Holly Gruntner's Aha Moment

Everyone has moments of clarity in their life.

Some people probably have theirs atop mountains and on tropical islands.

Mine tend to happen on buses, during rush hour, when the driver slams on his brakes.

It is then that the real "aha" moment comes: I realize that my body is hurtling into thin air, and that I've neglected to secure a proper handhold.

And so I tumble to the floor, landing, as only I can land, on my butt with my feet in the air.

As I pull myself upright (against the dead weight of a Finals Week backpack, I might add), I begin to laugh hysterically. And the Austrians on the bus are staring at me politely, probably hoping that the crazy American girl will get off at the next stop, and my friend is contorting her face, deciding whether to laugh or look sympathetic, and when my stop finally comes I give everyone on the bus a big smile and make my exit.

Two hours later Salzburg receives her first snow of the winter, and 2.5 hours later I discover a large bruise on my arm.

I decide these are reasons enough to put off my Literature paper for yet another evening.

One and a Half Naps, and Then a Revelation

A warning before I begin: This will probably be a very personal post. And not that people who don't know me really read this blog anyway, but if you don't know me, maybe you should stop now. That's not an order, as this is the internet, (and therefore anything I post here is pretty much fair game) but it is a suggestion.

I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.

I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.

The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.

And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:

You're perfect.

I'm perfect.

The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.

And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!

Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).

I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.

A Character Sketch (With Comments)

Our conversation took place in the "Female Products" aisle of Target.
Where the very best conversations take place.
Kidding.
Anyway, it all struck me as strange at the time. Now it's just ironic.
A few guys had just been caught trying to steal a TV from our store. Apparently they had hit up Walmart recently, so we were anticipating a visit as well. (Note: Target has not asked me to write this, but don't try to steal from us. You'll get caught. And I have a mean roundhouse, thanks to my friend Denise Austin.)
Anyway, he and I were discussing the attempted theft while pulling boxes of tampons forward on the shelves.
And he went on and on about how whenever someone stole from our store, it really rattled him. How it made him jumpy and nervous, and how, most of all, it made him not trust people. He talked a lot about that. Not trusting people.
As I pride myself on my deep faith in humanity, I didn't empathize. I simply pitied him a little bit for living what I saw as a cold existence. This too is ironic.

But still, despite his revelation to me in the Feminine Products aisle, he was someone to be depended on in our store. If the lanes needed backup, he was the first to respond. If someone needed a team lift, if someone couldn't find an item for a guest, if someone didn't know how to do something on their PDA, he was the go-to guy. He was just a high schooler, but he was relied on by people much older.

The third bit about him is that he is the one I wrote about last summer, the one who gave my car a jump that afternoon in the Target parking lot. It was after my very first day of work, I had never talked to him in my life, and yet there he was, asking me if I could use some help.
For the year that's passed since that parking lot act of kindness, I have held it up as the nicest thing a stranger has done for me. I have asked myself if I would do the same for someone I didn't know. I have hung the act over the person's head as a red badge of sorts, admiring him for it and defining him by it.

And then I came back to work for the summer, and found out that he had been fired from Target for stealing. Rumor has it that when a guest would purchase an ipod, he would take two out of the case, and drop the extra into his pocket. Rumor has it that he had been doing it for a while. The person who told me all of this also told me that he (car jumper, ipod thief) is some kind of genius. I gave the teller my wryest raised eyebrows: Yes, because truly smart people steal ipods from their places of employment.

When I first heard this news, I was shocked.
Now I'm purely disgusted.
It makes me sick to think that he got a job at Target. That he got to know the wonderful people who work here, that he gained their trust. That he dared to build himself a reputation as a good kid, as someone who was helpful and dependable. That he jumped people's cars and told people sob stories about his cold view of humanity. That he did all of this and then stole from us. When I told this to the guy who told me the theft story, he rolled his eyes a little: Holly, we didn't lose any money by it. They got it all back. Besides, it wouldn't have come out of our paychecks anyway.
Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. Because there is absolutely no deeply immoral aspect to the situation that is more troubling than the financial aspects.

I lay on my stomach here in my bed, laptop propped on pillow, and I think back to that day in the Tampon Aisle (who're we kidding, here; that's what it should be called) and I feel (oh so ironically,) like maybe he was right all along. Maybe people can't be trusted. Maybe people don't have bits of bad and bits of good swimming around inside their chests. Maybe it has to be all one or the other.

And then I look into myself and I see both. But the good, the good is always trying to stand over the bad, to put it into the shade forever. And I think that maybe other people's chests are similar. That they hold both, that they hold everything. And that even when the bad gets a trump it doesn't mean that the good isn't following behind with the ace of something.

I think that perhaps jumping a car in an afternoon parking lot shouldn't be overshadowed by a petty theft. That I shouldn't let it be.

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.

This American Life

I first discovered the This American Life podcast through some strategic eavesdropping. I was tabling for the MCSA elections when Kathy, who was sitting next to me, began discussing it with a voter. They didn't say much about it, just that it was an addicting podcast that had some interesting (and humorous stories). As soon as I got back to my dorm room, I subscribed to it on itunes.

I didn't actually listen to the program seriously until a few days ago, however. Why? Oh, I suppose because I'm accustomed to using my ipod for music alone, and had a tough time even considering just listening to people talk instead. Also because I typically listen to my ipod when I'm doing something and just need some background noise. I thought I'd probably have trouble concentrating on a story someone was telling in my ears while I was also reading, writing, etc.

The perfect opportunity for T.A.L. came up at work on Tuesday. It was about 5 a.m. and my job was to scurry about the store dusting product and cleaning shelves. It was mundane work that certainly needed an accompanying story.

I had a few different episodes of T.A.L. to choose from. I chose well for the first one. It was called Behind Enemy Lines. The first interview they conducted was with with a former clergyman of the Catholic Church who had spent years at various parishes replacing clergy who had been accused of sexually abusing parishioners, or with sexual misconduct in general (although ironically enough, for clergyman who have taken a vow of celibacy, any sort of sexual conduct is misconduct), and had been thus withdrawn. This particular clergyman's instructions were to basically go into each parish and to completely ignore the crimes committed by his predecessor, all while performing the typical Mass-saying, baby-baptizing, funeral-presiding, marriage-making duties of a priest.

Eventually, the clergyman grew tired of pretending that these gross incidents weren't happening, and he quit the clergy and began to work with a lawyer who was helping sexually abused victims to sue the Church.

It was quite an interesting story, and it made me (once again) question the Catholic Church. I have my faith, yes. I won't go into it here, but I believe in God, and I have a continually developing relationship with Him. I have always liked going to Church; there is a reverence and tradition about a Catholic Mass that is very powerful, I think. But in recent years, all of the things I like about the Catholic Church have been eclipsed somewhat by all of the things that are wrong about the Catholic Church.

It's an institution. It truly is. Has been for centuries and centuries. There are rules one must follow, there are expectations that go beyond the Bible, and there is a deep and festering (and mostly ignored) implication that your loyalty and adherence to the Catholic Church is more important than your relationship with God, and that where the Church stands in politics is where every churchgoing person should stand as well. That is truly wrong.

I remember an incident back in 2008 when I was at Mass with my family and the priest started preaching against Barack Obama, and in support of John McCain. My entire family was very very close to getting up and walking out of that church. Some people did, actually. I realize that there are biases with every parish, and that priests are human just like the rest of us, with just as many opinions. But what I don't understand is how politics fit in with God. What place do they have under a holy roof? What right does any church have to imply, or even to assume that voting for a certain candidate will earn you favor in heaven? I hardly think that Saint Peter checks your political affiliations at the pearly gates.

A line uttered by the (former) clergyman in that T.A.L. podcast that especially struck me was this: "After awhile, I realized that the Catholic Church is not capable of change."

And it isn't. It has resisted any sort of change for centuries, while clenching any type of power deep in its Vatican-rooted fist. The thing is, I'm not proud of the history of the Catholic Church. Selling indulgences? Exchanging them for favors? Persecution? I'm even hard pressed to pinpoint any good the Church has ever done for the world.

I know this all may sound sort of harsh, but I don't feel that it's unwarranted. It's not written on a whim, either; I truly have been pondering all of this for years now. The death of Pope John Paul and the rise of Benedict has especially influenced my thoughts on the matter. John Paul was a truly truly good person who did good things in the world. I don't pretend to know a lot about his policies, but I admired his character greatly. I don't know about Benedict. I just don't know if his values, if his priorities are sound. And with a pope, you should know. It's rather an important position.

Well, I think I'll be done for the night. Thanks for listening, and I hope I haven't offending anyone in any way, especially because I believe there is truth in what I've written here.

I don't know that I'll ever leave the Catholic Church. I think I would if I ever felt like there was absolutely no hope left, and if I stopped getting God out of the Masses, but I also think that switching churches is a big decision, and not one that should be made lightly, nor without complete certainty.

For now, I'll just sit in my pew and listen and look for God in the rafters above the altar.

Talking to F. Scott Fitzgerald (and praying he won't answer back)

I had a bad night last night. It was one of those nights where I suddenly began doubting my abilities as a writer. I was reading these F. Scott quotes online, and he was talking about writing and how it should be done and who should do it. It really upset me, actually, and I reread the story I was working on extremely critically and considered just giving up on it. I remember at one point I rolled my eyes towards the heavens (and F. Scott, I assumed) and said quietly, "What do you know? I know you were a great writer, and that as a result you obviously know quite a lot about your craft, but what right do you have to define my career, or even my state of mind concerning my career?" After that I rolled over and read my book until I fell asleep.

The lesson here? Well, there are a few.
1. Talking out loud at 1 a.m. to long dead authors is probably the first sign of madness.
2. No one (dead or alive) should be able to make you feel a certain way about yourself and your abilities. It's perfectly natural to have influences, but in the end it should just be you and your talent standing alone and confidant.

There's my nightly revelation. Let's move on to some morning talk. Early, early morning talk, that is.
Tomorrow Tim and I are driving down to Morris to help incoming freshman register for classes. We're doing it as part of our OGL (orientation group leader) duties.
I'm excited for this. Not only will it be nice to see Tim again, but it will be extremely nice to be back in Morris. I miss it there. I really, really do.
What aren't I excited for? Waking up at 3:40 a.m. in order to be at the school where we're meeting at 5:20 a.m. in order to be in Morris at 9:00 a.m. But it'll all be worth it, I think.

Do you know why you shouldn't assume?
Because it makes an ass out of you and me (look at the word).
Excuse the profanity (my first in this blog, perhaps?), but I recently figured out this saying, and I wanted to clarify for anyone else who's missed the boat on it. Clever, isn't it?

In Which Fun is Had

I've started writing again, thank goodness. It began with that story I mentioned being inspired to write a few days ago. Well, I haven't exactly worked on that story today. I've just begun something new, and I think this one may be it.

You know what? There's this boy I know at Morris. A lot of things he says annoy me, upset me, and generally make me indignant and (slightly) pouty. But the thing about this boy is that once I'm alone in my room, staring at a wall, everything he has said suddenly strikes me as incredibly (and sometimes painfully) truthful.

For example, he was reading my blog one day, and he told me that my writing was good here, that I was clearly having fun with my posts. He asked me if I had fun while writing my research papers.
Huh.
I do have fun writing my blog. And while my writing may be incredibly sloppy and unpolished at times, I think it's fairly obvious that I enjoy doing it. So maybe (I thought) if I begin stories with the intent to just enjoy what I write instead of with an intense desire to write something "really great," I'll actually write better.
It's a lovely revelation, and I only hope that it will hold. If Dan Humphrey can be published in the New Yorker at 16, then I can get published somewhere at 19.

Enjoy the night.

The Times, They Are A'Changin

What can I say?
I've been busy unpacking my stuff since Wednesday night.
When I take a break I lie back on my bed and it seems that for the first time, the four turquoise walls of my bedroom form a box.
Despite new additions over the years, my room is trapped in high school, with smatterings of middle and elementary throughout.
And I'm trapped with it.
How is it that you can live away from home for a year, see different things, meet different people, do something entirely new every day, and then come back home and fall into the same pattern you've lived in your whole life?
Now, I'm not saying that it's not nice to be home, or that I've grown tired of my family, or anything like that.
I'm just saying that now that I've broken out into the world a bit, I want to keep drilling at that hole until I can step right through.

I have orientation for my new job at Target this Tuesday. Once I begin work, I'm hoping I'll feel less restless. It will be interesting to work at night, I think. And while stocking shelves is not exactly my dream job, I do love to put things in order. Heck, for $9.00 an hour, I'd do just about anything. This is study abroad money I'm earning, and I don't intend to shirk until I have a nice long stint in Europe under my belt.

Finished rereading The Diary of Anne Frank last night. What an amazing, amazing young woman. It's at the same time wondrous and terribly sad to think about all that she could have done in the world had she lived. Though I suppose that by writing such a beautiful diary, she did do a lot in the world. Someday I'd like to visit Amsterdam (besides the airport), and see the Anne Frank House.
As of right now, I'll settle for watching the movie based on her diary.

P.S. In case you were wondering, I don't know what I'll read next. I have my bookshelf organized perfectly; all 450 of my books are layered based on genre, reading level, and whether or not I've read them before. The books I haven't read are stacked enticingly in front. Now I just have to pick one.

"The Time Has Come," (The Walrus Said)

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

I don't know about talking, but I feel like I have many things to write about this fine morning. Last night was certainly a night of revelations, some of which I will now reveal to you.

Before I begin, however, I would like to briefly ponder why last night was so thought-provoking. One reason could be that late at night something happens to me. I don't know how or why, I just know that night makes me alive, makes me think and dream about things that don't cross my mind during the day. Another reason could be simply that I'm 19, I'm foolish, and my high revelations seem to me the most important things in the world. Call me selfish, but if I may, I think that I can still use adolescence as an excuse for being nonsensical.

So here are the vaunted revelations, in no particular order. I do hope that you're not too disappointed in them, or that they at least remind you of your own thoughts.

1. I meddle way too much in other people's business; I get myself involved in situations that have nothing to do with me, and sometimes I even make things worse by fiddling with them. I think that I meddle because when a problem arises, even if I'm only on the outskirts, I have the hapless talent of being able to see the solution; of visualizing how things can be worked out, and exactly what I can do to enact that resolution. Unfortunately, most of the time things don't turn out the way I think they should, mainly because people are not chess pieces that I can move about a board and bend to my will. This of course frustrates me immensely. As someone once told me, I'm more concerned with getting what I want than most people are. I suppose that this kind of persistence can either be a fault or a virtue, but lately it's been purely a fault that needs to be corrected immediately.

2. Relationships are complicated. They really, really are, and it's incredibly difficult to discern what other people are thinking and feeling. Sometimes it's even difficult to get them to tell you what they're thinking and feeling. Often the best thing to do is to know yourself as well as you possibly can and to not make assumptions about anyone else.

3. I do not believe in apathy. I don't think that it's possible to be indifferent to anything. It's possible to see both sides of a situation, but it's not possible to not have an opinion one way or another. There's always some sort of inclination.

There you go. Surprisingly (maybe?) there was a lot more last night, but important things seem to fade as the sun gets higher in the sky. At least for me they do...

The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done--
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun!"

The Easy Way Out (Not That One)

Yes, I'm back to lists. But this one should be a bit more interesting than 'things I did today' (not to say, of course that I won't use that one again).

I recently wrote a Science fiction story just for fun, and to experiment with a different genre. But I noticed a few things about my writing process and about writing in general. I mean, what happened to being able to crank out a poem in about five minutes? Everything rhymes...cheesy title...big embellished signature at the bottom...done! Things have definitely gotten a bit more complicated.

THINGS I KNOW ABOUT WRITING:
1. It's almost impossible to write a story in one sitting. Sometimes (actually, most of the time), it's necessary to walk away, do something else for a few hours, and come back with a fresh perspective.

2. Criticism stinks. It's really horrible to have someone else telling you what's bad about your piece. But you know what? It honestly, truly works. And as a matter of fact, deep down, you already knew what was wrong without being told.

3. No one will love your story if you don't love your story. Don't ever send something out that you don't have complete faith in.

4. Science fiction isn't excruciatingly boring (all of the time).

5. I've heard people say that you should never write what you know. I would say always write what you know. Include any and all personal experiences, friends, pets, names, quotes, random stories...It makes everything seem more realistic.

6. Write about what you want to write about, not what someone else wants to hear. Unless of course it's a school assignment. Then I would say do what you're told.

7. Write something you would want to read. Endless descriptions may be a blast to write, but no one want to slog though that while reading.

8. Write everyday. No matter what. Even if it's just a journal entry or a one paragraph description or a haiku. Write something. And keep it all.

That's all. Sorry if I sound really patronizing, but I'm not trying to preach. I've just recently had a sort of epiphany and I wanted to share it. Also, everything on the list is personal. I think that writing is different for every single person. There is no such thing as 'method writing.'

That's all once again. Good night.

The Meaning of Life is....

Just kidding. I have no idea yet. Well, perhaps an inkling...

HOLLY'S INKLINGS ABOUT THE MEANING OF LIFE (this list is quite spontaneous-enjoy):
1. Happiness (but only if you're happy doing nice things, like helping people or writing. If you're happy robbing banks, then maybe you should try for unhappiness.)

2. That early-morning-fresh-dewy-floral smell (go outside before seven and inhale. Then get back to me.)

3. People (people are wonderful. We're just amazing, amazing creatures. Sometimes I just look at big crowds and wish that I could know what each person's life is like, what they eat for breakfast in the morning, and what their ambitions are. It kills me that I can't know.)

4. Religion (no matter what yours is, everyone has to believe in something.)

5. Being yourself (nothing better, folks.)

6. Laughter (try it.)

7. Whatever you want. Just live.

That turned out a bit more preachy than I intended, but you get the idea. Sorry I haven't written in so long. It's been quite a big couple of weeks with state and the new term and other such momentous events.

Miss America

I just finished watching the 2009 Miss America competition. Honestly, I used to think that it was just a stupid pageant with a bunch of idiots prancing around, but now I think it's more than that. They are intelligent, ambitious women who want to make a difference in this country. Sure, they do that ridiculous wave and cry a bit too much, but it's worth it if it earns them a scholarship and a chance to be a role model for millions of girls.

Tomorrow I'm off to my old school (St. John's) to judge the middle school science fair. It should be fun. A bit weird to be back, but fun.

One thing you don't know about me

This seems like kind of an odd topic, since obviously I've been writing these blogs for a few months now, but I've finally decided to address the actual physical act.

I've been writing since before I could write, and I've been reading even longer. When I was two or so, my parents used to hear noises coming from my room late at night. They'd open my door to find that I had climbed out of my crib and was sitting amidst a pile of books I had pulled off my bookshelf, just paging through each one. I didn't learn to read until around first grade when everyone else did. Books just always held a great mystery to me. There was always such a draw. There still is. Sometimes I feel like everything I know and think I got from a book somewhere, though I like to imagine that a bit of it is just me.

I dictated my first poem to my mom when I was three years old:
Raindrops fall from the sky.
Soft love.

That's all it was, but my mom kept it, along with an illustration I did. Poetry has since been replaced by other types of writing, and I like to think that that two line poem is the best I'll ever compose.

Now as I'm nearing the age where I need to decide what I want to do with my life, I realize that I've known all along. Writing is the only thing I've ever really wanted to do. My love of books has somehow translated into an intense desire to write them for myself.

I don't know if I'll be good-I certainly hope so, but I don't really know. I only know that it's the only thing I can ever be happy doing, and that it's the hardest thing in the world.

I won't make a lot of money, but that'll be okay. I can live in a box so long as I have paper and pencil. And a bookshelf.

Sorry about this tangent, but I was reading back over my old posts, and all of my "things you don't know about me" entries. It just seemed kind of silly that one of the most important things about me hadn't been covered. So now it has been, and you can go back to sleep.