What happened to #2, you ask? Well, I wanted sleep more. Sorry.
My status: Tired, but happy. So happy.
What I learned: Serving isn't half as bad the second night. You know what you're doing, and everyone else knows what they're doing, so the task of refilling glasses and clearing plates isn't so overbearing.
What I wish I would have done: Been like those cute girls who helped us (the Schreiby girls) out BEAUCOUP LOTS AND LOTS while we were singing. How sweet of them.
Something good that...we all did: We put on an awesome show! What a great performance. I mean, sure--it was the third night, and like Schreiby warned us about, there were complacency issues. But altogether, t'was great. (At least, I loved it...)
Holiday disasters cough cough dinners are OVER! So sad. It was kindof freaking me out, though, because these three monotonous days have all just melded into one--each holiday dinner a continuation of the last. Weird.
(Yeah, I DID just call Mr. Schreiber, Schreiby. Twice.)
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Holiday Disasters #1
Tonight was our first night of holiday dinners for Mountain View choir at EVIT.
My status: TIRED
What I learned: Serving is so stressful. But tonight was definitely a bonding night. In between the cries of, "Where's the water??" and "Table 32 has no dessert!" I had a good time joking with all of the choir girls.
What I wish I would have done: Gotten my confidence up. I mean, come on, these people WANT you to pour their water and refill their bread baskets--what is there to be afraid of? (Heh, there's lots to be afraid of...but I should've gotten over that. I mean, the only real mistake that I made was dropping a knife on the floor. Not too shabby for a beginner.)
Something good I did (not to boast): I asserted myself and walked onto the risers despite the protests of girls near me. And I was right to go at that time. And I wasn't embarrassed. Because I was right. Perhaps I'm over explaining this.
Nu ar det juligen
My status: TIRED
What I learned: Serving is so stressful. But tonight was definitely a bonding night. In between the cries of, "Where's the water??" and "Table 32 has no dessert!" I had a good time joking with all of the choir girls.
What I wish I would have done: Gotten my confidence up. I mean, come on, these people WANT you to pour their water and refill their bread baskets--what is there to be afraid of? (Heh, there's lots to be afraid of...but I should've gotten over that. I mean, the only real mistake that I made was dropping a knife on the floor. Not too shabby for a beginner.)
Something good I did (not to boast): I asserted myself and walked onto the risers despite the protests of girls near me. And I was right to go at that time. And I wasn't embarrassed. Because I was right. Perhaps I'm over explaining this.
Nu ar det juligen
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Christmas Time is Here...
I was fighting it for so long, but alas---I can no longer ignore Christmas music.
I love Christmas, and I love Christmas music, but the problem is just this: the radio plays the same songs over and OVER AND OVER AND AHHH! There are only so many Christmas songs, so it ends up that there are 50 million different versions of each song. I'm sorry, but I can only hear so many "Jingle Bells"'s before I go insane.
BUT. Despite my short attention span for typical Christmas songs (you know, those ones that actually have nothing to do with Christmas), I can never get tired of the Christmas hymns.
How can anyone? They are absolutely beautiful, and you can tell by listening to them that they are true and real and pure.
So, if you're looking for a good mix of the mellow Christmas songs and the wintery-fun Christmas songs, log onto my old buddy PANDORA and make an "O Holy Night" station. For those of you who prefer something other than Pandora, you'll have to find some other complicated way to find the perfect mix. Too bad.
Just kidding.
Do you like my new background? Joyeaux Noel, mes amies!
I love Christmas, and I love Christmas music, but the problem is just this: the radio plays the same songs over and OVER AND OVER AND AHHH! There are only so many Christmas songs, so it ends up that there are 50 million different versions of each song. I'm sorry, but I can only hear so many "Jingle Bells"'s before I go insane.
BUT. Despite my short attention span for typical Christmas songs (you know, those ones that actually have nothing to do with Christmas), I can never get tired of the Christmas hymns.
How can anyone? They are absolutely beautiful, and you can tell by listening to them that they are true and real and pure.
So, if you're looking for a good mix of the mellow Christmas songs and the wintery-fun Christmas songs, log onto my old buddy PANDORA and make an "O Holy Night" station. For those of you who prefer something other than Pandora, you'll have to find some other complicated way to find the perfect mix. Too bad.
Just kidding.
Do you like my new background? Joyeaux Noel, mes amies!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Tim's Ninth
February twenty-second--
So ordinary, yet
It's not for me,
Because, you see,
A challenge then I met.
T'was on that day I almost left
This earthly, mortal life.
But on that day,
He let me stay
Amid the trial and strife.
My heart bore a tribulation
In body and spirit.
I suffered much;
My mind did touch
That which was despair-fit.
It has been hard and difficult,
But still I keep in mind
To say, "Thank Thee,"
On bended knee
For there joy I can find.
After all, I've been blessed so much.
With testimony strong,
Each day I face--
Heart right in place--
And strive to avoid wrong.
February twenty-second.
So ordinary, yet
I conquered then;
Nine months it's been,
And still I don't forget.
So ordinary, yet
It's not for me,
Because, you see,
A challenge then I met.
T'was on that day I almost left
This earthly, mortal life.
But on that day,
He let me stay
Amid the trial and strife.
My heart bore a tribulation
In body and spirit.
I suffered much;
My mind did touch
That which was despair-fit.
It has been hard and difficult,
But still I keep in mind
To say, "Thank Thee,"
On bended knee
For there joy I can find.
After all, I've been blessed so much.
With testimony strong,
Each day I face--
Heart right in place--
And strive to avoid wrong.
February twenty-second.
So ordinary, yet
I conquered then;
Nine months it's been,
And still I don't forget.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
How To's
Ol' Gary sure knows what he's talking about.
How to Write a Personal Letter
Garrison Keiller
We shy persons need to write a letter now and then, or else we'll dry up and blow away. It's true. And I speak as one who loves to reach for the phone, dial the number, and talk. I say, "Big Bopper here - what's shakin', babes?" The telephone is to shyness what Hawaii is to February, it's a way out of the woods, and yet: a letter is better.
Such a sweet gift - a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend's path when she trudges home from a long day spent among wahoos and savages, a day our words will help repair. They don't need to be immortal, just sincere. She can read them twice and again tomorrow: You're someone I care about, Corrine, and think of often and every time I do you make me smile.
We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are. They will have only a vague impression of us as A Nice Person, because, frankly, we don't shine at conversation, we lack the confidence to thrust our faces forward and say, "Hi! I'm Heather Hooten; let me tell you about my week." Mostly we say "Uh-huh" and "Oh, really." People smile and look over our shoulder, looking for someone else to meet.
So a shy person sits down and writes a letter. To be known by another person - to meet and talk freely on the page - to be close despite distance. To escape from anonymity and be our own sweet selves and express the music of our souls.
Same thing that moves a giant rock star to sing his heart out in front of 123,000 people moves us to take a ballpoint in hand and write a few lines to our dear Aunt Eleanor. We want to be known. We want her to know that we have fallen in love, that we quit our job, that we're moving to New York, and we want to say a few things that might not get said in casual conversation: Thank you for what you've meant to me, I'm very happy right now.
The first step in writing letters is to get over the guilt of not writing. You don't "owe" anybody a letter. Letters are a gift. The burning shame you feel when you see unanswered mail makes it harder to pick up a pen and makes for a cheerless letter when you finally do. I feel bad about not writing, but I've been so busy, etc. Skip this. Few letters are obligatory, and they are Thanks for the wonderful gift and I am terribly sorry to hear about George's death and Yes, you're welcome to stay with us next month, and not many more than that. Write those promptly if you want to keep your friends. Don't worry about the others, except love letters, of course. When your true love writes, Dear Light of My Life, Joy of My Heart, O Lovely Pulsating Core of My Sensate Life, some response is called for.
Some of the best letters are tossed off in a burst of inspiration, so keep your writing stuff in one place where you can sit down for a few minutes and (Dear Roy, I am in the middle of a book entitled We Are Still Married but thought I'd drop you a line. Hi to your sweetie, too) dash off a note to a pal. Envelopes, stamps, address book, everything in a drawer so you can write fast when the pen is hot.
A blank white eight-by-eleven sheet can look as big as Montana if the pen's not so hot - try a smaller page and write boldly. Or use a note card with a piece of fine art on the front; if your letter ain't good, at least they get the Matisse. Get a pen that makes a sensuous line, get a comfortable typewriter, a friendly word processor - whichever feels easy to the hand.
Sit for a few minutes with the blank sheet in front of you, and meditate on the person you will write to, let your friend come to mind until you can almost see her or him in the room with you. Remember the last time you saw each other and how your friend looked and what you said and what perhaps was unsaid between you, and when your friend becomes real to you, start to write.
Write the salutation - Dear You - and take a deep breath and plunge in. A simple declarative sentence will do, followed by another and another and another. Tell us what you're doing and tell it like you were talking to us. Don't think about grammar, don't think about lit'ry style, don't try to write dramatically, just give us your news. Where did you go, who did you see, what did they say, what do you think?
If you don't know where to begin, start with the present moment: I'm sitting at the kitchen table on a rainy Saturday morning. Everyone is gone and the house is quiet. Let your simple description of the present moment lead to something else, let the letter drift gently along.
The toughest letter to crank out is one that is meant to impress, as we all know from writing job applications; if it's hard work to slip off a letter to a friend, maybe you're trying too hard to be terrific. A letter is only a report to someone who already likes you for reasons other than your brilliance. Take it easy.
Don't worry about form. It's not a term paper. When you come to the end of one episode, just start a new paragraph. You can go from a few lines about the sad state of pro football to your fond memories of Mexico to your cat's urinary tract infection to a few thoughts on personal indebtedness and on to the kitchen sink and what's in it. The more you write, the easier it gets, and when you have a True True Friend to write to, a compadre, a soul sibling, then it's like driving a car down a country road, you just get behind the keyboard and press on the gas.
Don't tear up the page and start over when you write a bad line - try to write your way out of it. Make mistakes and plunge on. Let the letter cook along and let yourself be bold. Outrage, confusion, love - whatever is in your mind, let it find a way on to the page. Writing is a means of discovery, always, and when you come to the end and write Yours ever or Hugs and kisses, you'll know something you didn't when you wrote Dear Pal.
Probably your friend will put your letter away, and it'll be read again a few years from now - and it will improve with age. And forty years from now, your friend's grandkids will dig it out of the attic and read it, a sweet and precious relic of the ancient eighties that gives them a sudden clear glimpse of you and her and the world we old-timers knew. You will then have created an object of art. Your simple lines about where you went, who you saw, what they said, will speak to those children and they will feel in their hearts the humanity of our times.
You can't pick up a phone and call the future and tell them about our times. You have to pick up a piece of paper.
How to Write a Personal Letter
Garrison Keiller
We shy persons need to write a letter now and then, or else we'll dry up and blow away. It's true. And I speak as one who loves to reach for the phone, dial the number, and talk. I say, "Big Bopper here - what's shakin', babes?" The telephone is to shyness what Hawaii is to February, it's a way out of the woods, and yet: a letter is better.
Such a sweet gift - a piece of handmade writing, in an envelope that is not a bill, sitting in our friend's path when she trudges home from a long day spent among wahoos and savages, a day our words will help repair. They don't need to be immortal, just sincere. She can read them twice and again tomorrow: You're someone I care about, Corrine, and think of often and every time I do you make me smile.
We need to write, otherwise nobody will know who we are. They will have only a vague impression of us as A Nice Person, because, frankly, we don't shine at conversation, we lack the confidence to thrust our faces forward and say, "Hi! I'm Heather Hooten; let me tell you about my week." Mostly we say "Uh-huh" and "Oh, really." People smile and look over our shoulder, looking for someone else to meet.
So a shy person sits down and writes a letter. To be known by another person - to meet and talk freely on the page - to be close despite distance. To escape from anonymity and be our own sweet selves and express the music of our souls.
Same thing that moves a giant rock star to sing his heart out in front of 123,000 people moves us to take a ballpoint in hand and write a few lines to our dear Aunt Eleanor. We want to be known. We want her to know that we have fallen in love, that we quit our job, that we're moving to New York, and we want to say a few things that might not get said in casual conversation: Thank you for what you've meant to me, I'm very happy right now.
The first step in writing letters is to get over the guilt of not writing. You don't "owe" anybody a letter. Letters are a gift. The burning shame you feel when you see unanswered mail makes it harder to pick up a pen and makes for a cheerless letter when you finally do. I feel bad about not writing, but I've been so busy, etc. Skip this. Few letters are obligatory, and they are Thanks for the wonderful gift and I am terribly sorry to hear about George's death and Yes, you're welcome to stay with us next month, and not many more than that. Write those promptly if you want to keep your friends. Don't worry about the others, except love letters, of course. When your true love writes, Dear Light of My Life, Joy of My Heart, O Lovely Pulsating Core of My Sensate Life, some response is called for.
Some of the best letters are tossed off in a burst of inspiration, so keep your writing stuff in one place where you can sit down for a few minutes and (Dear Roy, I am in the middle of a book entitled We Are Still Married but thought I'd drop you a line. Hi to your sweetie, too) dash off a note to a pal. Envelopes, stamps, address book, everything in a drawer so you can write fast when the pen is hot.
A blank white eight-by-eleven sheet can look as big as Montana if the pen's not so hot - try a smaller page and write boldly. Or use a note card with a piece of fine art on the front; if your letter ain't good, at least they get the Matisse. Get a pen that makes a sensuous line, get a comfortable typewriter, a friendly word processor - whichever feels easy to the hand.
Sit for a few minutes with the blank sheet in front of you, and meditate on the person you will write to, let your friend come to mind until you can almost see her or him in the room with you. Remember the last time you saw each other and how your friend looked and what you said and what perhaps was unsaid between you, and when your friend becomes real to you, start to write.
Write the salutation - Dear You - and take a deep breath and plunge in. A simple declarative sentence will do, followed by another and another and another. Tell us what you're doing and tell it like you were talking to us. Don't think about grammar, don't think about lit'ry style, don't try to write dramatically, just give us your news. Where did you go, who did you see, what did they say, what do you think?
If you don't know where to begin, start with the present moment: I'm sitting at the kitchen table on a rainy Saturday morning. Everyone is gone and the house is quiet. Let your simple description of the present moment lead to something else, let the letter drift gently along.
The toughest letter to crank out is one that is meant to impress, as we all know from writing job applications; if it's hard work to slip off a letter to a friend, maybe you're trying too hard to be terrific. A letter is only a report to someone who already likes you for reasons other than your brilliance. Take it easy.
Don't worry about form. It's not a term paper. When you come to the end of one episode, just start a new paragraph. You can go from a few lines about the sad state of pro football to your fond memories of Mexico to your cat's urinary tract infection to a few thoughts on personal indebtedness and on to the kitchen sink and what's in it. The more you write, the easier it gets, and when you have a True True Friend to write to, a compadre, a soul sibling, then it's like driving a car down a country road, you just get behind the keyboard and press on the gas.
Don't tear up the page and start over when you write a bad line - try to write your way out of it. Make mistakes and plunge on. Let the letter cook along and let yourself be bold. Outrage, confusion, love - whatever is in your mind, let it find a way on to the page. Writing is a means of discovery, always, and when you come to the end and write Yours ever or Hugs and kisses, you'll know something you didn't when you wrote Dear Pal.
Probably your friend will put your letter away, and it'll be read again a few years from now - and it will improve with age. And forty years from now, your friend's grandkids will dig it out of the attic and read it, a sweet and precious relic of the ancient eighties that gives them a sudden clear glimpse of you and her and the world we old-timers knew. You will then have created an object of art. Your simple lines about where you went, who you saw, what they said, will speak to those children and they will feel in their hearts the humanity of our times.
You can't pick up a phone and call the future and tell them about our times. You have to pick up a piece of paper.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
If Only
...choices did not have to be choosed.
...we could have and do everything we wanted, without endless conflicts hampering our way.
...life were that easy...
I hate making decisions. I despise it. Especially when it requires imposing upon other people.
"Macey, what do you want?"
"What? Oh, I don't care. What are you getting?"
"It doesn't matter, I asked you what you wanted."
You see, my friends have learned---they force me to make decisions. For my own good. And I'm not bitter about that. (Well, maybe a little.)
But even those decisions that only really affect me drive me crazy. Will I like this? Should I do that? For the love of Mr. Fibby, is that the right thing to choose??
Life comes, though---shoves itself in your face---and with it comes decisions. Little ones and big ones. Like whether to do advanced classes at school or easy ones. Or one advanced class and one elective.
Instead of joining friends in block English and history this year, I chose AA English and French III.
THE BAD STUFF:
There is nothing on the walls of my English classroom, and I despise it. Our class is quiet. We don't have those ELP-y kids in our class--those crazy ones who I thoroughly enjoy. We don't do fun projects, and we ONLY AND I MEAN ONLY read the textbook. Since when was that the AA thing to do?? And those friends...the old and the new...they are not in my class. (I do have friends in my class, don't worry. Just not THOSE ones.)
THE GOOD STUFF:
I love French. I adore it. I feel like it is something that I am actually GOOD at. I'm actually confident in that class! Openly and fully confident. Let me tell you, I don't feel that way about many things that I enjoy doing. In fact, I believe French is my only hobby that I feel that way about. And the class itself may not be the best, but believe me, it is the BEST feeling in the entire world when I see that 100% on my test. And when my teacher commends me for my hard work. And when I think about going to France and coming back fluent. And when I dream of being the one in front of the class, teaching them how to say their "Merci"'s and "Je m'appelle"'s.
...I could have both.
...decisions were not so difficult.
But I cannot say "If only I had not chosen French."
...we could have and do everything we wanted, without endless conflicts hampering our way.
...life were that easy...
I hate making decisions. I despise it. Especially when it requires imposing upon other people.
"Macey, what do you want?"
"What? Oh, I don't care. What are you getting?"
"It doesn't matter, I asked you what you wanted."
You see, my friends have learned---they force me to make decisions. For my own good. And I'm not bitter about that. (Well, maybe a little.)
But even those decisions that only really affect me drive me crazy. Will I like this? Should I do that? For the love of Mr. Fibby, is that the right thing to choose??
Life comes, though---shoves itself in your face---and with it comes decisions. Little ones and big ones. Like whether to do advanced classes at school or easy ones. Or one advanced class and one elective.
Instead of joining friends in block English and history this year, I chose AA English and French III.
THE BAD STUFF:
There is nothing on the walls of my English classroom, and I despise it. Our class is quiet. We don't have those ELP-y kids in our class--those crazy ones who I thoroughly enjoy. We don't do fun projects, and we ONLY AND I MEAN ONLY read the textbook. Since when was that the AA thing to do?? And those friends...the old and the new...they are not in my class. (I do have friends in my class, don't worry. Just not THOSE ones.)
THE GOOD STUFF:
I love French. I adore it. I feel like it is something that I am actually GOOD at. I'm actually confident in that class! Openly and fully confident. Let me tell you, I don't feel that way about many things that I enjoy doing. In fact, I believe French is my only hobby that I feel that way about. And the class itself may not be the best, but believe me, it is the BEST feeling in the entire world when I see that 100% on my test. And when my teacher commends me for my hard work. And when I think about going to France and coming back fluent. And when I dream of being the one in front of the class, teaching them how to say their "Merci"'s and "Je m'appelle"'s.
...I could have both.
...decisions were not so difficult.
But I cannot say "If only I had not chosen French."
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
WHAT THE CUTE???
Lynzi says that video shoots are the next big thing. Maybe she's right.
The Nielsons---Blue Lily Photo
The Nielsons---Blue Lily Photo
Sunday, October 31, 2010
COMMITMENT BROKEN
You know, I thought about posting on Saturday, but I decided that sleep (and, by the transitive property, my health and happiness) was more important than my blog. *GASP FROM THE CROWD* OH, I know, but it's true. No offense to this blog---he's served me quite well, my Bloggy. But I just really wanted to sleep. Technically, my Friday post WAS on Saturday...nevertheless, here we are again on this loverly Sunday evening.
Did you realize that it felt nothing at all like Halloween today? Well, I did. Yesterday was my Halloween and that was it. Boom. Kachow. Done. Halloween is fun and all, but I just wasn't really feeling it this year. That's why I ended up hanging out at Annie's house! (That wasn't a bad outcome---I had fun.)
Today in Sunday School my teacher asked a question. I answered it, but nobody really seemed to agree. He answered it for real, and, finding it was the same as my answer, I exclaimed, "WOOT!" I guess old people aren't used to us young'uns using that expression, because my teacher asked confusedly, "What?" I replied, "I said, 'Woot.'" And everyone laughed. I'm not sure why it was THAT funny, but it was. Oh, the fun we shall have with the new teacher...
Anywho, I really have nothing more to say than that. Sundays are awesome. Go to the temple. Tell Mr. Fibby to keep me safe until tomorrow afternoon. LOVE YOU ALL.
Did you realize that it felt nothing at all like Halloween today? Well, I did. Yesterday was my Halloween and that was it. Boom. Kachow. Done. Halloween is fun and all, but I just wasn't really feeling it this year. That's why I ended up hanging out at Annie's house! (That wasn't a bad outcome---I had fun.)
Today in Sunday School my teacher asked a question. I answered it, but nobody really seemed to agree. He answered it for real, and, finding it was the same as my answer, I exclaimed, "WOOT!" I guess old people aren't used to us young'uns using that expression, because my teacher asked confusedly, "What?" I replied, "I said, 'Woot.'" And everyone laughed. I'm not sure why it was THAT funny, but it was. Oh, the fun we shall have with the new teacher...
Anywho, I really have nothing more to say than that. Sundays are awesome. Go to the temple. Tell Mr. Fibby to keep me safe until tomorrow afternoon. LOVE YOU ALL.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
The Eighth of Several: A Birthday Poem
To make sure thigs don't go amiss
And all my promises are kept
I logged on to Blogger
To post just this:
It was my birthday today--
I'm fifteen, it's true
And it's about time
That I caught up to all you.
It's been much too long
That I've been fourteen
But so many things occurred--
I'm wiser, more keen.
I never thought in my life
That so many things could happen
Within a single year.
To me, it felt more like ten.
This poem isn't great
Not a masterpiece at all
But it's just to let you know
That I'm grateful...fall.....
For birthdays.
And friends.
And family.
And now that I'm fifteen, I guess I don't really mind anymore. I don't mind that I was fourteen for so long. Fourteen was a good year, and I am grateful that I have a chance to be fifteen.
Here's hoping for another good year.
And all my promises are kept
I logged on to Blogger
To post just this:
It was my birthday today--
I'm fifteen, it's true
And it's about time
That I caught up to all you.
It's been much too long
That I've been fourteen
But so many things occurred--
I'm wiser, more keen.
I never thought in my life
That so many things could happen
Within a single year.
To me, it felt more like ten.
This poem isn't great
Not a masterpiece at all
But it's just to let you know
That I'm grateful...fall.....
For birthdays.
And friends.
And family.
And now that I'm fifteen, I guess I don't really mind anymore. I don't mind that I was fourteen for so long. Fourteen was a good year, and I am grateful that I have a chance to be fifteen.
Here's hoping for another good year.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The Seventh of Several: Prove It
I'm sure you've all been in math one day or another, learning some math, some lame math, when some kid raises his hand. He's that one kid who doesn't like to do the work. Or maybe the class clown. He asks the teacher, "Seriously, when will we EVER use this in our lives?"
Your teacher patiently replies, "Well, you need to know this stuff to graduate high school."
"And after high school?"
"...You need to take four years of math to graduate high school."
"And after graduation?"
Silence.
"Exactly," the kid replies. "We'll never use this again! Why do we learn it??"
I don't have any crazy insight for this post. I just know that proofs are one of those things in math. One of those things that that one kid asks about. And while he has this argument with the teacher(similar if not identical to the one above) you silently cheer him on. Because he is so right.
Now, I don't dread having to do proofs and I'm not scared out of my wits every time I see one on a test. But they're just so UGLY.
I don't like when teachers mix subjects. If I'm in math class, then I want to be doing math. I don't want to throw English in there. English is for English class, and that's final.
No matter what the teachers tell you, you'll never use proofs again. Just think---how ridiculous would you feel if, every single time you were confronted with a problem, you got out a pencil and a sheet of paper and started listing steps to solve it. Next to those steps, you would write reasons why those steps would work out in the end.
You'd feel pretty ridiculous.
Pretty ridiculous.
Your teacher patiently replies, "Well, you need to know this stuff to graduate high school."
"And after high school?"
"...You need to take four years of math to graduate high school."
"And after graduation?"
Silence.
"Exactly," the kid replies. "We'll never use this again! Why do we learn it??"
I don't have any crazy insight for this post. I just know that proofs are one of those things in math. One of those things that that one kid asks about. And while he has this argument with the teacher(similar if not identical to the one above) you silently cheer him on. Because he is so right.
Now, I don't dread having to do proofs and I'm not scared out of my wits every time I see one on a test. But they're just so UGLY.
I don't like when teachers mix subjects. If I'm in math class, then I want to be doing math. I don't want to throw English in there. English is for English class, and that's final.
No matter what the teachers tell you, you'll never use proofs again. Just think---how ridiculous would you feel if, every single time you were confronted with a problem, you got out a pencil and a sheet of paper and started listing steps to solve it. Next to those steps, you would write reasons why those steps would work out in the end.
You'd feel pretty ridiculous.
Pretty ridiculous.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
The Sixth of Several: Finding Grandpa/Choose Faith
I sat down at the computer this evening and got onto lds.org. It was time to fulfill another Temple Week activity, and I wanted to do it before 11:00 at night.
Today I chose to do the 4-generation pedigree chart. A bit sad, but I didn't actually end up finishing the entire thing; however, I learned more than I thought I would.
By questioning my parents, I was able to learn several names and dates that I needed, but I was still missing the birth and death dates of my great-grandparents. My mom suggested that I look upstairs in her SECRET SPECIAL drawer in her dresser where she might be keeping a pedigree chart that would help me out. I proceeded to search the drawer.
I didn't find the pedigree chart. I did find, however, an overwhelming collection of memorabilia all about Grandpa Crockett.
My grandpa passed away when I was five years old. I couldn't accurately describe him because I 1) don't remember much about him and 2) have heard way too many good things about him from my mom and aunts and uncles to include all of it here.
I will never forget my Grandpa Crockett. However, I do believe that sometimes we lapse into a state of laziness where we don't ponder the lives and lessons of others who have gone from our mortal lives. In that drawer, I found my grandpa again. I found him through the words and stories of others. I read about things that I've never heard before, and some things that I had forgotten.
Among the photos and stacks of paper, I found a little pink booklet entitled "Choose Faith Again." In it was included the stories of women from our ward who chose faith instead of despair in times of trial. My mom's recollection of the hard times after Grandpa Crockett's death especially touched me. I felt the Spirit in such a different way than I have in a long time---a renewed connection between me and my grandpa. It was a wonderful feeling.
I decided that I would follow the example of my grandpa. I want to be as much like him as I can. I also decided that I would follow the example of my mom. We should all strive to live like Christ and choose faith. Not only should we choose faith, though; we should choose faith again. And again, and again, and again, every time we are faced with a difficulty in our lives.
Today I chose to do the 4-generation pedigree chart. A bit sad, but I didn't actually end up finishing the entire thing; however, I learned more than I thought I would.
By questioning my parents, I was able to learn several names and dates that I needed, but I was still missing the birth and death dates of my great-grandparents. My mom suggested that I look upstairs in her SECRET SPECIAL drawer in her dresser where she might be keeping a pedigree chart that would help me out. I proceeded to search the drawer.
I didn't find the pedigree chart. I did find, however, an overwhelming collection of memorabilia all about Grandpa Crockett.
My grandpa passed away when I was five years old. I couldn't accurately describe him because I 1) don't remember much about him and 2) have heard way too many good things about him from my mom and aunts and uncles to include all of it here.
I will never forget my Grandpa Crockett. However, I do believe that sometimes we lapse into a state of laziness where we don't ponder the lives and lessons of others who have gone from our mortal lives. In that drawer, I found my grandpa again. I found him through the words and stories of others. I read about things that I've never heard before, and some things that I had forgotten.
Among the photos and stacks of paper, I found a little pink booklet entitled "Choose Faith Again." In it was included the stories of women from our ward who chose faith instead of despair in times of trial. My mom's recollection of the hard times after Grandpa Crockett's death especially touched me. I felt the Spirit in such a different way than I have in a long time---a renewed connection between me and my grandpa. It was a wonderful feeling.
I decided that I would follow the example of my grandpa. I want to be as much like him as I can. I also decided that I would follow the example of my mom. We should all strive to live like Christ and choose faith. Not only should we choose faith, though; we should choose faith again. And again, and again, and again, every time we are faced with a difficulty in our lives.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Fifth of Several: Thriting Sleep
On any given night, there are four places from which light enters my room: Mr. Fibby's monitor, Mr. Fibby's monitor's power cord, my iHome, and the hallway light. As many of you may know, I am a very picky sleeper. Unless I am entirely overcome by fatigue, I need darkness and utter quiet to be able to sleep. I've been able to get pretty used to Mr. Fibby's monitor's green light. There's nothing that I can really do about it, so I got over it.
BUT I also need to be comfortable to be able to sleep (as most people do). It's difficult to sleep when you're back is hurting, is it not?
A few nights ago, I wrote this, because I write everything:
"I lay down and take my first closing breath of the day.
All I feel is pain---lumps of pain, in my muscles and in the hollows of my bones. It's as if all of the day's stresses were stored away there, and are now exiting with this exhale, leaving their previous refuges empty. Pain fills their places temporarily as I breathe slowly and deeply, my muscles relaxing and seemingly collapsing into themselves---folding and shrinking. I allow myself to breathe out the pain, too, and finally I can relax."
I'd been thriting (Do you remember that post???) this experience for quite a while now, considering it occurs almost every night, so there it is for the first time out in the open.
I suppose that is all. Now TO SLEEP!
BUT I also need to be comfortable to be able to sleep (as most people do). It's difficult to sleep when you're back is hurting, is it not?
A few nights ago, I wrote this, because I write everything:
"I lay down and take my first closing breath of the day.
All I feel is pain---lumps of pain, in my muscles and in the hollows of my bones. It's as if all of the day's stresses were stored away there, and are now exiting with this exhale, leaving their previous refuges empty. Pain fills their places temporarily as I breathe slowly and deeply, my muscles relaxing and seemingly collapsing into themselves---folding and shrinking. I allow myself to breathe out the pain, too, and finally I can relax."
I'd been thriting (Do you remember that post???) this experience for quite a while now, considering it occurs almost every night, so there it is for the first time out in the open.
I suppose that is all. Now TO SLEEP!
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Fourth of Several: Why?
Today Sarah kindly offered to take me home because Riley (my carpool) didn't come to school today.
I was very sad that Riley wasn't at school. And not just because she's my carpool.
So, like the good friend Sarah is, she asked me how my day was. I replied, quite blandly, "Good." Sarah pressed, "Why was it good?" and my tongue tied itself in a knot, because it didn't want to wait for my brain to send words for it to speak. In fact, my brain couldn't even think of any words to say. So I replied stupidly, "Becausssse...it was overcast."
The cloudiness (or lack thereof) often does have a lot to do with my mood, but that wasn't all. I knew that. But I stored away Sarah's question in my mind until I could give it proper thought. Until now.
Why was my day good? Because:
1. I self-mastered myself into getting up early this morning to have time to shower, read scriptures, AND write special things in my special journal.
2. In English, we wrote paragraphs analyzing Rip Van Winkle. I love Rip Van Winkle, and I love writing. Love + Love = DOUBLE LOVE.
3. We started Temple Week in seminary! I'm so excited to fill my days with good things that have to do with the temple.
4. Though Mr. Schreiber was gone from choir today, we still managed a productive class. I liked that my peers have such great leadership skills. And singing skills.
5. I got my make-up lab over with at lunch. It wasn't enjoyable, but it wasn't difficult.
6. According to Kate Kleinkopf's instructions, I ran up behind some dude, slapped a "Have a soul. Spare a sole." sticker on his back, said, "Whoops, sorry," and ran off to fourth hour. It was the best thing ever.
7. I got to go to French today. I go to French every day, but I really love French.
8. I did more homework than I needed to, just so it would be easier for me later this week.
9. I got to fail at carving a pumpkin for Family Home Evening. My dad fixed my failure and managed a professional-looking carving.
10. I laughed when my dad and my brother successfully weren't sure when my birthday was.
11. I stayed up this late to write this post.
12. I found this many good things about my day.
Woot.
I was very sad that Riley wasn't at school. And not just because she's my carpool.
So, like the good friend Sarah is, she asked me how my day was. I replied, quite blandly, "Good." Sarah pressed, "Why was it good?" and my tongue tied itself in a knot, because it didn't want to wait for my brain to send words for it to speak. In fact, my brain couldn't even think of any words to say. So I replied stupidly, "Becausssse...it was overcast."
The cloudiness (or lack thereof) often does have a lot to do with my mood, but that wasn't all. I knew that. But I stored away Sarah's question in my mind until I could give it proper thought. Until now.
Why was my day good? Because:
1. I self-mastered myself into getting up early this morning to have time to shower, read scriptures, AND write special things in my special journal.
2. In English, we wrote paragraphs analyzing Rip Van Winkle. I love Rip Van Winkle, and I love writing. Love + Love = DOUBLE LOVE.
3. We started Temple Week in seminary! I'm so excited to fill my days with good things that have to do with the temple.
4. Though Mr. Schreiber was gone from choir today, we still managed a productive class. I liked that my peers have such great leadership skills. And singing skills.
5. I got my make-up lab over with at lunch. It wasn't enjoyable, but it wasn't difficult.
6. According to Kate Kleinkopf's instructions, I ran up behind some dude, slapped a "Have a soul. Spare a sole." sticker on his back, said, "Whoops, sorry," and ran off to fourth hour. It was the best thing ever.
7. I got to go to French today. I go to French every day, but I really love French.
8. I did more homework than I needed to, just so it would be easier for me later this week.
9. I got to fail at carving a pumpkin for Family Home Evening. My dad fixed my failure and managed a professional-looking carving.
10. I laughed when my dad and my brother successfully weren't sure when my birthday was.
11. I stayed up this late to write this post.
12. I found this many good things about my day.
Woot.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Third of Several: Once Upon a...
Once upon a many years ago, I sat up on the stand during a Sacrament Meeting at the end of October, surrounded by my fellow Primarians. We sang songs and gave short talks. I had a good time, and I loved learning the songs. But I could never understand those silly adults. All of their goosebumps and crying--really, the Sunbeams' screams weren't THAT professional.
Once upon a many years ago, I knew little of teenagerhood and all of the ups and downs, the teachings and learnings, the cryings and laughings. I did not, nor did I wish to, understand Isaiah in all of his wisdom. I had a testimony, temporarily borrowed from my parents, but strong. But I didn't comprehend what the Holy Ghost could do for me.
Once upon a many years ago, I did not predict that I would ever have to struggle with something such as self- mastery. I didn't even know what self-mastery was. I had hardly any responsibilities. I had too much time and too little to do.
Once upon a many years ago, I underestimated the greatness of having a mother and older sister who faithfully obeyed their Young Women's leaders. I thought little of what was said by older women during church and General Conference.
Once upon a NOW,
I unashamedly admit that I get goosebumps hearing those Sunbeams' screams chiming against the sound of the twelve-year-olds' voices.
I read Isaiah. I mark his words in my scriptures. I wonder at his wisdom, and still struggle to understand him sometimes, but how I ever wish to learn more. I strive to listen to the whisperings of the Spirit, for I know that his guidance is vital to my crazy life. I have a firm testimony of my own.
I have to really motivate myself to get up in the morning, to do my homework, and to post on my blog after I've made a commitment to do so. These days, I always seem to have too much to do and too little time to do it. I acknowledge that I still have a long way to go in self-mastery---it bothers me even now that I don't know if self-mastery has a hyphen in between the two words, and I need to relax and not be OCD about it.
I love Young Women firesides. I love listening to my leaders, and all of my fellow women in the church, speak about topics that relate to me now. I'm so grateful for the examples that my mom and sister have been to me, as they attend meetings and constantly heed the warnings that they have been given.
Three quotes that really got me tonight:
"Trust agency."
"It is always right to defend the right."
(speaking of the result of faithfulness during trials and difficulties) "The Lord's reward is infinitely greater."
Once upon a many years ago, I knew little of teenagerhood and all of the ups and downs, the teachings and learnings, the cryings and laughings. I did not, nor did I wish to, understand Isaiah in all of his wisdom. I had a testimony, temporarily borrowed from my parents, but strong. But I didn't comprehend what the Holy Ghost could do for me.
Once upon a many years ago, I did not predict that I would ever have to struggle with something such as self- mastery. I didn't even know what self-mastery was. I had hardly any responsibilities. I had too much time and too little to do.
Once upon a many years ago, I underestimated the greatness of having a mother and older sister who faithfully obeyed their Young Women's leaders. I thought little of what was said by older women during church and General Conference.
Once upon a NOW,
I unashamedly admit that I get goosebumps hearing those Sunbeams' screams chiming against the sound of the twelve-year-olds' voices.
I read Isaiah. I mark his words in my scriptures. I wonder at his wisdom, and still struggle to understand him sometimes, but how I ever wish to learn more. I strive to listen to the whisperings of the Spirit, for I know that his guidance is vital to my crazy life. I have a firm testimony of my own.
I have to really motivate myself to get up in the morning, to do my homework, and to post on my blog after I've made a commitment to do so. These days, I always seem to have too much to do and too little time to do it. I acknowledge that I still have a long way to go in self-mastery---it bothers me even now that I don't know if self-mastery has a hyphen in between the two words, and I need to relax and not be OCD about it.
I love Young Women firesides. I love listening to my leaders, and all of my fellow women in the church, speak about topics that relate to me now. I'm so grateful for the examples that my mom and sister have been to me, as they attend meetings and constantly heed the warnings that they have been given.
Three quotes that really got me tonight:
"Trust agency."
"It is always right to defend the right."
(speaking of the result of faithfulness during trials and difficulties) "The Lord's reward is infinitely greater."
Saturday, October 23, 2010
The Second of Several: Eat Your Tapioca
I learned a very important lesson tonight: parties are only awkward if you make them awkward.
You may be put in a potentially awkward situation because of the people you are with or because of the general atmosphere of a party, but if you choose to ignore the awkwardness, then all it will ever be for you is a party. An awesome, fun party.
This is applicable to any situation in which you are hanging out or just conversing with people. If you choose to be yourself, then you will have a good time. Others may think you're weird...but that's okay! EMBRACE IT. And Norma Jean, eat your tapioca. No wonder you have an upset stomach. (See what I mean? WEIRD=EMBRACED)
You may be put in a potentially awkward situation because of the people you are with or because of the general atmosphere of a party, but if you choose to ignore the awkwardness, then all it will ever be for you is a party. An awesome, fun party.
This is applicable to any situation in which you are hanging out or just conversing with people. If you choose to be yourself, then you will have a good time. Others may think you're weird...but that's okay! EMBRACE IT. And Norma Jean, eat your tapioca. No wonder you have an upset stomach. (See what I mean? WEIRD=EMBRACED)
Friday, October 22, 2010
The First of Several: Destiny is a Funny Thing (but not to be taken lightly)
LOOK GUYS, LOOK! I'm posting again!
I have a new goal: to post a post every day for the rest of October. It shouldn't be too bad, because...well, I don't know if you've ever noticed this before, but often times it is easiest to do something by actually doing it...heh heh. (Definitely not the most obvious of things...)You can't just wait for revelation, inspiration, or creativity-tion to strike. You've gotta start first, then follow the feelings you have. I think of writing mostly when I say this, but it can apply to anything.
Thus--in seminary we are in sections 33-35 of the Doctrine and Covenants. We've discussed the faithfulness of Oliver Cowdery, the Whitmer brothers, Thomas B. Marsh, etc. All of those cool faithful guys.
But when you look forward in history, when these men were a bit older (perhaps after Joseph Smith was murdered) you find that so many of them fell away from the Church. I can't even BELIEVE how many! It is so amazing to me that after having such close contact with Joseph Smith and all things spiritual, they let their pride get the best of them.
Looking at these different sections of the D&C, our seminary class found numerous blessings promised and warnings given to different individuals through revelation--promised blessings and warnings so specific to them. Like a patriarchal blessing. How could these men, and so many others, decide to ignore those things which they had been given to protect them against future difficulties? Truly, I am amazed at them.
Obviously, several people do the same thing today. But it really struck me as I read the D&C. These people near to Joseph Smith were destined to aid him and the church in expanding in it's early days. What other destiny could ever precede one like this?
Whoo. So, let us not give up our destinies! Let us live faithfully and help others to do so.
And...
D&C 18:10, 15-16
I have a new goal: to post a post every day for the rest of October. It shouldn't be too bad, because...well, I don't know if you've ever noticed this before, but often times it is easiest to do something by actually doing it...heh heh. (Definitely not the most obvious of things...)You can't just wait for revelation, inspiration, or creativity-tion to strike. You've gotta start first, then follow the feelings you have. I think of writing mostly when I say this, but it can apply to anything.
Thus--in seminary we are in sections 33-35 of the Doctrine and Covenants. We've discussed the faithfulness of Oliver Cowdery, the Whitmer brothers, Thomas B. Marsh, etc. All of those cool faithful guys.
But when you look forward in history, when these men were a bit older (perhaps after Joseph Smith was murdered) you find that so many of them fell away from the Church. I can't even BELIEVE how many! It is so amazing to me that after having such close contact with Joseph Smith and all things spiritual, they let their pride get the best of them.
Looking at these different sections of the D&C, our seminary class found numerous blessings promised and warnings given to different individuals through revelation--promised blessings and warnings so specific to them. Like a patriarchal blessing. How could these men, and so many others, decide to ignore those things which they had been given to protect them against future difficulties? Truly, I am amazed at them.
Obviously, several people do the same thing today. But it really struck me as I read the D&C. These people near to Joseph Smith were destined to aid him and the church in expanding in it's early days. What other destiny could ever precede one like this?
Whoo. So, let us not give up our destinies! Let us live faithfully and help others to do so.
And...
D&C 18:10, 15-16
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Passion for the Past
*sigh* Sarah, you are a good friend.
See, Sarah is the one who made me commit to writing that post yesterday. Don't get too excited, now, but I think it will lead me to many more posts in the future. I guess that all I really needed to start posting again is to WRITE. And some encouragement... *sniff sniff* Wow, isn't that just cute?
AND SO...
Today I was doing my English homework like the faithful little English homework-doer I am. We had to read out of our English textbook and answer questions. (BLEH.) Our assignment was to read the biography of Washington Irving and then one of his famous's--Rip Van Winkle.
I didn't know much about old Irving or old Rip, see, so I was pretty surprised by what I read. I LOOOVED it.
(This is the part where I declare that I had a revelation.) REVELATION TIIIME.
I love literature from the past! Truly, more than I ever thought I could, I adore it. Remember that poem by Anne Bradstreet that I posted before? And I read A Tale of Two Cities last year and loved it. And I very much appreciate the satire presented by William Byrd and my dear Washington Irving. Old-timey writing is just my favorite.
I think that I like it so much because I tend to write like those guys--perhaps without so much satire, but I kindof do. Not exactly like them, of course...but I enjoy speaking in formal language, as well as writing in it. I appreciate the flowery wording and the intricate descriptions that writers of old paved so perfectly in their works, and I try to emulate that writing in my own essays, poems, and stories.
There you are. (As Kami would say...) Read it, write it, love it.
See, Sarah is the one who made me commit to writing that post yesterday. Don't get too excited, now, but I think it will lead me to many more posts in the future. I guess that all I really needed to start posting again is to WRITE. And some encouragement... *sniff sniff* Wow, isn't that just cute?
AND SO...
Today I was doing my English homework like the faithful little English homework-doer I am. We had to read out of our English textbook and answer questions. (BLEH.) Our assignment was to read the biography of Washington Irving and then one of his famous's--Rip Van Winkle.
I didn't know much about old Irving or old Rip, see, so I was pretty surprised by what I read. I LOOOVED it.
(This is the part where I declare that I had a revelation.) REVELATION TIIIME.
I love literature from the past! Truly, more than I ever thought I could, I adore it. Remember that poem by Anne Bradstreet that I posted before? And I read A Tale of Two Cities last year and loved it. And I very much appreciate the satire presented by William Byrd and my dear Washington Irving. Old-timey writing is just my favorite.
I think that I like it so much because I tend to write like those guys--perhaps without so much satire, but I kindof do. Not exactly like them, of course...but I enjoy speaking in formal language, as well as writing in it. I appreciate the flowery wording and the intricate descriptions that writers of old paved so perfectly in their works, and I try to emulate that writing in my own essays, poems, and stories.
There you are. (As Kami would say...) Read it, write it, love it.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Teach it. Learn it. Love it.
I made a commitment, so here goes. Maybe something will just...COME OUT OF ME.
I got to speak today at church during Sacrament Meeting. (I have awesome friends. Not just friendly friends---I have the kind of friends that get up early to come to my church at 8:30 to watch me speak. That kind of friends.)
So, I got the call asking me to speak from the member of our bishopric two weeks ago. After a few days of waiting for my mom and dad to decide if we would be here this Sunday, I finally was able to tell him that I would. Though he had previously asked me to speak on service, his message this time was something different.
"I've been prompted," he said, "to ask you to speak on recognizing and expressing gratitude for the miracles in our lives."
I should've seen THAT one coming.
Of course, I immediately thought of my dear Tim, the most miracle-y miracle of all the miracles that have ever occurred in my life.
And though I may not admit it, I really do love speaking in front of people. It must be the actress side of me that comes out, but I really REALLY enjoy teaching. But this week was October Break. And not the relaxing kind of break---it was the kind where your teachers have given you projects and essays and you have a talk to write.
And so I swam in stress my entire week, dreading what I had to do but nevertheless doing it. It probably should not have been this way, but it turned out that my talk was the last thing on my list to do this week. And when I had to do it, I sat down on my bed and did it. I kept my trusty companion, my scriptures, beside me, and referred to conference talks for ideas on what to speak about. I even found part of a wonderful poem by Kami (Kamety Kam Kams) to include. When I finished my talk, I felt incredibly proud. Perhaps I shouldn't have felt that way; there are so many other things that I could have included. But I was proud of it.
So I stood up today in Sacrament Meeting and gave it. I tried to convey as much of my true emotion about this subject as I could, making eye contact with all the members of the congregation who happened to pass under my sweeping eye. All I could do when I sat down was hope that my message had gotten across to them, and that the Spirit had taught them in all of the areas that I lacked.
I have found that, in my minimal experience of giving talks, that when I am up on the stand, I learn so much more. Perhaps it's much easier for me, with the person speaking just a few feet away from me. But mostly I believe that it's because I taught. I began with my own message. I made a little bit more room for the Spirit to sit in my heart (next to Mr. Fibby) and not just heard but understood and felt everything that was spoken.
After Sacrament Meeting, I was complimented plentifully on my talk. I appreciated their accolades, but I don't know what was in their heart. I don't know if the Spirit had more room to sit in their hearts, too, but I hope that it did.
I'm really glad that I had this opportunity to speak about Tim. Today was the first time that I spoke about and bore testimony of him publicly. I think I needed that.
Thank you again to my awesome friends who supported me. I LOVE YOU!
(P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAMI!!!)
I got to speak today at church during Sacrament Meeting. (I have awesome friends. Not just friendly friends---I have the kind of friends that get up early to come to my church at 8:30 to watch me speak. That kind of friends.)
So, I got the call asking me to speak from the member of our bishopric two weeks ago. After a few days of waiting for my mom and dad to decide if we would be here this Sunday, I finally was able to tell him that I would. Though he had previously asked me to speak on service, his message this time was something different.
"I've been prompted," he said, "to ask you to speak on recognizing and expressing gratitude for the miracles in our lives."
I should've seen THAT one coming.
Of course, I immediately thought of my dear Tim, the most miracle-y miracle of all the miracles that have ever occurred in my life.
And though I may not admit it, I really do love speaking in front of people. It must be the actress side of me that comes out, but I really REALLY enjoy teaching. But this week was October Break. And not the relaxing kind of break---it was the kind where your teachers have given you projects and essays and you have a talk to write.
And so I swam in stress my entire week, dreading what I had to do but nevertheless doing it. It probably should not have been this way, but it turned out that my talk was the last thing on my list to do this week. And when I had to do it, I sat down on my bed and did it. I kept my trusty companion, my scriptures, beside me, and referred to conference talks for ideas on what to speak about. I even found part of a wonderful poem by Kami (Kamety Kam Kams) to include. When I finished my talk, I felt incredibly proud. Perhaps I shouldn't have felt that way; there are so many other things that I could have included. But I was proud of it.
So I stood up today in Sacrament Meeting and gave it. I tried to convey as much of my true emotion about this subject as I could, making eye contact with all the members of the congregation who happened to pass under my sweeping eye. All I could do when I sat down was hope that my message had gotten across to them, and that the Spirit had taught them in all of the areas that I lacked.
I have found that, in my minimal experience of giving talks, that when I am up on the stand, I learn so much more. Perhaps it's much easier for me, with the person speaking just a few feet away from me. But mostly I believe that it's because I taught. I began with my own message. I made a little bit more room for the Spirit to sit in my heart (next to Mr. Fibby) and not just heard but understood and felt everything that was spoken.
After Sacrament Meeting, I was complimented plentifully on my talk. I appreciated their accolades, but I don't know what was in their heart. I don't know if the Spirit had more room to sit in their hearts, too, but I hope that it did.
I'm really glad that I had this opportunity to speak about Tim. Today was the first time that I spoke about and bore testimony of him publicly. I think I needed that.
Thank you again to my awesome friends who supported me. I LOVE YOU!
(P.S. HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAMI!!!)
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Bloomety Bloom Bloom
IT'S HAPPENED.
I've finally become that blog slacker that you all hate! (Because you are all blog-stalkers at heart; thus, you crave other people's writing.)
Instead of bloggety blog blogging on this blog, I created a new blog. It's called BLOOMIES.
Remember my old post entitled "OBSESSION"? Well, that obsession turned into an all out hysteria fest, because I'm sellin' those Bloomies now!
So, check out the site if you would please. Tell your mother and your sister and your brother about it. And your great-grandmother's aunt's granddaughter twice removed.
I've finally become that blog slacker that you all hate! (Because you are all blog-stalkers at heart; thus, you crave other people's writing.)
Instead of bloggety blog blogging on this blog, I created a new blog. It's called BLOOMIES.
Remember my old post entitled "OBSESSION"? Well, that obsession turned into an all out hysteria fest, because I'm sellin' those Bloomies now!
So, check out the site if you would please. Tell your mother and your sister and your brother about it. And your great-grandmother's aunt's granddaughter twice removed.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tim's Seventh
It's been seven months already. But now, more than ever, I realize that I am not alone.
And the proof is here. Be sure to click on the highlighted sentence a few paragraphs down.
More proof. (It's long. I know it is. But I promise, it's worth it. It's worth it.)
And the proof is here. Be sure to click on the highlighted sentence a few paragraphs down.
More proof. (It's long. I know it is. But I promise, it's worth it. It's worth it.)
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Reading Over Writing
There's something wrong with me.
I have no urge to write. I have a want to have an urge to write, but that's not the same thing.
Instead, I read the writing of others. Mostly To Kill A Mockingbird, and biographies of Puritans and Pilgrims. TKAM is pretty good. But THIS writing was one of my recent favorites--and it was even from an English book! I really liked it, though.
Upon the Burning of Our House
Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own; it was not mine.
Far be it that I should repine,
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished
Stands permanent, though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by his gift is made thine own.
There's wealth enough; I need no more.
Farewell, my pelf; farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love;
My hope and Treasure lies above.
I have no urge to write. I have a want to have an urge to write, but that's not the same thing.
Instead, I read the writing of others. Mostly To Kill A Mockingbird, and biographies of Puritans and Pilgrims. TKAM is pretty good. But THIS writing was one of my recent favorites--and it was even from an English book! I really liked it, though.
Upon the Burning of Our House
Anne Bradstreet
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow near I did not look,
I waken'd was with thund'ring noise
And piteous shrieks of dreadful voice.
That fearful sound of "fire" and "fire,"
Let no man know is my Desire.
I starting up, the light did spy,
And to my God my heart did cry
To straighten me in my Distress
And not to leave me succourless.
Then coming out, behold a space
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And when I could no longer look,
I blest his grace that gave and took,
That laid my goods now in the dust.
Yea, so it was, and so 'twas just.
It was his own; it was not mine.
Far be it that I should repine,
He might of all justly bereft
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruins oft I past
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast
And here and there the places spy
Where oft I sate and long did lie.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest,
There lay that store I counted best,
My pleasant things in ashes lie
And them behold no more shall I.
Under the roof no guest shall sit,
Nor at thy Table eat a bit.
No pleasant talk shall 'ere be told
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle 'ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom's voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lie.
Adieu, Adieu, All's Vanity.
Then straight I 'gin my heart to chide:
And did thy wealth on earth abide,
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the sky
That dunghill mists away may fly.
Thou hast a house on high erect
Fram'd by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished
Stands permanent, though this be fled.
It's purchased and paid for too
By him who hath enough to do.
A price so vast as is unknown,
Yet by his gift is made thine own.
There's wealth enough; I need no more.
Farewell, my pelf; farewell, my store.
The world no longer let me love;
My hope and Treasure lies above.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Go Kami
When we put God first, all other things fall into their proper place or drop out of our lives. Our love of the Lord will govern the claims for our affection, the demands on our time, the interests we pursue, and the order of our priorities.
Thanks to Kami for this awesome quote, and an inspiring story. Read it.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Throwing the Worry Away
OH, Bloggy, thou hast been neglected...
AGAIN.
Lots of things happened. Stress test went awesomely possumly. I had the best mini-orientation in the history of mini-orientations. And I began high school.
*overexaggerated sigh* Oh, high school. I really love it. And, thanks to Sarah for loving it when I didn't, so that I ended up loving it. I THANKS YOU VERY MUCH.
Because high school IS awesome. See, I was worried about it because I didn't want the worry, right? WRONG. I was worried that I wouldn't worry enough about my homework. And then it made me worry that I was a little insane because I was worried about being worried. But in all truthiness, I depend upon worry...or at least I used to. It used to be so automatic---just there, every night that I did homework. And there, when a project was due next week. And there when I had an essay to write.
But see here, children, worry is not the way to go. It's controlling, encompassing, and impaling, as well as not the most admirable form of motivation. Sure it makes you do the things that you need to, but it leaves you drained and scrunchy-eyebrowed afterward. So I've decided to rid of all of my worry.
About homework, that is.
Because why waste my sophomore year on worry? I have way too many cool people in my English class, and too cool of a teacher in seminary, and I'm loving choir WAY too much to give it up for worrying! WOOT! Plus French. French is lovely.
P.S., sorry for calling you all "child" today. I know fully well that I'm younger than all of you...
AGAIN.
Lots of things happened. Stress test went awesomely possumly. I had the best mini-orientation in the history of mini-orientations. And I began high school.
*overexaggerated sigh* Oh, high school. I really love it. And, thanks to Sarah for loving it when I didn't, so that I ended up loving it. I THANKS YOU VERY MUCH.
Because high school IS awesome. See, I was worried about it because I didn't want the worry, right? WRONG. I was worried that I wouldn't worry enough about my homework. And then it made me worry that I was a little insane because I was worried about being worried. But in all truthiness, I depend upon worry...or at least I used to. It used to be so automatic---just there, every night that I did homework. And there, when a project was due next week. And there when I had an essay to write.
But see here, children, worry is not the way to go. It's controlling, encompassing, and impaling, as well as not the most admirable form of motivation. Sure it makes you do the things that you need to, but it leaves you drained and scrunchy-eyebrowed afterward. So I've decided to rid of all of my worry.
About homework, that is.
Because why waste my sophomore year on worry? I have way too many cool people in my English class, and too cool of a teacher in seminary, and I'm loving choir WAY too much to give it up for worrying! WOOT! Plus French. French is lovely.
P.S., sorry for calling you all "child" today. I know fully well that I'm younger than all of you...
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Mumbo-Jumbo
OH, Bloggy, thou hast been neglected...
Well, I was in THE MOUNTAINS for a few days. Woot woot. It rained every day, and I LOVED it. It made me feel almost fresher, even though I hadn't showered for four days. It was sorta odd--when I came home, I looked in the mirror. I hadn't really seen my reflection much camping, so I looked funny to myself. But somehow, I felt new. Cleansed and better and cleaner and healthier. That's what the beauties of nature do for you. No joke.
Coming home was a little unfortunate, however. I didn't like to be constantly reminded by the calendar that school is so soon.
This is the deal---I like school. Love it. I really do. But nothing can really compete with ninth grade, right? Right. But all that I seem to be able to remember from ninth grade is those horrid last two weeks, when I felt so dead and stressed (well, not stressed, but needing and wanting to be stressed). Then floods back the memories of projects and tests and worries and care. Ew. Worries and care. I don't want that again.
I want high school. I'm so excited for new people, new classes, new friends. But I don't want worry. But school can't come without tugging worry right along with it. *sigh* Why can't it? *another, more prolonged, exasperated sigh*
But before school comes a stress test. (Oh boy, more stress.) For me, this test comes with two meanings, as the word "stress" does itself.
Stress 1 means pressure or tension exerted on a material object. Ok, so, I'm the material object, and this test will test me to see how much pressure or tension I can manage. Alright. Good. Great. Fantastic.
Stress 2 means a state of mental, emotional, or other strain, though. This is what I feel. I know that the doctors would never let my heart rate get up so high that Mr. Fibby would shock me. I know that. But it frightens me to think that I will be even close to that point. Close to February 22nd, when I went down...
I know my fears may be a bit irrational. Like I said, I know that the doctors wouldn't--couldn't-- hurt me. But my body is still strained during physical activity. I don't want to feel that...I don't want my body to feel that again.
*breathe out* Whoo. So, now that that emotional turmoil is over with, who's up for some unpacking?
Well, I was in THE MOUNTAINS for a few days. Woot woot. It rained every day, and I LOVED it. It made me feel almost fresher, even though I hadn't showered for four days. It was sorta odd--when I came home, I looked in the mirror. I hadn't really seen my reflection much camping, so I looked funny to myself. But somehow, I felt new. Cleansed and better and cleaner and healthier. That's what the beauties of nature do for you. No joke.
Coming home was a little unfortunate, however. I didn't like to be constantly reminded by the calendar that school is so soon.
This is the deal---I like school. Love it. I really do. But nothing can really compete with ninth grade, right? Right. But all that I seem to be able to remember from ninth grade is those horrid last two weeks, when I felt so dead and stressed (well, not stressed, but needing and wanting to be stressed). Then floods back the memories of projects and tests and worries and care. Ew. Worries and care. I don't want that again.
I want high school. I'm so excited for new people, new classes, new friends. But I don't want worry. But school can't come without tugging worry right along with it. *sigh* Why can't it? *another, more prolonged, exasperated sigh*
But before school comes a stress test. (Oh boy, more stress.) For me, this test comes with two meanings, as the word "stress" does itself.
Stress 1 means pressure or tension exerted on a material object. Ok, so, I'm the material object, and this test will test me to see how much pressure or tension I can manage. Alright. Good. Great. Fantastic.
Stress 2 means a state of mental, emotional, or other strain, though. This is what I feel. I know that the doctors would never let my heart rate get up so high that Mr. Fibby would shock me. I know that. But it frightens me to think that I will be even close to that point. Close to February 22nd, when I went down...
I know my fears may be a bit irrational. Like I said, I know that the doctors wouldn't--couldn't-- hurt me. But my body is still strained during physical activity. I don't want to feel that...I don't want my body to feel that again.
*breathe out* Whoo. So, now that that emotional turmoil is over with, who's up for some unpacking?
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
What It Is
Oh, Girls' Camp, I love you so.
Is it the magnificent pines that stretch toward the star-strewn sky? Is it the bright moon that I can see so clearly through the needle-y branches? Or perhaps hiking down switchbacks? Is it bonding in a leaky tent? How 'bout the pictures of me, makeup-free? Or being crazy all the time, because no one cares? Is it the new appreciation for showers? Is it the rain that patters gently on the cabins' roofs; the late nights talking to new-found friends; or the yodeling leaders, that make me love you so much?
It is all of that.
Another great year. I love Girls' Camp.
Is it the magnificent pines that stretch toward the star-strewn sky? Is it the bright moon that I can see so clearly through the needle-y branches? Or perhaps hiking down switchbacks? Is it bonding in a leaky tent? How 'bout the pictures of me, makeup-free? Or being crazy all the time, because no one cares? Is it the new appreciation for showers? Is it the rain that patters gently on the cabins' roofs; the late nights talking to new-found friends; or the yodeling leaders, that make me love you so much?
It is all of that.
Another great year. I love Girls' Camp.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Thoughts and Insecurities
"Do you have a thought?"
"Well, I do..."
"Is it from the scriptures?"
"Yeah, but...it's lame."
From my spot at the front of the room in the right corner, I say, "No thought from the scriptures can ever be lame!"
Everyone looks at me, and I feel my face go red. Oh no, I think miserably. I'd forgotten---I'm quiet in seminary.
"Oh, well, I've heard some that are lame," Bro. Nielson says, jokingly.
I laugh half-halfheartedly and face forward in my seat. That was stupid! What am I saying? What about all of those times when someone got up there and said a thought from the scriptures without sincerity? THOSE were pretty lame.
In second hour, when everyone surely had forgotten about my comment, I am still thinking about it and being embarrassed about it. On a sheet of college-ruled paper, I write:
"Well, I guess it DEPENDS on whether the person is SERIOUS about it or not. if he/she didn't prepare, picks a random scripture, doesn't have an experience, and then laughs about it afterward, then it's a lame thought.
BUT. If they truly mean every part of their thought---sincere experience and all---then it will never be lame.
It all depends on their intentions.
As my dad says, "You can never read the WRONG scripture." If you are willing, intent, and faithful, you will be able to get something out of any scripture that you happen to stumble upon.
AND...everyone gets something different out of every scripture.
THUS, no thought from the scriptures (if it is THOUGHT about first) can be lame."
Hm. I feel a bit better, now that I've justified my words (even if it is only to myself). I tuck the paper into my backpack and forget about the incident, letting the insecurity fly.
"Well, I do..."
"Is it from the scriptures?"
"Yeah, but...it's lame."
From my spot at the front of the room in the right corner, I say, "No thought from the scriptures can ever be lame!"
Everyone looks at me, and I feel my face go red. Oh no, I think miserably. I'd forgotten---I'm quiet in seminary.
"Oh, well, I've heard some that are lame," Bro. Nielson says, jokingly.
I laugh half-halfheartedly and face forward in my seat. That was stupid! What am I saying? What about all of those times when someone got up there and said a thought from the scriptures without sincerity? THOSE were pretty lame.
In second hour, when everyone surely had forgotten about my comment, I am still thinking about it and being embarrassed about it. On a sheet of college-ruled paper, I write:
"Well, I guess it DEPENDS on whether the person is SERIOUS about it or not. if he/she didn't prepare, picks a random scripture, doesn't have an experience, and then laughs about it afterward, then it's a lame thought.
BUT. If they truly mean every part of their thought---sincere experience and all---then it will never be lame.
It all depends on their intentions.
As my dad says, "You can never read the WRONG scripture." If you are willing, intent, and faithful, you will be able to get something out of any scripture that you happen to stumble upon.
AND...everyone gets something different out of every scripture.
THUS, no thought from the scriptures (if it is THOUGHT about first) can be lame."
Hm. I feel a bit better, now that I've justified my words (even if it is only to myself). I tuck the paper into my backpack and forget about the incident, letting the insecurity fly.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Quatre. . . and Mulan
4.
Four. The number of sides on a square.
Four. The number of kids in the family of my new book.
Four. The number of kids escaping in my almost-finished book.
Four. The number of months it's been since Tim. (Almost five)
Four. My favorite number.
Four. The number of pills I have to take tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I have an appointment for the dentist.
DUN DUN DUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN. *girlish shriek*
I really just don't appreciate going to the dentist. I appreciate that man who has the guts to stick his hands in my mouth and clean my teeth, but I don't appreciate actually GOING.
But that's not the point. The point is, we will be sending a real dragon to protect Mulan. -What? WHAT? I'm a real dragon! -You are not worthy for this post! NOW, awaken the Great Stone Dragon!
That Mulan quote was ALSO not the point. Let's get on with this...
An hour before my dentist appointment tomorrow (which is at 1:45), I must swallow four pills, one after the other. Ew, right? Well, it's ok, because these pills willlll....
PROTECT ME AND MY NEWLY-IMPLANTED FIBBY!
You see, if I happened to have some sort of infection in my mouth, it could adversely affect my heart because of the recent surgery. These four pills will keep infection from Mr. Fibby and Mr. Heart Man. Honestly, I don't think I HAVE an infection in my gums, but you never know. Better safe than sorry, eh? Yes. I've adopted that saying. Because it IS always better.
Sorry...I didn't have anything else to post about, and now I think that pretty much anything that has to deal with Mr. Fibby or Mr. Heart Man is interesting. I hope you do, too. Now, for more MULAN QUOTES!
Did you see those Huns? They popped outta the snow! LIKE DAISIES!
What do mean, a loser? I'll pop your antennas off and throw 'em 'cross the yard, and then who'd be the loser, me or you?
--Mulan! I found a lucky cricket!
--We need HELP!
--This tattoo will protect me from harm!
*punches him*
--HaHA! I hope you get your money back!
Now let's see your war face! . . . I think my bunny slippers just ran for cover---come one, SCARE ME, GIRL!
--Did I hear someone ask for a miracle?? Lemme hear ya say AYY!
--AHH!
--That's close enough!
Four. The number of sides on a square.
Four. The number of kids in the family of my new book.
Four. The number of kids escaping in my almost-finished book.
Four. The number of months it's been since Tim. (Almost five)
Four. My favorite number.
Four. The number of pills I have to take tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I have an appointment for the dentist.
DUN DUN DUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN. *girlish shriek*
I really just don't appreciate going to the dentist. I appreciate that man who has the guts to stick his hands in my mouth and clean my teeth, but I don't appreciate actually GOING.
But that's not the point. The point is, we will be sending a real dragon to protect Mulan. -What? WHAT? I'm a real dragon! -You are not worthy for this post! NOW, awaken the Great Stone Dragon!
That Mulan quote was ALSO not the point. Let's get on with this...
An hour before my dentist appointment tomorrow (which is at 1:45), I must swallow four pills, one after the other. Ew, right? Well, it's ok, because these pills willlll....
PROTECT ME AND MY NEWLY-IMPLANTED FIBBY!
You see, if I happened to have some sort of infection in my mouth, it could adversely affect my heart because of the recent surgery. These four pills will keep infection from Mr. Fibby and Mr. Heart Man. Honestly, I don't think I HAVE an infection in my gums, but you never know. Better safe than sorry, eh? Yes. I've adopted that saying. Because it IS always better.
Sorry...I didn't have anything else to post about, and now I think that pretty much anything that has to deal with Mr. Fibby or Mr. Heart Man is interesting. I hope you do, too. Now, for more MULAN QUOTES!
Did you see those Huns? They popped outta the snow! LIKE DAISIES!
What do mean, a loser? I'll pop your antennas off and throw 'em 'cross the yard, and then who'd be the loser, me or you?
--Mulan! I found a lucky cricket!
--We need HELP!
--This tattoo will protect me from harm!
*punches him*
--HaHA! I hope you get your money back!
Now let's see your war face! . . . I think my bunny slippers just ran for cover---come one, SCARE ME, GIRL!
--Did I hear someone ask for a miracle?? Lemme hear ya say AYY!
--AHH!
--That's close enough!
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Some Good Things About Hyrum, Utah #3
Just about five or ten minutes away from my cousins' house is Hyrum Dam---a lake surrounded by a strip of sand and small rocks (very small rocks). You can go boating, lay out on the grass, or swim. It's great fun, even if it is a bit cold.
Perhaps a more desirable alternative to Hyrum Dam is Bear Lake. This lake is at least an hour away from my cousins', but cleaner and brighter and bluer. It's like a mini trip to California!
This is the third and last Hyrum greatness: Close and Affordable Swimming Trips! (to something bigger than a pool)
Perhaps a more desirable alternative to Hyrum Dam is Bear Lake. This lake is at least an hour away from my cousins', but cleaner and brighter and bluer. It's like a mini trip to California!
This is the third and last Hyrum greatness: Close and Affordable Swimming Trips! (to something bigger than a pool)
Monday, July 5, 2010
Some Good Things About Hyrum, Utah #2
The Fourth of July isn't just a holiday where you go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to by yourself in Hyrum. It's a community event. Yesterday, the town gathered together to honor the war veterans, and today, there was a parade, a dance, fireworks, and a bunch of other activities. Everyone joins together to honor this free country. Everyone (EVERYONE) has a flag or two outside of their home and everyone wears red, white, and blue.
I see this today and I wonder, "Why doesn't Mesa do this?" It must be a small town thing, because there's no way all of Mesa would get together to celebrate the Fourth. Nobody down there cares anymore. How sad, eh?
Another reason I would like to live here: Pariotic People.
I see this today and I wonder, "Why doesn't Mesa do this?" It must be a small town thing, because there's no way all of Mesa would get together to celebrate the Fourth. Nobody down there cares anymore. How sad, eh?
Another reason I would like to live here: Pariotic People.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Some Good Things About Hyrum, Utah #1
You drive up the highway, surrounded by green hills, and then you pop out into a green valley---green grass, green hills, green sky, green people! EVERYTHING IS GREEN! It's so beautiful. Like, "Lets put this on every postcard in the world"-beautiful.
There are cows everywhere, just chompin on some grassies (GREEN grassies) and seagulls abound. The flowers bloom in oranges, pinks, reds, every color, brilliantly shining in the bright (yet NOT HOT) sun. A cool breeze blows and you just breathe it all in. It's July 4th, and you're wearing a jacket. Does that happen in Mesa, Arizona?? I don't think so, Paquito. I don't think so.
It's all green. Green, green, green. I love it. I could live here and just look at the green all day long. Isn't it sad how it's such a novelty to us Arizonans? Oh, how our poor souls love to inhale the green.
So, I guess this is #1. GREEN.
There are cows everywhere, just chompin on some grassies (GREEN grassies) and seagulls abound. The flowers bloom in oranges, pinks, reds, every color, brilliantly shining in the bright (yet NOT HOT) sun. A cool breeze blows and you just breathe it all in. It's July 4th, and you're wearing a jacket. Does that happen in Mesa, Arizona?? I don't think so, Paquito. I don't think so.
It's all green. Green, green, green. I love it. I could live here and just look at the green all day long. Isn't it sad how it's such a novelty to us Arizonans? Oh, how our poor souls love to inhale the green.
So, I guess this is #1. GREEN.
Friday, July 2, 2010
A Letter
Dear Benadryl,
I know our relationship has been brief, but I really felt the need to just write this letter.
I mean, before you, I had Tussin---that was a bad relationship in disguise: I didn't actually realize that Tussin would hurt me. Luckily, I broke up with him before it was too late.
But see here, Ben---yesterday, I hung out with you to help me feel better. You know, I felt like you could be a sort of remedy for my cold and headache. But instead of feeling better, I just felt worse. As in, horribly sluggish and dazed. I hate to say it, Ben, but...you made me feel like how I did after I got out of the hospital.
I HATED feeling like that.
And then you just had to go and bring back that tiredness! How could you? I trusted you to help me!
I'm sorry.... I guess I can't really blame everything on you. You really hurt me yesterday, but today, you definitely helped out on our trip to Utah. You made it so I didn't get car sick. That's a pretty amazing feat, I suppose.
I just don't understand your bipolar-ness, Ben. I think it would be best if you just stayed away from me for a while. It's too confusing to be around you. I'm sorry---you're great and all, and you're one of my few options, but I don't know if I can deal with this right now. I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Macey
I know our relationship has been brief, but I really felt the need to just write this letter.
I mean, before you, I had Tussin---that was a bad relationship in disguise: I didn't actually realize that Tussin would hurt me. Luckily, I broke up with him before it was too late.
But see here, Ben---yesterday, I hung out with you to help me feel better. You know, I felt like you could be a sort of remedy for my cold and headache. But instead of feeling better, I just felt worse. As in, horribly sluggish and dazed. I hate to say it, Ben, but...you made me feel like how I did after I got out of the hospital.
I HATED feeling like that.
And then you just had to go and bring back that tiredness! How could you? I trusted you to help me!
I'm sorry.... I guess I can't really blame everything on you. You really hurt me yesterday, but today, you definitely helped out on our trip to Utah. You made it so I didn't get car sick. That's a pretty amazing feat, I suppose.
I just don't understand your bipolar-ness, Ben. I think it would be best if you just stayed away from me for a while. It's too confusing to be around you. I'm sorry---you're great and all, and you're one of my few options, but I don't know if I can deal with this right now. I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Macey
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Barraging the Block
For the past few weeks, The Academy's progress has been horribly slow. As much as I wanted to deny it, a fear was holding me captive---I was getting bored with it.
It's summer, and I'm lazy. Even with all of this time on my hands, I haven't even once mustered up enough energy to write and write long and well.
But The Academy has been so wonderful to write so far.
Riley and I have talked---more than once---about what it would be like to have it published. My heart lifts as I think of it...I can see The Academy's cover in my head, with a little golden coin-looking award plastered on the hard-back cover. What a completely breathtaking experience it would be to see my work published! And I get so excited when I read it. I love The Academy. I think it's....well, I think it's good. I think that people might actually like to read it. I think that maybe, even in an altered and edited form, it could be purchased by people and could be put on a shelf at the library......
That opportunity is too good to miss.
So, I've re-motivated myself. Writer's block=OVER.
It's summer, and I'm lazy. Even with all of this time on my hands, I haven't even once mustered up enough energy to write and write long and well.
But The Academy has been so wonderful to write so far.
Riley and I have talked---more than once---about what it would be like to have it published. My heart lifts as I think of it...I can see The Academy's cover in my head, with a little golden coin-looking award plastered on the hard-back cover. What a completely breathtaking experience it would be to see my work published! And I get so excited when I read it. I love The Academy. I think it's....well, I think it's good. I think that people might actually like to read it. I think that maybe, even in an altered and edited form, it could be purchased by people and could be put on a shelf at the library......
That opportunity is too good to miss.
So, I've re-motivated myself. Writer's block=OVER.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Tim's Songs
Today is Tim's four-month anniversary. These are the songs that remind me of Tim....for various reasons....
Live Like We're Dying -- Kris Allen
Hey Soul Sister -- Train
Free Fallin' (Live) -- John Mayer
CPR (Single)-- Spencer Frame
Echo -- The Hush Sound
100 Years -- Five for Fighting
Keep It There -- The Weepies
I Dare You to Move -- Switchfoot
Le Dernier de Cosmonautes -- Andrea Lindsay
Beautiful Life -- Jenny Jordan Frogley
Thanks to all of you who helped me during Tim...and who I am continually reminded of through these songs! I LOVE YOU!!!
Live Like We're Dying -- Kris Allen
Hey Soul Sister -- Train
Free Fallin' (Live) -- John Mayer
CPR (Single)-- Spencer Frame
Echo -- The Hush Sound
100 Years -- Five for Fighting
Keep It There -- The Weepies
I Dare You to Move -- Switchfoot
Le Dernier de Cosmonautes -- Andrea Lindsay
Beautiful Life -- Jenny Jordan Frogley
Thanks to all of you who helped me during Tim...and who I am continually reminded of through these songs! I LOVE YOU!!!
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Pandora
I have a passionate love for the internet radio station called Pandora.
If you look to your right, you'll see that in the "C'est Moi" section of my blog, I said that my favorite songs were pretty much all of the ones on the Ingrid Michaelson station on Pandora. If you have never experienced the wonders of Pandora, I suggest you take your behind right on over to pandora.com and try it out. You will love it.
Just in case you were wondering, these are just some of the songs that I love that are played on the Ingrid Michaelson station. Out of the eight songs that I listened to today on Pandora, these were the seven that I clicked the "Like" button on. The only reason that I didn't "Like" the eighth song was because it was just music without words, and I was being lazy. It was a good song, though.
What Sarah Said---Death Cab for Cutie
Bulletproof Weeks---Matt Nathanson
New Soul---Yael Naim
We Are Okay---Joshua Radin
It Stops Today---Colbie Caillat
If It Kills Me---Jason Mraz
Lifesize---A Fine Frenzy
Keep Breathing---Ingrid Michaelson (Live and Un-Live)
On a different note (haha...note....music.....note....), I really like listening to Ingrid Michaelson and other artists like her because they are not loud and annoying. They don't rap, and they are not fake. You see, I listened to the live version of Keep Breathing by Ingrid today, and it sounded the same as the one that was not live. I mean, have you ever heard somebody's live version of a song and just been ultimately disappointed? And you thought, "Ah...I thought you actually had talent." BUT THEY DIDN'T.
Ingrid's voice wasn't computer-generated or altered at all for the non-live version of her song. It was her true voice! Granted, her voice is very different from the typical modern-day artist. She sings a different style than most of the modern-day artists. But I like it. And it's good.
On another different note, I also listened to a song on Pandora the other day that was by The Weepies. I really liked the song, and was surprised, because I don't usually like the sound of The Weepies that much. But this song had really good words and I truly loved the meaning. It's called Keep It There. LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN and ENJOY.
If you look to your right, you'll see that in the "C'est Moi" section of my blog, I said that my favorite songs were pretty much all of the ones on the Ingrid Michaelson station on Pandora. If you have never experienced the wonders of Pandora, I suggest you take your behind right on over to pandora.com and try it out. You will love it.
Just in case you were wondering, these are just some of the songs that I love that are played on the Ingrid Michaelson station. Out of the eight songs that I listened to today on Pandora, these were the seven that I clicked the "Like" button on. The only reason that I didn't "Like" the eighth song was because it was just music without words, and I was being lazy. It was a good song, though.
What Sarah Said---Death Cab for Cutie
Bulletproof Weeks---Matt Nathanson
New Soul---Yael Naim
We Are Okay---Joshua Radin
It Stops Today---Colbie Caillat
If It Kills Me---Jason Mraz
Lifesize---A Fine Frenzy
Keep Breathing---Ingrid Michaelson (Live and Un-Live)
On a different note (haha...note....music.....note....), I really like listening to Ingrid Michaelson and other artists like her because they are not loud and annoying. They don't rap, and they are not fake. You see, I listened to the live version of Keep Breathing by Ingrid today, and it sounded the same as the one that was not live. I mean, have you ever heard somebody's live version of a song and just been ultimately disappointed? And you thought, "Ah...I thought you actually had talent." BUT THEY DIDN'T.
Ingrid's voice wasn't computer-generated or altered at all for the non-live version of her song. It was her true voice! Granted, her voice is very different from the typical modern-day artist. She sings a different style than most of the modern-day artists. But I like it. And it's good.
On another different note, I also listened to a song on Pandora the other day that was by The Weepies. I really liked the song, and was surprised, because I don't usually like the sound of The Weepies that much. But this song had really good words and I truly loved the meaning. It's called Keep It There. LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN and ENJOY.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
My Turn
I spent a total of about ten days in the hospital when Tim happened. For about five of those days, I was in a drug-induced coma.
After that Friday afternoon on which the slimy breathing tube was pulled out of my throat, I sat in bed, groggy and unfeeling. But by Saturday, I was already telling my mom, "I need to get out of here." Even before Tim, I didn't really like hospitals---they just reminded me of sickness and death. I found it hard to concentrate on those who I was visiting in the hospital because I was so saddened by the bed, the tubes, the left-over food on the table.
It was way worse actually experiencing it.
The next Wednesday, I was released. I could hardly get out of there fast enough (partially because I had to be pushed out in a wheelchair because of hospital policy and what-not). Even so---there was nothing more wonderful, more ultimately fantastic than driving in a car. Nothing more lovely than the trees, nothing more odd than the bright sunlight.
Keep in mind---I had only been awake in the hospital for about five days.
I came back home and tried to gain myself back. (Life Left Me Behind) I visited my track team on the Friday after coming home. Still slightly light-headed and dazed, I hugged them all and stared blankly at the track.
The next Monday, I went to school, ecstatic. I loved it. For the rest of that week, I was tired and weak; but soon enough, everything was back to normal. I was living a normal life. There were the occasional aches and pains and the occasional light-headedness. Otherwise, I was me again, and life was life again.
A while after Tim, Riley told me about the Ellsworth family. Their darling baby boy, Atley, was born with only half of his heart. Atley's family had to wait for a couple of weeks while he was getting open-heart surgery before they brought him home.
The other day, I saw a picture of Atley's scar from his surgery. I thought of my scar and texted Riley,
My scar is whimpy compared to his. My Tim is whimpy compared to his.
I then became more aware of Stephanie Nielson's condition through her sister, cjane's, blog.
Stephanie just got out of the hospital---again (a month-long visit). This is just one of her several hospital visits. And I....I've never had to go back to the hospital after Tim---only for checkups in a separate building.
What an eye-opening experience. Who knew that anything could be worse than having my Tim???
Well, I didn't. But I really needed to. And Atley and Stephanie helped me realize that although my Tim may be over, there are several other people out there who have chronic Tim-itis. Prayers and love must continually be sent their way. And now, more than ever, I know partially (slightly...maybe) how it's been for them.
Everyone rallied together to help me, and now, it's my turn to be the support group.
After that Friday afternoon on which the slimy breathing tube was pulled out of my throat, I sat in bed, groggy and unfeeling. But by Saturday, I was already telling my mom, "I need to get out of here." Even before Tim, I didn't really like hospitals---they just reminded me of sickness and death. I found it hard to concentrate on those who I was visiting in the hospital because I was so saddened by the bed, the tubes, the left-over food on the table.
It was way worse actually experiencing it.
The next Wednesday, I was released. I could hardly get out of there fast enough (partially because I had to be pushed out in a wheelchair because of hospital policy and what-not). Even so---there was nothing more wonderful, more ultimately fantastic than driving in a car. Nothing more lovely than the trees, nothing more odd than the bright sunlight.
Keep in mind---I had only been awake in the hospital for about five days.
I came back home and tried to gain myself back. (Life Left Me Behind) I visited my track team on the Friday after coming home. Still slightly light-headed and dazed, I hugged them all and stared blankly at the track.
The next Monday, I went to school, ecstatic. I loved it. For the rest of that week, I was tired and weak; but soon enough, everything was back to normal. I was living a normal life. There were the occasional aches and pains and the occasional light-headedness. Otherwise, I was me again, and life was life again.
A while after Tim, Riley told me about the Ellsworth family. Their darling baby boy, Atley, was born with only half of his heart. Atley's family had to wait for a couple of weeks while he was getting open-heart surgery before they brought him home.
The other day, I saw a picture of Atley's scar from his surgery. I thought of my scar and texted Riley,
My scar is whimpy compared to his. My Tim is whimpy compared to his.
I then became more aware of Stephanie Nielson's condition through her sister, cjane's, blog.
Stephanie just got out of the hospital---again (a month-long visit). This is just one of her several hospital visits. And I....I've never had to go back to the hospital after Tim---only for checkups in a separate building.
What an eye-opening experience. Who knew that anything could be worse than having my Tim???
Well, I didn't. But I really needed to. And Atley and Stephanie helped me realize that although my Tim may be over, there are several other people out there who have chronic Tim-itis. Prayers and love must continually be sent their way. And now, more than ever, I know partially (slightly...maybe) how it's been for them.
Everyone rallied together to help me, and now, it's my turn to be the support group.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Football---NOT the American kind
I never found soccer particularly enjoyable to watch.
The field is enormous, and for 90% of the game, you are watching players sprint back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Let's make that 95%. During 4%, they are trying to score. You see, there is only one single percent that includes the actual scoring. It gets a little...boring after a while. In almost all other sports (besides golf), there is constant action. In soccer, not so much.
There is also the blaring horns factor that makes soccer so undesirable. During the ENTIRE GAME---the entire game!---there are audience members that blow horns. It never stops. It creates a buzzing-locusts effect. It's incredibly annoying.
But then...Marcus came to town.
Marcus is my twenty-one-year-old cousin who lives with us. He went to Argentina on his mission, and must have somehow developed a passion for soccer. Or he could have loved it before, I really don't know. Anywho, he woke up at 7:00 this morning to watch Argentina face Nigeria in the Fifa World Cup. With his ultimately persuasive ways, he convinced me to wake up at the same time and watch it with him. (HA, just kidding. I was sleeping in the front room and heard him come upstairs. I couldn't fall back asleep, and thus...)
And so, I came to love (as in, like) watching soccer.
After a while, the locust audience becomes a murmur in the background. The lengthy field and constant running help build more suspense; when a goal is made, it's twice as exciting because goals aren't made often. And, you get to show your pride in your country by screaming, "GO USA!" at those English fellows on the T.V.
See how soccer has enchanted these four? (Marcus is the one in blue.)
So, the moral of the story is: never judge a sport by its field, fans, and French...
Because France plays soccer, too.
The field is enormous, and for 90% of the game, you are watching players sprint back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Let's make that 95%. During 4%, they are trying to score. You see, there is only one single percent that includes the actual scoring. It gets a little...boring after a while. In almost all other sports (besides golf), there is constant action. In soccer, not so much.
There is also the blaring horns factor that makes soccer so undesirable. During the ENTIRE GAME---the entire game!---there are audience members that blow horns. It never stops. It creates a buzzing-locusts effect. It's incredibly annoying.
But then...Marcus came to town.
Marcus is my twenty-one-year-old cousin who lives with us. He went to Argentina on his mission, and must have somehow developed a passion for soccer. Or he could have loved it before, I really don't know. Anywho, he woke up at 7:00 this morning to watch Argentina face Nigeria in the Fifa World Cup. With his ultimately persuasive ways, he convinced me to wake up at the same time and watch it with him. (HA, just kidding. I was sleeping in the front room and heard him come upstairs. I couldn't fall back asleep, and thus...)
And so, I came to love (as in, like) watching soccer.
After a while, the locust audience becomes a murmur in the background. The lengthy field and constant running help build more suspense; when a goal is made, it's twice as exciting because goals aren't made often. And, you get to show your pride in your country by screaming, "GO USA!" at those English fellows on the T.V.
See how soccer has enchanted these four? (Marcus is the one in blue.)So, the moral of the story is: never judge a sport by its field, fans, and French...
Because France plays soccer, too.
Friday, June 11, 2010
My Favorite
MEH.
MEH.
MEH.
That's a triple meh! Ew. How lame.
I need something to write about.
Somebody, tell me what to write about.
Anything and everything.
Because I want to write.
Writing is my favorite.
The end.
MEH.
MEH.
That's a triple meh! Ew. How lame.
I need something to write about.
Somebody, tell me what to write about.
Anything and everything.
Because I want to write.
Writing is my favorite.
The end.
Monday, June 7, 2010
It's Simple
"Are you having fun, Macey?" my mother asks.
I don't even look up from my tower of blocks as I respond, "Yes, actually."
You would think that, with all of the technological junk that we have now, blocks would have gone extinct, right? WELL YOU'RE WRONG! Toddlers everywhere still enjoy those wooden, plastic, and paper cubes. In fact, toddlers are not the only ones who enjoy them. . .fourteen-year-olds do, too.
But why? What about these insanely simple toys fascinates the human mind? Perhaps it is their simplicity itself; I don't know. I just know that they're fun---simply fun.
WordPerfect 10 defines fun as " light-hearted pleasure or amusement." But what makes something fun? Who really knows? I suppose it depends on the person and their likes and dislikes, but still---what makes blocks so fun? Is it the sense of responsibility that you get as you build a tower and keep it from falling? Or the pure joy of knocking down the tower yourself? *shrug* Can you really explain it?
All I know is that while I sat there playing with those blocks, I was genuinely entertained. And sometimes even all of the high-tech nonsense doesn't do that.
I don't even look up from my tower of blocks as I respond, "Yes, actually."
You would think that, with all of the technological junk that we have now, blocks would have gone extinct, right? WELL YOU'RE WRONG! Toddlers everywhere still enjoy those wooden, plastic, and paper cubes. In fact, toddlers are not the only ones who enjoy them. . .fourteen-year-olds do, too.
But why? What about these insanely simple toys fascinates the human mind? Perhaps it is their simplicity itself; I don't know. I just know that they're fun---simply fun.
WordPerfect 10 defines fun as " light-hearted pleasure or amusement." But what makes something fun? Who really knows? I suppose it depends on the person and their likes and dislikes, but still---what makes blocks so fun? Is it the sense of responsibility that you get as you build a tower and keep it from falling? Or the pure joy of knocking down the tower yourself? *shrug* Can you really explain it?
All I know is that while I sat there playing with those blocks, I was genuinely entertained. And sometimes even all of the high-tech nonsense doesn't do that.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Swagger Wagon
You might have already gotten this is an email, but, you can afford to see it again.
Watch this one first.
Watch this one second.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?
Also...sorry WHOA the font is all changey-like!
ANYWHO...sorry that I've been substituting real posts for youtube links...but The Last Airbender is my favorite, and this is really funny! So...yes. No more explanation needed.
Also...sorry WHOA the font is all changey-like!
ANYWHO...sorry that I've been substituting real posts for youtube links...but The Last Airbender is my favorite, and this is really funny! So...yes. No more explanation needed.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Lame x12 and then PERFECT
It's clear that sometimes, things can't just work out the way you want them to.
You can't just lazily fill in a study guide and expect to get an A on the final exam.
And I'd love to blame everything on my mind-dulling medication.
But come on.
Was it really the medication?
In the end, I had the choice to overcome the feelings of reluctance that the medication gave me.
I could have woken up my mind and tried harder.
But I didn't.
And, unfortunately, there's nothing and no one else to blame.
I thought I already got this lesson from my Retainers post?
Yeah. I guess I needed to be re-taught.
Hm. What a lame post.
THE LAST AIRBENDER COMES OUT IN 27 DAYS.
You can't just lazily fill in a study guide and expect to get an A on the final exam.
And I'd love to blame everything on my mind-dulling medication.
But come on.
Was it really the medication?
In the end, I had the choice to overcome the feelings of reluctance that the medication gave me.
I could have woken up my mind and tried harder.
But I didn't.
And, unfortunately, there's nothing and no one else to blame.
I thought I already got this lesson from my Retainers post?
Yeah. I guess I needed to be re-taught.
Hm. What a lame post.
THE LAST AIRBENDER COMES OUT IN 27 DAYS.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Yeah...
Who knows why the font sizes changed in the last post? I don't. It wasn't intentional--I tried to fix it, and it didn't work.
Just to letcha know.
Just to letcha know.
Climax
On the evening of Thursday, May 27th, I sat on the Mountain View bleachers next to Riley Hatch, gazing out at the mass of 800 graduating seniors on the football field. Dressed in their blue gowns and tasseled hats, the seniors sat in rows of chairs, listening to the speakers and waiting anxiously for their diplomas.
Riley and I wistfully wondered about what it would feel like to be in their position--finally graduating from high school. One of the speakers referred to graduating as the climax of their lives.
~ ~ ~
At this point, you're probably thinking, "NO! THE DREADED PLOT MAP! I thought school was over!?!?"
Well, I intend to take you back for just one moment.
Think about a plot map in terms of LIFE (including more/less of the literary terms on this particular plot map). What event in life would you identify as the inciting incident? What type of conflict is included in life? What are the rising actions, the climax, the falling actions, and the resolution? IS there a denouement?
For the inciting incident, I immediately thought birth. It is the moment at which you enter life here on this earth. However, the inciting incident could even be taken farther back to the very creation of life at the beginning of this world.
As for the conflict, I believe that life combines all of the different types of conflicts into one. At any given time in life, we are facing some sort of conflict. Whether it is between us and one opposing person, or us and an entire group of people, we are constantly faced with conflicts in life.
Next comes rising action...
But as Riley and I thought about life's plot map, we couldn't find any particular moments that lead up to just one, great, fantastic moment.
As Riley put it, "In the plot map of life, every event is the rising action."
Might I suggest even further that life is an eternal line of climaxes.
An eternal line of climaxes.
That means that there is no particular event that our everyday actions are leading up to. After graduation, there is still your mission, your marriage, your first house, your first baby, your first grandchild--the list goes on and on. And the little things in between--the trials and hard times--are just helping you along to the next climax. Even death doesn't stop the plot map.
An eternal line of climaxes.
We may choose to let our lives mirror the plot map above--different events leading up to one single climax, followed by a set of falling actions until the end of our mortal existence.
Or, we could choose to make the events in our lives continual rising actions--different events leading up to not just one climax, but several.
I hope that we all choose to live life so that every action aids us in continuing to the next climax, and the next, and the next.
~ ~ ~
If you know Riley, you know that she loves thinking about the future. I can see why she thought of life this way, and I love it.
Sitting on those Mountain View bleachers made me anxious--not only to reach the climax of graduation, but to continue upward on my plot map of life, reaching every climax that is able to be reached.
Riley and I wistfully wondered about what it would feel like to be in their position--finally graduating from high school. One of the speakers referred to graduating as the climax of their lives.
~ ~ ~
At this point, you're probably thinking, "NO! THE DREADED PLOT MAP! I thought school was over!?!?"
Well, I intend to take you back for just one moment.
Think about a plot map in terms of LIFE (including more/less of the literary terms on this particular plot map). What event in life would you identify as the inciting incident? What type of conflict is included in life? What are the rising actions, the climax, the falling actions, and the resolution? IS there a denouement?
For the inciting incident, I immediately thought birth. It is the moment at which you enter life here on this earth. However, the inciting incident could even be taken farther back to the very creation of life at the beginning of this world.
As for the conflict, I believe that life combines all of the different types of conflicts into one. At any given time in life, we are facing some sort of conflict. Whether it is between us and one opposing person, or us and an entire group of people, we are constantly faced with conflicts in life.
Next comes rising action...
But as Riley and I thought about life's plot map, we couldn't find any particular moments that lead up to just one, great, fantastic moment.
As Riley put it, "In the plot map of life, every event is the rising action."
Might I suggest even further that life is an eternal line of climaxes.
An eternal line of climaxes.
That means that there is no particular event that our everyday actions are leading up to. After graduation, there is still your mission, your marriage, your first house, your first baby, your first grandchild--the list goes on and on. And the little things in between--the trials and hard times--are just helping you along to the next climax. Even death doesn't stop the plot map.
An eternal line of climaxes.
We may choose to let our lives mirror the plot map above--different events leading up to one single climax, followed by a set of falling actions until the end of our mortal existence.
Or, we could choose to make the events in our lives continual rising actions--different events leading up to not just one climax, but several.
I hope that we all choose to live life so that every action aids us in continuing to the next climax, and the next, and the next.
~ ~ ~
If you know Riley, you know that she loves thinking about the future. I can see why she thought of life this way, and I love it.
Sitting on those Mountain View bleachers made me anxious--not only to reach the climax of graduation, but to continue upward on my plot map of life, reaching every climax that is able to be reached.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Bittersweet Symphony
Emotions are SO complicated.
And I, being a teenager, have the ability to feel them all at once, and still not burst under the pressure.
I am glad that it's summer. I get to hang around the house, hang around with friends, and hang around the heat, without a thousand projects and homeworks hanging around ME. My mind can finally free itself of all of the stresses that comes with school, if only temporarily. It's liberating.
But, I am sad that it's summer. School occupies beaucoup de temps, but in a good way. It lets me consistently see my friends, bother old teachers, and be enlightened. Granted, it was mostly the friends that made my ninth grade year. But still. I'm already bored, guys. And it's only been two days.
I'm nervous about MVT next year, but yet ecstatic at the same time. I'm self-confident, yet shy; brave, yet cowardly; motivated, yet so reluctant.
I AM A TEENAGER. I live a chorus of whirling emotions that can never stay within me for too long.
Still, it's good to be a teenager. And I am perfectly content with being one for the next few years.
And I, being a teenager, have the ability to feel them all at once, and still not burst under the pressure.
I am glad that it's summer. I get to hang around the house, hang around with friends, and hang around the heat, without a thousand projects and homeworks hanging around ME. My mind can finally free itself of all of the stresses that comes with school, if only temporarily. It's liberating.
But, I am sad that it's summer. School occupies beaucoup de temps, but in a good way. It lets me consistently see my friends, bother old teachers, and be enlightened. Granted, it was mostly the friends that made my ninth grade year. But still. I'm already bored, guys. And it's only been two days.
I'm nervous about MVT next year, but yet ecstatic at the same time. I'm self-confident, yet shy; brave, yet cowardly; motivated, yet so reluctant.
I AM A TEENAGER. I live a chorus of whirling emotions that can never stay within me for too long.
Still, it's good to be a teenager. And I am perfectly content with being one for the next few years.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Fear and the Fibby
I call my defibrillator "Mr. Fibby."
“You won’t be doing any skydiving or anything like that.”
It’s not like I was an adrenaline junky before—finding out that I wouldn’t ever skydive isn’t something that would put me through withdrawals. I’ve never imagined myself doing anything like that, anyway; I can’t even picture myself on skis. I am content with riding quads and taking occasional turns on roller coasters. Fear always gets in the way of thinking about doing anything more than that.
Not to say that skydiving isn’t cool, of course. I commend anyone who has the guts to jump out of an airplane and perform aerial stunts during free fall before pulling a parachute.
The first skydiver was Andre-Jacque Garnerin (the fact that he is French makes him doubly cool). He jumped from hot air balloons in 1797, setting the stage for the future of skydiving. At first skydiving (or parachuting, if you prefer) was used by the military as an exit from aircraft in case of an emergency. Later, it was used to send soldiers into battle. Then it became competitive and recreational.
Recreational skydivers are usually dropped by large aircraft, such as the Cessna Caravan C208 or the Twin Otter. They jump from about 13,000 feet, free falling for only about one minute before deploying their parachutes at at least 1,970 feet. The jumpers do not actually feel like they are falling—they may only experience the falling sensation upon jumping out of the aircraft; after that, however, the wind resistance creates a feel of simply being suspended in air. First-time skydivers usually go tandem—jumping with a professional who pulls the parachute for them.
One main challenge with skydiving is avoiding injury. There is only about one death for every 100,000 jumpers; however, there is still an incredibly need to be careful. When two divers collide, it is called a “canopy collision.” The parachutes of both divers get tangled together, and they must think quickly to cut away from their main canopies and release their secondary parachute. Another skydiving occurrence that results in fatalities is called “swooping.” Divers often try to make their canopies swoop to become parallel with the ground before landing. If they perform this wrongly, then they may end up taking a high-speed dive into the dirt.
Another difficulty presented in skydiving is landing directly on target. The wind may suddenly change course, sending a diver in a direction completely opposite of their intended one. Also, in places where there are severe weather conditions, storms may affect the ability to skydive properly or to do so at all.
See, for me, these risks aren’t worth the rush of adrenaline. But those risks along didn’t influence my decision to never skydive—it was mostly the fear. Yup, that’s right: I’m a bit afraid to jump out of an airplane 13,000 feet above the surface of the earth with only a parachute to keep me from falling to my death.
And there’s also the fact that my defective heart would utterly protest as I free fell, sending poor Mr. Fibby into a flurry of electric shocks.
Yeah . . . that’s a pretty good reason not to skydive, too.
“You won’t be doing any skydiving or anything like that.”
It’s not like I was an adrenaline junky before—finding out that I wouldn’t ever skydive isn’t something that would put me through withdrawals. I’ve never imagined myself doing anything like that, anyway; I can’t even picture myself on skis. I am content with riding quads and taking occasional turns on roller coasters. Fear always gets in the way of thinking about doing anything more than that.
Not to say that skydiving isn’t cool, of course. I commend anyone who has the guts to jump out of an airplane and perform aerial stunts during free fall before pulling a parachute.
The first skydiver was Andre-Jacque Garnerin (the fact that he is French makes him doubly cool). He jumped from hot air balloons in 1797, setting the stage for the future of skydiving. At first skydiving (or parachuting, if you prefer) was used by the military as an exit from aircraft in case of an emergency. Later, it was used to send soldiers into battle. Then it became competitive and recreational.
Recreational skydivers are usually dropped by large aircraft, such as the Cessna Caravan C208 or the Twin Otter. They jump from about 13,000 feet, free falling for only about one minute before deploying their parachutes at at least 1,970 feet. The jumpers do not actually feel like they are falling—they may only experience the falling sensation upon jumping out of the aircraft; after that, however, the wind resistance creates a feel of simply being suspended in air. First-time skydivers usually go tandem—jumping with a professional who pulls the parachute for them.
One main challenge with skydiving is avoiding injury. There is only about one death for every 100,000 jumpers; however, there is still an incredibly need to be careful. When two divers collide, it is called a “canopy collision.” The parachutes of both divers get tangled together, and they must think quickly to cut away from their main canopies and release their secondary parachute. Another skydiving occurrence that results in fatalities is called “swooping.” Divers often try to make their canopies swoop to become parallel with the ground before landing. If they perform this wrongly, then they may end up taking a high-speed dive into the dirt.
Another difficulty presented in skydiving is landing directly on target. The wind may suddenly change course, sending a diver in a direction completely opposite of their intended one. Also, in places where there are severe weather conditions, storms may affect the ability to skydive properly or to do so at all.
See, for me, these risks aren’t worth the rush of adrenaline. But those risks along didn’t influence my decision to never skydive—it was mostly the fear. Yup, that’s right: I’m a bit afraid to jump out of an airplane 13,000 feet above the surface of the earth with only a parachute to keep me from falling to my death.
And there’s also the fact that my defective heart would utterly protest as I free fell, sending poor Mr. Fibby into a flurry of electric shocks.
Yeah . . . that’s a pretty good reason not to skydive, too.
The End. . . .or, rather, The Beginning
There's nothing else that I can say!
How I have come to love and appreciate this ninth grade year--my one and only ninth grade year. Not only have teachers taught me some math and science, but some Tim and some friends have taught me so much more.
Everyone is so anxious to leave Poston---ha, I can't blame 'em. I'm super excited, too. But no matter what anyone says about ninth grade, I will always look back on this year with an admiration that is incredibly unique and acute to the circumstances. Nothing can ever replace the love that I have for the things that I have learned and how I have grown during my ninth grade year. New loves will be added to my heart, undoubtedly; but the things that happened this year at Poston have changed me and my heart forevermore. In all honesty, I am a completely different--and better--person because I have suffered through ninth grade. You read about that in a previous post.
Like I said, it's not really ninth grade that did it: the teachers or the classes or all that nonsense. No, it was the behind-the-scenes stuff--the stuff that not every ninth grader experienced that made me eternally grateful for this year.
As in the beginning, what else is there to say? I love my friends, I love my family, I love the gospel, and I love my life. Ninth grade is ending; thank goodness it is. But next comes a new challenge, and along with it, new loves---ah, high school. And that, my friends, is just the beginning.
How I have come to love and appreciate this ninth grade year--my one and only ninth grade year. Not only have teachers taught me some math and science, but some Tim and some friends have taught me so much more.
Everyone is so anxious to leave Poston---ha, I can't blame 'em. I'm super excited, too. But no matter what anyone says about ninth grade, I will always look back on this year with an admiration that is incredibly unique and acute to the circumstances. Nothing can ever replace the love that I have for the things that I have learned and how I have grown during my ninth grade year. New loves will be added to my heart, undoubtedly; but the things that happened this year at Poston have changed me and my heart forevermore. In all honesty, I am a completely different--and better--person because I have suffered through ninth grade. You read about that in a previous post.
Like I said, it's not really ninth grade that did it: the teachers or the classes or all that nonsense. No, it was the behind-the-scenes stuff--the stuff that not every ninth grader experienced that made me eternally grateful for this year.
As in the beginning, what else is there to say? I love my friends, I love my family, I love the gospel, and I love my life. Ninth grade is ending; thank goodness it is. But next comes a new challenge, and along with it, new loves---ah, high school. And that, my friends, is just the beginning.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
I'd Rather Be Writing
“She was always more of an academic type, anyway.”
Like always, my dear mother was right.
And that was something that CPVT could never take away from me: my academics—or, more specifically, my ability to write.
Ever since I was incredibly young, I loved writing. I wanted to write a novel, and to see my name printed neatly on a colored cover, with that little golden National Book Award medal stamped in the corner. I could just imagine how it would feel to hold my own published work in my hands.
But for the moment, I was stuck writing short stories on printer paper pages and taping magazine pictures onto them for illustrations.
Still, I never gave up hope. I did begin considering other things that I would like to do as a profession when I was older: teach, sing, act. But none of these things seemed to stand out to me as much as writing did.
“How to become an author” typed into Google came up with 86,300,000 results in .19 seconds. I read off of about five of these websites, and I believe that they are all relatively the same—the number one piece of advice that they gave on how to become an author was to write.
It seems like it would be quite obvious, right? After all, publishing a nonexistent work isn’t a very realistic goal. Still, these websites reminded all of those budding authors to actually transfer their ideas from their brains to paper. This was never a problem for me.
What was a problem, however, was the fact that I had a tendency to get bored with a story too quickly. I would concoct a brilliant idea, write crazily for a couple of weeks, and then lose interest. This would sometimes happen with four or more stories at a time, often resulting in the mass deleting of the files. It was a shame to throw away such good ideas; yet, I couldn’t get myself to move them out of the rough draft stage.
The only story of mine that has ever made it to the conclusion is “The Housekeeper.” I wrote it in sixth grade, and on my WordPerfect 10 program, it turned out to be about thirty-five pages. It was an amazing feat.
Yet, I wasn’t finished. Google’s suggested websites advised me to, while writing and after finishing the manuscript, edit furiously. They also proposed that I run certain passages by my peers to get their opinions. At the moment, I am working on a novel entitled “The Academy.” From the beginning, I have posted chapters of it on my blog, seeking the advice of my friends. Their kind suggestions have greatly aided me in continuing my work.
The third major stage of becoming a true author is one that I have never before attempted: publishing. Considering I am only fourteen, actually getting a publisher to pay attention to my writing seems like an achievement that is quite out of reach. Nevertheless, I look forward to a day when my life-long dream of becoming a published novelist will come true. I often revert to my childhood wishes of seeing my books sell by the millions to people throughout the world.
I am determined, and I remain forever grateful that CPVT only limited me to excessive exercise. Because truly, in the end, I’d always rather be writing.
Like always, my dear mother was right.
And that was something that CPVT could never take away from me: my academics—or, more specifically, my ability to write.
Ever since I was incredibly young, I loved writing. I wanted to write a novel, and to see my name printed neatly on a colored cover, with that little golden National Book Award medal stamped in the corner. I could just imagine how it would feel to hold my own published work in my hands.
But for the moment, I was stuck writing short stories on printer paper pages and taping magazine pictures onto them for illustrations.
Still, I never gave up hope. I did begin considering other things that I would like to do as a profession when I was older: teach, sing, act. But none of these things seemed to stand out to me as much as writing did.
“How to become an author” typed into Google came up with 86,300,000 results in .19 seconds. I read off of about five of these websites, and I believe that they are all relatively the same—the number one piece of advice that they gave on how to become an author was to write.
It seems like it would be quite obvious, right? After all, publishing a nonexistent work isn’t a very realistic goal. Still, these websites reminded all of those budding authors to actually transfer their ideas from their brains to paper. This was never a problem for me.
What was a problem, however, was the fact that I had a tendency to get bored with a story too quickly. I would concoct a brilliant idea, write crazily for a couple of weeks, and then lose interest. This would sometimes happen with four or more stories at a time, often resulting in the mass deleting of the files. It was a shame to throw away such good ideas; yet, I couldn’t get myself to move them out of the rough draft stage.
The only story of mine that has ever made it to the conclusion is “The Housekeeper.” I wrote it in sixth grade, and on my WordPerfect 10 program, it turned out to be about thirty-five pages. It was an amazing feat.
Yet, I wasn’t finished. Google’s suggested websites advised me to, while writing and after finishing the manuscript, edit furiously. They also proposed that I run certain passages by my peers to get their opinions. At the moment, I am working on a novel entitled “The Academy.” From the beginning, I have posted chapters of it on my blog, seeking the advice of my friends. Their kind suggestions have greatly aided me in continuing my work.
The third major stage of becoming a true author is one that I have never before attempted: publishing. Considering I am only fourteen, actually getting a publisher to pay attention to my writing seems like an achievement that is quite out of reach. Nevertheless, I look forward to a day when my life-long dream of becoming a published novelist will come true. I often revert to my childhood wishes of seeing my books sell by the millions to people throughout the world.
I am determined, and I remain forever grateful that CPVT only limited me to excessive exercise. Because truly, in the end, I’d always rather be writing.
The Assurance
“You have been accepted for genetic testing.”
According to all of the doctors, this was indeed a good thing. However, my last unit on genetics was a brief one in eighth grade; it wasn’t very informative or in-depth. So for the moment, I was a bit ignorant.
Genetics is defined as “the branch of life sciences concerned with heredity”—that much I knew. The smallest unit that genetics can be expressed in is the gene. These genes are contained in chromosomes. They make up strands of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid if you prefer scientific words. Genetic information in the DNA creates different biomolecules; for instance, proteins. This specific information is passed from parent to daughter cells through the process of reproduction; it is also given to children from their parents through DNA. The variations of specific genes are called alleles. Each allele has a different order of nucleotides that is unique to it.
The cardiologists explained that there are one hundred different mutations of the CPVT gene. For whatever reason, they only have identified the true properties of fifty of those one hundred. Genetic testing will tell me if I have one that know of or not. This is done using a DNA blood specimen (I almost fainted when they took it). They compare this specimen to the others in their library of specimens, thus confirming the one that I have by matching up the DNA sequences. If I have a gene that they have identified, then the doctors will be able to test my siblings and parents genes against mine. This additional testing comes at no charge.
There are two commonly found mutations of the CPVT gene—the calsequestrin 2 (CASQ2) and the ryanodine receptor 2 (RyR2). The CASQ2 is a rarer case, found in CPVT2. It is the autosomal recessive form of the CPVT gene. CPVT1 is the RyR2 case, found in 38% of CPVT families, and the autosomal dominant form of the gene. Males with RyR2 are at higher risk of having a cardiac event that girls with the same type. Families with the phenotype (physical manifestation of genetics) of CPVT should consider treatment with beta-blockers, which is the treatment that I am receiving.
I still don’t know what half of the genetic terms mean, but now I know more about my personal genetics. And now that I have been accepted for genetic testing, I will be able to identify what specific gene of CPVT that I have. So doing, my family will be able to find out if they have the same gene. With the stress tests done on three of my siblings so far, there is nothing that would lead the doctors to believe that they have CPVT. Genetic testing is simply to make sure that nothing is wrong at all. It is the assurance that we are now hoping and waiting patiently for.
According to all of the doctors, this was indeed a good thing. However, my last unit on genetics was a brief one in eighth grade; it wasn’t very informative or in-depth. So for the moment, I was a bit ignorant.
Genetics is defined as “the branch of life sciences concerned with heredity”—that much I knew. The smallest unit that genetics can be expressed in is the gene. These genes are contained in chromosomes. They make up strands of DNA, or deoxyribonucleic acid if you prefer scientific words. Genetic information in the DNA creates different biomolecules; for instance, proteins. This specific information is passed from parent to daughter cells through the process of reproduction; it is also given to children from their parents through DNA. The variations of specific genes are called alleles. Each allele has a different order of nucleotides that is unique to it.
The cardiologists explained that there are one hundred different mutations of the CPVT gene. For whatever reason, they only have identified the true properties of fifty of those one hundred. Genetic testing will tell me if I have one that know of or not. This is done using a DNA blood specimen (I almost fainted when they took it). They compare this specimen to the others in their library of specimens, thus confirming the one that I have by matching up the DNA sequences. If I have a gene that they have identified, then the doctors will be able to test my siblings and parents genes against mine. This additional testing comes at no charge.
There are two commonly found mutations of the CPVT gene—the calsequestrin 2 (CASQ2) and the ryanodine receptor 2 (RyR2). The CASQ2 is a rarer case, found in CPVT2. It is the autosomal recessive form of the CPVT gene. CPVT1 is the RyR2 case, found in 38% of CPVT families, and the autosomal dominant form of the gene. Males with RyR2 are at higher risk of having a cardiac event that girls with the same type. Families with the phenotype (physical manifestation of genetics) of CPVT should consider treatment with beta-blockers, which is the treatment that I am receiving.
I still don’t know what half of the genetic terms mean, but now I know more about my personal genetics. And now that I have been accepted for genetic testing, I will be able to identify what specific gene of CPVT that I have. So doing, my family will be able to find out if they have the same gene. With the stress tests done on three of my siblings so far, there is nothing that would lead the doctors to believe that they have CPVT. Genetic testing is simply to make sure that nothing is wrong at all. It is the assurance that we are now hoping and waiting patiently for.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
What They Mean To Me
A weekend all alone,
Calming music in the air;
A moment reading scriptures
Or a second knelt in prayer;
A week without the world–
Just pine forests, open skies;
An evening with a witness
Strengthening our friendship ties;
The Spirit’s testament
Of His truthful words and love–
One intimate, warm embrace
With my Father up above;
The consistent rhythm
Of that heart within my chest
Reminding me what happened–
Pushing me to do my best.
Small wonders, little things,
But they mean the world to me.
I can’t believe it took This
To make me finally see.
Calming music in the air;
A moment reading scriptures
Or a second knelt in prayer;
A week without the world–
Just pine forests, open skies;
An evening with a witness
Strengthening our friendship ties;
The Spirit’s testament
Of His truthful words and love–
One intimate, warm embrace
With my Father up above;
The consistent rhythm
Of that heart within my chest
Reminding me what happened–
Pushing me to do my best.
Small wonders, little things,
But they mean the world to me.
I can’t believe it took This
To make me finally see.
"YOU'VE CHANGED!!!"
. . .the typical line that the over-dramatic boy/girl yells at his/her boyfriend/girlfriend after having not seen them in a while....
But, as I will discuss in this post, it is what's happened to me.
I can't even believe it. I mean, take a look at my first few posts on here if you want proof. The last year has been the equivalent of about two years in terms of my growing in maturity.
Then:
My blog posts were light-hearted. They were weird. They were funny (or so I thought). They didn't deal much with how I felt or what I did. They were really random and pointless--for example, my turkey post. I told a story about a turkey. How much more random can you get??
My posts were like that because I was like that. It was who I was.
Now:
My blog posts are typically meaningful. When something impresses me, or I have a spiritual experience or realization, I put it here. The things that I write here are true and...heartfelt. The things that I love and truly want now occupy my posts. Just look at the subtitle beneath my blog's name.
My posts are like this because I am like this. It is who I am.
What happened in between the "Then" and "Now"? you may be asking. Well, summer happened, and ninth grade happened, but mostly, Tim happened.
As you've heard, Tim has helped me a lot--in more ways than I probably realize right now. But how he has aided me in maturing!
Before, I thought I wanted my patriarchal blessing. Now, I know with an absolute surety that I am supposed to get my patriarchal blessing at this time in my life, and I'm going to.
Before, I thought that I had good friends. Now, I know that I absolutely love my friends, and there is no way that I could ever live without them.
Before, I thought that I appreciated the little things. Now, I know that every little thing matters--from lazy days at home with my family, to the feel of my heartbeat.
I've changed, yes. I have. You can point your fingers at me and yell it as loudly as those actors in the soap operas on T.V. But it's a good change. And I definitely know that.
But, as I will discuss in this post, it is what's happened to me.
I can't even believe it. I mean, take a look at my first few posts on here if you want proof. The last year has been the equivalent of about two years in terms of my growing in maturity.
Then:
My blog posts were light-hearted. They were weird. They were funny (or so I thought). They didn't deal much with how I felt or what I did. They were really random and pointless--for example, my turkey post. I told a story about a turkey. How much more random can you get??
My posts were like that because I was like that. It was who I was.
Now:
My blog posts are typically meaningful. When something impresses me, or I have a spiritual experience or realization, I put it here. The things that I write here are true and...heartfelt. The things that I love and truly want now occupy my posts. Just look at the subtitle beneath my blog's name.
My posts are like this because I am like this. It is who I am.
What happened in between the "Then" and "Now"? you may be asking. Well, summer happened, and ninth grade happened, but mostly, Tim happened.
As you've heard, Tim has helped me a lot--in more ways than I probably realize right now. But how he has aided me in maturing!
Before, I thought I wanted my patriarchal blessing. Now, I know with an absolute surety that I am supposed to get my patriarchal blessing at this time in my life, and I'm going to.
Before, I thought that I had good friends. Now, I know that I absolutely love my friends, and there is no way that I could ever live without them.
Before, I thought that I appreciated the little things. Now, I know that every little thing matters--from lazy days at home with my family, to the feel of my heartbeat.
I've changed, yes. I have. You can point your fingers at me and yell it as loudly as those actors in the soap operas on T.V. But it's a good change. And I definitely know that.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Eenie, Meenie, Minie, Yoga
Have you ever actually spelled out "eenie, meenie, minie"? How are you supposed to spell them?
“You could do yoga,” says the cardiologist.
I’ve accepted my limitations and the few options of exercise that I have at this point. And I’m incredibly grateful for the doctor’s kind suggestions. But I just can’t help but grin and chuckle a bit. Yoga? Who even does that?
Nevertheless, I’ve been thinking about yoga more and more recently. Inability to do competitive sports and strenuous exercise, as well as an overdose of stress makes me a great candidate for the activity. Because of this—and the fact that I need a P.E. credit—I researched it.
Yoga is a meditative practice. It includes traditional physical and mental disciplines that originate from Hinduism and Buddhism in India. It is a sacred practice meant to help one attain “Moksha”– liberation from the suffering of reincarnation. To the rest of us throughout the world, however, it is simply a form of exercise to improve health.
The actual word yoga comes from the Sanskrit root “yuj” meaning “joining” or “uniting.” Another possible meaning is “contemplation,” deriving from the root “yujir samadhau.” One who masters the art of yoga is called a yogi or yogini.
I found some funny-sounding poses, also.
The Warrior 2 is a pretty common pose in yoga. It strengthens the arms and legs and apparently builds confidence. (Who wouldn’t feel good about themselves when they’re looking like a warrior?) To do this pose, you sort of do a forward lunge with your back foot facing outward, and then stretch your arms out so that they are facing forward and backward.
The Downward-Facing Dog pose builds strength and flexibility, as well as awareness. It stretches the spine and hamstrings as you start out on your hands and knees and then slowly lean forward, stretching your legs straight.
The Mountain is probably the simplest pose in the book. All you have to do is stand up straight with your feet together, stretching your neck upward by raising the base of your skull. After a few breaths, you raise you arms above your head. This pose improves posture and balance.
Indeed, I like to make fun of yoga. I must admit, however, that I did the Warrior pose once and it was a decent stretch. I am also in need of some options of activities that I can try out that do not fall under the category of “strenuous,” especially through my first year of recovery. Perhaps I’ll take up golf, or croquet, or ping pong. Or maybe even yoga.
“You could do yoga,” says the cardiologist.
I’ve accepted my limitations and the few options of exercise that I have at this point. And I’m incredibly grateful for the doctor’s kind suggestions. But I just can’t help but grin and chuckle a bit. Yoga? Who even does that?
Nevertheless, I’ve been thinking about yoga more and more recently. Inability to do competitive sports and strenuous exercise, as well as an overdose of stress makes me a great candidate for the activity. Because of this—and the fact that I need a P.E. credit—I researched it.
Yoga is a meditative practice. It includes traditional physical and mental disciplines that originate from Hinduism and Buddhism in India. It is a sacred practice meant to help one attain “Moksha”– liberation from the suffering of reincarnation. To the rest of us throughout the world, however, it is simply a form of exercise to improve health.
The actual word yoga comes from the Sanskrit root “yuj” meaning “joining” or “uniting.” Another possible meaning is “contemplation,” deriving from the root “yujir samadhau.” One who masters the art of yoga is called a yogi or yogini.
I found some funny-sounding poses, also.
The Warrior 2 is a pretty common pose in yoga. It strengthens the arms and legs and apparently builds confidence. (Who wouldn’t feel good about themselves when they’re looking like a warrior?) To do this pose, you sort of do a forward lunge with your back foot facing outward, and then stretch your arms out so that they are facing forward and backward.
The Downward-Facing Dog pose builds strength and flexibility, as well as awareness. It stretches the spine and hamstrings as you start out on your hands and knees and then slowly lean forward, stretching your legs straight.
The Mountain is probably the simplest pose in the book. All you have to do is stand up straight with your feet together, stretching your neck upward by raising the base of your skull. After a few breaths, you raise you arms above your head. This pose improves posture and balance.
Indeed, I like to make fun of yoga. I must admit, however, that I did the Warrior pose once and it was a decent stretch. I am also in need of some options of activities that I can try out that do not fall under the category of “strenuous,” especially through my first year of recovery. Perhaps I’ll take up golf, or croquet, or ping pong. Or maybe even yoga.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The Limitless Limit
This is the beginning of a series of essays that I must write for my P.E. teacher to get my P.E. credit since I can't actually participate in the exercise. The library, where I now spend sixth hour, is mortelle--in English, DEADLY DULL. However, I've managed to have fun researching.
My first essay, this one, is about CPVT. I cleverly combined my experience with it (though I couldn't include even half of it) and the facts about it. I also speckled some sarcasm in there. OH OH and I learned how to say the words that CPVT stands for! WOOT.
Running, running, running . . .
Crash.
Helicopter blades whirring, voices murmuring, and then a sudden, bland, nothing.
“You’ve been diagnosed with a heart condition called CPVT.”
It’s not exactly something that any fourteen-year-old expects to hear—especially after being unwittingly transported to a hospital due to her collapse in P.E. five days previous. I mean, who even knew what CPVT was? Not I.
But soon, I learned everything.
CPVT actually stands for the mouth-full “Catecholaminergic Polymorphic Ventricular Tachycardia.” The condition was first discovered in 1975. The enormous words don’t actually mean that there is anything structurally wrong with the heart—rather, its “electrical wiring” is off.
Ryanodine are the calcium channels found in the working part of heart muscle cells that make the heart beat. The typical ryanodine releases the stored calcium in each cell for each heartbeat, but abnormal ryanodine causes the calcium to build up. When adrenaline is present in the heart, it beats quickly; however, with abnormal ryanodine, the working cells are not able to do the increased workload. This causes the heart to begin an irregular heartbeat, or arrhythmia. This arrhythmia is also known as ventricular tachycardia, because it occurs in the main ventricles of the heart. If this rhythm continues for more than a few seconds, there will be an insufficient supply of blood to the brain, causing collapse or even death without immediate cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
This sudden spurt of adrenaline that causes the heart to yield to an arrhythmia may occur when the body is subjected to incredibly intense emotional or physical stress. In addition, a heart with CPVT is also more likely to show symptoms of the condition during the first or second decades of the individual’s life. Thus, my CPVT incident occurred now, while I was fourteen and running in P.E.
CPVT causes fifteen percent of all unexplained sudden cardiac deaths in young people. One-third of the cases show evidence of the condition being genetic–-inherited from some relative. The disease itself is difficult to diagnose pre-symptomatically, considering the fact that the only way to see the irregular heartbeats is to put the heart under enormous stress. Fortunately, genetic testing is available for people suspected of having CPVT. It is used to confirm the condition and to make a presymptomatic diagnosis of those related to the diagnosed individual. Each child born of a CPVT-diagnosed individual has a fifty percent chance of inheriting the condition.
CPVT cannot just be ‘fixed’ by any type of heart surgery because of its link to the heart’s electrics. It is treated with a beta-blocker, which lowers the amount of adrenaline able to enter the heart. This medication is accompanied by an AICD–-an automatic implantable cardioverter defibrillator. This device sends a small electric shock to the heart if it ever reverts to an arrhythmia.
After having this information told to me while I was half-sedated, and then again now, I feel pretty well-versed in my condition. It is no longer a frightening menace. Instead, I have come to appreciate the entire experience, which I lovingly call Tim, and what I have learned from it. With my trusty defibrillator, I feel that I can continue my life just as normally as before, conquering new challenges that I will face day by day and excelling. The sky is the limit—even if you have CPVT.
My first essay, this one, is about CPVT. I cleverly combined my experience with it (though I couldn't include even half of it) and the facts about it. I also speckled some sarcasm in there. OH OH and I learned how to say the words that CPVT stands for! WOOT.
Running, running, running . . .
Crash.
Helicopter blades whirring, voices murmuring, and then a sudden, bland, nothing.
“You’ve been diagnosed with a heart condition called CPVT.”
It’s not exactly something that any fourteen-year-old expects to hear—especially after being unwittingly transported to a hospital due to her collapse in P.E. five days previous. I mean, who even knew what CPVT was? Not I.
But soon, I learned everything.
CPVT actually stands for the mouth-full “Catecholaminergic Polymorphic Ventricular Tachycardia.” The condition was first discovered in 1975. The enormous words don’t actually mean that there is anything structurally wrong with the heart—rather, its “electrical wiring” is off.
Ryanodine are the calcium channels found in the working part of heart muscle cells that make the heart beat. The typical ryanodine releases the stored calcium in each cell for each heartbeat, but abnormal ryanodine causes the calcium to build up. When adrenaline is present in the heart, it beats quickly; however, with abnormal ryanodine, the working cells are not able to do the increased workload. This causes the heart to begin an irregular heartbeat, or arrhythmia. This arrhythmia is also known as ventricular tachycardia, because it occurs in the main ventricles of the heart. If this rhythm continues for more than a few seconds, there will be an insufficient supply of blood to the brain, causing collapse or even death without immediate cardiopulmonary resuscitation.
This sudden spurt of adrenaline that causes the heart to yield to an arrhythmia may occur when the body is subjected to incredibly intense emotional or physical stress. In addition, a heart with CPVT is also more likely to show symptoms of the condition during the first or second decades of the individual’s life. Thus, my CPVT incident occurred now, while I was fourteen and running in P.E.
CPVT causes fifteen percent of all unexplained sudden cardiac deaths in young people. One-third of the cases show evidence of the condition being genetic–-inherited from some relative. The disease itself is difficult to diagnose pre-symptomatically, considering the fact that the only way to see the irregular heartbeats is to put the heart under enormous stress. Fortunately, genetic testing is available for people suspected of having CPVT. It is used to confirm the condition and to make a presymptomatic diagnosis of those related to the diagnosed individual. Each child born of a CPVT-diagnosed individual has a fifty percent chance of inheriting the condition.
CPVT cannot just be ‘fixed’ by any type of heart surgery because of its link to the heart’s electrics. It is treated with a beta-blocker, which lowers the amount of adrenaline able to enter the heart. This medication is accompanied by an AICD–-an automatic implantable cardioverter defibrillator. This device sends a small electric shock to the heart if it ever reverts to an arrhythmia.
After having this information told to me while I was half-sedated, and then again now, I feel pretty well-versed in my condition. It is no longer a frightening menace. Instead, I have come to appreciate the entire experience, which I lovingly call Tim, and what I have learned from it. With my trusty defibrillator, I feel that I can continue my life just as normally as before, conquering new challenges that I will face day by day and excelling. The sky is the limit—even if you have CPVT.
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