It's officially been a month since my last post, which is awful of me, I know. But the last two weeks of school--heck, the whole semester--has been so busy I haven't even been keeping up with my journal writing, let alone my homework and blogging. Enough excuses. I don't think anyone but me reads this anyway, but that's all right. I'm home now, relaxing and sleeping in. I'm currently in the process of packing my things for that not-so-distant move to who-knows-where.

Over the past year or so, I've been gradually moving things home and storing them in my parents' basement. Now that I've moved everything home--I had Big Bertha packed from the rear-view mirror to the sliding door to the floor underneath the seats--I occupy the whole southeast corner of the basement, and my dad is ready for me to get rid of some of it. So I've been sifting and repacking and tossing and keeping loads of stuff. The whole process makes me realize just how much junk I've collected in the past five years since going off to college. It makes me feel rich and snobbish, at least compared to people in Mexico or the Sudan who probably don't even have enough things to fill just one of my book boxes. I feel guilty for complaining or wishing for more stuff, more things to pack and take with me, for wishing that I had more money. When I think about how I have been blessed--a college education, a loving family, more possessions than I could possibly need to survive, a car, a checking account--I feel the pinch of my worldliness even more.

So what do I do? The question has been running around my mind for the past few weeks. I could give everything away and live in a hut in Kathmandu (I don't even know where that is). I could live like I never thought about it, and keep on amassing wealth. Or I could remember that it isn't what I store up here that matters. I may be blessed, but it could all be gone in a second. I think the more important question is this: what do I do with the gifts I've been given? Do I hoard them in earthen vessels, or do I place my gifts in the hands of something/someone bigger and say, "Do with them as you wish--they're yours anyway." Something to think about this Christmas season (and year round).

I knew it was bad when it hurt to keep my eyes open in class. I've had late nights before, but very rarely in my college career has such a late night produced the burning feeling that persisted in my eyes all the way through my 8 and 9 o'clock classes. I'm feeling better now--I can look at things for more than two seconds without my vision blurring. But I'm slightly concerned that all these 4:30 am bedtimes, preceded by hours and hours of staring at a computer screen, may one day make me blind. On the news last night, I heard a report about computer usage being linked to glaucoma, a condition which can eventually cause blindness if not treated properly. That's where that thought came from.

The worst part of the whole thing is that I spent the last three weeks preparing for this day--preparing my full-scale unit plan, preparing my huge presentation on teen pregnancy--and now it's over. I feel like there should at least be some sort of celebration. Or that people should look at my fabulous tri-fold poster about teen pregnancy for another twenty-five minutes. One class period simply isn't enough time to appreciate all the work my partner and I put into that wonderfully creative and artistically designed monstrosity. And my unit plan--I work twelve hours (four and a half of those late last night or early this morning) creating calendars and appendices and daily objectives and then it's just tucked in some folder somewhere. It's probably sitting on my professor's desk right now. Alone. Neglected. It's so anticlimactic. I feel like I should take my giant poster home over Thanksgiving and ask my mom to put it on the refrigerator.

I suppose this desire for recognition is slightly selfish. Yes, I did do all that work, but that's my job right now. I'm a student. I'm supposed to devote my whole life to the pursuit of producing top-notch education-major projects. It's like the policman pointing out, "Um, hello there. I just gave someone a speeding ticket. When do I get my commendation? Oh, and does it come with a raise?" No--I should just tip my hat and say, "No trouble, ma'am. It's all in a day's work," and walk away as if I didn't do anything worth taking note of at all.

In other news, I'm leaving for Indianapolis tomorrow morning. National NCTE Convention, here I come! (NCTE=National Council of Teachers of English). And it's only 29 days until Christmas. Thanksgiving break is one week from today. I appreciate the here and now, but I'd rather the here and now was tomorrow.

My Grandmother’s Hands

Covering a laughing mouth,
Shaped nails painted pale pink,
Encircling shoulders in a
tight squeeze,
The feel of love in every gentle touch
of paper-thin skin,
Frailty that speaks of strength
not her own,
Fingers once long and even
now bent and rigid,
aged with life’s long labor,
Eager to hold the hands of
another, gone before
and waiting,
Folded in prayer,
a testimony to life’s faith.
For my grandmother’s hands,
Father God,
Receive praise.

Posted by Hello

After a little reworking, here is a "less raw" version of the poem I posted last week. I wanted to make it say exactly what I wanted it to, because the whole topic of abortion is one that evokes a strong emotional response in me. For a little background information, I wrote this initially as a response to the Beattitudes in Matthew 5. A class I'm taking on the medieval practice of lectio divina encourages us to journal prayer responses to the verses that we're studying/memorizing/contemplating. This isn't exactly a prayer, but it's what came out after thinking on that particular passage for awhile. I think it had been brewing in my mind for several weeks before I even wrote it, so I can't express how satisfying it was to have it finally on paper.


Three Prayers

Too quickly have I forgotten the
crush of little bones in my hand.
Tiny fingers reaching towards my light,
Grip my scissors,
Grip my knife.
It’s not that I like what I do.
But I am a mercy dispenser.
Mercy for one at the expense of the other.
Harden my eyes.
Harden my heart.
Oh my god.
Have mercy on me.

They are light fluttering wings that I want to
hold in my hand.
Too little, too much.
I’m sorry.
It’s better this way. For both of us.
Cold steel bed,
Cold robotic fingers,
Cold like ice around my heart.
It’s not that I like what I’ve done, both sides of it.
But I’ve been given a choice.
I choose mercy.
For both of us.

I watch with unopened eyes.
My translucent hidden skin,
My blue-veined body will
Grip the scissors.
Grip the knife.
I accept your apology.
Small bones uplifted, washed clean.
Pass over a black bag of skulls.
Father, forgive them.
I open my eyes.
Have mercy,
For they know not what they do.

Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Matthew 5:7

On a side note...

-Laundry fresh from the drier is one of the greatest things in the world on a cold night.

-Listening to your college choir sing and knowing you can never sing with them again will make you cry.

-Sometimes, pizza is the best thing for a broken heart.

-Making curriculum maps can be fun.

-Songs can be too truthful sometimes. Take "Warning Sign" by Coldplay for example.

-Taking Bowling as a fitness requirement can be good for your health. It can also boost your average score from 32 to 125.

-Sometimes a person just needs a double mocha with whipped cream.

-Research papers on grammar are not stimulating to write or read, unless you use vivid imagery like "toss it out the window" and "pound it into their little skulls."

-Developing callouses from guitar-playing can be cathartic.

I took this in June while exploring the back-roads around the Big Sioux River. Something about the blue roof caught my eye.
Posted by Hello

"Half of the time we're gone but we don't know where..."

Simon and Garfunkel were a wise couple of guys. Excuse me. Are a wise couple of guys.

"Let your honesty shine, shine, shine."
"Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike, they've all come to look for America."

Recommendation: See Zach Braff's latest endeavor. Garden State is one hip flick. Personally, I'd watch it again just to hear the sound track in THX or Dolby Digital or whatever it is.

"There's beauty in the breakdown, so let go."
"I can see California sun in your hair."
"Wasting my time in the waiting line..."

Definitely some good songs. Walking around campus with these songs playing on my mp3 player, I feel like I've been taken out of the awful rush. It's some sort of transcendence. Not really like what Walt Whitman would advocate, and not be confused with the transcendence of Christ or anything like that. Just floating above the noise. As though it's easier to draw in deeper breaths. Coldplay does the same thing. Particularly the live album.

It's the storm of the century. Well, maybe not quite, but it was raining so hard when I finished with class tonight that I had my roommate come pick me up. She's a saint. It's also storming on other fronts--I'm feeling sorry for my cousin who is in the path of Hurrican Ivan. I'm getting assailed by financial woes--hail on my parade--my car is in the shop and will be expensive to fix, if indeed I do get it fixed. What a conundrum. It's things like this that always start to stress me out, that right when all my bills are due, then I get hit up for more money. I suppose that's why we're supposed to save and not spend it all, but I'm supposed to be saving for a new-to-me car, not pouring money down the endless hole that is Big Bertha. That's when I'm reminded by that persistant, still, small, ever present voice that says, "Trust me. Aren't I big enough to handle this?"

But then I wonder, "Haven't I been a bad Christian lately? You probably won't take care of this out of spite." Naughty me. I imagine the Holy Spirit looking shocked, and then laughing that I would think Him/It? spiteful. Oh yes, I think. That's right. You love me. I forgot.

Inside,
I had been
broken
as with a
sledgehammer.
But
You found
a
piece
of me
that I had
missed
as I fit
myself
back
together,
putting it
just the
right
place,
making me
whole.

It seems like sometimes news organizations can get it just right, and then other times, they can completely foul out. Look at today's news. The coverage of September 11 commemorations is poignant. We should remember. We should think of those people every day, and remind ourselves that it could have just as easily be us. But then look at this mess with the George Bush memos. There's more doubt than belief, even though Dan Rather staunchly backs his story. Something like this pollutes the presidential race; Americans can't vote based on the truth about each candidate. Instead, they're voting based on the way news coverage sways their opinions. I would venture to say that most of the people who will be voting in November haven't even taken the time to understand either Bush or Kerry. They rely too much on what everyone else is saying. We can't trust the media anymore. But what else is there? We could toss out the media, but something else would fill the void. We live in biased times.

School's got me all worked up and panicky. Okay, I'm drifting out of the panicky stage, but I still may hyperventilate if I forget even one more thing for class. I was explaining my absent worksheet to my advanced grammer prof, telling her that when I get busy, I get panicky. And when I get panicky, I get forgetful. Fortunately, she admitted to suffering from the same syndrome and told me I could bring my grammar exercises to class on Friday. It's not that I didn't do them--I actually, in a masochistic sort of way, enjoy doing grammar exercises--I left them in another notebook, and as I raced off to class, I left the worksheet behind. I think part of the reason for all the fluster is that Clint is coming to visit this weekend, and I'm trying to get everything done before he gets here so that we can have some quality time. Quality time is something we are lacking, due to the distance and general hectic nature of both of our lives which prevents us from spending time together. In any case, I've been forgetting so much lately--my worksheet this afternoon, an appointment in the evening, 4x6 notecards for a class, a reading assignment. I'm exceptionally blessed because my profs love me in spite of my flaws and are willing to give me some leeway. This wouldn't happen just anywhere, I realize. Thank the Lord for Dordt College and its great sense of community. But I keep telling myself that I just need to get a grip, that I need to sit myself down and get organized. I've got a break now for a couple hours. I think I'm going to do just what I need to do--no dawdling, no TV watching. Just focus, get the job done, and be rewarded by going to bed on time tonight instead of 1:30 in the morning. And I have to remind myself to breathe. I forget to do that sometimes too.

I just finished watching Love Actually and, as far as love stories go, this one was pretty good. I was a little disappointed because out of the eight or so different threads, one was left totally unfinished and another didn't exactly seem to end on a totally "in love" note. But I liked the way they all strung together somehow, as well as having so many quality actors and actresses in one film: Emma Thompson, Liam Niesen, Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Laura Linney, Roan Atkinson. The music wasn't bad either. But mostly, I liked it because it had shots of all my favorite places in London--the Thames River walk, the Millenium Bridge, Big Ben, Trafalger Square, St. Paul's. I felt like I was there again. Admittedly, there's some language and nudity (although that part is pretty strange), and sometimes I couldn't figure out how all the different people knew each other--somehow they all did. And the idea that love is all around us, particularly at the airport seemed a bit desperate...but I was entertained. And that's the point, right?

spotted: one interim campus pastor on a porch, looked embarrassed after setting off the fire alarm by burning a piece of bacon. as for the crispy pork, he ate it before coming and standing in the rain with the rest of us.

I am missing the newness of spring. These flowers were floating like rosey snow in May. Now the world is full of bolder colors.
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I'm in my apartment RIGHT NOW-- and it's awesome. I'm in the process of trying to move in; it's amazing how much stuff a person needs once they're not living with five other people. I have so many books. Too many. Shelves and shelves. I hope my roommate doesn't need too much shelf-space...

Well, I must be off. I have to re-pot a couple plants.

I will be so glad when I have the internet at my apartment. That's all I have to say.

I slept in today until 11.  That's a new record for the summer.  It didn't help that I was up until 2:30 talking with Clint.  It reminds me of the line from Train's song "Drops of Jupiter"--"can you imagine...a five hour phone conversation"--  I don't think we've ever talked so long.  By about 2 it was getting silly.  One of those moments when everything is funny, even when there's nothing to say.  It's just that I never want him to hang up, as if once we're disconnected, I lose something.  I think I've been living too long alone.  I notice all the small things, the noises, the stillness.  Like the fly buzzing in the light, its last flutters.  The hum, the white noise of the office.  The sound of gnawing in my bedroom wall.  It makes me feel enclosed. 

bored at work.

it's that nebulous time of day-- lunchtime-- when no one is around to tell me what to do next. i'm waiting around for a professor to return from his lunch break and give me more work to do. in the mean time, i suppose i will just stare at the computer and try to think of imaginative ways to kill time. i've debated going home for lunch myself. could i count that as part of my work day? i normally have things that i can do on my own. however, i've recently reached that point where i'm done with my projects, and all that remains is whatever busy work they choose to give me. is it going to be like this for the rest of the summer? i may as well move home and babysit. i could at least see my boyfriend that way. i think my problem is that i'm too efficient. they give me work to do, but i get it done too quickly. sometimes, i try to take as long as i possibly can to finish whatever task is at hand. but it still only takes me a few minutes. maybe i type too fast. who knows.

weekend snapshots--

-me standing under a giant strawberry in the rain. it's raining so hard the streets are flooding.
-some guy's jaw dropping as he exclaims "d---! what's up!" upon seeing us five hot women drive past on our way through backbone state park.
-jasmine and me singing "the love of God" at her church in strawberry point.
-the two of us jamming out to Tonic on interstate 90 and speaking in spanish accents at the barn-shaped rest stop.

I surprised Clint this weekend and showed up at church right before the service started. He looked at me like he didn't really believe I was there but would play along anyway. Then, as I grinned and wrapped my arms around him, he laughed and called me a punk. He still looked stunned after I had taken my seat in the pew. I felt satisfied and happy--more so than I thought I would. He told me later that he was glad he saw me before preaching. "Otherwise," he said, "there would have been a lot more awkward pauses, and everyone would have wondered why I wasn't making any sense." It's nice to know I have that effect on him.

in third person

"They're beautiful, by the way," he said as he grabbed his bag from the back seat of her van. "Your eyes. I thought about them the whole way home from church." Her breath caught in her throat as she felt something flutter under her ribs.
"Thanks," she said softly, and he smiled as he walked away.

in third person

she hung up the phone, her boss's voice still gravel in her ear.
--you plug away on it, then.
the rain was falling steadily, reminding her of heart beats and drum rhythms. her stomach growled, and she eyed the peach. i would need a napkin, she thought, remembering the feeling of the juice dribbling down her chin. staring at the computer, she wondered what to say. writer's block. those words made her think of her sister, of her sister's gift. how can we both be writers, she thought, when we're both so different. the answer, she supposed, lay in the words they wrote, the unique voice they each heard in their head as fingers clicked across keyboards. simple. visual. electric. that was the word her professor had used to describe her sister. that was her, all right, she thought wryly.
--can i be electric too?

Taking a brief pause from work, I am dreaming about tomorrow, when I get to go home for the weekend-- an extended weekend really. I can picture myself driving down the highway, music turned up and the windows rolled down. I get a small thrill just thinking about it. I met a husband and wife in my small group Biblestudy last night who were from Lincoln. It was great to play Dutch bingo with them (even if we're not Dutch) and see all the people we had in common. I don't get to do that very often. Mostly I watch other people connect the dots, laughing outloud because Carol is Bob's second cousin, and graduated with Helen's sister, who is married to Kevin's son. Most of our time with host families on choir tour is spent trying to see if somehow we're all related. Well, now I get to go home and pow-wow with my people for once. The distinction between outsider and insider is very interesting, I think.

Yesterday evening, I was remembering last summer, and the slow, relaxed pace of the days and nights. It was blissful, and I got a bit nostalgic. I miss being in my territory, nannying from 6am to 3 in the afternoon, and taking the rest of the afternoon to read in a coffeeshop or lay on a blanket in the grassy park near my grandma's house. Coming home and watching Wheel of Fortune with her, making a noodle casserole and eating defrosted Christmas cookies for dessert. My parents were only five minutes away, not three and a half hours. My sisters and I could go to movies together; my best friend was just down the road. My memories seem closer now than the people who mean the most to me. I wish it could have worked out to live in Lincoln again. My ideal summer. Although the ideal probably wouldn't have matched the actual experience. The hard bitter truth of life.

Sometimes I think that some of my best moments with God come when I'm not saying anything. I had that this morning as I sat on my bed in my pajamas, listening to Steven Curtis Chapman's "Be Still and Know". I sat and just thought about the immensity of God, and tried to open my heart to hearing him. I felt as if a big blanket of peace surrounded me, and I was able to simply worship him. It was magnificent.

And then I went outside into the cold, and all the golden warmth of my experience was shivered away by the wind. My fingers trembled, and as soon as I got inside again, I dreaded going out into the world again.

Isn't that the way it works though? We have an inspiring moment and we feel amazed and lit up from the inside. But then an encounter with the darkness around us, and suddenly we're afraid. Where has the shining light gone? Where is the warmth that filled us before? I don't think it's gone anywhere. I think that we need to carry it bravely and refuse to let the chilling wind extinguish it. Sometimes during the winter, I would leave a door open in the house on accident, and my mom would ask me if I was trying to heat up the whole outside. Yeah, Mom, I think I am.

My brain is dead. I just finished writing a two hour American Literature exam. I have never taken such a hard test. It's not that the information was difficult; I didn't even study that much. Probably only a couple hours, and that was in front of the TV, during commercials. The simple process of recalling all of the information was not difficult in the least. Rather, writing two full length essays and six shorter essays drained my mind of all useful processing and synthesizing skills. I'm devoid of the ability to write essays on William Faulkner or Tennessee Williams. There is relief on the horizon, though. Now that I've written this test (all six pages front and back) I'm done with American lit. until I have to teach it myself one day. Don't get me wrong- I actually loved all of the pieces we read in that class. We read My Antonia, The Sound and the Fury, A Streetcar Named Desire, Kate Chopin, e.e. cummings, Robert Frost, Sarah Orne Jewett--- some of my favorite authors. But my professor is tough. She expects a lot, which is also good. It is also exhausting. I think I'm going to pack for a little while and maybe take a nap. I still have two more tests to prepare for. And then I will say goodbye to studying for a short while. An abbreviated rest.

Birthday

My birthday was last Saturday, and I have to say, it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had. My mom came up to school and we spent the whole day in Sioux Falls shopping and hanging out. Since we rarely get to do this, it was such a treat. My roommates gave me a beautiful card, hand-crafted by Amanda-- who makes amazing cards, by the way. And on Sunday, we had lunch with Sarah's parents. They had a cake with both of our names on it (Sarah's birthday is today) and when Sarah opened her presents, they gave me one too! It's one of the sexiest picture frames ever- partly because there's a picture of Sarah and me in it. It was a wonderful day. Twenty-two is a great age.

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time."

-T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"



I feel as though this has been sort of my mantra this year. A lot of exploring... subject matter, self, relationships, God. I'm starting to recognize this yearning inside myself to go back, all the way to the beginning. We've been talking a lot this year, my roommates and I, about the Big Change that's happening in about two and a half weeks. Because even if we're not all graduating, everything is changing. Nothing will be the same afterwards. And while that's wonderful and completely fine, it stirs something within us. A little melancholy, a little wish that we could keep going on in our relatively comfortable ways. And yet, there's still that strong urge to push forward. We have to keep on going, because if we tread water here, we will surely drown.

tired My vision is starting to blur... I think my contact is drying out. Yeah, I only wear one contact. And after studying for my big Curriculum and Instruction test tomorrow, I think I deserve a good night of solid sleep. I'm dreaming of crawling under my blankets, pulling them up to my nose, and curling into myself. Hopefully I can have a nice dream of spring or something equally lovely. I took a study break earlier tonight and finished watching the last hour of An Affair To Remember. A completely sentimental film, but something about it just makes me fall in love with it every time. Deborah Kerr is enchanting, and who can beat Carey Grant? (Except maybe Gregory Peck... Maybe that's why I can never be satisfied by any of the guys I date. They're too modern.) (Warning: Complete Subject Change) I just want to be done with all the stress and agony of school work. I'm feeling oppressed. How many papers can one student be expected to write in a semester?? ARGH! *sigh* Okay. Well, I can barely see; I'm going to go remove my contact and makeup and brush my teeth and put on my pj's and head to bed. Goodnight budding world.

Easter
I wish that I'd thought about Him more today. I have been so busy this weekend just preparing for Easter that I've forgotten why we're having all these special services and chapels. Tonight we're having an Easter GIFT (Growing In Faith Together-- an on campus worship service), and I want to make sure that my mind is meditating on the sacrifice of Christ. I've been on the worship team for awhile now, and so often I allow myself to get frustrated with the leadership or the timing or the extra rehearsal time. I lose sight of the fact that we are leading people to worship God. What a rare and amazing privilege. And so often I think of it as an inconvenience. I know I did this week. I was so angry that they would schedule an Easter GIFT and keep me from going home. It's bad enough that we have classes on Good Friday, but to force me to stay on campus and have rehearsals when I would rather be thinking about Jesus' death and resurrection? (Yeah, how likely is that?) How inconsiderate. Actually, my anger was inconsiderate. I have been blessed with the opportunity to come together with the body of Christ to worship Him and bask in the beauty of His presence. And all I can do is moan and complain. I feel a close kinship with the children of Israel. Hopefully, a forty-year sojourn in the desert is not in my future.

It is snowing today. Snowing in April. It made me remember my fourth birthday, when we were living in Rapid City, South Dakota. My birthday is April 24th, and for my party we had ice cream, and swam in the little blue plastic pool we kept on the deck. It was over 80 degrees. The next day, I went sledding. Four feet of snow had piled up during the night in the last blizzard of the year. The flakes today were perfect; I could see the intricate points like lace against my black coat. And yet, a quote from T.S. Eliot ran through my mind:

"April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire"

in third person

She thought of him as she tried to go to sleep, remembering the time in high school when he had tried to scare her by telling her that a homeless man lived in the woods behind his house and would rattle the handle of the basement door at night. She remembered that he was tall and brash. Remembered celebrating New Year's with him, huddled under a blanket by a meager bonfire with cigars. She laughed to herself in her bed, her covers drawn up to her nose. It had been years since they'd talked. Why was she thinking of him now? There was a tightness in her chest as she suddenly longed for the safe relationships of the past.

* * *

I just finished watching House of Sand and Fog. It's one of those incredibly beautiful but heartbreakingly hopeless films. It really has no hope what-so-ever at the conclusion. I felt like I wanted to cry or sleep for a long time. I think it really depressed one of my friends who was watching it. I feel slightly guilty for suggesting it... all that I knew about it was that it was nominated for three academy awards. It wasn't even that it was "bad", just that the characters all had lives that, by the end, were completely devoid of any meaning. The ultimate post-modern tragedy, complete with the death of innocence and the survivor who is nothing more than a battered husk of a person. The survival of the anti-hero.

In other news, it's four weeks from today that I will walk across the stage and receive a fake diploma. I will look like I'm graduating from college, but I will really just be pretending. I don't mind pretending though, because at least I get to go through this experience with my classmates. It seems strange that I will have to stay here and keep working at my majors for another year while most of my friends move out into the "real" world. Out of the pan and into the fire. I think of the summer and grin. My friends think of the summer and shudder.

Today I scored the highest I have ever scored in bowling. I got a 133 in my third game, after starting off the evening with a 68. Thank you Bowling HPER, my most favorite physical fitness class ever.

thomas alexander

Last week, Thomas Alexander played here. If you haven't heard of him, don't worry. You will. He is an amazing pianist; I was blown away by his performance. One of the most interesting things about him is that for the second half of his program, he takes requests, and then proceeds to improvise a piece in contemporary and classical style around whatever song an audience member suggests. That night, people requested "Eleanor Rigby", "The Entertainer", Britney Spears, "Amazing Grace", "Claire de Lune", and "Yesterday". He played the last four as one piece. It was incredible. As I sat there, these were some of the thoughts that ran through my head.

His hands were like leaping frogs; they were dancing out of his body like dancers on tip-toe.

The notes cascaded in shimmering waterfalls as love for the music radiated from his absurdly young face.

His fingers were wild creatures with a life of their own, and I had to tell myself to stop thinking dirty thoughts.

He would pause and you'd find yourself breathing again.

in third person

She held the two sticks of butter in her hands. She could feel that they had softened, and was suddenly seized by an irrepressible urge to squeeze them.

in third person

"Are you holding me because I'm cold, or do you have ulterior motives?" she asked, her arms wrapped teasingly around his neck. He grinned, but his eyes grew serious.

You're a really fun girl, and we have a good time together, but I don't really think that we would ever work out in the long term." She was startled. It had been a question asked in jest, and although she didn't really want him, it stung that he had thought about it and decided he didn't want her either. Her smile stayed on her face, but she sat very still in his arms.

"We're very different, aren't we."

"Too different," he said quietly. She looked away. "Don't get me wrong," he continued, the twinkle returning to his eyes, "I would love making out with you."

ramblings
I turned in my first ever unit plan today. For once I feel like maybe being a teacher could be the right path after all. The unit plan is for my Curriculum and Instruction class, one of several where I'm the oldest student. The rest of the students are sophomores and a couple juniors. It's kind of odd, because in that class, I feel slightly ahead of the rest of the students. Which is a nice feeling, because when I come home at night to my roommates (2 of which are in their last semesters of the education program and know everything a student can know about teaching), I feel inadequate and behind. For example, last night, as I was preparing the final pieces of my unit plan, I wanted Sarah and Kara to look over some of it and let me know if I was doing it right. And neither of them had time, neither of them were interested, and they just smiled patronizingly when I finally finished and was rejoicing. Kind of blew the wind out of my sails. I had worked over ten hours on that project, and I wanted someone to rejoice and be glad with me. It felt like such an accomplishment. And suddenly it was nothing, reduced to just another assignment. I felt like it was one of those "I just kicked this in the butt" moments, and they just looked at me like I had no right to be excited about a job well done. Maybe I came off a little prideful or something. Either way, I turned it in today, and felt like I had given my professor some of my best work. And it was satisfying, despite the frustration of feeling defeated in my room.

Isn't a room supposed to be a safe place? The place you feel comfortable and yourself? Aren't your roommates supposed to be your best friends? College is the place where you make life-long friendships, have the best time of your life, and feel the freest. You can sail around in sweatsuits and never do your hair and still be taken seriously. And even though I've felt this way about a lot of my college experiences, there are still so many days when I wonder if I'm just the person that people put up with. I feel as if I am an annoyance to my friends sometimes, and that there isn't one person I know who seeks me out and loves to be with me. Over spring break, our choir toured the Northwest states. It was so much fun, but half the time, I felt that Kara only enjoyed being with me when I made a fool out of myself. Is that an issue with my self-perspective or is it really happening? I never know. Does everyone have these days? Do even the most beautiful and outgoing people wonder if everyone else is just "putting up with them"? I hope so. It would make me feel better.

You're The Inspiration It has been almost a full year since I last wrote here. A lot has happened-- I got back to the U.S. after my semester in England, had a wonderful summer, and came back to Sioux Center, Iowa. I won't bore you with all the details, though. (Who is "you" anyway? No one really reads this but me.) I'm coming close to the end of my fourth year at Dordt College, and while all my friends and roommates are preparing to graduate, I'm looking forward to a whole 'nother semester of classes in the fall, followed by a semester of student teaching. Just a word of advice-- don't change your major a month before Christmas your senior year. It throws a wrench in everything. Anyway, I got inspired to start writing again when I saw that Becca had been writing in her blog; I also just miss writing-- writing descriptively, writing casually, writing artistically-- I'm so overwhelmed with education classes that I barely have time to study what I love. (That would be literature) I feel like I'm losing touch with myself and with my voice. I was reading some other blogs this past week, and I felt so inadequate. I'm not thinking gradiose thoughts or spilling forth fresh images. My life is barren. I'm beginning to realize that maybe this barrenness is the source of my frustration lately. I feel burned out and ugly, like everything I say is base and uncomplicated. I don't have anything worthwhile to contribute to the world's discussion. To me, that is incredibly sad. See, even now I can't think of a better word than "sad" to describe how I feel about that. Pathetic. My sister is much more creative than I am. I wish I had that piece of her in me too.