor unfortunate souls! Stuck on the field, in the heat, rain snow and sleet!” I suppose I’m just a little bit glad that that chapter of my life has come to a close. It was fun while it lasted.
After we rushed to Will’s game and I discovered that I don’t know where Orem High is (as embarrassing and humbling as that is). They got creamed royally. But they all looked cute in football pants…
When Jeff and I went to drop off Michelle and Erin, Michelle realized that she didn’t have her keys. Classic. They decided to use the spare. Erin exited the car first and as soon as Michelle got out with a sad, discouraged look on her pouty face, I turned to Jeff and said “Let’s go find them!” We concluded that this would be a good way to serve them and add a little sunshine to their dampened, dreary evening.
We drove to Timpview, thinking that’s probably where she lost them. The gate as locked, the lights were off, but Jeff and I are both experienced fence-hoppers and didn’t feel the least bit impaired as we shimmied over the chainlink and dropped down onto the other side. Together we walked over to the west-bleachers, got out our pseudo-phone-flashlights and began searching for said keys. After repeated checking, we turned up empty handed and decided that going on the field (a likely resting spot for the keys) was a lost cause since it is so vast, our light source was so pathetic, and it was getting so late. So we plodded back up the hill to the fence and began climbing up it. I was straddling the top of the fence when a stern voice echoed from the asphalt patio below the field, “Hey! Stay where you are!”
Great.
Jeff and I finished getting over the fence but “stayed where we were.” I turned to Jeff and joked, “Should we put our hands up?” But we waited while a dark, stocky figure walked up to use while holding his much-too-bright flash light on our shocked, yet amused faces. He came around and unlocked the gate with all the authority a night guard at a high school could have, and walked up to us. We tried apologizing but he only answered our explanations and expressions of regret with, “You hopped a locked gate.” “We know, we didn’t think—” “You ignored the sign that indicated the track was closed.” “We’re sorry we only needed to—” “You’re trespassing.” “We just came to try and find my sis—” “It’s after dark. Stand over there.” He pointed to a few feet behind us and then pulled out is phone.
Perfect.
He opened it and held it close to my face. It hit me. He’s taking my picture. The sheer humor of it all tickled my funny bone and I let a snicker escape my lips. “You think this is funny?” Did I? I couldn’t imagine what could have been funnier at this moment to be honest. Should I answer honestly? Probably not a good idea right now… “No. Sorry.” I lied. I just got a mugshot! Not only that, I just got a mugshot ON A CAMERA PHONE. He then turned to Jeff and took his picture. How couldn’t this be funny? He then took our names and told us authoritatively that he “Will be reporting us to the administration.”
Now that’s a funny thought.
That was the cherry on top for me. I could only imagine the kick that the administration would get out of seeing my smirking face looking up at them from a pixilated camera phone picture on their desk with the name PAIGE CROSLAND written in a big black scrawl right next to it. They know both Jeff and I well, and we drove away laughing, but empty-handed. Poor stranded keys.
Fabulous.
Coordination
Have you ever had one of those days when you just don’t feel coordinated? I seem to have those a lot. Today, my un-coordination was especially apparent.
I was on my way to the Wilk and passed what I thought was a pile of tarps. I should have known better I guess. Tarps are never just lying around at BYU. The grounds are immaculate and where there is a tarp, there is a little man in a blue vest. No such man was to be found this morning. However, as soon as I was right in front of supposed “tarp,” the thing came to life. Literally. The crackling sound of its folds rubbing together coupled with the sudden inflation and larger than life stature instantaneously looming over me, not only caused me to shriek, but stumble about for a good thirty seconds as I tried to figure out what the heck was going on.
As it turned out there WAS a little man in a blue vest. Not only one, in fact, but three who were waiting mischievously for an unsuspecting passerby to cross their path before they plugged in the all-too-spirited wiggly blow-up man and scared her (me) half to death.
The second time I felt especially ill-fitted for land-dwelling was at Ikea this afternoon. As much as I love Ikea, I can’t seem to maneuver their 4 Wheel Drive shopping carts. That’s right, 4.W.D.SHOP.ING.CARTS. I tried to turn right with the front end, and suddenly the back end would swing left and almost knock me off my feet. (Not to be confused with “sweep me off my feet.” I left the luscious textiles and engaging patterns that graced my fingers and eyes to do that). I was trying to round a corner and knocked into not one, not two, but three displays. I just stumbled away, hung my head in shame and hurriedly got away from the mocking eyes of the savvy Ikea frequenters while knocking into various other rugs, pillows, and toilet scrubbers. I wish I had sufficient visual capacity to explain the completely pathetic and disparaging state I shuffled away in. Honestly, I almost confined myself to a wheelchair.
But at least I wasn't alone in my clumsiness. Another woman was there with her husband who while trying to maneuver the shopping cart was feeling much of the same exasperation that I was. Her husband took the drivers seat and calmly explained, "You just have to use your side muscles."
I don't think I have those.
I was on my way to the Wilk and passed what I thought was a pile of tarps. I should have known better I guess. Tarps are never just lying around at BYU. The grounds are immaculate and where there is a tarp, there is a little man in a blue vest. No such man was to be found this morning. However, as soon as I was right in front of supposed “tarp,” the thing came to life. Literally. The crackling sound of its folds rubbing together coupled with the sudden inflation and larger than life stature instantaneously looming over me, not only caused me to shriek, but stumble about for a good thirty seconds as I tried to figure out what the heck was going on.
As it turned out there WAS a little man in a blue vest. Not only one, in fact, but three who were waiting mischievously for an unsuspecting passerby to cross their path before they plugged in the all-too-spirited wiggly blow-up man and scared her (me) half to death.
The second time I felt especially ill-fitted for land-dwelling was at Ikea this afternoon. As much as I love Ikea, I can’t seem to maneuver their 4 Wheel Drive shopping carts. That’s right, 4.W.D.SHOP.ING.CARTS. I tried to turn right with the front end, and suddenly the back end would swing left and almost knock me off my feet. (Not to be confused with “sweep me off my feet.” I left the luscious textiles and engaging patterns that graced my fingers and eyes to do that). I was trying to round a corner and knocked into not one, not two, but three displays. I just stumbled away, hung my head in shame and hurriedly got away from the mocking eyes of the savvy Ikea frequenters while knocking into various other rugs, pillows, and toilet scrubbers. I wish I had sufficient visual capacity to explain the completely pathetic and disparaging state I shuffled away in. Honestly, I almost confined myself to a wheelchair.
But at least I wasn't alone in my clumsiness. Another woman was there with her husband who while trying to maneuver the shopping cart was feeling much of the same exasperation that I was. Her husband took the drivers seat and calmly explained, "You just have to use your side muscles."
I don't think I have those.
Concentration
I have a 3 hour drawing class twice a week. It's a pretty intimidating chunk of time to be honest. But I have decided that I really like getting a concentrated block of time bi-weekly rather than the measly 45 mintutes of class every day. The 45 minutes hardly even gives me time to get in "the zone."
On Wednesday I started in on the 4th, 5th, and 6th hours of my drawing. We had spent 3 hours on Monday intently staring at, and mapping out a large piece of crumpled paper pinned to the wall and then beginning to shade in the shadows. It was laborious. My butt went numb after sitting on the little wooden artist horse for about and hour and a half and by that time I think I was suffering eye siezures to boot. Needless to say I had to get up and take the load of my backside. It seems like my butt should have more endurance than that. What else does it do besides sit? I wonder how many of sitting hours it has done. Practice apparently doesn't make perfect when it comes to derrières. So my ishiums were sore when I resumed my drawing, but all thought of pain and discomfort faded as I began to get absorbed in my work.
I felt my lips press tightly together in a focused intensity as I scrupulously studied my subject. My eyes were concentrated on the subtle folds and wrinkles of the paper, and my hand diligently translated what I saw onto my drawing pad. Soon time started to escape me as I got lost in the transcendent dimension of creation...
Eventually I finished. When I awoke from my trance-like state I realized just now numb my rump was and my left foot was asleep. I wished I would have realized this BEFORE I tried to stand. Unfortunately this wasn't the case and I had a new-to-the-whole-legs thing/baby deer moment as I wobbled my way over to turn in my drawing.
On Wednesday I started in on the 4th, 5th, and 6th hours of my drawing. We had spent 3 hours on Monday intently staring at, and mapping out a large piece of crumpled paper pinned to the wall and then beginning to shade in the shadows. It was laborious. My butt went numb after sitting on the little wooden artist horse for about and hour and a half and by that time I think I was suffering eye siezures to boot. Needless to say I had to get up and take the load of my backside. It seems like my butt should have more endurance than that. What else does it do besides sit? I wonder how many of sitting hours it has done. Practice apparently doesn't make perfect when it comes to derrières. So my ishiums were sore when I resumed my drawing, but all thought of pain and discomfort faded as I began to get absorbed in my work.
I felt my lips press tightly together in a focused intensity as I scrupulously studied my subject. My eyes were concentrated on the subtle folds and wrinkles of the paper, and my hand diligently translated what I saw onto my drawing pad. Soon time started to escape me as I got lost in the transcendent dimension of creation...
Eventually I finished. When I awoke from my trance-like state I realized just now numb my rump was and my left foot was asleep. I wished I would have realized this BEFORE I tried to stand. Unfortunately this wasn't the case and I had a new-to-the-whole-legs thing/baby deer moment as I wobbled my way over to turn in my drawing.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Sunshine
It was sunny today. Things seemed right (except for the fact that I woke up 15 minutes before my 8 am class was scheduled to begin) and I was ready to face the day with a smile. How can I be such a rollercoaster? One minute I feel on top of my game, things are in constant motion, but I'm right there along side the motion, getting swept up in the currents and pushed in new and exciting directions. Other times I just feel like I'm standing in the middle of a monsoon with my mouth open. It's salty.
It's good to know however, that I have friends who are willing to let me stain their shirts with my mascara and get gum on their car handles. Sobbing brings out a tenderness that is unlike any other and the consoling is truly beautiful. If there was one thing that I really and truly wished for everyone in the world, it would be for them to have frinds like mine, who are willing to bend, hurt and even break for you. Friends that are so wonderful you know that they would never let you fall, and if you did, they would be there picking you up and bandaging your wounds. Friends for you to lean on, even when you're an odd ball.
It's good to be loved. It's essential to know that you're loved.
It's good to know however, that I have friends who are willing to let me stain their shirts with my mascara and get gum on their car handles. Sobbing brings out a tenderness that is unlike any other and the consoling is truly beautiful. If there was one thing that I really and truly wished for everyone in the world, it would be for them to have frinds like mine, who are willing to bend, hurt and even break for you. Friends that are so wonderful you know that they would never let you fall, and if you did, they would be there picking you up and bandaging your wounds. Friends for you to lean on, even when you're an odd ball.
It's good to be loved. It's essential to know that you're loved.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Timing
Isn't it funny how things never seem to fall in sync? It feels, at times, like everyone is living their lives apart, yet simultaneously. A conundrum of sorts is plaguing human exsistance. We've been defeated and now we can't for the life of us slow down or speed up to match the speed of another person. Timing. Bad timing.
Have you ever let something pass you by and then wish you could rewind and take advantage of it? Jump on the chance? Relish in the moment? Time is such a fickle thing.
It slips, it runs.
And for some reason, I can't slip and run with it. I always just feel like I'm alone, looking down the long tunnel of missed opportunity. It's not a happy tunnel. It's ironic really. I feel like I'm such a person of order. I plan, I calculate and manage my time in a way that I can fit everything in. I have to. Some people call it compuslive behavior. I call it a vital lifeline. But with all the forethought, arrangement, and planning, somehow time gets in my way, or out of my way...I can't decide how to view it. The pictures for once aren't clear.
Have you ever let something pass you by and then wish you could rewind and take advantage of it? Jump on the chance? Relish in the moment? Time is such a fickle thing.
It slips, it runs.
And for some reason, I can't slip and run with it. I always just feel like I'm alone, looking down the long tunnel of missed opportunity. It's not a happy tunnel. It's ironic really. I feel like I'm such a person of order. I plan, I calculate and manage my time in a way that I can fit everything in. I have to. Some people call it compuslive behavior. I call it a vital lifeline. But with all the forethought, arrangement, and planning, somehow time gets in my way, or out of my way...I can't decide how to view it. The pictures for once aren't clear.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Heart
I was thinking about hearts today. A few months ago I did a fairly in depth scripture study about the heart and found quite a few intriguing references on the subject. The heart has a plethora of uses not considered or outlined by typical anatomy books. The heart is referred to as seeing, hearing, feeling, exercising, aching, breaking, weeping...how did the heart accumulate so many uses and abilities? Last night I was impressed by the heart's ability to hurt.
The first time I remember the internal aching that stemmed from saddness was after a childhood friend committed suicide in ninth grade. I remember walking to school after the funeral--looking at my feet cross the lawn, damp from morning dew--and asking my cousin in a quivering voice why my heart hurt. I couldn't understand how this vital organ was so closely connected with my emotions. She had no answer for me, and I still don't understand it. But I vividly remember the pain that was so tangeble and real to me then. As a fourteen-year-old coping with the passing of a friend, I could feel the fibers of my heart contorting to parallel my muddled mind. It was a feeling as real as pricking my finger, but the hurt went deeper.
As I got in my car last night, I once again felt the feeling of a pain, a weight in my chest, as if my once living, pumping heart had turned to marble and was putting undue stress on the vessels and arteries connected to it. I should have laid down to help the pulling at my heart strings. I did not cry, nor was I inclined to do so. I just sat there and felt my heart, sad, but relieved. I again was struck with wonder. How are you feeling with me? How do you provide me with the vital stuff of life, and then hang there and sulk? How are you, my heart, almost like a separate entity in my chest, beating along with my spirit, keeping me in step with the rest of the world, and still lying close to my emotions and helping me understand it all?
Hearts are so confusing. It's hard for me to sort out feelings which all seem to be stored (whether metaphorically or literally, I haven't yet determined) in my heart. I wish I could take it out and piece together the confused parts and put them back in some orderly, seemingly understandable fashion. I wrote a song once that I never finished. It was while I was having some of these same feelings of wanting to take a closer look at my heart and my feelings and sort out the confusion. It was written almost a year ago to date:
How does one capture a feeling
And bottle it for later use
Study it and see if it is all there or not
And how do you examine that feeling
You see my lenses they don’t work
I need a microscope that can view my heart
How can I say I love you?
Do you expect me to?
How can you say you love me?
I’m only seventeen
Is this just an over reaction
One that I will look back on
And see how I made a fool of myself
Or there really truth to this feeling
The one that I just can’t pin down
I want to crack my heart open and pull it out
So then I could really see
What you mean to me
It isn’t black and white
What if it isn’t right
So what to do now? Where do I turn?
There’s only one that I know of where to look
Don’t follow me, I shouldn’t be on your mind
Just turn and see, the truth
How can I say I love you?
Do you really expect me to?
How can you say you love me?
Did you forget I’m just seventeen
How can’t I say I love you?
How do I find the truth
Of how I really feel?
I want to see if it’s real
So what to do now? Where do I turn?
There’s only one that I know of where to look
Don’t follow me, don’t you see
I shouldn’t be on your mind it just isn’t right
Not now
The first time I remember the internal aching that stemmed from saddness was after a childhood friend committed suicide in ninth grade. I remember walking to school after the funeral--looking at my feet cross the lawn, damp from morning dew--and asking my cousin in a quivering voice why my heart hurt. I couldn't understand how this vital organ was so closely connected with my emotions. She had no answer for me, and I still don't understand it. But I vividly remember the pain that was so tangeble and real to me then. As a fourteen-year-old coping with the passing of a friend, I could feel the fibers of my heart contorting to parallel my muddled mind. It was a feeling as real as pricking my finger, but the hurt went deeper.
As I got in my car last night, I once again felt the feeling of a pain, a weight in my chest, as if my once living, pumping heart had turned to marble and was putting undue stress on the vessels and arteries connected to it. I should have laid down to help the pulling at my heart strings. I did not cry, nor was I inclined to do so. I just sat there and felt my heart, sad, but relieved. I again was struck with wonder. How are you feeling with me? How do you provide me with the vital stuff of life, and then hang there and sulk? How are you, my heart, almost like a separate entity in my chest, beating along with my spirit, keeping me in step with the rest of the world, and still lying close to my emotions and helping me understand it all?
Hearts are so confusing. It's hard for me to sort out feelings which all seem to be stored (whether metaphorically or literally, I haven't yet determined) in my heart. I wish I could take it out and piece together the confused parts and put them back in some orderly, seemingly understandable fashion. I wrote a song once that I never finished. It was while I was having some of these same feelings of wanting to take a closer look at my heart and my feelings and sort out the confusion. It was written almost a year ago to date:
How does one capture a feeling
And bottle it for later use
Study it and see if it is all there or not
And how do you examine that feeling
You see my lenses they don’t work
I need a microscope that can view my heart
How can I say I love you?
Do you expect me to?
How can you say you love me?
I’m only seventeen
Is this just an over reaction
One that I will look back on
And see how I made a fool of myself
Or there really truth to this feeling
The one that I just can’t pin down
I want to crack my heart open and pull it out
So then I could really see
What you mean to me
It isn’t black and white
What if it isn’t right
So what to do now? Where do I turn?
There’s only one that I know of where to look
Don’t follow me, I shouldn’t be on your mind
Just turn and see, the truth
How can I say I love you?
Do you really expect me to?
How can you say you love me?
Did you forget I’m just seventeen
How can’t I say I love you?
How do I find the truth
Of how I really feel?
I want to see if it’s real
So what to do now? Where do I turn?
There’s only one that I know of where to look
Don’t follow me, don’t you see
I shouldn’t be on your mind it just isn’t right
Not now
Lyrics
I have always been a firm believer that music touches us in ways that are incomprehensible, even to ourselves. Sometimes for me, it feels like the only way to wrap my head around what I'm feeling is to write a lyric, or a melody about it. But sometimes it just feels like every song was written just for me, like every lyric was fit together so precisely as to narrate my current situation. Tonight ABBA was singing the sounds of my soul. When I am the closest to my emotions, music speaks to me about myself and helps me realize what I'm doing. Could artists truly be so omniscient?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Storm
Last night Melissa and I decided to go on our first run of the semester. We made a goal to go in the morning before reading our scriptures, getting ready, and making it to an 8 am class...thus far we have failed slightly miserably. However, to make up for complaicency, we ran last night instead (and plan on doing the same tonight). We knew it would be windy, and maybe we would get caught in a light drizzle. But it seemed like the clouds were waiting patiently for us to go outside before unleashing their full fury.
It was an incredible run. The rain came down harder than I can remember all summer. Our faces met the large drops with a smile and our feet were greeted by puddles. I loved the feeling of it dripping down my cheeks and off my chin, splashing all the while. My hair slapped as it swooshed back and forth to my pace. My gait seemed to be weighed down by the puddle-wonderful water, but the heaviness only added to the adventure of our dark, stormy, night-time run.
About half way through Melissa started telling me about thoughts she had had in English that day, about the human spirit and it's unconquerable nature. It only seemed fitting to me that we were discussing this while bounding through ankle deep puddles and blindly running through rain so thick it hindered our sight. She noted that in literature, all the stories are so fantastic in an implausible, fanciful way. The drama ranks above that of normal, everyday life, and the seemingly life-threatening or self-difining decisions encountered by our fictional heros appear to be almost ostentatious. She asked me why I thought this was. I came a few conclusions.
The first is that stories about everyday things wouldn't make for much of a story at all. Only the extraordinary and the terrible make it into the books for reasons of sheer enjoyment. But this answer seemed superficial and too perfunctory. So we talked together and then I stumbled upon my second conclusion.
Literature, not intended soley for the purpose of entertainment, is a glimpse into the human spirit. Authors put characters in situations that seem unreal to test this human spirit, this unconquerable mighty force. Literature expands the bounds of what we are capable of and teaches us that there is so much more that we can do than ever imagined. The human spirit is something that resides in each person individually, but is enhanced by the strength of the power around it. It lives. It grows in hardships and learns, slowly, to believe in itself. The human spirit can be stretched, beaten, buried, and burned, but will continue to fight until the bitterest of ends. This is why characters are placed where they are in novels and why they fight how hard they do. They teach us vicariously that we too, if called upon, could do something equally as great because we all come from the same Creator and each has within us, a measure of His greatness.
Let the rain come. Let it beat upon my face and back, weigh my clothes down, and dampen my shoes. Let the storm ravage my skin and impede my sight. Let it try and scare me. The cracks of thunder and flashes of light only serve to enliven my senses and my spirit. Bring on the storm.
It was an incredible run. The rain came down harder than I can remember all summer. Our faces met the large drops with a smile and our feet were greeted by puddles. I loved the feeling of it dripping down my cheeks and off my chin, splashing all the while. My hair slapped as it swooshed back and forth to my pace. My gait seemed to be weighed down by the puddle-wonderful water, but the heaviness only added to the adventure of our dark, stormy, night-time run.
About half way through Melissa started telling me about thoughts she had had in English that day, about the human spirit and it's unconquerable nature. It only seemed fitting to me that we were discussing this while bounding through ankle deep puddles and blindly running through rain so thick it hindered our sight. She noted that in literature, all the stories are so fantastic in an implausible, fanciful way. The drama ranks above that of normal, everyday life, and the seemingly life-threatening or self-difining decisions encountered by our fictional heros appear to be almost ostentatious. She asked me why I thought this was. I came a few conclusions.
The first is that stories about everyday things wouldn't make for much of a story at all. Only the extraordinary and the terrible make it into the books for reasons of sheer enjoyment. But this answer seemed superficial and too perfunctory. So we talked together and then I stumbled upon my second conclusion.
Literature, not intended soley for the purpose of entertainment, is a glimpse into the human spirit. Authors put characters in situations that seem unreal to test this human spirit, this unconquerable mighty force. Literature expands the bounds of what we are capable of and teaches us that there is so much more that we can do than ever imagined. The human spirit is something that resides in each person individually, but is enhanced by the strength of the power around it. It lives. It grows in hardships and learns, slowly, to believe in itself. The human spirit can be stretched, beaten, buried, and burned, but will continue to fight until the bitterest of ends. This is why characters are placed where they are in novels and why they fight how hard they do. They teach us vicariously that we too, if called upon, could do something equally as great because we all come from the same Creator and each has within us, a measure of His greatness.Let the rain come. Let it beat upon my face and back, weigh my clothes down, and dampen my shoes. Let the storm ravage my skin and impede my sight. Let it try and scare me. The cracks of thunder and flashes of light only serve to enliven my senses and my spirit. Bring on the storm.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Colors
It's amazing to me how lonely I can feel when there are so many people, so much life, so much motion and excitement around me. Why does isolation prevail when it is so outnumbered? Maybe more of what I feel is an estrangement from things that are familiar and this is causing feelings of loneliness. Maybe I feel so gray because I don't have structure in my days, minutes to schedule, goals to set and accomplish, etc. I'm ready for school to start so I can be motivated to work hard and strive to be better. I'm ready for a routine.
I'm tired of feeling like I'm beige. Could the cinder block walls be rubbing off on me already? Some how every song is too upbeat and all I want to do is sit and feel my bruises. Black, blue and green, evidence of work, of striving. Where did I go? I'm lost in a sea of navy, of faces that I don't know. School hasn't even started and yet I'm feeling the effects of being just like everyone else, pallid, colorless in a mass of vibrance.
I'm tired of feeling like I'm beige. Could the cinder block walls be rubbing off on me already? Some how every song is too upbeat and all I want to do is sit and feel my bruises. Black, blue and green, evidence of work, of striving. Where did I go? I'm lost in a sea of navy, of faces that I don't know. School hasn't even started and yet I'm feeling the effects of being just like everyone else, pallid, colorless in a mass of vibrance.
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