Plot twist(s)!

I wrote something here but I hated it so here's a pretty picture.

Consumption

My brother, Mike, tells people his favorite holidays are those that center around food and I tend to agree with him. So, naturally, we both love Thanksgiving. When I think about Thanksgiving, I think about turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and three types of pie and green beans and the cranberry sauce which never seems to be eaten. I think about how much work we put into cooking that one meal, about my stepmother organizing grocery lists as early as September, and about my Aunts trying to one-up each other's pumpkin pie recipes. I think about how--for one meal--we dedicate an entire holiday and close schools and banks and spend money we might not have on the right plates on which to serve turkey and fly miles to share that one meal with the ones we most love. Thanksgiving, as I have come to know it, happens between appetizers and desserts.

So, when I came home from Wake Forest University this weekend, I expected Thanksgiving feed me and to feed me well. (And, let me tell you, I have missed being well fed.) I expected to feel it in the fullness of my belly and to look around at the people with which I had shared that beautiful meal and feel thankful for their company. And then, I expected to go to bed and for tomorrow to just be Friday.

But, I was wrong. I felt Thanksgiving when I looked out my airplane window and saw buildings I have walked through. I felt Thanksgiving in the sound of Jeff Tweedy's voice, in the ambient interludes, in the alphabetical stacks of songs I've missed. I felt Thanksgiving in the scent of my house and my mother's obvious attempt to straighten it up. I felt Thanksgiving in the familiar hug of my best friend, in the tears that filled both of our eyes, in how I would only break it so that I could hear her speak. I felt Thanksgiving in the bombarding questions of my friends' mothers, in their overwhelming interest in a life they used to live. I felt Thanksgiving in how quickly we revisited traditions, in how easily we could forget that time had past. I felt Thanksgiving in the songs my friends sang, in the harmonies I have always heard but will never contribute to, in the comfort of never having to. I felt Thanksgiving in the chorus of laughter, in the variety of each laugh from one another, in the comfort of how easily they blend together. I felt Thanksgiving in the conversations that reached beyond us and I felt it in the nearness they still represented. I felt Thanksgiving in Prospect Park, in my cozy bed, in the farthest back booth at Denny's, in the hallways of a school I graduated from, in the cake shakes and the phone calls and my dad's CD collection. I felt Thanksgiving here. At home. Where I have always felt it, even if it took me this long to notice.

This weekend I have learned that Thanksgiving means coming home--coming home to hugs and smells and sounds and places and, yes, foods that I know and love and am thankful to consume.

Happy accidents

We are ignorant. Every last one of us. We know so little about so much and hardly know that. What we do know, we know by accident. We stumbled upon the discovery of this continent, we sparked flames when we weren't trying, and we had to try every poison berry before we knew which ones tasted best in our fruit salad. Of all the facts that are floating around in the realm of possibility, it is by pure chance that we found the ones that we did. Just as easily as we have plucked these things from the unknown and made them true, we could have left them there, plucked something else instead. But we have not. And for that we have the world that we do, full of facts and yet so equally not. And, for these accidents, I am immeasurably thankful. 

I am grateful that we discovered there are different ways to move the pitch in our voices and that these tones can be imitated by tightened strings and pots and pans, for whoever decided these sounds were beautiful and worth progressing. I am grateful that we gave words to things like "love" and "thought" and "purpose" and "enough" and all of the things I cannot hold but so often try to in my head. I am grateful for running water, domesticated crops, multi-story buildings, the alphabet, arithmetic, good smelling soap--things we could survive without but not in the way I have come to enjoy. And, right now, I am grateful to have stumbled into the company I have. I am grateful that, by happy accident, I have found comfort and tranquility and bliss. 

Oh, influence, let me go

The song it is familiar
One I sang in winters past
It's quick and sad and lovely
But it never seems to last

But in a feat of nostalgia
I found it and hit play
Stretched out my untrained legs
And danced the tune away

Daintily, the song sang
About love unreturned
I heard the crying lyrics,
softly danced the way I learned

But when verse led into chorus
I felt sadness I used to know
Shoulders limped and feet gone heavy
My turns began to slow

Each note it was a memory
Each chord an old romance
They haunted me in melodies
And forced oldness in my dance

I twirled the way I used to
I leaped like times before
For this song, it was a ghost
And it's familiar weight I bore

But, no, I shook ferociously
For here I am, so new!
And no matter what the song says
I am far away from you

Sad spins twirled into angry
I jumped and kicked and dove
Trying to shake this haunting sameness
I assumed I'd rose above

I can't sing this song any longer
I don't want to dance this way
But it's impossible to start a new
When your stuck in love's ballet

The last lights on

I am alone for all have gone
Not long before, this house was bright
Now mine are but the last lights on

I thought conversing would go on
The talking here felt safe and right
But I'm alone for all have gone

Rare am I the last to yawn
But something's different here tonight
For mine are but the last lights on

Good company, the night does pawn
So for distraction, this I write
'Cause I'm alone and all have gone

Yet a busy mind will still dwell on
Whatever dark things that it might
When mine are but the last lights on

Now all the curtains have been drawn
Though in my head's a blinding light
When I'm alone for all have gone
And mine are still the last lights on

Where I ate lunch

Today I left my vacation home
With plans of coming back
My boots laced up, my long hair tied
My lunch within my pack

I walked and dreamt of where I'd stop
To eat what I had brought
Through trees I passed and miles walked
I went where I had got

And soon I reached my eating spot
I looked for somewhere dry
To rest my feet and to consume
My sandwich made on rye

I passed a spot beneath a branch
With bugs, I would not share
I skipped across the sandy beach
Hunger surpassed by "where?"

And then I saw a giant rock
Three times the size of me
Amidst a busy current
Yet sturdy as could be

And so I climbed that giant rock
And loosened up my hair
I stretched and laid beneath the sun
And ate my sandwich there

Upon that rock I memorized
The parts that I could reach
And quickly I decided this
Was the best thing on the beach

But when I got to sitting up
And took a look around
I was humble and amazed by all
The beauty that I found

The trees they were uncountable
The clouds, they tried to block
And the mountain that they stood upon
Made a pebble of my rock

So I jumped from off my pebbled rock
Looked at it from below
This giant thing that I had loved
Could be the smallest love I'd know

To measure a moment

When a man dies
At age ninety five
2 years and a hyphen
Prove he was alive

But if that man dies
Before he's full grown
His years, months, and days
Fill up his turnstone

So numbers will scatter
The place we last rest
And they become more specific
For those who lived less

When do seconds mean nothing?
When do hours seem small?
How many must pass
Until they don't matter at all?

Sometimes I wonder
If the best lives are fast
For with too many summers
These minutes won't last

Time may move fast
Or time may move slow
But today will soon feel
Like forever ago

A bigger bathroom

When I was very young, before I spent nights at my dads house, a good portion of our time together took place at Comiskey Park. My dad always had season tickets and, on the rare nights when neither my brothers nor I had soccer or baseball or gymnastics, we would make our way down to section 137, row 12.

Sox games were tons of fun for me. I got to spend time with my two older, cooler brothers and my dad usually bought me a Lemon Chill. I never had to brush my hair or walk much if I didn't want to. It was in those seats I learned to snap, swear, and ask questions. Surrounded by drunken men and crop-topped girls, baseball games always made me feel older.

Most of the maturity I feel in my childhood memories stems from going to the bathroom. These games were a time for my brothers and I to see my dad- not his girlfriend, fiancé, or wife. That, plus the fact that we only had 4 season tickets, meant that I was always the only girl in the pack. So, unlike trips to the mall or church where my mom would insist on enforcing the "buddy system," when the 5th inning became the 6th and I fought up the courage to ask my dad to make room for me in the aisle, I would climb the stairs alone, stick my ticket in my pocket, and walk straight into the women's bathroom.

I think the first couple of times my dad would walk me to the door and wait for me on the other side. Occasionally, he might have asked a friendly looking woman to look after me in line. But, for the most part, I felt alone in the sea of older and fatter legs. I would stand in line patiently. I never talked to anyone. I even tried to avoid eye contact. When a silver door would swing open, I would lock myself behind it and do what I had gone there to do. It was systematic and easy, but I figured it out on my own.

Even though those lines were always indescribably longer than the male counterparts, waiting in them was the first time I ever felt alone. I was 4 or 5 or 6, standing and listening to groups of adults- trying very hard not to disrupt the social norm which meant talking to no one. In that bathroom, I learned to be content within my own head; I didn't need anyone to talk to me or look at me to get done what I needed to. Without my mother or stepmother there to hurry me along, I could take my time washing my hands, watching older ladies brush their hair and fix their makeup. It was a very cool feeling knowing that no matter how long I stayed in there, no brother or father of mine could come in and force me out. I really loved the independence of Comiskey Park's bathrooms. On days the Sox weren't playing too hot, I would stay inside the bathroom for close to an hour. I would stand and watch the women do old things and enjoy the thoughts I could form for myself in my head, though I always was sure to make it out in time for the 7th inning stretch.

Now I am 18 and US Cellular had bought and renamed the stadium I grew up in. My family still goes to games, although work schedules are surprisingly harder to clear up than AYSO schedules. I am heading off to Wake Forest in less than a month where, for the second time, I will have to fend for myself. I will be alone, no father or friend to hold my hand in line or tell me to wash my hands. I only hope that I can learn to love that independence as much as I did in the bathroom.

I am so happy

I want everyone to know the bliss I know right now.

My new cactus

I went to Walgreens today to buy my friend jelly bellies and I saw a tiny cactus there much like the one I wrote about in my last post. I bought the cactus for $1.29.

When I got home, I put the cactus near the window instead of beside my bed because that's where cacti should be. It isn't nearly as beautiful as my last cactus, but it is a plant and it will grow and so I will love it with as much of my heart as I can.

Frankly, that last cactus was too good to be true. It's pot was hand painted in bright colors and intricate patterns. When i bought it, I was given a pack of chemical cactus food which would guarantee the cactus would grow at least twice its predicted size. It was an unnatural way for a cactus to live. This new cactus came in a standard pot and will be fed a few drops of water once a week. This is how cacti should live; it may not be as beautiful, but it just makes sense.

I could never replace the cactus I once knew, but, with this new one, I will wait and watch something beautiful grow.

My cactus

When I was 8, my dad took our family to Arizona. I don't remember much of the trip but I know it happened because before I left I bought a small cactus to take home with me.

When I first got the cactus, it was pretty boring. I watered it once a week and put it near my window. It didn't do much for me, but I liked having it. Eventually, I got around to throwing out some of the clutter in my room and moved the cactus to my bedside table. From there, I would look at it almost every night. Soon I became comfortable with its dark shades and knew how to touch it so it wouldn't poke me. When I would have friends over, they would ask me about that cactus and I would tell them it was just a cactus I bought in Arizona because that's all it really was. But that didn't mean that I didn't love it like it was a rose bush.

It stayed green on my bedside table for a long time. I kept watering it and I would breath close to it to give it air. At night, it was the last thing I would see before everything went black and I liked that because it was reliable. I could close my eyes and internally turn the blackness of my eyelids into that familiar shade of dark green because it was so familiar to me.

But, like all plants, my cactus soon began to die. Inch by inch, It's dark green curdled into a crumbling brown as it rejected the water I would feed to it. Eventually, all that was left of my cactus was it's rotting core. It was pretty gross. But, it's thorns still remained sharp- a constant reminder that it was once alive and could hurt me.

I really should have tossed the thing the second I realized it was dying. It would have been much nicer to have never known my cactus as brown, to still imagine it as green and alive. But, I kept the cactus on my bedside table long after it died; it is, in fact, still there. When I knew it was dying, It hurt me to know that my cactus wouldn't make it another season, but throwing it out meant risking the chance that it might turn green again. I thought that keeping the dead cactus would remind me of its once green state. Instead, it mocks me and it pokes me and it reminds me that everything starts with the intentions of ending.

I have heard beautiful things

Summer melting

To me, you were one season
Of shorts and sweat and shine
Of strawberries and bicycles
Of flowers by the vine

In June we often chatted
Of what's and when's and why's
We spoke of things beyond us
And I was smitten by July

But days soon became shorter
Green leaves dissolved to browns
And you left me for the autumn
As I clung to summer's nouns:

I still smelled you in the berries
I still heard you in blue skies
The grass still felt like songs we sang
In daisies bloomed your eyes

Because fall can look like summer
So my perception was untrue
While you embraced September
I still hung myself in June

It was easier come winter
To think of you much less
For thick jackets weren't your laughter
Not your words a snowy mess

But now the sun has risen
On longer, hotter days
But you have gone from me forever
And I'm alone in sunny rays

Trash and turmoil

I have been searching
Barefoot and bare minded
Through the trash surrounding me
Hopelessly digging
But I cannot find where
Another mans treasure could be

I know that it's in there
Buried in trash
What someone else finds gold
I've seen people find it
And try to make rash
How they see a rose in my mold

So I took up my shovel
It shook in my hands
As I sifted through my murky grove
But I kept on digging
Uncovering nothing
Except how deep I had dove

Now I am buried
Too deep to recover
In another mans winnings, my waste
But I will stay here
For I too should be rotting
In my treasures I'd be misplaced

Nouns from today

Showers, text messages, plans, naps, friends, trains, delays, snow cones, flirtatious, fears, spas, calls, smiles, blankets, basements, beds, lamps, brats, storms, garages, chairs, grills, brothers, politics, cookies, cars, dogs, movies, chips, snuggles, laughs, secrets, pongs, storms, songs, drizzles, and satisfaction.

My favorite poem in a familiar place

If-
Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a man, my son!

To bring with me

I was sad when I entered my last district report for KEY Club. I was sad when I worked my last elections for Student Council. I was sad when I used Shift + W for the last time to see my final advocate design. I was sad to see these things that made up high school for me go.

But, I am we'll aware that these things are not over. Writing and volunteering am running are all very accessible to me at Wake Forest next year and I can continue to do these things that I love.

So yes, I was sad to say goodbye to my high school things, but not nearly as miserable as saying goodbye to my high school people will be. I've said it before and I don't say it enough, my friends and teachers and coaches and siblings are all so good. Each one of them is unique from one another but the same in the sense that they have been better to me than I imagine I deserve. Thinking about leaving them for new people feels like the contents of my stomach as been shoveled out and moved into a lump in my throat. I love the people I know.

But, the more I have had time to think about this love and this sadness, the more I have been able to work out some sort of comfort. Strongly, I believe that the people I surround myself with have formed who I am- that I am not an original self but a combination of the things these people have taught me to be. If this is true, then when I board the plane that will take me to my new home in August, I will not be leaving a single person behind.

When I look up on a dark night and think of how small my problems are, I will be doing it through my friend. When I muster up enough courage to admit my unhappiness, I will know exactly who showed me how to. When I write a letter or dance in the hallways or eat pasta or drive without my windshield wipers on or go to Denny's, I will think of who else I did these things with.

This fall, when my dorm room feels empty and new, I hope I can remember to look in the mirror. There, within myself, I will know I am with all the people who are so close to me right now.

Thank you so much - everyone I know - for being the influence that has built me.
Your impact is an irreversible comfort.

Where I am and where I will be

I wonder if this will be the last
Thing I ever say to you
If the next time our paths cross
You will think I'm someone new

I wonder how long it'll take me
To forget what I now love
For these things I think of always
To be carelessly disposed of

I wonder if, when I get there,
I'll think it the best of all
If the excitement from my preset,
In comparison, will feel small

The future is bright, I've heard it said
And it's something I believe
But when the present lacks all darkness
Why would I ever want to leave?

Brushing my teeth

When I brush my teeth, I start on the right side of my mouth. I scratch the toothbrush left to right to left in the back of my mouth as move it around the curve of my mouth two teeth at a time. After I've taken the first lap, I switch to a circular rotation, once again moving from the deep right teeth to the deep left. I repeat the same sideways and circular combination on the inside of my teeth. I end the routine with eight or nine vertical strokes on my front front four teeth, lean forward, and spit. When I am done, I rinse of my toothbrush, swoosh some water past my gums, wash my hands, and rub my tongue over my newly washed teeth. They feel cold and smooth as the aftertaste of Crest Cavity Protection cools the roof of my mouth.

Like any sanitary member of 21st century society, I brush my teeth after every meal. But, subconsciously, I find myself brushing my teeth a lot late at night. Between desperate phone calls from stressed out friends and helpless texts from lost classmates, I resort to my bathroom sink. I didn't think much of it until today; it was just something I did to pass the time between trying to find words to be the help that is needed.

But tonight I was in the bathroom at EIU and had to place my toothbrush on an unfamiliar shelf while I washed my hands. The shelf wasn't quite long enough to hold my toothbrush and it drooped over the edge, it's bristles pointing at my chest. I took it up in my hands and rubbed my thumbs over the thin bristles that I trust to make me so clean. It's crazy. This tiny plastic stick with soft hairs on the end can make me clean and shiny. Brushing my teeth makes me feel so good and all it takes is one short piece of plastic, a dab of toothpaste, and some water.

Human life is the product of billions of years of evolution and I am a part of that. The human mind is amazing and wonderful and I can't even use mine to make my friends feel good. There are a thousand functions my brain can operate, surely it should know how to calm a friend in need but I just cannot figure out how to make it do so. And still, my toothbrush, my plastic, cheap, and depthless toothbrush can leave its targets shinning and clean. Tonight, I don't even know how to start scrapping the plaque out of some situations. So, if you are relying on me to make you happy, I suggest you try your toothbrush first.

The tiniest of matters

I have spent a lot of time reading Ralph Waldo Emerson. He is a man I admire, one whose work I trust for knowledge when I am lost. But, there is one quote of his - that now clutters refrigerator magnets and graduation speeches- that I, while lying underneath a tree, unforgivably disagree with. He says:

"What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters in comparison to what lies within us."

It must be wrong. Behind me is this sturdy and selfless tree. Behind me are countless strands of grass working together to form and unified blanket of green. Behind me are chirps and buzzes and gusts. Behind me are birds and squirrels and wind and stars.

It must be wrong. Before me is the sky which swallows all else. Before me are other, smiling people. Before me is a planet so big it appears flat from where I am. Before me is the sunlight and yellow flowers and the smell of new leaves.

It must be wrong. What lies within me is a single person, and not even the cool, biological part of life. Within me are my thoughts and they are dark and unoriginal and unlikely to change anything. I am here right now but will be gone before I have time to figure out why. I am the smallest thing I will ever know.

And if I matter at all, I am the tiniest of matters.

The finish line

Today I finished my athletic career at a track meet filled with nostalgic tears. Because high jump is the first event of the meet, I had plenty of time to reflect on what ending the season meant to me.

At first, I was upset. It takes a very specific person to be a high jumper, someone who can accept the fact that every meet ends in failure because that is how the event is run. The only way you can stop jumping is if you miss, and I did.

But, after getting some food into my system, I came to the conclusion that it was not this meet that I should be thinking about but the past 4 years. Sure, I could have held my take-off a little longer or thrown my head back a little sooner today, but those are habits I learned over the course of high school. There was no sense in being mad at today's meet- at the crappy weather or the extra 150 meters between my events- because there have been countless practices where I chose water breaks and conversations over work. If I really wanted to qualify for state, that is something that would have come out of 4 years of practices, not just one meet. When I watched my best friend qualify for state in the 100 hurdles, I knew she earned it in every off season practice, every carbo-load, every extra water bottle and pep talk. Those are things I just didn't put in and no matter how badly I wanted to do better, I didn't deserve to. I wasn't mad at myself for today. I was mad at myself for a lifetime of bad habits.

But, as the meet continued and the realization that when I took my spikes off I would never put them back on set in, I changed my mind. My team cheered for our last 4X400 and took our last victory lap and then huddled together in the middle of the track for a group hug. I looked down at our feet, at the limbs that we took so seriously to define our track experience and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was staring right into the eyes of a junior on the team. We stood there, arms around each other and my heart was full.

Every warm up I slacked on I spent talking to these girls. Every practice I whined through I did it with these girls. Every pizza-bing and skipped stride and slower-than-usual pace, everything that kept me from state-qualifying heights, I did with these girls, my teammates. And that is better than any medal. I've gotten medals before and I lose them every time. These girls won't get buried in my Adidas bag or tossed behind my desk and, if they do, I have memories to wear around my neck.

I am so thankful for everyone who helped make my track experience what it was. I leave the season with no regrets a heart throbbing more than my shins.

Still

Am I still who I was
The one I grew to be
A person I accepted
And saw myself as she?

Am I still your patient phone-call
Your cloudless sky of blue?
Do you need me still to walk with
Or have you found somebody new?

Have these doors that I shut tightly
Locked out a familiar place
Instead of holding in that comfort?
Am I alone here in this space?

Do you, too, feel this distance?
Do you feel us spreading thin?
Is this detachment what you wanted
Or do you miss what once has been?

After time of fleeing solitude
I thought I finally left its chill
But now everybody's moving
While I'm content here, still

No news is good news

I am bored with where I am in life, but I am happy with the comfort that comes with boredom. I am doing nothing new, nothing groundbreaking, nothing memorable, but it is easy. Perhaps that is selfish- to favor my own ease over making a worldly impact- but I'm happy. A lot of me is scared that my happiness is tied to the simplicity of my existence right now; I don't know if I want to risk finding happiness anywhere else.

Easy street

I'm a senior in high school so slacking off is something very relevant in my life. For the past couple of months I have left essays unwritten, math problems unsolved, meetings unattended. One by one, I have replaced each should-be- priority with ice cream and naps and phone calls with friends. Despite my plummeting grades and lecturing parents, I didn't really think my "senioritis" a problem until today. It was a right of passage, something I had earned after seven semesters of stress and regulation.

But today I went on a bike ride. It's very nice out and I didn't want to revise my paper for Honors Sem and with prom in two weeks, this sounded like a better use of my time than making a chipotle run. A bike ride, now that I think of it, is a pretty productive way to slack off.

When I wheeled out of my driveway, I thought about all the places I wanted to see before returning home, most of them places I had spent with the friends I am so scared to say goodbye to in a few months. (I crave nostalgia). One such place is a few blocks west of my house but, because the rest of my destinations were east, I decided to skip it. So I turned east and peddled into Hinsdale, crossing the tracks at Stough. It is hilly on that side of the tracks and my legs felt weak trying to find a park my friend and I once snuck out to. Soon, it became obvious that I had no idea which way Adams was or weather Sixth went through to Bodin. Not wanting to look as lost or as tired as I was, I kept going east.

Eventually, the hills leveled out and I was biking on much smoother streets. I regained my breath and my sense of direction, recognizing I was very close to an old friends house. I effortlessly glided past his house, thinking about an inside joke we once shared, and felt proud of myself for knowing exactly where I was. For another half hour, I past a plethora of old memories near by my friend's house, barely having to peddle on the smooth surface I had found. It was a very easy thirty minutes that eventually landed me in the parking lot of a playground my brothers and I used to love. That's where I still am right now.

Laying in this parking lot, I am forced to think about the bike ride that got me here. It started off so hard and so disappointing. But, as soon as I found an easy rode, I stuck to it. I never got to find that first park or anything west of my house because it just seemed like too much work.

The more I think about my bike ride, the more I am realizing I have turned into this person who has learned to settle for the easy option. Maybe it started when I traded in a leather prom dress for a more normal one. Maybe it was when I passively let others decide my college choice for me. Maybe it's a product of every weekend I have spent with whoever texted me first instead of working to do what I really wanted. Maybe it's just a product of senioritis and I will graduate out of it this May. But, most realistically, it is a flaw in character. I settle for things. I tell myself that doing what's easier is okay because nothing matters that much to work for it or to stress over it. I chose the flatter sidewalks over the hilly streets because I didn't want to peddle that much. But who knows what I missed on the other side of those hills. It's probably worth it to find out. But I won't.

The worst part is that I know if I worked to get over this, I could start picking the harder, more beneficial option. But, I am justifying my laziness by saying this is who I am and I shouldn't try to be better than I am. Really, it just seems too hard.

Calming Penny Lane

It has been raining a lot tonight and, although it started out as a gentle and happy rain, it has since escalated into tremors and booms. It is the kind of storm that haunts the background of dramatic movies, the kind that induces childhood fears and, apparently, the kind that terrifies my dog.

Penny Lane is nearly 8 and, like many dogs, has a distinct fear of rainstorms. After half an hour of watching my dog pace and run away from windows, I found Penny curled up in a ball in the safest place she could find - under our huge, very heavy, not so sturdy piano.

Feeling pity for my dear friend, I curled up with her under the piano and continued to pet her trembling back. I grew discouraged (and, shamefully, a little bored) as I scratched the underside of her neck and it continued to shake so I did what anyone watching someone struggle would do: climbed out from under the piano, onto the seat, and began to play.

Penny Lane looked up from me as she rested her head on my non-pedal foot and a bright flash shook the room. She looked sad and lonely but I continued to play, hoping to get her mind off of the storm. I was unsure weather a happy song or a sad song would comfort her more, so I wondered awkwardly between major and minor keys. Turns out neither was better than the other.

For about an hour, my eyes wandered between sloppy sheet music and my dog's sad brown eyes. I expected that, with each authentic cadence, her fears would slowly subside. I expected to feel her tremors still and her pulse slow. Instead, I watched hopelessly as she continued to shake, sometimes with even more frequency than before. It became obvious to me that I really was not helping her at all.

I cannot make the storm pass. I cannot steady our shaking floors or silence the booming walls or mask the flashing windows. I can't do any of that. I can't even properly comfort anyone as they face what scares them. All I can do for my puppy, for anyone, is keep playing music and hope that the experience is a little more beautiful and a little less lonely than it would be alone.

Why?

Today the majority of my street gathered in the Notre Dame Catholic Church at the end of our block to grieve the loss of our dear friend and neighbor, Heidi Walsh. As anyone who knew me growing up would confirm, my street is extremely close knit. My oldest friends, the ones whose houses can be seen from my bedroom window, are also among my closest. There is a sense of vulnerability that comes from knowing a person since childhood, an honesty that masks any attempt to better or worsen your reputation. And, in the case of Waverly, Norfolk, and Chestnut, that vulnerability as led into undeniable trust and bondage.

So, when we were all reunited last night to tie ribbons on trees in Mrs. Walsh's memory (something we have done far too many times for far too many good and well-missed people), there was no shame in sadness. Mrs. Walsh's passing was tragic and horrible and so unexpected that even I, someone much less religious than I should be, felt drawn to seek god and pray tonight at Noter Dame. I wanted to put on my black dress and cry because there was nothing else I could do. I chose grief over what I was really feeling: guilt for being alive when someone so great was not and helplessness towards trying to lessen any of the pain in front of me.

Tonight, when my mother and I took our seats beside the families of two of my closest friends, she placed her hand on my leg and nudged at the young children sitting a few rows a head of us. "Poor kids," she whimpered through tears. "They don't even know what's going on. They don't even know why there here."

It's true, they didn't. Their youthful grins looked out of place beside their mothers' moist eyes. They twirls around in oblivion while the rest of us sat motionless in our pews. They were kids; they had no idea what they were doing in church on a Tuesday night.

But, really, does anyone? None of us - my mother, my teachers, my friends, my neighbors - understand what is going on. We don't know why we all have to meet so frequently under such unfortunate situations. We don't know what to do when these things happen (and god knows, on Waverly, they happen a lot). It doesn't matter how many people I hug or candles I light or times I tell my mother I love her, the truth of life's end will always be as foreign to me as a catholic mass.

I don't understand death. I don't understand why it comes so quickly to those who don't expect it and so slowly to those who suffer. I don't understand what I am supposed to do when it comes so close to me, when it takes people I know and love and care about and leaves me behind. I don't understand what I can do for the four children Mrs. Walsh will never see grow up, why I will see them tomorrow but she won't, why I will tell at my mother tomorrow and their kind words toward theirs was cut short. I don't understand how natural and predictable each breath is for me and still, no matter how harmless inhaling feels, how inevitable it is that each breath steals one from someone else. I am a child, twirling in church, so oblivious to what is happening and why it keeps happening. We all are.

So I sat between my mother and an old friend, acting like I knew which shoulder to cross first, pretending to know when to stand and when to sit, faking like I said "trespassers" and not "debtors" or "sinners." I thought that maybe, if I could make sense of the formula of catholic prayer I could make sense of its content. But none of that matters. None of this makes sense to anyone, no matter how young or old or religious or distant we all may be. There is no sense to be made of a death on Waverly. There is only guilt for still being alive.

At least I'll go out swinging

I sat upper deck today for the White Sox season opener. I had a full view of the field as Chris Sale threw the season's first strike out and Tyler Flowers hit the season's first home run and the sox claimed the season's first victory. It was really nice. I got to be back in the ballpark, beside my brother and my father, watching a sport we all love.

But, nonetheless, I got the feeling that I wasn't where I should have been. As much as I enjoyed the noise of the upper deck and appreciated the factual time-line that plasters the walls of the 500 section, I felt out of place. I should have been in section 137, row 12 in seat either 7,8,9, or 10. That is where I have watched countless ball games and that is where I should have watched today's game. The upper deck gives an unblocked view of every play in the game, an umpire-worthy judge of each pitch as it passes over home pate. The 500 section is reliable because there is never anyone blocking your view and you can see basically everything.

And still, I missed the scorn in my neck from searching for fly balls and the anticipation of an umps call after each pitch. I missed the familiar calls of my favorite beer-man and the condescending coos of the man who sits behind us. It's not that I think my season tickets are better than the upper deck, I just know them as home. I grew up in these seats. They are where I learned to snap and swear and smile big enough for a second Lemon Chill. Section 137 is where I imagine myself always watching sox games.



Earlier this week I decided to attend Wake Forest University next year as a member of the freshman class of 2017. I know Wake is a great school and is full of people with similar morals as myself. Still, I cannot help but feel like this choice has left me in the upper deck. Sure, the school will present me with a ton of opportunities and will broaden my horizons post-graduation, but at the same time, I will miss the comfort of what I have always known. I will miss the Big 10 rivalry and the ability to get lost in a huge crowd. I will miss the frigid winters and waking up before anyone has walked in the snow. I will miss the flatness of farmland and the proximity to water. Those are the things I feel comfortable with; they are my section 137 and I think they might be where I should be.

But, then again, the world we live in is so huge and I cannot always expect to feel a sense of belonging. Really, I should be happy to at least be in the ballpark.

What I should have done

It has been ten long days since I have hit publish, ten long days since I have made any words public. In the first two or three of those days, I was writing a lot down but hated it all. Eventually, on a plane ride to Florida, I gave myself time to address my discontent for what I had written. Reading over my catscratch and tangents, I decided that writing made me feel selfish

Writing - writing anything - is not a form of creating something new. Writing means taking thoughts that have been influenced and molded by other people and claiming them as your own. Writing claims that I know enough about something to form words to describe it. Even if what is being written is filled with uncertainty, it tries to defend that uncertainty as true and mine. I don't deserve to try to make sense of things because I don't know anything.

So, lying on the beach the past weekend, I decided to read instead of write. Reading felt selfless because it required me to look into the thoughts of someone else and take them for what they were. Reading meant acknowledging that someone else , the author, knew a lot more than I did about whatever I was reading and it meant that I was small enough to need someone else to tell me things. Reading was fun because it made feeling selfless easy.

But, as my trip came to an end and my friends and I walked onto the beach for one last time, I wished I had never read at all. The beach was too windy for us and, for the fifteen seconds that I tried to bare it, whipping sand blinded me from looking at it. I longed to be back on that beach ad when I tried to picture it in my head, all I could see was the backdrop it created behind my book. Reading may be less selfish than writing, but doing anything on a beach besides looking at it is vain and wrong.

I should have put my book down and used those hands to feel the coarseness of sand. I should have lifted my eyes from the page and let them try to find an end of the horizon. I should have taken my headphones out and listened for the winds end. I should have uncrossed my legs and explored every inch of what was around me. I spent four days on the beach, I should know its colors and smells and textures. Instead, I know 129 pages of what Ernest Hemingway told me.

Being on a beach - frankly being anywhere - is amazing and humbling. Choosing any distraction, be it writing, reading, playing music, talking to friends, praying, sleeping, texting, or playing papi, is insulting and embarrassing. A location should never be a backdrop, not even to thoughts that we think are important. Nothing is as awe-inducing as where we are at any given moment and nothing deserves to be the center of our unbiased thoughts more than wherever it is we find ourselves. I wish I would have felt this way at the beginning of my trip.

The dance

Would you know a lie if you saw one,
if it danced from off my lips?
If it leaped between our distances,
and swayed you by the hips?

Would you know a lie it it grabbed you,
by your pure and giving hands,
intertwined your honest fingers
and asked you there to dance?

Would you bow and greet your partner?
Would you sashay down the floor?
And when the first of songs was over,
Would you politely ask "one more?"

And kindly would you twirl her,
as she whispered in your ear?
Would her darkened ways seduce you?
Would her grace surmount your fear?

And from there, would you go forth,
entranced by what you learned,
to grab another partner?
And would she too be turned?

Thoughts as Pi Day comes to an end

Today, my friends, is Pi Day and, because I love math and learning, I decided to make a way bigger deal out of it than justifiable.

My interest in pi was first sparked earlier this year when I read a literary journalism by Richard Peterson, "Mountains of Pi." The piece profiles two brothers and their all-encompassing obsession with the number. In its entirety, "Mountains of Pi" is one of the better things I have read but what really grabbed my attention was a passage that described that, if every letter of the alphabet corresponded with a sequence of numbers, your name and address and the lyrics to your favorite album would be spelled out in succession for an uncountable amount of times within pi. The lack of pattern that exists within pi creates an unpredictable spontaneity and, therefore, pi includes every combination of numbers possible multiple times in repetition. That, I think, is pretty sweet.

But, that spontaneity only becomes awe-striking when we take into account the fact that pi is endless. There are some people in my grade who know close to a hundred digits of pi. There are some mathematicians who have gone mad searching for the first ten million. I know seven. And still, on the grand scheme of pi, what the mathematicians know and what I know is relatively the same. Nothing. An end to pi does not exist and, therefor, where ever our knowledge of pi ceases, we must assume is practically nothing.

I think it is this endlessness that gets me the most. Like pi, life too is unpredictable. It is tangible that there is no pattern to the digits of pi because we never know what will happen tomorrow or the next day. Uncertainty is familiar.

But, unlike pi, everything we know comes to an end. I know it because, even when math class drags on, a bell will always cut my teacher off mid-sentence. I know it because my mom has marked and circled the date of my high school graduation on our family calendar. I know because tonight I listened to my favorite artist strum perfect cadences and bid farewell to a begging crowd. I know because I had to toss my favorite pair of shoes earlier and because my train pulled into the station and because I have watched a night become a morning with the tick of a clock.

And, more than anything, I know because today I looked into my friend's red and blurry eyes as she told me that our neighbor had passed. I know because two wonderful people, friends I grew up with, will live the rest of their lives without a father. I know because, if a heart as strong and as pure and as courageous as his could stop beating, than the same must be true of everything I know.

Except for pi. Pi mocks us with its inability to cease. While I sit here watching things I know and care about come to an end, pi is still going, adding digit after digit to a degree I cannot comprehend.

Worshiping pi has given me a false hope that, if this very small number (just a tad over 3), can go on forever, than other things can too. But I am wrong. Pi is some magic exception that taunts my mortality and the mortality of everything I know and am a part of.

Maybe this is why so many mathematicians sacrifice their sanity to dig further into pi: to know something infinite.

Sharing joy

I am trying very hard to always leave a person happier than I found him, a heart fuller than before I knew it. This, unfortunately, is a very hard thing to do. Sometimes, I don't know how to cheer someone up and I wonder why I ever thought I could. What do I know about being happy? I am happy a lot of the time, but I have no idea why; I think I'm just lucky.

But, what good is my happiness if I don't know how to let it rub off on other people? (As my boy Chris McCandless pointed out, happiness is only real when shared).

I don't know how to cheer people up and, as a result, I am hogging the happiness, I am greedy with joy.

The fact that I shouldn't be writing this proves that I probably should

Last week I was feeling pretty sick. I stayed home from school and called my doctor. When my friends asked me what was up I told them I wasn't feeling to great and they wished me better. I was sick and it was sucky but totally normal.

When it comes to physical illnesses - the flu, diabetes, cancer - it is really easy to seek help. Even when a doctor has prescribed you something, chances are that friends will offer to bring by soup of embrace you in a caring hug. People who are sick become the center of conversations as we all talk about their absence and pray for their health.

Why, then, is it so different of the illness is one of the mind and not the body? I have watched victims of anxiety, nervous in the dark hours of the night, still their tremors when the sun come up. I have heard the whispers of friends suffering from depression begging me not to tell anyone. I have sat beside friends suffering from eating disorders as they cried and tried to convince both of us they were fine. I have seen the stress and misery of keeping their illness a secret swallow people I care about, forcing them deeper down the throat of their own sickness. And, I have watched family members comforted by hugs and flowers and baked goods when cancer struck, cracked lips form a smile at the sight of a note from an old but concerned friend.

Mental illnesses, like their physical counterparts, are not the fault of the patient. They are flaws in chemistry, not character and yet we are still terrified to admit that we might be suffering.
It is understandable, really, that we all do this. Those who suffer from depression, eating disorders, anxiety, obsessive compulsive, ect are ostracized in our society. Any girl with cuts on her wrists is written off as "moody" and told to "grow up and get over it." Suicide is considered selfish and those who only eat the right side of potato chips are laughed at or accused of seeking attention. So, we hide our discontent and our insecurity and go to terrifyingly great risks to keep out scars and our protruding rib bones a secret.The mentally ill are silenced, told that what they are feeling is not okay.

But the truth is that being sick is a normal human response to living. Just as some are more prone to certain types of cancers or allergies, mental disorders can be genetic and unavoidable. Sometimes, like a common cold, we just catch it. Many mental disorders are a response to the environment the patient resides in. Insecurity, sadness, fear, and sickness are completely natural and have existed for as long as happiness or bliss or any of the "good" emotions.

So, why is it still so hard for us to admit that we might be mentally ill? Why can't we just accept the fact and seek the treatment that any sick person deserves? Why can't do we, when we see a suffering friend, turn the other cheek and cower from being the one to speak up for them?There is nothing wrong with being sick. But there is something very wrong and very dangerous with pretending like we are not.

I am not suggesting that those who suffer from mental disorders should completely content with their state. Obviously every human being deserves to live a happy and healthy life and there are ways for even the saddest minds to get there. Just as a cancer patient would, he must first accept the status of where he stands and not be afraid to share that place with others. Being sick is nothing to be embarrassed about but is something to work to combat.

If you don't believe me on this, please consider that that I was too scared to include any names in this post. Consider the vagueness of every example given. Consider that I am really terrified to what my friends will think of me once they read this. Consider that, originally, I thought I would expand this thought into a criticism for my Honors Seminar in Writing class, but a disclaimer attached to all of our rubrics states that if any written content suggests that any student may be harming himself or someone else, the teacher is required to notify child services. The fact that I cannot even express this opinion without fear of being ostracized or questioned for it proves that it is valid. And that sucks, yo. It really makes me hate the man.

My own worst enemy

My track coach and I have an interesting relationship. Before I joined the team my freshman year, I worked hard (or at least I thought I was working hard) in the preseason. When the season started, I expected to be on the coach's good side as they had watched me dedicate myself to the sport and progress as an athlete. It was dumb, really. It was ignorant. Track is unlike most other sports in that the stop watch and the measuring tape does not play favorites. It doesn't matter how much work I put in or how often I helped my coach clean up after practice because, when the outdoor season started, I was not one of the best jumpers on the team. I wasn't awful but I was a freshman on a team that would eventually win state so I received little recognition.

I cried a lot that season. I thought my coach hated me when he told me to see an eye doctor if I wanted to pull volt and I thought I might quit to join Dance Company when he put a less dedicated freshman on the section line-up over me. I wanted to be the best girl on the team and had a very hard time accepting the fact that I was a freshman and I was awkward and I simply could not jump as far or as high as the other girls on the team.

I didn't high jump my sophomore because it hurt my back and I was still scared of the coach. Instead, I focused on triple jump and walked away from the season with a first place conference medal. Sophomore year was the year they moved my best friend up to varsity and, still itching in my frosh uniform, I was undeserving jealous. I don't remember much else of my sophomore track season.

As a junior, my coach asked me to try high jump again. It hurt my back a lot still but we had a different coach so I nodded my head and found my way back to the mat. After about a month of practice, my new coach and I decided that I had been jumping off of the wrong foot. I switched which side I took off on and found myself clearing much higher heights. My new coach, unlike my old one, was excessively encouraging and always told me he was proud of me even when I didn't jump well. I didn't cry at all that season.

This year, when I heard my old coach would be coming back to run high jump practices, I was hesitant. Although I had worked with him a lot in other events and in the off season, his face reminded me of how unsuccessful I had been in the past. When I looked at his black backpack and judging tape measure  all I could see was everything I had failed to be. But I had already added "qualify for state track meet" to my bucket list so I preceded.

I have spent the majority of this season comparing myself to the other two varsity high jumpers. We are all pretty evenly matched but not a practice goes by when I do not feel inferior to them both. My coach would often single one of them out for something or pull one of them aside for additional advice and I was jealous of the attention, thinking I had worked hard enough to receive my own special attention. Sometimes, he snaps at one of them and it shows me that he still cares about them as athletes enough to want them to be better, that he hadn't given up on them as I assumed he had on me. I am still paranoid of my coach putting one of them in a post-season meet over me even on days I jump higher than them.

On Monday, my coach noticed. I was so worried about other girls taking off stronger or leading with their hips and it effected how I jumped. My coach tried to give me the same advice that he has given my teammate all year: "Julie, I don't know what else to tell you. You are your own worst enemy."

I took his words to offence at first. I thought that he wanted me to get out of my head and stop thinking too much. I figured he was telling me that I was being too hard on myself and took that to mean that he didn't think I was worth constructive criticism. I thought being my own worst enemy meant that he wanted me to just calm down about high jump because he didn't care enough to keep yelling at me or trying to help me.

But, being my own worst enemy also means that no one else is. Maybe my coach told me this as a form of advice on a level deeper than how well my back arches or how hard my leg drives. Being my own worse enemy means that no one hates me as much as I do. As twisted as that may sound, it has been extremely comforting in the past couple of days. If I hate myself more than anyone else does, than why am I worrying about what my coach or my teammates think? None of them think about me more poorly than I do and, if I can learn to be okay with myself, than they all must be too.

Speechless

I forgot to make a toast tonight.

I was in the company of five wonderful girls and I forgot to make a toast. We drank sparkling grape juice (scandal!) out of my mothers fancy toasting glasses and, as I was hand washing them a few minutes ago, I realized that I forgot to put them to use, that they held a beverage but never held our attention.

At first, I was upset. I thought that these fancy toasting glasses had gone to waste because they were not used to their full potential. More than that, I felt like a shoddy hostess for not calling verbal attention to the greatness of the situation, for not thanking my friends for joining me tonight and every night.

But, as I drained the sink and placed the toasting glasses back in the cabinet, I decided that a toast would not have been fitting for tonight. Sometimes we are put in situations that are so simple and so unbelievable that trying to put that feeling into words is a waste. Some nights, like tonight, we just have to look around at the people sitting next to us and realize that no clinking of glasses or nodding of heads could make this situation any more perfect.




This is a picture from when I ran away from my track meet to eat food earlier today.

This day

This day does not belong to me
Nor equally to you
This day belongs to nobody
Not any, all, or few

But still, this day, I claim as mine
"It was great, I loved it so."
And you, the same, did label it
"One of the worst kind that I know"

But this day was not ours to define
As "too quick" or "dragging on"
This day, it was, and that is all
It came and now it's gone

On having friends

I've always said it - that I take my friends for granted - and I always thought I meant it too. I probably did mean it but, I never fully understood what this meant until very recently.

When I wake up in the morning, it is usually from a dream co-staring my friends. Getting dressed, I pick out outfits from a closet full of gifts, shirts my brothers bought and necklaces my friends made. I pick up a friend or two on my way to school and park in a lot among familiar cars. In class, not only do people acknowledge me, but they tend to do so in a positive manor - complements not insults, smiles not indifference. I receive high fives and hugs and "hey how you doing?"s in the hallway, even when I am walking alone. At lunch, I usually have a place to sit and always have a person to talk to. I have never eaten lunch in the bathroom or in fear of being noticed. If I am struggling in a class, either a friend or a teacher will offer to help me out and, if I am succeeding, I usually receive some form of recognition. After school, I go to track practice or advocate production or student council meetings, all full of people who are recognize my presence. I do not fall asleep at night without at least one friendly text message or lengthy phone call.

Needless to say, I have contact with other individuals. More than that, many of these individuals may be considered friends and, of them, I hope at least a few enjoy my company. I have people in my life.

But, this is not always the case. More so than I had previously recognized, there are a lot of people who have nobody. There are girls who eat lunch in the library, boys who opt for the nurse over gym class, people who go through the day alone. And, rather than make an effort to change this, I have been so wrapped up in the people I already know.

Because my friends are such genuine and altruistic people, I often think about who else they could touch without my presence. If I ate my lunch in the library, there would be one more spot for someone new. If I stopped saying "hello" to them in passing periods, they could save their breath for someone better.

I do not mean to sound like leaving my friends would be an easy thing to do. It wouldn't. As mentioned plenty of times in past posts, my friends are amazing and I live in constant awe of their greatness. So, I know how warm friendship feels. It is a feeling that everyone deserves to feel and to feel often. This is especially true because I know most people deserve the friends I have more than I do.

I guess what I am trying (and failing) to say is that I am really lucky to know people and even luckier to call them my friends. I wish everyone could feel as loved and acknowledged as I do and would, in a heartbeat, sacrifice my social lifestyle to give someone else a chance.




Sorry this post lacks any rhetorical merit. This is an unedited blog so y'all will have to deal. Yo.

On reputations and habits

Another stupid metaphor:

I woke up from a dream on Monday morning of my friends and I at prom. We were all dolled up, enjoying ourselves, and complementing each other on dresses, shoes, hair, the like. It was a dream that made me feel girly so, while getting ready for school, I decided to borrow (steal) some of my mom's eyeliner. I primarily reserve eye makeup for special occasions so, unlike many girls my age, its application was far from second nature. I traced the path just above my eyebrows, trying and retrying to make the line as straight and as perfect as possible. After 5 or 6 attempts, when my lids had stopped twitching and my hands found the right way to hold the pencil, I was satisfied.

I felt special wearing eyeliner to school. In my first period class, my teacher noticed the change by calling me "muy bonita" (luckily before class started to save me from any embarrassment). Although some of my friends were unable to pin point exactly what I had done ("you look so different today! Did you change your hair?), a couple did take direct notice. My best friend's face lit-up when I saw her that morning. "Looks great, Jules! You should do that more often!" She said to me.

So I did. Tuesday morning it only took me 3 attempts to trace my lids and by Thursday I finally felt competent enough with the pencil to make my blond teenager stereotype proud. But, just as I was becoming more and more used to using eyeliner, people were becoming more and more used to me wearing it. Eventually, nobody said anything of my makeup. I went from a girl who was wearing eyeliner to a girl who wears eyeliner in the course of a week.

I got to thinking about what this meant this morning. Looking down at the pencil in my hands, I twirled it naturally between my fingers and wondered how something smaller than my pinky could change the way my entire personality was perceived, how people and myself saw me. I thought about what it meant to be an eyeliner girl and decided, though it was fun for a few days, that was not really who I am.

So, feeling dramatic, I turned the faucet left and scrubbed viciously at my eyelids. I rinsed and flushed and blotted but, when I finally pulled the towel from my face, a small trace of brown still remained.

It was a smudge, really, nothing substantial. For the most part it looked like I was not wearing makeup at all. But it was there.

Now, 12 hours later, the smudge is still faintly visible. Because, as it seems, makeup does not easily erase. Even a few days if a habit will stick around longer than you expected.

Until that smudge goes away, I will still be a girl who wears eyeliner. I will still look like I'm squinting when I hold eye contact, my eyelids will still feel droopy when I lay my head to rest. I do not know how long that smudge will be there; I hope it's not long. I also do not know if I will ever dabble in makeup again; my guesses are I probably will. But, next time, I hope I invest in makeup remover.

A weird thought about snow

Snow is beautiful. That is obvious. No matter how cold or how windy or how lonely a night feels, snow makes the ground sparkle and the sky speckle and everything glisten and glean. A white blanket stitched together from millions of tiny flakes of art, its colorlessness makes everything look weightless. It begs to be played with, tossed around, and at the same time admired from afar, careful not to track dirt into its purity. Snow is beautiful. There is no denying that.

But, the more I think about snow, the more I think about what lies underneath. In the morning, when my dad wakes up, he will likely mention how beautiful the park looks after tonight's snowfall. I will probably agree and nod along. But what are we actually saying? The park will be no different. Below a million flakes of white will still sit the same muddy grass-patches and the same unpolished swing-set. The park will look white to us, but it is not. The park will be covered in white. The park will have gotten no more beautiful simply because it snowed tonight because, the park isn't beautiful, the snow is beautiful.

So, I wonder, how am I to judge anything or anyone's sense of beauty or goodness from simply what I know. A person may look good to me, but it is likely that said person is blanketed in socially-demanded habits.

How can I (or anyone) tell where the snow ends and where the park begins? Is it okay to judge something on how much snow it is covered in? After all, when spring comes around, won't the park covered in 10 feet of snow look messier than the one covered in 10 inches?

Crémé brûlée

I used to love to bake. Sunday mornings, I would get home from volunteering and try to finish a batch of cupcakes before my mom woke up. I sent cookies by the boxes to my brothers in college and, whenever they would come home I promised them homemade ice cream. I tried my best to not show up anywhere without a plate of treats and, when a friend lost a loved one or won an award, I would resort to my kitchen. I brought cookies and brownies and cupcakes to school because, when I offered one to somebody, they would smile and that was great. Baking was the easiest way to cheer someone up and the quickest way to remind someone that life is good.

But, I rarely bake anymore. I am a senior in high school and the post-it notes on my calendar beg me to choose my homework over my hand-mixer. Track and Stuco and Advocate and friends and school and family always seem so immediate. People are expecting things of me and baking is not one of them. So I don't really do it anymore. Instead, I do a lot of eating. I do a lot of being baked for and consuming whatever my friends worked hard to make. Instead of spending hours in my kitchen, stressing over which flavor of frosting my brother would like better, I spend a few minutes convincing people to share their food with me and even fewer swallowing it once they say yes. I have become a receiver, an eater.

But, I still love baking. On the mornings when I wake up too early to do anything else, I sometimes resort to my kitchen and my hands will easily fall back into habit, kneeling and mixing and mashing as if they never stopped. I did not stop baking because I grew tired of it or outgrew it. I stopped baking because, at one point or another, I decided I didn't have time for it anymore.

And that makes me sick to think about. Who am I to think I can go around eating people's food? Who am I to conclude that whatever I have to do is more important than cheering up a friend? Especially when my friends, the people I now take food from, are doing such amazing things. My friends' band just released an EP. Tons of them are being accepted onto colleges or offered scholarships. One of my best friends is in the cutest relationship I have ever seen and I am just sitting here, eating their food instead of baking for them. It's disgusting and I'm sorry.



Also, check this out: http://vinylsurprise.bandcamp.com/

Trampled by Teamwork

I think we can all learn something from folk music.

I just got home from seeing the band Trampled by Turtles pour themselves into live music at the Vic. I laughed a little bit when the five band members took the stage. The banjo player, violinist, and mandolinist all looked like they had just left their day jobs at Bass Pro Shop. They each had enough facial hair to keep them warm in the winter and I wouldn't be surprised if the shoes they were wearing were their only pairs. The bass player could have easily been the violinist's son, although he lacked the same abundance of facial hair. So, when I saw the lead vocalist and guitarist walk out with a nicely trimmed layer of scruff and a collared shirt, I assumed he would steal the show. I expected a single spotlight or a slew of guitar solos or vocal riffs. I expected the other 4 to absent-mindedly keep rhythmic support, to play chords just to move on to the next one. I expected each member to play his own instrument with mastery, 5 well-accomplished but independent musicians.

But, the show wasn't about the banjo player. Or the violinist. Or the mandolinist. Or the bass player. Not even the lead guitarist. This show wasn't about 4 or 5 or 6 stringed instruments. This show wasn't even about 5 voices.

This show was about 27 strings working together. Sure, each of these musicians was exceedingly talented, but none more so than the sum of their parts. This show was about 27 strings knowing and trusting one another, feeling where the group was moving and helping to move it along. This show was about sets of 4 or 5 or 6 strings pouring themselves into what they know and hoping that the result will benefit the rest of the 27. This show was about strumming each string loudly and with variety, but never so much so that it might overshadow another. This show was about 23 strings having the other 4's back when they felt compelled to take the lead, to solo. This show was about 27 independent strings, all being strummed into one beautiful sound. 27 strings trading in their own spotlight for a backlight that spreads evenly across the stage.

Folk music is selfless. And although I may still be stuck in the greed of rock or pop, I can rest easy knowing that selflessness exists.

Mean what you say (honesty)

All the things I said today
Or rather, said at all
So many of them will be forgotten
Unheard and left to fall

And still, I know, some words I've said
Have been taken down in note
Not to be remembered, but to serve
As an example of what I promote

So all the things I said tonight
Or said at any time
Have become a mask of what you see
When thinking of who I am

Conscious of this, I cannot stop
Thinking of all the lies
The things I made up or ignored
Trying to fit in my disguise

A disguise of who I want to be
But really who I'm not.
Saying things I think will make me
An object of your thought

And soon enough the mask you wear
Forms nearly to your skin.
And suddenly the lies you spoke
Become the lies you're living in

When really, it all goes back to when
You spoke those words out loud
The time you thought you weren't enough
And needed lies to make you proud

But likely, it'a true that when you spoke
Bred in jealousy and spew,
That had you time to think it through
would've said words that you meant to

But still, you hold to what you said
Afraid to look like a fool.
So what you said, however wrong
Becomes your guiding rule

The things you didn't mean to say
Are now the things you preach.
So easy to say but not always true
Your flaws originate in speech

But still, out loud
My voice it rings.
Does that mean
I mean these things?