Life is Beautiful

Did anyone ever tell you that life is beautiful?
It's beautiful when it snows
when you meet someone new
and it's as if
you've known them forever
and you walk home
through the flakes
smiling.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Kleenex used and then tossed on floor in contaminated white piles: 50
Tablespoons of Nyquil taken: 2
Pages of research paper written: 0
Pages of Harry Potter 7 read: 50
Realizing that I can turn Fridays on my blog into Poetry Fridays (like Melissa Wiley: http://melissawiley.com/blog/): Priceless

Here you are, with a half hour to spare:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, by Dylan Thomas

Things I'm Thankful For

Happy Thanksgiving. I recall last year (or was it the year before?) I didn't want to talk about Thanksgiving. Not because I don't love it, but because there didn't seem to be anything new to say about it. Same old food, family, gratitude, etc. Rinse and repeat.
The thing is, though, this year the repeat part is what I'm especially thankful for. I'm thankful that we have a tradition like Thanksgiving that is the same year after year.

Right now I'm laying on my back in my old comfy bed. My laptop is propped on my knees. My throat hurts like the dickens. So does my head. Of course I haven't had so much as a sniffle the whole semester at school, but the instant I was home I got sick. So it goes.
I'm thankful for Nyquil. Is it okay for one to be thankful for drugs?

Other things I'm thankful for (besides the obvious (but still important) friends family health food shelter etc):
1. Sweats
2. Books
3. Cousins that aren't so little anymore
4. Dogs
5. Paul McCartney
6. Optimism
7. Garfield comics
8. The color blue
9. Strangers who smile
10. Part time jobs
11. Snow

Goodnight everyone. I'll see you tomorrow for some mad Black Friday shopping. I'll be the red-eyed one toting the Kleenex box. Hopefully I'll be smiling.

Carrying the Cross

I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.

What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.

Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.

The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).

You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.

It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.

I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.

Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.

As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.

The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.

Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.

Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.

The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.

After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.

My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.

Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).

Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.

I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.

While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.

No Shirking in Morris

The wind in Morris isn't kind. It doesn't float past you, skip out of your way as you skuttle down the sidewalk with an armful of books. Nor does it pause to take a look at your face to gauge your reaction.

Instead, the wind in Morris cuts right through you, biting your hands through your sleeves and your legs through your jeans. It tosses your hair into a state of confusion. It bashes the back of your knees over and over until you think you're going to pitch over face first onto the still-strangely-green grass. The Morris wind does these things regardless of your mood or taste.

Some people blame the gusting wind on the fact that the city of Morris lies on the prairie. A mostly settled, farmed, beroaded prairie, but a flat grassland nonetheless. There are no hills to block the wind here.

I, however, blame the wind turbine. When you put up a turbine, in my opinion, you are just asking for this type of wind. Mother Nature is not opposed to going green. She is overly generous, rather, if one can be such a thing (and I think it's possible). In her eagerness to send the force Morris needs to turn the blades and power the campus, she sent the kind of wind I have just described. "Do not relent," Mother Nature told the wind, "they asked for you, they needed you, and you must not shirk."

There is certainly no shirking in Morris.

An Unexpected Poem

While dutifully reading an uninteresting (to me) essay for my Understanding Writing class, I found this lovely poem at the very end:

To My Colleagues in the Field

And when that certain grounder
skips blur-white
across clipped June grass

and I move quickly but fumble it
the ball popping into the air before my eyes
I need you moving to cover second

timing my work while the ball's between us
ready to take my toss
tap the bag in stride

and wheel your own true throw to first
in time
you and I will teach the world

to collaborate

Tom Romano
The University of New Hampshire

Three Cups of Tea

It's finally finally finally snowing in Morris. Not those small pellets that sting when they bounce off your nose and cheeks, but huge delicate flakes that float down gracefully and coat even the smallest branches of the smallest trees.

It wasn't snowing when I tramped into the HFA this evening, but it was snowing when I came out.

I was in the HFA to attend a presentation by David Oliver Relin, co-author of Three Cups of Tea. Don't misunderstand me, I have not read the book myself. I've merely heard about it. In fact, the first time I remember hearing about it was a few summers ago, at the funeral of one of my Dad's best friends. It was a sad day, obviously, but somehow (I don't remember how), the book came up. I thought to myself then "I just have to read that book."

I'm thinking to myself now "I just have to read that book."

David Oliver Relin was absolutely wonderful. He was a great speaker: funny, animated, sensitive, profound. But even better were the stories he told about the places he'd seen and the people he'd met on his travels. Relin is a foreign correspondant journalist.

You know what, everyone? I want to be a foreign correspondant journalist.
I want to travel, I want to meet people, to immerse myself in different cultures.
And then I want to write about these people and places and cultures so that teenagers back in America can come back from a Gen Ed class they may or may not hate and read about some faraway place and be inspired to see their own world through new eyes.

First of all, though, I want to read Three Cups of Tea.

A Book I'll Probably Write

I spun as soon as I saw him,
hissed to Maddie and to King:
"I'm not going to sit across the table from him and pretend that everything's normal.
I can't."
Stomped down the stairs
Sat down on the first floor
Abnormally, by myself.
King and Maddie followed
Seated themselves across from me,
good friends they are.
I calmed down shortly,
knowing, perhaps, that this wasn't my battle to fight.

I know this about myself: Sometimes I fight other people's battles just for a chance to fight at all.

But it felt personal to me.
I saw the disappointment on Tim's face, the bewilderment on King's.
These are my friends. They're being treated badly by someone.
Fight.

"He's moving out," King said, "he's packing gradually."
"Moving to the apartments to live with Derek and Luke."
Don't say anything, Holly (his face said).
We both knew it was coming.
We knew we wouldn't have him for much longer.

I can see myself writing a book about him in a couple of years.
A book about a boy that I was friends with freshman year, that I fought with sophomore year
A boy I'm not sure I ever really knew at all.

I don't know if I'm sad because I'm losing a friend
or because for once I've found someone I can't read.
And he'll be gone before I get to try again.

I'll see him around campus at first, I'm sure,
haunting the HFA like another musical ghost
thumping the piano in various practice rooms.
Then climbing the stairs with folder clasped tightly beneath arm
Bursting past me through the doors
And out into the night.

He'll transfer early, perhaps,
or graduate with the rest of us.
I'll watch his back as he walks away with his family
I'll wonder if I'll ever see him again
I'll know I probably won't.

Yes, someday I'll certainly write a book
About the boy I almost knew.

Another 2 a.m. Paper

Why do I do this to myself?
Why am I sitting here at 2:02 a.m. typing a 5 page research paper draft that's due tomorrow?
I've had weeks to work on the thing.
I've done pretty much zero research.
I've spent minimum time thinking about my topic (not that it's uninteresting).

The result of this lack of diligence?
Tomorrow, I will doubtlessly be turning in a draft that consists of me vomiting out my opinions on my topic.
It will a be a research-less research paper draft.
Of course, I will have b.s.-ed in my cover letter.
Something like, "I felt it was best to use my draft to discover what I think about my topic, and then implement my research later on."
My writing professor, being an extremely sharp person, will certainly see through said b.s.

Darn it.
You just can't win at 2:06 a.m. 2:07 is looking bright, though...

Anyway, said procrastination was actually not entirely procrastination. Most of it was actually lack of time to work on something long term. It's hard, you know, to make time for a paper that's due in a few weeks when you have a German test tomorrow, and an Honors paper due on Monday, and a 400 page novel to read in six days.

Plus I have work. Lots of work. Information Desk, Writing Room, Social Science Office.
And then there's writing an article a week for the campus newspaper, MCSA meetings, and various campus events.
Also social things. I need to have a life. I'm not one of those people who can just shut themselves off from everyone for a week on end. If I don't have time where I can hang out with my friends and not worry about anything else, I go crazy. Certifiable.

You know, it's suddenly striking me that I've had a lot of negative posts lately. I'm sorry. My life is by no means negative.
For example, today I had my first three intramural badminton matches. I'm afraid I lost all three, but they were all certainly interesting. Badminton has never struck me as a very intense sport, but let me tell you that I was absolutely drenched in sweat by the time I was done. I was also pretty sore; as you know, I'm not a coordinated person, so I was tripping over my own feet and getting my legs tangled and doing awkward lunge-type moves in pursuit of that darn birdie.

Overall, though (and here's the happy part at last), I had a lot of fun. I've always enjoyed playing sports, even though I'm by no means a great athlete. Next time, however, I'd like to win a little bit.

Remember Remember the 5th of November

This is what it feels like to be a girl left out.
This is what if feels like to thump up 4 flights, to meet friends going down, on their way.
This is what it feels like to miss out on a movie you've always wanted to see because of a job.
A job you love, don't get me wrong, but a Friday night job that leaves you stranded behind a desk.
That leaves you either watching episodes of Glee or Project Runway or Survivor.
Or doing homework, but only sometimes.
This is what it feels like to see the boy you like walking in as you walk out.
To wonder if he wonders if you're the kind of girl who doesn't like movies (you're not).
If you're the kind of girl who doesn't like the rush of excitement, the plush-but-uncomfortable seats, the dimming of lights.
If you're the kind of girl who's left out.
But you do, and you're not.
Except for tonight, when you are left out because the movie starts at 9, and you work at 9:50.
You are the kind of girl who can't stand to see only bits and pieces of movies at a time.
It's all or nothing with you.
This is what it feels like to thump up to a dark dorm room, to sit down at a computer (alone), and to type a semi-poem about what if feels like to be left out.
This is Friday night.
Remember Remember the 5th of November.
This is what it feels like to be left out.

Regis, What is This?!

My ears are burning a little bit.
A group of girls on my floor have gathered to sing Disney songs at the top of their lungs in the hallway.
I am trying to memorize about 40 German flashcards.
Excuse the bitterness.
But really, girls?
I hate to be the party pooper, but this has got to stop.
It's a Thursday night!
People (besides me) are studying!
Be quiet!

Here's a funny picture to make up for my non-funny complainings:

A Disparaging Day

I'm feeling a little beaten down by college right now.
Got my Honors essay back today with an A-, but also with comments labeling it as "smart, well observed, and unusually well-written," but also as "superficial, unconnected, and undeveloped."
Truthfully, I've been getting comments such as these on a lot of essays lately. My writing is great, my style is wonderful, but apparently there's not much behind it.
This is obviously extremely troubling for me-to have professors think that I can write pretty, but that I'm ultimately uninsightful and unable to make strong arguments.
I had a bit of a breakdown after Honors, needless to say.
Crying unabashedly, I walked through campus, down behind Spooner and Gay and the Science Building, until I finally realized that I had nowhere to go. In the end I would just have to turn around and head back to the library to make things right.

College can be a surprisingly lonely place sometimes; your friends can sympathize, but in the end they have their own studying to do. Your parents aren't there to tell you that everything is going to be okay, and that when you wake up in the morning your problems will have worked themselves out. In college, you have to work your own problems out before bed. You have to be independent, and you have to bounce back from things whether you want to or not. You always have to try harder next time. You have to write two papers and study for a test in one weekend, because you have no other choice. Because you did have a choice; you chose to pursue higher education. You're paying for your classes. You wanted to be here.

And so I'm trying very hard not to let the A- and disparaging comments get to me too much. I have miles to go before I sleep, and I don't intend to waste time dwelling, unless said dwelling will help me to write a better paper.

Goodnight, blog readers. May your struggles lead to triumphs, and may you find a secluded park bench on which to sit and think whenever you are in need of one.