A little light Newness

I've become increasingly bored with my current screen name, Problematic. Not because it's bad or I no longer identify as her, but because I've used it for so long it's become old. I am choosing between two names, but I'd like your input.

Drumroll, please.

The first option is:

Lady (June) Whimsy

And the second:

April Shower

Please comment and tell me which you prefer, and why. If you've got another idea, tell me! :)

Sincerely,
B

Amateur

Last Friday, I hit the town with some friends to celebrate someone's birthday. Least you get the wrong impression, by "hitting the town" I really mean "let's go iceskating tonight when the prices are reduced because no one in their right minds goes ice skating on Friday night."

We got there a little early to rent skates and lessons were ending. A bunch of small children, mostly girls, were skating around in miniature skate costumes practicing jumps and spins and extensions that I once did in ballet but would be entirely incapable of performing on an ice arena. A few older women were there, helping to coach the munchkins, and getting in a couple moves of their own.

There were two particular girls who stood out to me as I stood by the side of the rink. The first was a little girl who looked so innocent you just knew she was hiding something. She was, at most, two and a half feet tall - no more than maybe three years old. Bundled up with coats and a hat and a couple scarfs over her pretty skating dress, it looked like, should she fall, she would just bounce softly off the ice. She toddled and teetered around the arena, performing a routine - complete with spins, twinkle toes, and a little pose at the end - led by the other woman who had caught my attention.

This girl looked around my age, and had a very pleasant face. It was soft and amiable, but at the moment I saw her, had an expression of fixed concentration. You see, while she was not helping the toddler, she was practicing her own routine, which the toddler continued to imitate. The older girl was very elegant, moving across the rough ice serenely.

I am a very competitive person. I challenge myself to do things excellently, even if I do not win or gain in any way: It pleases me to be excellent. As I stood watching the munchkins, I started feelign that desire for excellence rising up in me, especially as I watched the toddler and her teacher. I want to be able to skate like that. I'd love to be that elegant and move with such serenity.

Well, the lesson ended, and my friends and I were allowed to step on the ice. It was roughed up by all the spins practiced on it just before, but it didn't matter much because our skates were so dull they could have slipped on anything. I took a turn around the rink, tottering and holding on to the wall. Soon, however, a thing or two about skating came back to me. I'd taken a few lessons when I was younger, and was pretty pleased I could remember it.

As I slid my way around the rink, gaining momentum and a sense of confidence, I had another Big Idea hit me. It crept up from behind and just kind of jumped me, with no prior warning.

It's okay to be an amateur.

I'd like to point out that there is a small rebel inside of me sitting in a corner and shooting nasty glares at me as I type. 


I wanna be perfect! I wanna do it right! I'm going to be amazing at everything I do even if it kills me. SO THERE! Just see if I have a life! I'm going to be flawless!

I have one thing to say to myself: Shut up. Think about it for a second.

Ice-skating is most fun when it's accompanied with plenty of friends, a couple spills, and all the weak-ankled, wobbling that comes with not knowing how to do it. It's a romantic activity to be done with your significant other, it's a signature of winter, and if done correctly, it's good fun.


Do you think an Olympic figure skater ever goes wibbling and wobbling around a public rink with some friends, racing and trying to skate backwards, before retiring to the side for hot chocolate and Hot Pockets? One word: NOTACHANCE. (That's one word. There are no spaces).


Do you think a concert pianist ever sits down with some friends, fumbles around on the keys, plays something that unexpectedly sounds good (with no application of years of music theory and experience), and then have everyone chime in on their instruments and have a good, old fashioned, not-always-sounding-good, jam session? Unlikely.

 Do you think a clothing designer ever goes into a thrift store, picks all the ugliest clothes off the rack, and then has fun laughing with friends at the ridiculous combonations. Probably not.


My point is, while it is admirable, even best to strive for excellence and mastery in areas you're interested in, there is nothing wrong with not perfecting everything. Goals; yes. Obssession for perfection: no.

Imminentizing the Eschaton

A few weeks ago, I was talking with my friend Hannah at school. Not this Hannah, (though she's pretty awesome and you should go read her blog) but a different Hannah. They're pretty similar, in a couple ways, but let's move on from this hang up.

Hannah and I were working late at school in the MIDI lab on a project. The MIDI lab closed at 7:00 pm, so we packed up and left to the bus stop. However, the buses stop running every ten minutes at 7:00pm, so we had a wait of about 30 minutes before our respective buses came.

Naturally, we fell to talking in the interim. Subjects included everything from classes to weekend plans, and then finally, to personalities. Hannah is a self-described "quirky person," a fact to which I can easily attest. On the day in question, she was wearing, in addition to a skirt, heels, and flowing top, an American flag scarf. She has worn similarly unusual clothing articles to class previously. But it was not her clothing that made me include her in this post.

While talking about unusual interests, my classmate said something to the effect of :

"A life without an obsession isn't life." 

Just think about that for a second. If you like, rephrase it a bit.

"A life without passion isn't life." 

For something entirely different, let me tell you a little story. When I was still in high school, I took a Rhetoric class taught by a pretty awesome seminary graduate, musician, and person. It was one of the ongoing jokes in class that "Little Tommy runs with scissors, doesn't play with others, and imminentizes the eschaton."

What, you may ask, is "imminentizing the eschaton?" Well, imminent means "near" or "close:, so imminentizing would be to make something draw near. Eschaton is simply heaven or utopia. To imminentize the eschaton, then, would be to attempt to draw heaven, or utopia, close to earth.

The problem with imminentizing the eschaton is that it doesn't tend to work. Whether it's European interpretations of communism or mid-20th century eugenics, man's interpretations of the Eschaton and their abilities to bring it down to earth remain deeply flawed.

Hence, when little Tommy imminentizes the eschaton, it appears on his report card alongside running with scissors and licking paste.

The thing is, I've been thinking a lot about how this is not necessarily a bad thing. After all, historical attempts to bring heaven to earth have failed not so much because heaven is not meant to be on earth, but rather, their version of heaven is not meant to be. When approached theoretically, communism is a pretty brilliant idea. Don't get me wrong - every time we've ever tried to apply it, it's failed miserably - but if you take the pesky realm of reality out of the picture, communism is great! The idea of sharing everything in common is the same as what inspired early Christians in Jerusalem.

The very idea of heaven or utopia is peaceful. Not the drug induced peace of the hippy, but the pure and lasting peace that can only come through God's grace. There is something inherently wrong about co-opting earthly authority to administer one person's innately flawed vision of utopia. This is not even considering that utopia, by definition, exists nowhere. But anyways. If it is really heaven, it will have no need of strict rules, harsh retributions, or policing. Communism will always fail because it is foreign to human nature, and moreover, the force required to perpetuate it goes against the very idea of Heaven on Earth.

I digress. To sum the very wordy point I've made, the reason attempts to immimentize the eschaton have failed so spectacularly in the past is because humans try to use earthly authority to enforce utopia.


"Sing like no one's listening, love like you've never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like its heaven on earth." [The internet attributes this one to Mark Twain, but we all know how trustworthy the internet is on these things].

I would submit to you, dear readers, that the real sign of a Christian is how they imminentize the eschaton wherever they go. We are imago dei, the living representation of the Church, and we are to spread our joy wherever we go. Sounds suspiciously like bringing heaven to earth. If we are really the Body of Christ, then "Wherever we go, that's where the party's at {Newsboys}." Ahem. To approach it more seriously, the duty of the church is, in part, to bring a foretaste of heaven to all still living on Earth. Like an appetizer, our behavior should be a preview of things to come - as far as it is up to us, live in peace with all men.

There's one question that's been running through my head these past few weeks. Do I imminentize the eschaton? Do I live as though heaven were on earth? Can I truly love half-heartedly and claim to be a good representation of God's love for the world?

So to conclude this very long post, I would ask you: Do you long to bring heaven to earth?

The Musician's Dilemma

Here's a thought for you. Of all the arts, music is unique in that the music heard by the audience is not the music the musician hears. No, I'm not talking about those Beethovenesque composers who hear the music inside their head and then write it down. I mean the physical performance of music.

As I practice violin, my mom or I will occasionally comment that "Oh, Ignatius [my violin] is really singing today."  Mom's comment never fails to make me feel good about my playing, but I have absolutely no idea what she hears.

What mom means and what I mean when we talk about my violin singing are two entirely different things. I can only assume that mom's reference means that Iggy sounds very rich and full, and comparatively well played. I don't hear that sound though. When Iggy "sings" for me, it feels as though he's breathing. The gritty sounds the bow makes as I draw it across the strings; the feeling of the string vibrating underneath my fingertips, the booming, hollow sound as the chamber amplifies the sound of the strings - these all add up to the experience of a violinist. I hear surface noise and notes: mom hears music.

All of the factors that I experience as a violinist add up to the sound that mom hears and calls "singing," but some aspects are amplified and some die away. From six inches away, you can hear the surface noise, but remove yourself by three feet , and all you hear is a sweet, sweet melody.

To approach it another way, when someone first hears a recording of their voice, they almost always feel shocked. I sound like **that**? NO WAY. As speakers, we feel the air forcing sound out of our throats, hear the sound reverberating through our nasal cavities and mouth, hear the small noises made as the words are formed, and feel the entire process from start of breath to formation of sentences. Our experience is unique: while everyone else hears pretty much the same voice, only the speaker (or singer) hears the parts before they're combined as a whole.

When a musician plays guitar, they hear the sound of the pick slipping and grabbing the strings, feel the frets, hard and unforgiving under their fingers, and feel the body of the guitar resonating in time to their picks and strokes.

If this is true, and I strongly believe it is, it raises an interesting question.

Musicians frequently speak of "being in love with their music," but they don't really hear the music they make. So does this mean that they're in love with the idea of making music, or are they in love with the performance? More specifically, are we enamored with an idea (that other people will enjoy what we make), or are we addicted to the creative process? Are we focused on the enjoyment of an audience, or the sheer power of skill  used well?

Blog 2.0

I used to post all the time, but then I took an arrow to the knee.

Ahem.

I am planning out a project to get the blog juices flowing again: It seems that because I have a relatively small social circle at the moment, or at least a small circle of socials who socialize me regularly, I haven't had as much food for thought.

Actually, that's something of a lie. I'm taking a pre-law class this quarter that has sparked some rather thrilling controversies in class. However, real life seems to be swallowing the internet in this area, because every time I've tried to sit and recount one of my favorite arguments, the energy just drains out of me, and I stare placidly and blankly at the screen trying to find some witty thing to say.

It's getting to the point that I may have to force myself to do some sort of challenge and punish myself for the inevitable failure. I don't know specifics yet, but it's seems like this could  be a thing.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the new music and background. I decided that in honor of a sort-of-spring returning to the Great Northwet, I would update everything. There are still some things I haven't figured out how to fix - for some reason, the "About Me" and "Contact" pages are producing doubles, but hey - New Background!

I'll talk to y'all later,
B

Sidelined by life

Well, I'm back, even if only momentarily. I've had so many great ideas for new posts, but life has been catching up with me in the past few months. I took calculus and a pre-med class last quarter, and this quarter a lovely pre-law class is glaring threateningly down my neck. Friends, illness, school, and extra-curiculars are all regulars on my handy-dandy list o' excuses, but I also had to complete the second step of applying to my dream school's honors program. This second step consists of ten questions that must be answered "thoroughly, as to provide a view of the prospective student, both as an individual, and academically." Some were easy: "List three reasons you would be a good fit with the Honors Institute" and "describe a time your core beliefs were recently challenged," took very little time to write.

The real kicker was "Excluding the Bible, what are your three favourite books? Explain why you chose these three." All told, I think I spent a good 2-3 hours trying to answer this question. And today's post is my answer to that question, sort of. Enjoy.

This question is very difficult for me to answer: I have spent at least an hour trying to decide my three favorite books. I have an advanced case of bibliophilia, and I don’t “enjoy” books. I live in them; swim through them; smell, taste, touch and savor them until they become an intrinsic part of my personhood. Even after removing the Bible from this consideration, I have a sheet with the names of 16 of my absolute favorite books sitting in my lap. To choose a miserly three would be to ignore the impact of so many other books on my life and my thinking. Who am I kidding? This current list is the result of staring at my reading list, pondering which three to choose: Do I choose philosophical books, written by the likes of Jean-Jacques Rosseau or Aristotle to impress the faculty reading my answers? Or should I choose the autobiographies and histories that have inspired me to fight dragons where ever I find them? Should I consider the works of fiction that, by reflecting God’s Eternal Story, have invaded my dreams and imaginings? How can I go about pruning the already-abbreviated list to my advantage?

In the end, I have decided to include the books which have already had, or are likely to create, a lasting impression in my life. Though these three are by no means exhaustive, I hope they can give you greater insight into the stories that stick with me.

My first influential book is “Orthodoxy” by G.K. Chesterton. This could give you an idea of how influential Chesterton has been in my worldview: Four of the final list of sixteen books were authored by Chesterton. Were I to open ‘Orthodoxy’ to my favorite passage, I would have to read the entire book. Whether Chesterton is describing Christianity as a carriage pulled by galloping horses or a rock held in balance by its extremes; or discussing insanity, fairy tales, and courage, ‘Orthodoxy’ has irrevocably changed the way I view my Savior and my God.  Before reading this book, I had always viewed Christianity as a dusty, dried-up, moderate religion that discouraged its practitioners from imaginings, from passions, and from extravagance. My mental image of the body of Christ was akin to one of the Pilgrims from William Bradford’s journals: sober, stale, and not very interesting. However, Chesterton opened my eyes to the extravagances of my faith. “This is the thrilling romance of Orthodoxy. People have fallen into a foolish habit of speaking of orthodoxy as something heavy, humdrum, and safe. There never was anything so perilous or so exciting as orthodoxy. It was sanity: and to be sane is more dramatic than to be mad. … To have fallen into any of the fads from Gnosticism to Christian Science would indeed have been obvious and tame. But to have avoided them all has been one whirling adventure; and in my vision the heavenly chariot flies thundering through the ages, the dull heresies sprawling and prostrate, the wild truth reeling but erect.”

I am having a hard time choosing between Victor Hugo’s “Les Miserables” and Jane Porter’s “The Scottish Chiefs” for the second influential book. Both sparked my imagination in entirely different ways. While they are, ultimately, the stories of a man making his way through life, their respective scopes are quite separate. “Les Miserables” is the story of one man’s journey to shape his and his adoptive daughter’s future, mostly unrelated to the historical conflicts occurring at the time; “The Scottish Chiefs” is about one man’s journey to shape his country’s future without regard for his own safety. “Les Miserables” concerns itself with the seemingly mundane: one anonymous man’s life and goals. “The Scottish Chiefs” is more grandiose: true, it tells the story of William Wallace, but its subject is an important historical figure.

However, both follow one man’s quest to change what may be considered “the inevitable.” And whether it’s the image of Wallace blowing his bugle and leaping on the rocky craigs of Scotland; or Valjean staggering his way through the Parisian sewers to rescue Marius; Wallace’s escape from prison; or Javert’s leap into the water; the two stories inspire me to fight for the good, the true, and the noble. These men’s struggles set my imagination on fire, and tell me to never settle for the mediocre.

My final influential book is a little more obscure than the others I’ve mentioned. When I was just learning to read, my Dad and I read this book on the sly: to this day, Mom has never truly appreciated “And God Created Squash” by Martha Hickman. It’s a colorfully illustrated re-telling of the Creation story, but rather than focusing on the actual events of that first week, “And God Created Squash” looks instead to God’s delight in His creation. The days are mentioned, but, as the title implies, it is mainly about Squash: how it’s delicious to say; how it’s both a plant and a sound and an action. This book taught me how to experience the world in a different way. It showed me in the most powerful terms possible for a five-year-old that the world was full of wonderful things; that God created all of it; and that God takes as much delight in His creation as we should. It taught me to marvel, to observe, and to be made giddy by the wonderful things we interact with every day. It is safe to say that I will still be reading “And God Created Squash” well into old age.

Dwarves

 This is mostly for my own entertainment. Mocking myself is one of my specialties. If you dislike self-centered commentary, I have to ask, why are you even reading my blog?

To say that Problematic has a hard time running would be an understatement. I have always sympathized with Gimli, but in this area especially. There are less than fond memories residing in the dark recesses of my mind of the time my youth soccer coaches tried to move me from the right forward position to a center midfielder. I generally lasted for three laps up and down the field before getting horrible cramps and pondering Seppuku on the ball.

Now, despite those ill-fated interactions with midfield defense, my inability to run has never really bothered me all that much. I was an antisocial little tweenling, and once I discovered speech and debate, it seemed to me like I would never have to run again.

Well, I'm pretty sure you all know how this turns out. You see, Ultimate Frisbee and Capture the Flag were, and are, rather closely-held rituals among the forensors of my region. Got twenty five minutes before the next round? Pull out the ol' discus and let's get cracking.

I tend to avoid such events. I mean, no use embarrassing myself by curling up in the middle of the pitch in the fetal position, gasping for breath like an asphyxiating fish, right? Then my speech club started planning Capture the Flag, Ultimate Frisbee, Freeze Tag, and Water Fight events in the middle of summer, and since I was starting to outgrow most of my antisocialness, I would attend. And get soaked. One particular summer, I can clearly recall this:


I'm jogging along in the park, watching the toddlers trip past me, feeling pretty good about this fight. I've got a styrofoam cup and a water bottle, all ready to defend myself against any would-be attackers. The Professor and Cassandra and Mrs. Incredible and Calvin and all the other heavy-hitters at these things are busy playing catch-me-if-you-can over on the other side of the wide grassy space. Maybe I'll escape this time with minimum wetness. The world is good. I've been jogging for over five minutes, and I think my stamina might really be improving. 


That's when I hear the rumbling of the distant water fight grow louder. I turn, and see the Professor barreling towards me with a two gallon jug (which used to contain ice tea) brandished aloft. I can see the now-depleted tea bags sloshing inside with the water. There is no mistaking the Prof's intent. I break into a sprint. I sustain it for a minute. And then, my legs give notice. They refuse to run any more. As I slow back into my snail-racing jog, I turn to meet my fate. Time seems to go into slow motion as the Professor slowly upturns the two gallons over my head. To add insult to injury, he's smiling maniacally the entire time. 


Granted, I got my revenge after the fight by pouring styrofoam cups full of water on top of his head and giggling as his hair gel dripped out, but that was small comfort in light of the streams of water falling from the hem of my shorts.

Before continuing this scintillating conversation about physical limits, I should probably explain precisely why I cannot run. There is a reason, and it's not because I'm too lazy to try. When I was younger (see 7-12) I attended a ballet studio. This was not your little community ballet school that's all about inspiring little girls and letting big girls get out their itch to dance. It was run by a former Principal Ballerina from the Kirov, and it's purpose was to prepare young dancers for a career in classical ballet. I loved it - at my peak, I was attending classes every night of the week, usually for four or more hours. By the end, I had gone en pointe, was performing in ballets and basically living my dream.

About six months after I first went en pointe, my teacher had me come to her office. She told my mother and I that the pain I was experiencing from this new style was not normal, and if I was to continue attending her studio, I would be required to visit a podiatrist to ensure that I didn't give myself permanent injury.

To make a long story short, I was out of the program within nine months of discovering that, in addition to the additional bones and bonespurs within my ankles and the balls of my feet, I had five different acute inflammations. Surgery was too expensive to correct my feet, and the podiatrist gave me a list of prohibited activities. I cannot tap dance, do jazz and modern, or any activity that involves repetitive pressure stress to feet. And in case you didn't catch it, running is repetitive stress to my feet.

I have found over the years that most of my friends subscribe to the "granola" theory of exercise: If you can't do it without machines, you shouldn't do it for exercise. Need to get that blood pumping? Go for an invigorating run in the early hours and be green.

Being myself, I have invariably felt pressured to go with on one of those nice, easy, "it's just two miles" cross-country jogs in the wee hours with my friends. Why lounge around their house for thirty minutes, feeling like a lazy slob when I could spend the next thirty minutes in exquisite agony, making up more and more ridiculous excuses for why I'm falling behind?

Well, suffice it to say, I have recently come to grips with the fact that I will probably never be able to run. I'll just have to comfort myself with Gimli and maybe enjoy a nice cold ginger ale.

Blessings

I drove down to an NCFCA tournament on Saturday to see some of my old friends. It was so lovely! Besides catching up with many of my friends, the entire atmosphere was very uplifting.

It feels like Saturday was, in some ways, a little gift from God. It was such a blessing to hear people praying, not cursing with God' name. To talk with my guy friends and have them ask what I was up to, not what my name and number was. To discuss the theological implications of secular songs, not what I'm doing on Friday night.

It really, really blessed me. Words cannot describe the joy that is still filling my heart, even as I sit in the computer lab of my college. I'm afraid I took that environment for granted while I was in the thick of it. I took it for granted that young men would be gentlemen, that they'd open doors for me and respect my feminity as a sister in Christ. I took it for granted that I would be expected to act with grace and love.

And it felt so good to be back.

For all my friends in Southern Oregon and Idaho: it was wonderful seeing you again. I've missed your company, and I pray God would continue to manifest Himself in your lives. I love you all.

B

Mercies Anew

Hi guys. It's me, you know, Problematic? I used to post here a lot. I'm sorry for having abandoned this little corner of the interwebs for so long. There have been a lot of projects and assignments coming due recently, which has limited my recreational internet use to the extreme.  For those who have emailed me in the past three weeks (including but not limited to Calvin, Tragedy101, and Mirriam,) I plan on responding sometime next week or there abouts.

As for posts here, I actually have a couple of long posts that I've been desperately scrambling to finish and yet haven't quite succeeded. In the meantime, I'd like to share just a little piece of God's provision that just happened in my life.

My family is all fairly tech-savvy, with the exception of my mom. The direct implication of this is that while Thursday, dad, and I, all have mp3 players and headphones, Mom generally has to borrow someone's earbuds to listen to a movie or sermon on her laptop. There's no problem with that.

On Monday, Mom borrowed my ear buds to listen to a sermon while I was at symphony rehearsal. She didn't end up using them, but recalled having them for most of the time I was gone. However, when I got home and she went to return them, the ear buds were nowhere to be found.

Now, I commute two hours every day, and to drown out the more unsavory conversations I may overhear on the bus, I listen to my iPod while doing something else. In light of this fact, I probably should have been getting upset over the missing head phones the night before my long commute. I distinctly remember thinking at the time that I should be more upset, but I only felt a deep-set apathy. Dad found me a pair of junky ear buds, and I went to school the next day.

But this is where things get interesting. While Dad was at work, he met with a local representative of a national audio-equipment manufacturer. This rep gave my dad a very nice set of ear buds, the day after I had lost my own. When I saw Dad that night, he gave me a fancy little box with these new ear buds in them, and I was totally shocked.

I had been planning on spending a fair amount of money to replace my missing head phones, but instead, God provided in an area I never even expected!

So yeah, that's my uplifting anecdote. :) Happy Thursday!

B

[snow]

The clouds are slowly spreading across the night sky, blotting out the stars with white, edges outlined by the rising moon. She hides coyly behind them, teasing us mortals below with glimpses of her beautiful face. I gaze up, watching my breath escape to join its comrades before the moon. They tower up in the heavens, majestic and silent, but growing. The clouds are gathering their strength, pushing against the mountains on either side, unable to cross from their heavy burden.

Snow.

As the moon retreats behind another bank of storm clouds, the smell of snow comes into the air. Cold, crisp, and undefiled, like summer's rain preserved for winter. The wind sings to the moon, gusting the sound of sea gulls across her face. It dances to its own rhythm, wooing her with its eddies.

As we watch, the clouds begin to sink, bending down to drift between the trees. They float in and out among the pines while the moon watches from above. And then, she sighs contentedly.

One solitary flake drifts down, one piece of the moon's splendor, to touch the face of the earth. It alights, vanishes, only to be replaced by another. Faster and faster they come, the kisses multiplying until the object of their affection is no longer visible. And now there is a storm. The wind snatches at the flakes, jealous of their attention. It whirls them around in a dance, spinning and reeling in the cold January night.

I stand, feeling the kisses of heaven on my face, the jealousy of the wind, and relief of the clouds all on my face. There are no more stars, only snow.

Inflatable Monkey Wrenches

In an attempt to alleviate the super-mundane thoughts that have been cluttering my head since the fall, I've started a twitter account. If you want to know the weird little things happen to me during daily life, go to this finely crafted link to read all about my mundanities.

If you're not interested, you must be a reader of extremely discerning taste. My congratulations.

I hope that by creating this account, I'll be able to save the actually interesting things for It's Raining, and let my more intellectually rigorous followers choose how much of Problematic's spastic musings to expose themselves to.

That's all for now.

School started again today. I can't help but feel a little overwhelmed. Why? Because in addition to my normal 15 credit load and music requirements, I've got two college applications due in next week. I have to record my violin audition, apply for a job, write a speech, and somehow manage to have a social life, since some of my recently returned college friends are still in town for a few weeks.

Ack. I can't wait until January is over.

Figgy Pudding

Why, hello there. You must be the replacement year I ordered six months ago. What took you so long? Oh, yeah, I get it. Back-orders are a nasty affair. Well, I'm so glad you're here. Let me show you around a little bit. There's some figgy pudding warming up on the stov- oh, yes, fire is totally expected.  Now, over here is photo album from the last year...

I started it with the best of intentions, I really did. But the time, it just started to slide out of my fingers in this maddeningly deliberate stream. I soon lost myself in myriads of schoolwork and tournaments.

Would you believe that I attended nine tournaments last year? NINE! To list those off in quick order, I was at the Concordia Challenge, the Clarion Qualifier, the Puget Sound Qualifier, the Inland Northwest Qualifier, the Emerald City Qualifier, the Tulip Cup, Region 2's Regional Invitational, the National Invitational Tournament of Champions, and the National Championship.

At the Puget Sound Qualifier, I ended up competing in a debate form entirely new to myself - namely, Team Policy. And the most surprising thing was, I actually placed/got speaker awards in the new form, too!

You could say I was pretty successful in speech and debate last year. And I would most likely agree. But I consider it far more important to our new partnership that I am now an alumni of homeschool. highschool speech and debate. That's right. I no longer compete.

Over last summer, I went on two road trips to California in the space of three months, with entirely different people. Both road trips were amazing, for different reasons. I spent over a month on the East Coast, all the way from Boston to Key West and back up to DC. I attended a conservative political leadership camp, and alternated between loathing it and loving it.

I taught at speech camp again, but otherwise had a very low-key summer. Three sets of friends finally started dating. I lost some friends  and gained some new ones. And then I started college last fall.  See? That's me on my first day of school. Pretty skittish looking, I know.


Classic Epic Times: Debating my duo partner Calvin, hanging with Rubbish and Gabs in Old Town San Diego (especially when we found the root beer shop), playing music in the cold with Gray, peach goo fights with Ophelia and Tenor and HatGuy, wandering around DC with an unlimited Metro pass and no parental supervision, the road trip to Southern Oregon with Cassandra and Shorty and Shrimpy, zip-lining in Hannah's backyard and falling off, watching Hot Rod with Jay-EE and Lil Clay, Shorty running into a handicapped parking sign with her face, singing the Water Buffalo song in a final round of impromptu and WINNING,

First: Serious sharing of testimony, pregnant friend, time on a subway, time in a cab, time throwing up in a museum, time being 18,  time hating a friend, time at a Sounders game,

Most nostalgic songs: Mood Rings, Butterflies and Hurricanes, I've Got Friends, Shankhill Butchers, the Water Buffalo song,  Na Na Na, Float, Scalliwag, Nine in the Afternoon, Famous Last Words, Ain't No Rest For the Wicked, Sara Smiles, Resistance, Apres Moi, Soul Meets Body, Fever

Favorite memories: Summer Waterfights, star gazing with Gray and Ophelia, singing the doxology with Ophelia and Tenor and Sethasaurus in the peach fields, hanging with Calvin and practicing duo, my amazing speech club, being kidnapped by Gray and Ophelia and HatMan and MusicMan, painting my face green at a Sounders game with Pipsqueak, being a penguin with Wrath, and then with Cassandra and the Professor and Ms. Incredible, singing nonsense with Ms. Incredible, debating with Mr.Affable and then against him in Finals.

Major Hits: Mrs. Jackson, chains in my hair, little black dresses and little black swimsuits, Pass-A-Grille Florida, classy high heels, team policy debate, peppermint hot chocolates,

Best Books:  Mr. Monster, I Don't Want To Kill You, the Book Thief, I Am the Messenger, Alan Wake, I Surf Therefore I Am, not a fan, The Once and Future King,

Best Music:  Paul Baloche, Muse, the Decemberists, Peter Bradley Adams, My Chemical Romance, Coldplay, Manchester Orchestra, Michael Buble, Three Days Grace, Three Doors Down, Panic! At the Disco, Matt Redman, Christ Tomlin

Keywords: big ball of negative emotions, fast, slow, euphoric, resolution, confession, hopeless romantic

Keywords [inside joke edition]:Rubbish -heap, sweetie-lambkin, trippy, cool beans, Gertrude and Alfonso

Favorite teacher:Mr. McDevitt

Best quotes: "Sprague. It's like Prague plus sprouts minus the tasty."


Well, I hope you can make yourself comfortable, 2012. There's a guest bedroom back there if you plan on sticking around for long.

B

Grey Falling

This time of year never ceases to strike me with a wicked sense of melancholy. The setting of the seasons brings another hue of grey to a constantly-darkening world, and the new year promises darker than the last.

When I was younger, life was easily explained in black and white. Good always won, evil always lost. I was content to let my parents talk softly in the kitchen, because they were adults and adults always become concerned over things that warrant no further contemplation. Bad things happened in the world, and I was content to let them remained unexplained.  People are always defined by what they say, they always act in absolutes, they're always logically consistent with themselves.

Of course, being younger, I couldn't express this coherently: I just knew. The world works in one way and in one way only. But that is no longer the case. This darkening sky grows deeper daily, weekly, yearly, and I, as an individual, am powerless to stop it.

People are no longer merely black and white. Sometimes evil men do things and get away with it. "Good" applies to no one, and sometimes evil men do good things, much to the dismay of my simpler self. Now I know what my parents softly discuss, and even worse, I know why. Bad things happen in the world, and there is no explanation. 

And every year, things get more complicated. With whom do I spend my time? Who are my confidants? How do I express myself? How will I spend the next 60 years of life? But even more importantly, how will I spend the next minute? The next hour of life?

Where will I go to college? What about dating? Do I support my spoken-for friends? Are their relationships more important than my friendship?

Am I willing to sacrifice for a cause greater than myself? How much is too much? Does that sacrifice even matter in the grand scheme of things? How much of a difference can one teenaged, angsty, sheltered, shy, reserved, and timid girl make in her lifetime?


"What if it was true, that all we thought was right, was wrong?"

I used to read many books with courageous, plucky heroines, hoping that their bravery and  fortitude would help me find mine. Increasingly, I find myself more like Peregrin Took, swept up in an adventure... quest... thing...

...With only my good intentions and bumbling nature to help me out. And try as I might, good intentions nearly always bring more trouble upon myself and others.

I realize this is not a terribly encouraging thought to end 2011 with. It suits, though. Overwhelmingly, 2011 has been the year of indecision.

We are gathered together today to mourn the passing of an new acquaintance, Fall Quarter 2011. When this post goes live, I will have completed my last final, and consequently, last class until 2012. This morning, loaded up with little sleep, plenty of feel-good substances- in the form of peppermint hot chocolate and a magnesium supplement (squee!) - and a whole lot of shambling-zombieness, I stumbled onto campus to meet an entirely different beast.

Public transit and college campuses at night are very different from the day time. Compared to night rides, a day trip on the bus feels positively communal. And my campus? Well, let's just say it's the perfect setting for a slasher movie in the dark.

Ahem. So another one bites the dust. I'm officially starting Christmas break. Which means college applications, reference requests, a health class, and catching up with friends. Am I ready? Two words: BRING IT.

But maybe after I get some sleep.

Living in Interesting Times

It may intrigue my readers to learn that, in fifteen minutes, I will be leaving for an appointment with an acupuncturist.

Carpets of Rust

You may recall my post from a few weeks ago, Excruciating Apathy, and the sort of day where this apathy strikes the most. Yesterday was one of those days. I was walking around the college campus literally expecting to see a unicorn poke its pointy head out from around a corner.

In terms of scenery, yesterday was perfect. A thick fog heavily draped itself around everything outside, and once the sun had risen, shafts of liquid yellow hung suspended in it, waiting where the sun had left them lying between the trees. There were carpets of rust everywhere I looked, and bare branches defiantly challenged clear sky escaping from the fog. Here and there, a few hopeful trees clung on to their leaves, lifting arms filled with color high into the air. As the sun hit them, the leaves turned to flames, lighting the trees from within. The evergreens stood stolidly by, gaunt and stark but ever so graceful. When the fog burned off, it left a ghost of itself to waft through the crisp, cold, clear autumn air.

I love the Northwest.

IT IS FINISHED

for now, at least. After 29 days of writing day and night (actually it was mostly day except for the time I wrote 10,000 words long hand on an airplane), I am now the proud owner of a 59,998 word monstrosity.

National Novel Editor's Month, here I come. Though, maybe after my finals.

Nightwatchmen

The moon shone down on the clearing in front of me, illuminating the guards on border duty. They paced up and down the boundary, bodies relaxed but eyes watching for the next enemy attack. My feet crushed the long, wet grass at the border's corner, releasing a sweet smell into the chill night air. I shivered as I surveyed my responsibility, wondering where my enemy would come from. As I crouched, leaning in towards the border, I hoped that she wouldn't come near me. The raid had been entirely unexpected, and I'd had no time to prepare for my duties.

An indistinct shape detached itself from the gloom across the clearing and slowly moved my way. I could hear it -- no, her -- breathing quietly as it crept ever closer to my border. Her furtive movements were betrayed by a rustle of clothes. I tensed, sinews tightening below my skin in an altogether pleasant manner, ready to spring into movement at the slightest provocation. Above all, I could not allow her to endanger our center of operations, the priceless item we had been charged to protect. 

The moon cast indistinct shadows across the wet ground, obscuring the terrain so that when my enemy finally darted towards the border,  I paused momentarily to ensure I wasn't running after a mere shadow. Our feet pounded moistly as I pursued her across the clearing, and my heart began beating a fanciful cadence at the sudden motion. Yard by yard, we grew closer to her objective, and I could hear the cries of my comrades as they fought their own enemies. I had no back-up, no support should she capture our prize.

My feet began slipping on the dewy leaves - there was not much time before I would lose control of my momentum. She was getting dangerously close to my responsibility, and I quickened my step, hoping to outrun the inevitable. There were ten yards, five yards, and I felt my feet sliding from under me. With one last burst of energy and speed, I threw myself into the air. The wind rushed past my face, whipping bits of my hair at my eyes with a vengeance. I could no longer see her, but just as I thought I had missed her in the dark, my hands made contact with her back. My entire body careened at hers, and we both crashed to the ground, sliding several more feet to stop at the foot of the flag.

It's the simple things in life that matter;
like tackling Gray during a night game of capture the flag.

Whirling Dervish

This weekend was so jammed with awesome that I can barely think coherently as I try to type this post out. On Friday, I went to the Christian Musician's Summit, and had a Big Idea about hypocrisy and joy. On Saturday, I judged a noviceling debate tournament, and flew to California to chill with Milan and SirSarcasm. During the flight, I had a big idea about perspective and about weighting values. Then, on Sunday and through Monday, I found the words to express a Third Big Idea that has been in the works for a couple months now.

Normally, when I have a Big Idea, I will write a blog post about it. But as it is, I have far too much swirling through my head. Caffeine, sleeping aid (because I didn't actually go to bed until sometime this morning), three Big Ideas, and some worries about class. So I think I"ll just shamble off with my coffee and try not to fall asleep in class. However, expect some more Ideas to be up soon.