I'm grateful for that.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Growing Up
Yesterday, I rode the bus to work. It was kind of a crazy ordeal because the last time I utilized public transportation extensively was when I was eleven. In NYC. With my aunt and cousins. So I kind of just followed and they told me what to do.
But Wednesday, I took the bus. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't go at it alone--I had a seasoned bus-rider walk me through everything--but I did it. And I feel like I could do it again. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I'd expected it to be.
It's kind of crazy how much a simple thing (like riding the bus) makes me feel like I'm growing up.
But Wednesday, I took the bus. Don't get the wrong impression. I didn't go at it alone--I had a seasoned bus-rider walk me through everything--but I did it. And I feel like I could do it again. It wasn't nearly as intimidating as I'd expected it to be.
It's kind of crazy how much a simple thing (like riding the bus) makes me feel like I'm growing up.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Words Behind the Silence
I base my entire life around words. They have been a vital part of me since before I can remember. I've loved the power that can come from words used correctly. I've loved it when I've been able to take that idea that I see in my head and make it clear to the people I'm talking to. I love it when I can communicate my needs, wants, fears, and dreams to the world around me. I love it when words enhance who I am. It provides a certain measure of satisfaction in my life. Satisfaction is a good thing to have, right?
I'm rarely at a loss for words. That's not to say that I'm always talking (although that is an activity I engage in quite often) but I usually know how to communicate with people. It makes working customer service so much simpler. It makes life so much simpler.
My French class is required immersion (this is related to the previous paragraph, I promise). Something about BYU having the best (aka most intense) college language program. . . Anyways. Last semester, in French 101, it was supposed to be immersion, but my professor never enforced it. It was lovely. This semester is a different story. No English. If you slip up three times you need to A) sing a solo in French in front of the class, or B) bring the entire class treats.
Now I recognize that the aforementioned punishments aren't too bad. I can definitely handle making treats for twenty-five students, but I also happen to be a perfectionist. I don't like messing up. So I've learned a brilliant trick: If I don't know how to say something in French, I don't say anything. Great idea, right?
Every time--every.single.time--I utilize that strategy (which is a lot) I feel ready to explode. I understand what my teacher is asking, I know the answer, but I can't say it in French so I remain silent.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel a part of me--that part where the satisfaction of words utilized well is stored--shrink, shrivel, and hide. Almost like it's ashamed that I won't try.
And it should be. I know that I'll learn far more from my mistakes than I will from my success, but again. . . I'm a perfectionist. Somehow, failing is too big of a risk for me, even if everyone else around me is doing the same. That's probably not a good thing.
There is one good thing that has come from my inability to express myself in an acceptable manner (acceptable as measured in the French classroom); I've gained an appreciation--albeit a minute one--for how people with communication disorders must feel. My French class has made me grateful that I only have to deal with that stress for fifty minutes, five days a week. Every other time I can say what I want, how I want, and with the confidence I feel. There are some people who have to live with words pushing at the silence their entire lives. There are people out there who have so much to say, so much to share, and no way to share it. I'm grateful I'm not one of those people. I'm grateful that I don't have to feel frustrated because my thoughts will never be known. My words don't have to stay behind the silence. My words can deliver.
I'm rarely at a loss for words. That's not to say that I'm always talking (although that is an activity I engage in quite often) but I usually know how to communicate with people. It makes working customer service so much simpler. It makes life so much simpler.
My French class is required immersion (this is related to the previous paragraph, I promise). Something about BYU having the best (aka most intense) college language program. . . Anyways. Last semester, in French 101, it was supposed to be immersion, but my professor never enforced it. It was lovely. This semester is a different story. No English. If you slip up three times you need to A) sing a solo in French in front of the class, or B) bring the entire class treats.
Now I recognize that the aforementioned punishments aren't too bad. I can definitely handle making treats for twenty-five students, but I also happen to be a perfectionist. I don't like messing up. So I've learned a brilliant trick: If I don't know how to say something in French, I don't say anything. Great idea, right?
Wrong.
Every time--every.single.time--I utilize that strategy (which is a lot) I feel ready to explode. I understand what my teacher is asking, I know the answer, but I can't say it in French so I remain silent.
. . .I didn't realize how damaging silent could be.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I can feel a part of me--that part where the satisfaction of words utilized well is stored--shrink, shrivel, and hide. Almost like it's ashamed that I won't try.
And it should be. I know that I'll learn far more from my mistakes than I will from my success, but again. . . I'm a perfectionist. Somehow, failing is too big of a risk for me, even if everyone else around me is doing the same. That's probably not a good thing.
There is one good thing that has come from my inability to express myself in an acceptable manner (acceptable as measured in the French classroom); I've gained an appreciation--albeit a minute one--for how people with communication disorders must feel. My French class has made me grateful that I only have to deal with that stress for fifty minutes, five days a week. Every other time I can say what I want, how I want, and with the confidence I feel. There are some people who have to live with words pushing at the silence their entire lives. There are people out there who have so much to say, so much to share, and no way to share it. I'm grateful I'm not one of those people. I'm grateful that I don't have to feel frustrated because my thoughts will never be known. My words don't have to stay behind the silence. My words can deliver.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Lofthouse Sugar Cookies
AKA The Best Cookies You Will Ever Make
For the cookies:
Ingredients:
- 1 cup butter
- 2 cups sugar
- 3 eggs
- 2 tsp vanilla extract
- 1 tsp baking soda
- 1 tsp baking powder
- 1 1/2 cups sour cream
- 5 1/2 cups flour
Cream sugar and butter. Mix in the eggs, sour cream, and vanilla until smooth. Mix in the dry ingredients. Let refrigerate overnight.
After refrigerated, roll out dough to 1/4-3/8 inch thickness on a heavily floured surface. Put the cookies on an ungreased cookie sheet and cook for eight minutes at 435˚. This makes five dozen cookies if you use the canning ring for a narrow-mouth jar to cut the dough.
For the frosting:
Ingredients:
- 4 cups powdered sugar
- 1/2 cup butter
- 5 Tbs milk
- 1 tsp vanilla
Cream together the butter and sugar. After that's thoroughly mixed, gradually add the milk and vanilla. Add food coloring as desired.
Frost the cookies and enjoy!
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
A Silent Nighttime Moment
Last night I stayed late at the library working on my essay (I did get it finished, by the way). As a result, I was walking home after dark with no one else around. I had been talking to a friend for about half of the walk home, but I let him go to bed when I was just five minutes away from my apartment. As soon as I hung up the phone, I was hit by the profound quiet that was the world at that moment.
The thick layer of snow had muffled everything to the point of near-silence and the only noise I could hear was the sharp sound of a shovel against ice. After I turned a corner, even that became muted and distant. Oddly enough, when that happened, my thoughts cleared to the silence and I had to stop in the middle of the deserted sidewalk to catch my breath. There was something about the silence that was so beautiful and spiritual. . . It was awesome, in the original sense of the word.
As I was paused on that snow-covered sidewalk, the lyrics to "Silent Night" came into my mind. I thought about how, although there was no snow when and where Christ was born, the feeling of that snow-covered eleven o'clock world must have been the same as the one that miraculous night. I believe that there was a profound calm. A profound quiet. Peace. The world knew that Christ's birth was something worth its reverence.
Our world today is never silent. There are constantly the sound of cars, heating and air systems, conversations, music. . . We are always surrounded by white noise and other distractions. I feel like it's becoming more and more rare for us to be able to connect to the idea of a silent night. But then the snow comes, blanketing the world in clean. It purifies, it protects, it creates an entirely different world where we can finally feel peace and quiet and realize for ourselves how special a silent night can be.
The thick layer of snow had muffled everything to the point of near-silence and the only noise I could hear was the sharp sound of a shovel against ice. After I turned a corner, even that became muted and distant. Oddly enough, when that happened, my thoughts cleared to the silence and I had to stop in the middle of the deserted sidewalk to catch my breath. There was something about the silence that was so beautiful and spiritual. . . It was awesome, in the original sense of the word.
As I was paused on that snow-covered sidewalk, the lyrics to "Silent Night" came into my mind. I thought about how, although there was no snow when and where Christ was born, the feeling of that snow-covered eleven o'clock world must have been the same as the one that miraculous night. I believe that there was a profound calm. A profound quiet. Peace. The world knew that Christ's birth was something worth its reverence.
Our world today is never silent. There are constantly the sound of cars, heating and air systems, conversations, music. . . We are always surrounded by white noise and other distractions. I feel like it's becoming more and more rare for us to be able to connect to the idea of a silent night. But then the snow comes, blanketing the world in clean. It purifies, it protects, it creates an entirely different world where we can finally feel peace and quiet and realize for ourselves how special a silent night can be.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Writer's Block
I have this big essay for my English class due tomorrow at midnight. My roughdraft was hardly helpful because my research premise was faulty and I didn't realize it until I'd already started writing and I had to have a roughdraft due by midnight that night so. . . I just wrote. And now it's kind of kicking me in the rear end. I met with a Writing Fellow and was given a better direction for the essay, and I now have enough research to fill the required four pages, I just need to formulate the research into a cohesive, arguable, interesting essay. And it's due tomorrow at midnight. And I have major writer's block.
On one hand, I want to have another roughdraft finished by tonight so I'll at least be able to turn in a semi-polished copy tomorrow. On the other hand, it's not due until midnight tomorrow so I don't feel the pressure I need to whip this sucker out. And this conflict in my head is distracting me from more important things (i.e. my essay).
So that's the backstory. Now I'm going to type whatever comes into my mind so I can hopefully take down this wall that's in my head and get an essay written tonight.
It snowed today. I like the snow today. Don't know how I'll feel about it tomorrow. I don't usually like snow. Christmas music. I should be writing this on Word so all my typos (most of them, anyway) will get autocorrected. I hate autocorrect on my phone sometimes. It makes me say weird things that don't make any sense. One time Brittney was trying to tell someone she'd be there in a sec and her phone corrected it to sex. She was embarrassed. I would be too.
I miss Brittney. She'll be back in a little over a year and I can't wait. I miss my missonaries. They're wonderful and I miss them. I was going to serve a mission, now I'm not.
I want to be a librarian for an elementary school when I grow up. I think that would be the best job aside from mother that I could ever imagine. It would be wonderful. I'll talk to people to see how I'll be able to reach that goal. I don't like being checked out. Please stop undressing me with your eyes. It's not doing either of us any good. Look back at your computer screen, your homework, and I'll go back to my research.
I need to be better at researching. Wish I'd payed more attention back when we had all those guided lessons about it. Life was easier back in high school. I wouldn't go back. High school is over and I'm glad.
I saw my old roommate today. She's engaged. She's happy. I'm happy for her. May. Spring wedding. It's going to be beautiful.
Sometimes I feel like I fall for the wrong people. Why? Why do I do that? I should be more careful where I let my heart go. But it's easy for me to love people. People provide companionship.
Sometimes I don't want companionship with certain people, though. I need resolution to problems. I'm having a hard time because we haven't talked about the explosion. I feel like the explosion is still going on and I know it's just in my head but the lack of resolution is making me paranoid and I hate it. How to let go?
Browning and Dickinson were both Victorian poets. They had similar enough subject matter and I think my writing fellow is sitting across the library from me. I don't know why that's distracting. Anything and everything has become more appealing than writing this essay. Especially sleep. Snow makes me sleepy. I like the snow today. Dickinson writes about a fly. Browning writes about a slimeball of a monk. Can't you see the link between the two? Do I really have to explain it to you? Also, I feel the pressure to do really well on this because this is my biggest class and it will heavily affect my GPA. Right now I have a B+ and I'd like to do better. So every essay gives me a lot of stress because I feel pressure to do extremely well. I need to let that go. I need to write because I'm discovering something new and exciting. Not because I need a good grade. If I enjoy what I'm learning through my research and writing, the rest will come. Everything will work out.
Dickinson was scared of abandonment. Aren't we all. She was obsessed with death. I learned that in high school. High school again. Our school was remodeled and the old one was torn down. I missed it for a really long time. Lots of memories. But there were good memories in the new school too. I was there for two years. I confuse Yeats and Keats even though they are different as can be. It's their names, I think. They aren't pronounced the same, but the spellings are similar. My shoulders hurt. Both poets write about life not being perfect and the perfect image being marred by something else. Already wrote about that. Tie into thesis. Victorian writers were honest and accessible. That's why I see a syntactical similarity between the two poems. Write about that. Fix it. I'm not proofreading this. Too much thought involved. I can write four pages. I think I've got it now.
The end. You're welcome.
On one hand, I want to have another roughdraft finished by tonight so I'll at least be able to turn in a semi-polished copy tomorrow. On the other hand, it's not due until midnight tomorrow so I don't feel the pressure I need to whip this sucker out. And this conflict in my head is distracting me from more important things (i.e. my essay).
So that's the backstory. Now I'm going to type whatever comes into my mind so I can hopefully take down this wall that's in my head and get an essay written tonight.
It snowed today. I like the snow today. Don't know how I'll feel about it tomorrow. I don't usually like snow. Christmas music. I should be writing this on Word so all my typos (most of them, anyway) will get autocorrected. I hate autocorrect on my phone sometimes. It makes me say weird things that don't make any sense. One time Brittney was trying to tell someone she'd be there in a sec and her phone corrected it to sex. She was embarrassed. I would be too.
I miss Brittney. She'll be back in a little over a year and I can't wait. I miss my missonaries. They're wonderful and I miss them. I was going to serve a mission, now I'm not.
I want to be a librarian for an elementary school when I grow up. I think that would be the best job aside from mother that I could ever imagine. It would be wonderful. I'll talk to people to see how I'll be able to reach that goal. I don't like being checked out. Please stop undressing me with your eyes. It's not doing either of us any good. Look back at your computer screen, your homework, and I'll go back to my research.
I need to be better at researching. Wish I'd payed more attention back when we had all those guided lessons about it. Life was easier back in high school. I wouldn't go back. High school is over and I'm glad.
I saw my old roommate today. She's engaged. She's happy. I'm happy for her. May. Spring wedding. It's going to be beautiful.
Sometimes I feel like I fall for the wrong people. Why? Why do I do that? I should be more careful where I let my heart go. But it's easy for me to love people. People provide companionship.
Sometimes I don't want companionship with certain people, though. I need resolution to problems. I'm having a hard time because we haven't talked about the explosion. I feel like the explosion is still going on and I know it's just in my head but the lack of resolution is making me paranoid and I hate it. How to let go?
Browning and Dickinson were both Victorian poets. They had similar enough subject matter and I think my writing fellow is sitting across the library from me. I don't know why that's distracting. Anything and everything has become more appealing than writing this essay. Especially sleep. Snow makes me sleepy. I like the snow today. Dickinson writes about a fly. Browning writes about a slimeball of a monk. Can't you see the link between the two? Do I really have to explain it to you? Also, I feel the pressure to do really well on this because this is my biggest class and it will heavily affect my GPA. Right now I have a B+ and I'd like to do better. So every essay gives me a lot of stress because I feel pressure to do extremely well. I need to let that go. I need to write because I'm discovering something new and exciting. Not because I need a good grade. If I enjoy what I'm learning through my research and writing, the rest will come. Everything will work out.
Dickinson was scared of abandonment. Aren't we all. She was obsessed with death. I learned that in high school. High school again. Our school was remodeled and the old one was torn down. I missed it for a really long time. Lots of memories. But there were good memories in the new school too. I was there for two years. I confuse Yeats and Keats even though they are different as can be. It's their names, I think. They aren't pronounced the same, but the spellings are similar. My shoulders hurt. Both poets write about life not being perfect and the perfect image being marred by something else. Already wrote about that. Tie into thesis. Victorian writers were honest and accessible. That's why I see a syntactical similarity between the two poems. Write about that. Fix it. I'm not proofreading this. Too much thought involved. I can write four pages. I think I've got it now.
The end. You're welcome.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Kitchen Performance
So apparently I dance in the kitchen even if there are people around. I didn't realize this until tonight when my roommate Alisha told me that she thinks I'd be good at the American Foxtrot (and for those of you who are ignorant to what that is like I was, click here) based on the way I dance in the kitchen. I suppose I'm flattered. The people in that video seem to be having a lot of fun! Now I just have to learn. . .
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