The end.

December 8th, 2010.

Classes ended today.

I'm really excited about that! My life is coming back to me.

But this time in the semester always brings me sadness along with the relief. An end has come. I won't ever be in those classes again. More importantly, I probably won't see all of those people anymore. I won't see most of my professors on a regular basis, if ever, anymore. Most of my classmates will become people that I might pass in the hallway from time to time, but that's it. We won't work together ever again, we won't sit together from that point on.

Even though I'm the kind of person who doesn't really know most of the people she has class with everyday, this ending still makes me pause and almost start to grieve. It's when the semester comes to a close that I start to wish that I had reached out to people more. I should have been talking to everyone during the semester, because now our time together is over, and I don't have another chance. When the end of the semester comes, I always feel like we should all stop and give each other a proper farewell, at the very least. Ideally, everyone should promise to keep in touch, make sure they find each other on Facebook, and distribute hugs amongst the group. I mean, we've spent an entire 14 weeks together, in the same environment, learning the same things, taking the same tests, dealing with that same frustrations. That means something. A lot of something. We can't just walk out and not acknowledge it.

But so much of the time, we do. Class ends, we rush out the door, and with that, people we've been living our lives with for three and a half months are things of the past, never to be seen again.

So, even though I've been looking forward to it, I'm having a bit of a hard time being happy about classes being over. I suppose I'll get over it, but there are some people I had class with my freshman year whom I have not seen since, and I still feel a bit of sadness that our lives are not interconnected anymore, or that we didn't even properly acknowledge our inevitable separation before it happened.

There are few endings in life that are quite as final as the ending of school. I think that's why I have a hard time with it. Most things that end in life just fade. I don't know ahead of time that they're going to end, it just kind of happens over time. So I'm not hit with the force of the same impending finality.

And in May, I graduate.....

"This could be the start of something new."

Significant things happen on a regular basis. One can never know what is going to unfold in the next moment. It could be life-changing.

I don't know if you're like me, but most things in my life don't seem like a big deal at the time in which they are happening. I live my life, moments come, moments go, and for the most part, they all feel about the same. Life is ordinary. That doesn't mean it's not interesting, but interest is not an exclusive, or even necessary, determiner of significance. I look at most things in my life and think, "Well, that was fun. I don't know if it will ever mean anything beyond that. But it was fun nonetheless."

To be sure, there are moments that feel really weighty and they are really weighty. On the whole, however, it's not that obvious. In many cases, the urge to speculate is irresistible. Something happens that seems like it could develop into more, and I mull over what that might look like in my head.

One of those moments occurred today, in my History of Popular Music in America class.

We were assigned a big semester group project, and that project was to write and record a song.

When I first heard this, I was both excited and scared. The thought of writing and recording a song is cool. But before this, I had no composition experience. Not a single song lyric had been penned, outside of the ridiculous things that seem to come unthinkingly out of my head when I'm cleaning, cooking, walking down the street, etc. No melodies had been strung together, outside of those same ridiculous songs. No harmonic progressions had been dreamed up, outside of the disastrous passacaglia I had to write in theory II (and that was classical music, so it doesn't count anyway.) So I was feeling inadequate. The fact that I can't really play anything didn't boost my confidence either. The one thing I clung to was my ability to sing. That I knew I could do, so I didn't despair completely.

So we started, none of us really knowing what to expect. While talking about what we might want to write about, one girl in my group pulled out a song that she had written with a friend and played it for us, just because. But we all liked it. It was good. With some work, it would fit our purposes.

And so I had my first real venture into songwriting. It was a tiny one. The song was mostly whole, but I wrote a few lines, changed a few existing ones. And she had words for a bridge, and a chord progression for said bridge, but no melody. So I wrote a melody. The work I did wasn't much, but it was exciting nonetheless.

The next big obstacle was recording. None of us had access to a studio, and it turned out that none of us even had basic okay quality recording equipment. Nor much experience editing. The best thing I could come up with was to ask my brother if we could use his laptop, which I knew would produce something passable. Graciously, he agreed and we got together in a practice room with an acoustic guitar and my voice, and recorded one track of the ambient sound in the room. It wasn't great, but you could hear everything. And it wasn't painful.

Thus we were done, and felt kind of nervous about what people would think about it.

Today was the day of reckoning. Presentations of the songs from every group took place. When our turn came, I thought "here goes!" and we stood at the front of the room while everyone else listened.

To my great surprise and pleasure, the first thing that was said was something like this: "That was beautiful. I really liked that. That recording did not do that justice at all. I think you need to give that to someone who can take it and really make it something great."

What? Did I hear that correctly? I, of course, don't take much credit, because most of the writing was done by someone other than me, but I did contribute. And it was my voice that was on that recording, and as great as the words may have been, I don't think anyone would have earnestly called it beautiful if the vocal presentation had been crummy. Or worse. So I'm encouraged!

This is only possibly significant because of the things I've been thinking and feeling. I have felt for a long time like making music is in my future, but with the lack of original creativity, there never has really been any evidence to suggest that that would be a reality. Also, even though before this project I had never written anything, my brother has been...not quite hounding me, but almost...about writing songs. He keeps telling me I need to. I've been thinking to myself, "Where is this coming from? I have no songwriting track record, so why is that the one thing that he keeps telling me I should get busy doing?" It would make more sense for him to tell me to start catering. Or writing literary criticism. Or sewing for people, even. I do not call myself an experienced seamstress, but I have more experience with a needle and thread than I do with melody-making.

Maybe there's a reason for all of this. Maybe this song project will lead to something more in my personal life that just a grade in a class. Maybe, even though this felt like just another ordinary, yet fun, part of my life as a college student, I will look back on it in the future and see that it was significant.

Or maybe not.

Either way, I'm grateful for this experience. Whether anyone ever knows me as such, I can now call myself a songwriter.

Grateful to be incapable.

Remember what I said yesterday about maybe passing theory IV?

I'm a little more unsure today. A little more than a little unsure, really. I'm trying to not count my eggs before they hatch, as they say, and not panic. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don't fret.

Money has also been concerning my brain. My attitude about money usually runs something like this: "I need to get across town today and I have just enough money to get enough gas to get across town and back home. I'm doing pretty good." But there are times when my insecurity gets the better of me, and I see what I expect is coming in the future, and I'm not sure how it's going to work out. And it bothers me. That's where I am right now.

I also injured myself on Tuesday. Somehow, in the course of my much walking in the rain, I pulled a muscle in my leg. Since then, I've been limping. It takes me twice as long to get anywhere. The elevators at school and I have become better friends. I feel handicapped. As someone who is always darting from one place to the next, motivated by an urge to get things done now and an intolerance of being late, it's frustrating.

Due to others in my family needing to use my car, I wasn't able to drive myself to school today. I hold no hard feelings against anyone. I'm happy that I have a car that is available when someone else needs it. But as soon as I got out of my second class, I was tempted to drive home for my break before my last class. Since we had a test, we got out earlier than normal, so the temptation was even stronger. But I can't go anywhere. Again, being the hyperactive person that I am, that's never easy for me.

In my next class, I have to get up and "teach." Instead of lecturing all of the time, my professor seems to like having his students learn by way of researching themselves and then telling the class what they've found. Essentially, we all lecture a little piece of what he would normally be doing himself and he supervises. This isn't an illogical concept, but public speaking and I still aren't the best of friends. I don't get nervous like I did at one time, at least not consciously. But my body still acts like I'm nervous, regardless of what my conscious feelings tell me. Whenever I have to speak in front of an audience, I feel fine inside, but my legs start shaking to the point that they won't support me. And I fear it comes through in my voice. This is another frustrating situation. I'm not nervous, so why do I shake? Even in a situation of complete confidence, I can't seem to get anything right.

In a word, I'm feeling incapable. In every area of life.

But this is a good thing. My incapability reminds me that I'm dependent, which is something that I, an extremely independent person, need to have put in front me regularly. Frustration, suffering, adversity, all of these things build character. They shape me into a better person.

As Caedmon's Call said in a song that I have loved since childhood, "I am thankful that I'm incapable."

"You know I ran across an old box of letters
While I was bagging up some clothes for Goodwill
But you Know I had to laugh at the same old struggles
That plagued me then are plaguing me still
I know the road is long from the ground to glory
But a boy can hope he's getting some place
But you see, I'm running from the very clothes I'm wearing
And dressed like this I'm fit for the chase

'Cause no, there is none righteous
Not one who understands
There is none who seek God
No not one, I said no not one

So I am thankful that I'm incapable
Of doing any good on my own

'Cause we're all stillborn and dead in our transgressions
We're shackled up to the sin we hold so dear
So what part can I play in the work of redemption
I can't refuse, I cannot add a thing

'Cause I am just like Lazarus and I can hear your voice
I stand and rub my eyes and walk to You
Because I have no choice

I am thankful that I'm incapable
Of doing any good on my own
I'm so thankful that I'm incapable
Of doing any good on my own

'Cause by grace I have been saved
Through faith that's not my own
It is a gift of God and not by works
Lest anyone should boast"

12/1/2010

Things I am grateful for today (See, I told you I give little regard to convention):

• It's December 1st.
• It's kinda cold outside.
• It's Wednesday.
• I didn't do any homework yesterday.
• What is likely to be the hardest part of my semester is over.
• Finals start next Friday.
• The end of the semester is almost here.
• Christmas is coming.
• Jesus was born, which is why I'm glad for Christmas.
• It snowed yesterday. In November. Which never happens.
• My grandma is coming for a visit.
• She's bringing Thanksgiving leftovers from the dinner at her house that we missed.
• This will be my only Thanksgiving dinner, because we didn't have one at my house at all, so that makes this especially exciting.
• I made an 89 on my last theory test.
• I made a presentation yesterday with little preparation, and no one laughed at me.
• Apparently, I'm not a miserable public speaker.
• I don't think I'm failing any of my classes.
• I think I might actually pass theory IV.
• We're performing Handel's Messiah twice this weekend.
• I live in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.
• I'm not sick.
• I can breathe.
• I have friends. A lot of friends. Great friends.
• I not only love my family, I like them.
• All of them seem to like me, too.
• Most of all, I'm grateful for this: "Behold, I make all things new...It is done." (Revelation 21)
  

Caffeine woes.

I think God specifically didn't want me to get addicted to caffeine, or ever even depend on it. I don't know why me and not other people. There are plenty of people addicted to caffeine. There are plenty of others who aren't addicted, but come to depend on it in a crunch. I don't know why I would be singled out from the masses.

But I seem to be. Caffeine, while its highly stimulating to most, has never noticeably changed my energy level. I can be tired, drink copious amounts of the socially acceptable drug, and then lie down and promptly go to sleep.

Overall, I consider this to be a blessing. I really don't like the idea of being one of those people who's so sensitive that I can drink a Dr. Pepper at 10 AM and still be running on a high 15 hours later. But there are times when my singled-out state is slightly annoying.

Like now. I'm in the middle of a do-three-projects-from-start-to-finish-in-six-days marathon, and I'm thinking it would be nice if I could know that should I get sleepy in the middle of the day tomorrow, I could find something to help me through. Because I really need to get them all finished tomorrow. And should I stay up really late tomorrow night, I'll need to have the gumption to stay up all day Tuesday, because I have class all day, so I can't come home and sleep. Not only do I have class all day, I have to turn in all of my projects and give presentations, so I can't just sit in the corner and zone out. I have to be clear-headed and able to skillfully orate.

This is why I live a mostly caffeine-less existence. I figure, what's the point? I get no staying-awake benefits. And I don't think it does me a lot of good otherwise. So why ingest it? And it's close cousin on the soda side, carbonation. I've become one of those people who doesn't even like to drink carbonation much anymore, caffeine or no. As I'm drinking it, it just feels wrong. Until moments like this, when I start thinking, I should go buy a two-liter of Pepsi. And maybe a Dr. Pepper too, for good measure.

I guess this is one of those areas in life where I have no choice but to trust God. I come across a lot of those. It's like God decided early in my life, "No. I'm going to take everything away from you and engineer your existence specifically so that you can't depend on anything else. All these people who single-handedly keep a Starbucks branch open, and drink a two-liter of Mountain Dew a day, you're not even going to have the option to be one of them." It can be exhausting.

I guess I'm grateful for that.

If one could get tan in front of a computer, I'd be the envy of the block.

I am in the United States of America, and I realize what day this is in which I am writing. It's Thanksgiving Day. If I'm going to blog, there is an unwritten expectation that I should blog about the things for which I am thankful, or the subject of thankfulness itself.

As I've stated before, I don't hold to conventions. Aside from that, I think I do a fair job of expressing my gratitude in other posts throughout the year, yes? (That's a rhetorical question. Don't feel any obligation to answer.) So, like I always do, I shall write what's on my mind.


I'm tired of looking at a screen.

Wait? What? Did she say she's tired of looking at a screen? Then why is she posting this...on a screen?

Valid question. I'm taking the time to complain on a screen about how I don't want to look at a screen anymore. I realize this. Continuing on...

What with my affinity for Facebook and Twitter, my desire to blog and read blogs, and other such unnecessary things, I can spend a fair amount of time looking at a screen on my own. But the bulk of the reason my laptop and I are in such close proximity of each other so much of the time is because of school. I have e-mails to read from and to send to my professors and classmates on a regular basis. I have papers to write. Those papers and other projects require research, which I mostly do online.

Especially now that the end of the semester is nearing. It's crunch time. I have much to do in a short amount of time, and unfortunately most of it requires more bonding to my already-too-close friend of a computer. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I wouldn't know.

The end of the semester is nearing and aside from the prospect of having no homework, the thing I'm looking forward to most is having every excuse to not have an electronic glow in front of my face. There will be people to look at squarely in the face whom I have been neglecting for three and a half months. There will be books to be read that have been lying forlorn for too long. There will be a whole passel of ingredients in the kitchen calling for me to make them into something palatally pleasing. All this along with a whole host of other things that I could not begin to enumerate. If it's not in front of a screen, I'm interested.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to disappear off the face of the Interweb the minute I'm out of school. I like knowing what people are doing too much for that. But after I exercise my Facebook stalker self, check my various e-mail accounts, visit messageboards, and spy out interesting tweets, I can walk away. For as long as I want to. Maybe even all day. Wow.

The arrival of the day this is possible is greatly anticipated. But first I have to live through the rest of the semester. On Tuesday, I have three big projects due. Which is why I'm spending my whole Thanksgiving break working. Then come finals a week and half later. I expect these next days to be a blur.

But really, when is my life not a blur? (That's another rhetorical question. You don't have to answer this one either.)

If one could be hired to be a spectator, I would be the one to soon be fired.

I'm coming to learn that I am not a good spectator.

I am constantly seeking for something to do. Even when I'm tired, and I feel like I need a break, my idea of a break is never go space out and don't do anything. It's more like go read a book, or go write, or go sing, all things which I find to be rewarding and fulfilling, and which are still active verbs.

But I don't often find myself crying out for much of a break. I go to school, I do homework, I drive, I do things with people, I cook, I bake, I get up early on the weekends, I go to concerts. It takes a lot for me to feel the need to slow down.

Whenever I do go to something that is meant to be for spectators, I usually spectacularly fail to live up to my end of the arrangement. Some good examples would be graduations and various types of ballgames. Most of the ones I've been to have been spent by me talking. Primarily with my brother. He and I are good at doing that when we're together. While we do try to pay attention to what's happening around us, we're certainly not engrossed. Our conversation is so much more interesting. It's often conversation about what's happening in front of our faces, so we're not ignoring everything completely. I would be lying, though, if I didn't admit that most of our conversation had absolutely nothing to do with what's going on around us. We find each other to be amusing, and often when points are scored, if it weren't for people cheering, I wouldn't have a clue. So if I come to your game, and you see me yapping, and you start trying to talk to me after the fact about an amazing play that happened in the last five minutes, and I seem to have no clue what you're talking about, now you will know why. I have nothing against you, and I promise I will sit there rooting for you.

The concert setting is another good example. That's one of the biggest areas in which my hyperactivity has been made evident to me. I love going to hear live music. Performers capture my attention. But I am not good at filling the role of ordinary concert-goer. I'm okay when the music's playing, but when it's not, I always want to be doing something, and I feel out of place when I'm not. It started when I was young. My concert promoter uncle often needed help at the shows he was putting together, and I was eager to assist. In more recent years, I've made friends with Jason Gray and the band downhere, and as many times as I go see them, I always offer my help. I've also become involved with World Vision through child sponsorship, and I see the great good they are doing, so whenever there's a concert around where they're going to be, and they need volunteers to stand at the table and talk to people about sponsoring a child, then I make an effort to be there.

All of this has resulted in me being ancy whenever I go to a show and I have no responsibility for doing anything. I always still enjoy myself, but something just doesn't feel right, and I have a habit of looking around for even the slightest thing that I can do. If ever I find nothing, I tend to start picking up trash from the floor. (Actually, I tend to do that anyway. Garbage being anywhere but in the garbage can where it belongs is one of my biggest pet peeves. It drives me up the wall.) It's bad. I can't remember the last time I went to a concert and did nothing. There have been several lately that have threatened to be nights of spectating only, but I, of course, couldn't have that, and found at least one small thing to do before I left the premises.

And now it's 12:40 AM and I need to tell myself to stop and go to bed. I have to get up in a few hours. About five. And I have a theory test tomorrow. And Tuesday is my longest day. But there's so much I could be doing!

Go to bed, Emily!

Alright, then. If you insist.

My 2010 travel schedule.

It's the weekend and I'm home. And I'm not going anywhere else before the weekend is over. Wow.

I started wondering to myself just how many days this year I've been away from home. This is what I came up with.

January - This month is kinda fuzzy , but I know I came home from Arkansas sometime after New Years', so that's 2 or 3 days away from home.

February - 2 days spent away for a trip to Marion, IL to see friends and a downhere concert.

March - 3 days in Arkansas spent at my grandma's and a staff meeting for this summer's camp.

April - I'm relatively sure I didn't spend any full nights away from home, but I did go out of the state twice. Two "day trips" were taken to Birmingham, AL and Stanford, KY for a couple of downhere concerts.

May - 7 days were spent in Arkansas for cousins' graduations, birthday fun, and hang time with family. Then 3 more days were spent in Arkansas later in the month for the first annual Camp Formosa picnic and more hang time with family.

June - This month means camp. Which means I see little of home. I was gone for a total of 21 days.

July - After camp was over, which was the 26th of June, my brothers and I hung around spending time with friends and family and it bled over into July. 3 or 4 days of this month were spent in Arkansas visiting some of my favorite people in the world.

August - 3 days were spent in Arkansas again for Post-Grad Retreat at Camp Formosa and more time at my grandma's. And I also made another day trip out to East Tennessee to hang with friends and attempt to track down Jason Gray.

September - 3 more days back in Arkansas again for Fall Retreat at my beloved Camp Formosa and another day trip. This time, it was up to Indiana to see JG.

October - I made two day trips this month, one up to Corbin, KY to see JG and the Make A Difference Tour and one down to Sylacauga, AL to see downhere for the first time in six months. (That was kind of a big deal for me. Since the first time I saw them in concert, I had never gone that long without seeing them. I made up for it, as you soon shall see.) 4 days were spent in Illinois, hanging out at a friend's house and going to see dh again. Then, 2 days were spent later in the month in South Carolina hanging with more friends and seeing dh. Again. (See, I told you. But that's not the end.)

November - This month, 4 days have been spent away from home, this time on a trip to Illinois and Wisconsin to see more friends and, you guessed it, another dh show.

If my calculations are correct, all of this totals to:

About 59 days away from home

And 6 day trips, where I began the day in my bed, drove at least a couple hundred of miles away, and came back to sleep in my own bed.

That's about one-sixth of the year spent somewhere other than my house, the town I live in, or one of the closely surrounding ones.

And the year isn't over yet. I think I'm going to stay put the rest of this month, but December will probably tack on at least a couple more weeks away.

That seems like a fair bit of time considering my job description requires no traveling.

On living your own life.

I've been considering the evolution of my life as my own.

When I was a child, like most children, I didn't do very much away from my parents. And even when I was away from my parents, like most children with siblings, I was away from them even less than my parents, because whenever parents are busy, they usually send their children off together to be taken care of by someone else. But back to parents. In the rare moments when you are away from your parents, they still end up knowing a lot about what you do. Because parents ask a lot of questions. They want to know everything that's happening with their child. When you're not in each other's presence for five minutes, then comes the "What were you doing?," and other such invasive, delightfully parental, noseyness.

Then you get a little older, and you start to do a few more things by yourself, away from your parents. And parents start to ask fewer questions. They inquire, "Did you have fun?" You answer, "Yes," and then provide a general outline of everything that happened and why it was that you had fun. After your brief explanation, even though everyone knows more happened than you can possibly recount in five minutes, all involved are satisfied. And even though the people around you know a little bit less about you than they used to, they still know quite a great deal.

I still live with the same people I've lived with my whole life. But there's so much about what I do that they don't know. I'm twenty-two years old. I kinda go out and do my own thing most of the time. And though they're all still around like they were when I first started branching out and doing what I please, I don't talk to them so much anymore. Part of that is my own inclination to be a recluse, and that I can do something about. But more often than not, it's just because I'm so busy. I come home and I want to talk, but I have something else to do. So stories are never shared.

That's the status of my life right now. I am an island unto myself, and while I appreciate having things to do, I often wish I had more time to stop living life long enough to tell someone about it. To tell myself about it even. People don't know me anymore. I don't know me anymore. They, I, know bits and pieces, but only God gets the full picture.

Adventures with Murphy's Law: a weekend with downhomies, downhere, and the road.

I had an interesting weekend.

Not only did I see over a dozen good friends, visit the land of cheese heads, see Chicago for the first time, and travel farther north than I've ever been before, everything that could wrong, did go wrong. And I wasn't the only one who seemed to be getting hit from all sides. My friends were under a lot of pressure too. They could all tell their own stories. I'll just tell you mine. We'll start with Thursday.

Or let's back up a little before Thursday. I had been planning this trip to Wisconsin since July. I've been determined to go for months. Last week dawned, and while I was still set on going, making it there was starting to look harder and harder. The semester is soon coming to an end, which means I'm going broke, and my work load is getting heavier as finals approach. Oh, and I found out a while ago that my car is spewing coolant if the engine hits a certain number of RPMs. (Thankfully, I'm able to keep it below there, but I have to take care to not accelerate too quickly.) Stress was building, and now we arrive at Thursday, the day my trip begins.

Before I set my wheels northward, I had to go to school. At about 10:00 AM, I had a solfege test in music theory. Solfege is and has always been the bane of my existence as a music student. I took my test, and made another D. The first time around wasn't so bad, but if I don't pick it up for the final, I won't be able to pass. And I really can't afford to fail Theory IV. Lord Jesus, help me remember.

My day dragged on forever while I was waiting for my last class that afternoon. I had about three hours of nothing to do. I was packed and ready, and anxious to leave. But the time eventually passed, and I set off for my overnight stop in Illinois.

For those who don't know, the speed limit in Illinois is 65. Everywhere, across the whole state. I will never forget that. For I was pulled over in Marion, Illinois. The kind officer (whom I did not see until I passed him, for it was dark....and he really was kind, not at all condescending or hateful) said, "I clocked you going 81 in a 65." I knew I was going a little fast, but my eyes widened in shock. There were several reasons for this: 1.) I hadn't looked at my speedometer for a bit. I thought I was around 78, 79, not 81. 2.) I still had it in my head that the limit was 70. I am usually very dilligent about making sure I do not exceed 10 MPH over the posted limit, and I usually don't even go that much over. 3.) I am much more likely to drive under the speed limit rather than over. Yes, I'm one of those people you come up behind, and we're cruising along at a smooth 71, 72, then I start to gradually slow to 65 and you now have to go around me. I apologize. So this guy caught me at an unusual moment. Why could I not have driven by him when I was dragging my feet? For whatever reason, I didn't, so now I have a $120 ticket to pay. Did I mention I'm broke?

But I made it to my friend's house and stopped for the night. That's one good thing. However, during breakfast the next morning, my dextrous abilities were showing themselves in all their glory, and I knocked my friend's bowl of cereal off of the cabinet, shattering the bowl and propelling Kix in all directions. She didn't yell at me. She's a good friend. That same morning, before we set off for Wisconsin, we went to get her oil changed. It should have been 20 minutes, 30 at most. We waited for over an hour. Excellent start to the day, don't you think?

Our trip was remarkably uneventful. We got a little turned around when we stopped to get a friend in Milwaukee, but it's not a real road trip if we don't turn around at least a couple of times.

We made it to our final destination at a another friend's house that night. Getting us together is always an adventure. We let out lots of laughter, but our friend we were staying with seemed to be having the most rough time out of all of us. I felt so bad for her. But what I love about this group of my friends is how supportive everyone is, so we suffered along with each other.

Over the weekend, everything we tried to cook or bake turned out wrong. Aside from the scrambled eggs and chocolate gravy. (Although, I will say that the gravy wasn't the best I've ever made.) Cookies were made without baking powder, biscuits came out looking like sugar cookies, bacon was cooked until covered with carcinogens and smoke filled the house. We were a mess.

Saturday afternoon and evening shone like a beacon through the smoke from all of our burning efforts in the kitchen that was our weekend. We met up with more friends, celebrated a precious little boy's birthday, saw our favorite band (who has grown accustomed who our strange insanity), terrorized one of our new favorite bands (who has just been introduced to the colorful world of downhomies this fall) and generally had the time of our lives like we usually do. And the aforementioned favorite band performed probably better than I've ever seen them before. They were great. And like usual, despite how good they are, it wasn't about them. And after a while I kind of forgot that I was at a downhere show, surrounded by some of my best friends, and Jesus was the only focus. I sat silently for a couple of songs, not looking at the stage, just listening with my head bowed and eyes closed, and I wept. I've lost track of how many times I've seen downhere, so for me to still cry as often as I do is a testament to both their talent and the presence of the Holy Spirit. It was a good night.

Then we made it back to our home for the night, and it hit again. Our hostess, one of our friends, and me were the first to make it back, and as soon as the other two who were staying the night with us made it back to the house, I said, "I think we need to pray. The five of us." And we did right then, in a huddle in the middle of the living room. I'm grateful for people who do that. With everything that was going on, not just while we were together, but in our individual lives, we all agreed that it felt like we were under spiritual attack. And I don't think the timing and the fact that it was so many of us was a coincidence. There's something going on that we don't understand, and I'm happy to know that we'll support each other through it.

The next day, yesterday, turned out fairly well on my end. Aside from the fact that we all had to leave each other. That's always so hard. It gets easier, but no more enjoyable.

But it wouldn't be my life if something didn't go as planned. I pulled out my GPS, and the screen was cracked. So it no longer responds to touch. Which renders it essentially useless. I thought, "No matter. It was super cheap. And I think I can get home. The drive from Champaign, IL (which is where I would be leaving my last friend, picking up my car, and finishing my journey alone) is really straight forward, and I've done it more than once now. I should be fine." It was a theoretically nice idea. But no. I turned too soon. And I ended up in Indiana, when I shouldn't have been anywhere near Indiana. Thus my 12 hour drive home turned into 13. I was chugging along, wondering if I was going the right way, and when I saw "Welcome to Indiana!" I laughed. "I'm not supposed to be in Indiana," I said amusedly. But my brother and my dad rescued me. Thank the Lord for cell phones and Google Maps. I called my friend in Champaign to tell her that I went the wrong way, and the first thing I said after "hello" was, 'The adventure continues!" It always does.

The weekend was fraught with difficulties, but I survived. And my treasure chest of stories now contains more than it did when I left. And I still have a smile on my face. If the fact that I was able to laugh after making a D on a test, getting a $120 ticket, and getting lost in Indiana, even though I wasn't inebriated in any way nor had the least bit of caffeine in my system, doesn't prove that God is good, then I don't know what does.

Euphemistically speaking.

When I say this, please know that I don't mean to have a judgmental attitude. I'm willing to be enlightened.

I don't really get euphemisms. Why not call something what it is, rather than dancing around the subject, even when everyone knows what you mean anyway?

The one that I've been thinking about the most lately is "passed away." I think for some people it's a force of habit. They've heard it all their life, so it's what naturally comes out of their mouth. In that instance, they're maybe not intentionally trying to use a euphemism, it's just a part of their normal language. But other people can't seem to bring themselves to feel okay about saying, "My grandmother died." Other than the fact that, yes, that's a sad thing, and no one really wants their grandmother to cease to exist, of course. But it is what it is. Your grandmother, the dear woman that she was, lived her life, and now she's not here anymore. It's a process called death. I don't understand the motivation to call it anything else.

In my brain, using euphemisms is essentially avoiding the issue. Or sugar-coating something. This could be an indication of how literal I tend to be. Or perhaps this is just a reflection of my preference for raw authenticity, even in all of its ugliness, but I don't like either one of those things, skirting around what you really mean or trying to make it sound better than it is. Tell me what I need to know. Be honest. Don't change things to make them more pleasing. Or less displeasing.

I do realize there may be some things I don't understand about a person's motivation to use euphemisms. I'm not trying to condemn anyone. But I do know that they're not my style. So even if I come to an understanding and acceptance of why someone else uses them, I don't expect myself to go around telling people that my grandfather passed away when I was eight years old. My grandfather died. It was sad. And it took me a long time to deal with. But I think it was far better for me to confront it, name and all, than to try to make it seem not as bad as it was, which is what would have been had I not called it what it was.

A few words. That's all I have time for.

If you've regularly read my posts, or if you keep up with my social network presence (or if you've actually talked to me in person, which is something I actually still do surprisingly often), and you haven't noticed that my life is busy, then I must not be doing a very good job of representing myself well. Because my life is busy.

And I like it. It's rich and full. There's no room for boredom, which, if I'm to be honest, I probably make boredom out to be more of an enemy that it actually is, but that's for another post. I consistently accumulate a veritable cornucopia of experiences, and I feel like I'm better off for it.

But there's one thing I don't like. Lately, I've reached a level of busyness that doesn't allow me to fully appreciate everything that's happening. I have no choice but to live in the moment. I'm not condemning living in the moment with that statement, but I think there's also a place for anticipation and post-reflection, and they can each enrich your experiences and help you to understand them better. But I have little to no time for either of them. I move from one thing to the next, barely able to look ahead and prepare for what's coming at me, and barely able to look behind and make sense of what just happened.

I barely even have time to think about this disconcerting reality, write these few words, and post them for reading.

I like having many wonderful things to do. But I miss settling into my bed every night, writing about my day in my journal for an hour, and letting my mind wander for a couple more, not only trying to fully know and comprehend the events that have passed, but also readying myself for what's to come.

Balance. You are elusive.

Song of Emily

My classmates in my Bible as Literature class and I were charged by our professor to write our own versions of Song of Solomon. Here is what I came up with. (I apologize in advance if it's not erotic enough for some of you. :) I tend to fall on the side of sentimentality.)

"Hey, love, you are perfect
Your hair makes me jealous
it puts my extended waves to shame
Your eyes sparkle like the Emerald City
they make my favorite color come alive
Your face is like home
like comfort after a long absence
Your lips are cocoa solids
redeeming white chocolate
Your arms are well-crafted melodies
scored with grace notes
Your body is a multi-layered song
enriched with harmony
Your legs are stories
cemented in the beauty of life
Your voice is reassurance
and you are everything I want

Friends, find this and devour it
Quaff this intoxicating love
Yet I implore you, sisters
Dare not inhale until it is sure!

You, love, who lives in the trees
my friends are seeking out your voice
let it come to my ears
Be swift, love
like a familiar tune
or a simple poem
wending its way to my heart"

Nerds are cool.

For all of my life, I have been a nerd. And a geek. All of those fun four-letter words (in many cases intended to be derogatory just like those other four-letter words). Add to that the facts that I'm introverted, I was once so shy it was immobilizing and anxiety-inducing, I went to church and prayed all the time, and didn't watch horror movies, I've often been on the edge of societal circles.

As you can guess, I wasn't one of the cool kids in school. Ever. Except for that one time when our Scholastic book orders came in and I had bought a book of Nintendo game secrets. For about an hour, every boy in the class wanted to talk to me. But aside from that brief, shining moment, my popularity level was on the low end.

As I was growing up, trying to figure out myself, I came to accept the fact that I wasn't cool pretty early on. Whatever cool was. It was a hard thing to pinpoint, but I knew it wasn't me, and I knew that trying to be so wasn't me either.

But I've noticed a trend among us nerdy folk: we've developed our own sense of cool. We may not fit in with those kids over there playing football, but we have our own circle of friends to belong to...and compete with. We may not be trying to make the team, but we have our own goals to reach: who can read the most books, how many sophisticated authors can we become well-versed in, how many big words can we use, how complex and eloquent can we make our sentences, how fast can we beat the latest video game, how epic can we make the storyline of our latest game of Dungeons and Dragons, how many jokes can we make in binary code (if you're one of those people who can understand anything at all in binary, I concede to your superiority right now).

All people, no matter where you fit in society, still seem to have a drive to show-up their peers. Being a person, that includes me too. I only thought I let go of all attempts to be cool. I still get an inner, self-boosting thrill when I consider the fact that I've read German poetry, untranslated. And I'm taking a class on John Milton. And I listen to indie music on a regular basis. And I know what segmentation is in relation to music and I can effectively employ it in musical analysis. And I know what the word "tintinnabulation" means, and I've actually used it. I am such a Hermione Granger, and the simple reality that I can say that gives me deep satisfaction.

So I'm still caught in the trap. It looks different on the outside, but its inner workings are the same. Just when I think I'm doing something right, I find out I'm not. Thank God for his grace, and with it, maybe one day I can realize just how unimportant all of these things are, and how he really is the only thing that can ever make me content.

A brief acknowledgement and gesture of gratitude.

I've been thinking a lot about the church.

The church is one of my favorite things.

And I don't mean going to church. I'm not talking about a place. Or something you do. I mean people. The body of Christ. All of us, everywhere around the world. It's truly remarkable.

Why? Because Jesus is remarkable. And that's what the body of Christ is supposed to be, Jesus. We are Jesus to each other, to the world.

That's how Jesus is present physically in the world today. Through people who go out and live their lives for him.

Quite often, we people who align ourselves with Christ don't do a very good job of representing who he is. So for many people, a lot of baggage comes with the word "church." That's one of the saddest realities I know. I understand how easy it can be to become bitter and cynical. But I thank God that I have met genuine people who have shown and continue to show Christ in the way they live their lives.

When the church is what it's supposed to be, it's one of the coolest, most beautiful things you will ever see. Because Jesus is evident, and he's what it's all about.

Without the church, my life would not be what it is today. I would not be who I am today. I feel blessed and humbled to know and be a part of it.

#yesIamthatpathetic

Something monumental happened in my world today.

No, nobody died. I didn't fall in love and pick a day for a wedding in the spring. No money fell in my lap. I didn't get 100% on a music theory test.

What did happen?

I used a hashtag on Twitter.

I'm probably the only one shocked by this. Allow me to provide some background information, then maybe you too will be, if not shocked, at least appreciative of the enormity of this occasion.

In many circumstances, I have an inner drive to be different simply for difference's sake. No other motivation is required. Everyone's drinking out of a blue cup? I'll go out of my way to find a red one. And in that moment, my feelings will even go so far as to almost despise all blue cups. They're not good enough for me, because they're not different. If everyone were drinking out of red cups, then those would be the object of my disapproval, and blue ones would suddenly be the most aesthetically appealing, the only ones worthy to hold my beverage.

As you can probably guess, I don't readily take to trends. Everybody's doing it? Well, that's all the more reason for me to run the other way.

Thus we come to hashtags. On Twitter, everybody and their brother (which is my preferred exaggerated way to say a lot of people) started using hashtags. I inwardly swore I wouldn't. Even when people started coming up with really clever ones that made me laugh out loud, and I started to find myself absentmindedly forming hashtag gems in my brain. I fought it. I would mentally reprimand myself for even thinking them.

At this point, I'm sure you can see what I seem to have such a hard time comprehending. This is all ridiculous. And it has proud roots. There is a context in which to be different. There's even biblical exhortation to be different. But the biblical context is never that of being different for the sake of being different. It's more of a call to not be afraid to be different when the situation warrants it. Romans 12:2, for example: "Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is - his good, pleasing and perfect will." Nowhere does that imply, be different for the heck of it. It's, don't let yourself fall into being like the world: be like God. That's the kind of difference that matters.

But here I am holding on to some inconsequential trifle, and feeling proud about myself and my ability to fight the tide. When I'm sure no one even notices or cares. Oy.

So today, I finally got over myself (just the slightest bit, I still have a long way to go) and when I felt inclined to use a hashtag, I did. What was it? #nowreading. Yep. That was it. Something incredibly simple, but something which took a rather lot of deliberation prior to posting.

And have you picked up on the great irony in all of this? This whole pitiful situation revolves around Twitter. What can be more conformist and trendy than that?

Ah, to be human.

Ultra-late night baking.

I don't know what possesses me sometimes.

It's 1:26 AM. I'm in the kitchen.

I just had to bake. Really. It was essential.

So at 10:00 PM, I started blending my first concoction, pumpkin muffins.

That wasn't so bad. Whip those up, put them in the muffin tin. Took me about an hour.

11:00 PM. That's still a decent time to go to bed. For me, early even.

But I wanted cookies. What kind of cookies to make?

Chocolate. But I don't only want chocolate. A friend mentioned sugar. Ooh, I haven't had sugar cookies in a long time.

Two separate recipes were found, and I set to mixing.

This whole process is complicated by several things. One issue that I always run into while baking is my humble equipment. We don't have much in the way of dishes and utensils and pans and bowls and whatnot in this house. And that's not a problem so much. But it sure would be faster if I could have several things going at once, instead of completing one, washing my dishes, and starting over again. Oh, and we only have one oven rack. Which means on pan of cookies at a time.....cookies!!! Oh, crud, I got distracted and the cookies are getting too dark!

Where was I? Yes, baking is slow-going in this kitchen. Also, it's a mess in here right now. So not only do I not have enough bowls, I have limited counter space.

But I wanted chocolate cookies. And sugar cookies.

So here I am. The chocolate ones are all done. And I'm nearing the end of the sugar cookie dough. Hey, I may be done with this before 2:00! That's four hours from start to finish. Not bad for over a dozen muffins and who knows how many dozens of cookies.

All this the night before I'm supposed to drive approximately six hours to Champaign, IL.

I have a chronic habit of staying up later the night before I have something different and important to do. Most often when that something different and important is a trip. Who needs to see the road?

And I still haven't packed.

Here's hoping my friends I'll be seeing this weekend are okay with a delirious me.

The keyboard is mightier than the WMD.

Last week, my classmates and I were chatting before our Bible as literature class, in which we were scheduled to have a test. I was conversing with two of my classmates and we all expressed a similar inability to study. One of my classmates then postulated that that, our poor study habits, is why we're English majors.

That got the gears in my brain to turning. She has a point. As English students, we don't pride ourselves on our knowledge of facts. We don't sit in classrooms learning long lists of details to then regurgitate on a 100 question multiple choice test. What do we do? We write. We're writers, not fact fountains.

How does that translate into abysmal study skills? You can write well and not have any clue what you're talking about. Writing isn't about accuracy of information.

This carries interesting implications. If we can write well, then that means we can approach tests, or any other kind of writing assignment, and not know our subject as well as we should. But our impressive words and sophisticated sentence structure will make what little we do know sound really good. We can even make things up if we choose, and it'll sound good too. We'll seem like brilliant individuals, when really we don't know much more than the average person on the street. Only the closest readers will realize that everything we're saying is a bunch of nonsense and fluff.

I've long been aware of this, and it's been something I'm conscious of. Misleading people is not something I want to do. When I write, I try to be honest. And I try to represent myself and what I know accurately. But there are times when I have an essay due, and I'm grasping at a few weak straws, trying to tease out every little thing I can say in order to not fail completely. I get to the end of my knowledge and my essay and I think, surely no one is going to be impressed by this. My professor, who has a PhD and has been doing this for a long time, is going to see straight through my feeble efforts and realize that two and a half pages of this three-page assignment is meaninglessness.

But then I get my essay back and what do I have? Positive comments! Many 'good point' remarks. And a big B written on top? Maybe even an A? How did this happen?

Whenever I'm less than confident in what I have to say and people readily swallow it, I feel bad. I feel like I'm false. I feel like I've betrayed them, like I've fooled them. They should be criticizing me for trying to be so high and mighty, instead of praising my intelligence.

Words are powerful. I realize that. And as a user of them, I take that very seriously. I can easily convince people of just about anything. That's a frightening thought.

"I could sing unending songs of how you've saved my soul."

Before I get to my point, I need to set this up.

9 times out of 10 (or some other approximate ratio because I don't really know the true statistics, but it just happens a lot and that phrase has become a conventional way to say "a lot") I'm inspired to blog when I have interacted with people, whether it be in person, or online, on the phone, etc. My friend Kaitlyn gets credit for inspiring this blog. We just talked for three hours, and there was something I said to her that I thought would be appropriate to share here. Seeing that Kaitlyn is one of my only consistent readers (I think she reads most of what I write?), I'm risking being redundant. But so be it.

As you may have gathered if you've been reading my posts over the last several months, or if you pay any attention to my updates on various social networking sites, my life for the past five months has been a dream. I have been so happy, and I feel a peace and contentment that hasn't often been present before. Every time I try to describe it, even to myself just so I can better understand it, I can't find the right words.

Like with most things, though, there's another side to all of this. As much as I appreciate this joy that I have been living in, and as much as I hate to say this, I'm skeptical. The world that you and I have been living in our whole lives has conditioned me. It's been my experience that as soon as one challenging, discouraging, disheartening thing ends, another one begins. And that's if you're lucky enough to not have a myriad of challening, discouraging, disheartening things occurring simultaneously. And sure, God is there and will bring you through, but it's going to be a hard fight and constant weariness is an inevitability.

So as soon as my face starts to hurt from smiling, a small voice so very quietly, yet so very clearly, says, "Okay, something's gotta give. At any moment now. Don't get used to this, because something is surely going to come out of nowhere and this short reign of delight is going to end. Brace yourself."

I don't think I'm alone in this. I know I'm not alone in this. Nobody, anywhere, has a completely carefree life. But I think Christians, a group which includes me, might often be especially prone to this because we have Scripture proclaiming our doom. There's a well-known sentence in John 16:33 that says, "In this world you will have trouble." There's no ambiguity in that statement. It's clear what's coming, and the fact it is coming is just as clear.

And I think we get hung up on that. Firstly, because it's guaranteed. Secondly, because we seem to have developed an idea that we're supposed to take all the junk of the world and deal with it. I think the intentions behind that are, or can be, sincerely motivated, because we're followers of Christ, who can have and has had anything thrown at him is not shaken by it. But we have somehow translated that into meaning that we are supposed to take the nightmares of the world and content ourselves to "rejoice that [we] participate in the sufferings of Christ" (1 Peter 4:13). (<----Sorry, I just realized that I unconsciously formatted that in MLA.......continuing on.) As if being in trouble for the sake of trouble makes us holy. Therefore, if we're not happy and we're heaped in problems, we must be doing something right. But that's overlooking the rest of John 16:33. The preceding sentence is, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace." Then after the assertion of "trouble," Jesus says, "But take heart! I have overcome the world." And in that passage from 1 Peter, it's important to note that it's "the sufferings of Christ." Not just suffering for the sake of suffering, but because you choose to associate yourself with him. It's like being friends with a person that many others detest, and choosing to stick with them and endure any kind of ill treatment you may receive as a result.

But like Jesus said, he overcame everything. So it's okay to be happy, I tell myself just as fervently as I will tell anyone else. When blessings and joy abound, cherish them. Enjoy them fully as long as they are present. There is a time for this, just as there is a time for everything else under heaven.

Let's not be a perpetually depressed people. We're supposed to be Christ to others, and I don't think there are many out there who are drawn to depression.

"Show me again what I was made for, help me to see you're still leading me."

My life has been such that it has consistently inspired one question: why? A question that is simply phrased, but whose answers are more often than not complicated.

One of the most recent and significant situations that inspired the asking of this question was the changing of my major from music industry to English.

I felt like God let me know that this was what I needed to do. I couldn't begin to understand why, though. Sure, I had an interest in English. I've been an avid reader for almost as far back as my memory extends, but if I were to tell you my chief passion, it was music. Even though I didn't have a clear idea of what I would do in the future, I couldn't really imagine myself doing anything that didn't include music, so why change my major? Immersing myself in literature was certainly appealing, but I didn't see it leading to a career, which is supposed to be the purpose of higher education, right?

But I did it. I moved to the fringes of the music department and turned my attention to the English department, while clinging to my faith that "all things work together for good to those who love God, who are called according to his purpose," and "'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord...'plans to give you hope and a future.'" And for the past two years, I have done my best to learn and excel, trusting that it will all come to something, but not knowing what that something is.

It can be hard to be faithful sometimes. Or like my friend Jason Gray puts it, "sometimes it's hard to tell if I'm faithful or a fool to believe you're still leading me." Almost every day the thought "what if I'm being foolish?" has been forefront. It's hard to do things with conviction and certainty with that looming over you.

But, praise the Lord, God is faithful. And it's not hard for him to be so.

Today, out of the blue, while I wasn't even thinking about my future and what am I doing and why am I doing it, I had a revelation. Using that terminology makes it seem really grand, like the skies divided, or I fell into a holy trance and was granted a mystic vision, but it was really much simpler than that. Which, according to my experience, has been the way God usually works. And what I learned doesn't seem like much, but for me, spending every day pushing through my questions, it was monumental enough to affect my breathing. There I was walking in between Kirksey Old Main and Jones Hall on the MTSU campus, and I audibly gasped, then my face screwed up and I was on the verge of tears just seconds after I had been smiling about the wonderful class I just had.

Some glimmer of purpose in all that I'm doing hit me, and it was startling. I was thinking about my passion for story. I could spend the next hour talking about it and I would only scratch the surface of its importance. As I thought of that, I realized that my passion for this has been greatly cultivated in the last couple of years. It was there before, otherwise I don't know why I would have pored over so many stories in my childhood, but it has taken a more defined shape in the last two years. The years I've spent studying literature.

I consider this to be a huge part of me now, and that might not be the case had I not studied literature.

That's not all. Music is still important to me. Just as much as story. In minoring in music, I found that I could learn all the basics about music and much about how it relates to culture, without having to go through all of the classical training involved in studying it as a major. I have felt no calling to be a professional opera singer, but understanding music and being able to create it has been important.

But the greatest thing to me is the marriage of story and song.

In that moment where I gasped I realized that I have been learning all of the tools to wed story and song. Wow.

Some people learn this without stepping foot in a university, but I think this is what it took for me. I don't think my passion for story would have been fully realized outside of this context. Additionally, my writing has improved by miles in a short period of time.

Finally, a small bit of confirmation. God reached out to me and said, "See. I do know what's going on." My weary heart was touched and I didn't care who might walk by me and see my emotion-contorted face.

Having the perspective I do now, I don't know why I didn't connect the dots before. It seems so obviously simple. But maybe that was because I was ready to understand it today. Just like multiplying seemed simple to me at the age of eight, but it would have thrown me for a loop just two years before as I was trying to learn how to borrow from the tens column to subtract 49 from 81. God's timing is perfect.

9-16-10

A recent prayer I penned:

I feel like Paul a lot, in Romans 7. Never exactly doing what I want to do. Consistently doing what I don't want to do. Help me. Save me from myself. What I want to do is love people. What I want to do is live a story. What I want to do is be honest. What I want to do is be vulnerable. What I want to do is bring you glory. What I want to do is have people look at me and see you. Which requires you. Than you for being so faithful. This characteristic of yours astounds me. Thank you for never letting me down, but continually holding me up. Your grace is something I can't comprehend. Let my life be a witness to that. Let my life be such that other people look at me and are astounded because my story, the story they see, is really your story. Enchant them just as I have been enchanted. All in your name, Jesus. Amen.

Lo, are those people?

Aside from some small, brief moments of panic that I experienced the first week, school this semester has been going extraordinarily well. Hallelujah. I haven't felt overwhelmed, I haven't felt like I'm on the edge of a nervous breakdown, I actually feel like the majority of the work I've been doing is greatly enriching my life, rather than draining it out of me. I can't express how grateful I am.

To ensure this, I've had tunnel vision for the most part. I know the pain and stress that procrastination can bring and I don't want it. My goal has been to get my work done in a timely manner, and then hope to do extra so that when I feel like I need a break, I might plausibly be able to take one and it not throw me into a tailspin.

However, this has meant that I've done little else. That hasn't bothered me too much. As I said earlier, my work this semester has been much more rewarding. But then I ventured to look up, and what did see? Oh, hey...people. I remember them.

I miss them. I've only been in school for two weeks, but I miss them. I miss conversation. I miss just taking time to be in people's presence. I'm grateful that my immediate family is close by, but I've even been separated from them. And as much distance as there is between them and me, my friends feel even further away.

Thankfully, though, I have made plans to meet up with a friend on Thursday afternoon. I'm looking forward to talking to her; something I haven't done with her since further ago than I can remember. I am also looking forward to being back at Camp Formosa for a weekend twelve days from now. It's fitting that the theme for the retreat is friendship.

It's times like these that remind me why I determined to be so diligent in my work; if I goof off, doing pointless things, or drag my feet in apathy, then times like these can't be possible. Or if I try to make them fit anyway, I can't enjoy myself because I know I'm neglecting something I'm going to have to fix later. This I will do no more.

It seems tragic to me that I have to so carefully schedule time with people. But the silver lining in this situation is that the time spent is that much more precious. I look forward to meticulously counting my blessings.

Wacky Wordsmith

Ever present on my mind is what I'm going to do with my life. I always hope that I'm not being neglectful in this area, but at the same time, I understand the virtue in not worrying and being content to just take one step at a time as it is made apparent to me, and not feel anxious for anymore than that.

But as I said initially, while I'm not worrying, I do wonder where my life is headed. What will I be doing in five years? One? I'm not certain.

This evening, after discussing alliteration, my brother accused me of being, in his words, a "wacky wordsmith." (See, as much as he makes fun of me, he knows how to play the game too.) He then proceeded to tell me that I should be a songwriter and that I should get a job in music publishing.


Hmmm....thoughts to ponder.

"'That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was.'"

My last post, earlier on this same day, was on an essay I wrote for my linguistics class. My professor wanted us to write a linguistic autobiography; basically what our experience with language is, what we have thought about it, and so forth.

I don't know if anyone else who has seen it thought this, but after finishing it and reading through it as a whole completed work, I sounded a lot more impressive than I typically view myself to be. I had a lot to say about the subject of language. I didn't know that I knew so much! Not only that, I seemed to myself to be quite interesting. I don't usually envision kids so seriously studying others' speaking habits. Nor do I expect them to read 30 books in a day, lest they be on the level of Goodnight Moon. And I generally consider people who have moved extensively to be rich in experiences not afforded to those who have stayed in one general location their whole life.

I've done all of those things, but really, when I look at them in relation to myself, it doesn't seem like a big deal. Yeah, I was a kid that read a lot, but that's just because that's what I do. Winning the Little League World Series would have been far more impressive, because playing baseball well is just something that I don't do. And yes, I have lived in nearly as many separate places as the number of years I've been alive, but there's so much of the world that I haven't seen yet! I haven't even seen half of the states in my own country, let alone stepped outside of my country's borders.

Everything that has happened in my life, I have taken in stride. I've just been who I am and have behaved accordingly. Every experience that has come along, I have received, and then moved on to the next. It reminds me of a scene in Harry Potter and Deathly Hallows. Harry, in the middle of winter, jumps into a freezing pool of water to retrieve the sword of Gryffindor, which he believes will aid him in destroying Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes, Horcruxes being fragments of Voldemort's soul that he has placed inside certain objects in order to secure himself immortality. While in the water though, things don't go smoothly as he hopes and his friend Ron turns up out of nowhere, jumps in and saves Harry and retrieves the sword. Then after retrieving the sword, Ron destroys one of the Horcruxes that's already in Harry's possession. In the relief of the present drama being over, Ron apologizes for his recent abandonment of Harry and Hermione (that was why his appearance was so spectacular, because he had been nowhere around for weeks) and the following exchange between Harry and Ron occurs:

"'You've sort of made up for it tonight,' said Harry. 'Getting the sword. Finishing off the Horcrux. Saving my life.'
'That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was,' Ron mumbled.
'Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was,' said Harry. 'I've been trying to tell you that for years.'"

And so Ron gets a great lesson in impressiveness. How things feel often doesn't compare to how they sound.

I'm just me. Just like you're just you, and probably feel just as unimpressive as I do. However, we're both capable of impressiveness, and that should always remind us to not fall into the so easily destructive habit of comparing ourselves to one another. Each of us are individuals. One may be impressive in one way, and the other impressive in another way, but each have equal value.

Reflections on language.

This is an essay I just wrote for my linguistics class. It seemed like something fitting to post here, likely because of the autobiographical nature. It's much more like the blogs I typically post than the academic essays I typically write. You all get the chance to read it before my professor. You should count yourselves privileged. ;-)

Here it is:

Linguistic Autobiography

For as long as I can remember, language in its various forms has been a subject of interest to me. As sure as I am that I gained a conscious awareness of language at some point early on in my life, I don't remember it, so for my current purposes it's as if it's always been there. My parents like to tell a story about the first time they believe I ever read when I was no more than two or three years old. My parents, younger brother, and I were in the car one day, driving around our hometown and one of the many places of business we passed was a KFC restaurant. My parents weren't the type of people who would constantly point out words and letters to get their child to start recognizing them and essentially memorize what they are before developing the cognitive function we call reading, so they were pleasantly surprised when my small voice sounded from the back seat and said, “That says 'Kentucky Fried Chicken.'” Shortly after I started kindergarten, I rose to be one of the highest readers in my class, and I remember reading an entire book, one that had quite a few words and fairly advanced sentence structure, to my mother at the age of six.

As I grew, I continued to read. If one could be said to devour books, I certainly did. I remember making a trip to the library once around the age of eight and borrowing thirty books. By the next day, I was ready for more. This exposure to language, I think, aided my consciousness of it. Spending as much time looking at words as I did naturally led to me thinking more about them.

Before reading, though, like most people, I did learn to speak. I always chose my words carefully and strove for correctness. I don't know for certain how I developed a sensitivity to correctness in language, but I expect it was influenced by my mother. Both of my parents spoke with a high level of awareness of speech, but my mother paid particular attention to her choice of words, how she pronounced them, and how she strung them together. I was born in Arkansas, as was my mother, and until the first time that our family moved out of the state, that was the only place she had lived and she fought hard against what she calls her “southern roots.” She always wanted to be more intentional with her use of language than was common in the people around her. By the time I began my formal education and was introduced to the rules of English grammar, I took to them quickly, and the subjects of English, language, reading, and spelling were always my favorites.

Despite the fact that I did learn to use language first through speech, I remember being shocked at the idea that language could exist without writing. Sometime early in my education, a teacher introduced me to Sequoyah, the man credited with the invention of the Cherokee alphabet. Letters and the use of them in forming words that can be seen rather than heard was so common to me and so definitive of how I viewed language, that it was mind-boggling to think that a language could exist for so long without having an alphabet. In my mind, people spoke based on the dictates of written language, not the other way around.

In opposition to the time I spent reading was the time I spent talking. Just because I learned to speak first doesn't mean that I preferred speech over writing, and I think this was reflected in how I viewed the place of writing in language. Many people would often joke that they thought I couldn't talk because of how rarely I spoke when I was in their presence. My tendency to think about language due to how much I read, along with my relative quietness, led to me paying close attention to the speech of people around me. I would study the way people said things, their choice of words, the way they organized them to communicate, their pronunciations. I would notice patterns in families, whether it be between parents and children or individuals and their siblings.

This only increased after my family made its first big move. When I was six, we moved from Arkansas to Tennessee, and I was exposed to a whole new group of people. Not only was I surrounded by native Tennesseans, Nashville, the city where we moved to, had a higher population of people who came originally from somewhere else than the area where I had lived previously. From that first major move, my family continued to relocate often, moving as far away from the region of the South as Maryland. Through all of this, I was exposed to a wide variety of accents and dialects. Each new person I met meant another opportunity to analyze language.

In middle school, my thoughts on language were allowed to expand even further. I went to an academic magnet school in Nashville and they started exposing their students to foreign languages immediately. In fifth grade, I studied six weeks in Spanish as well as French. Then in sixth grade, I did six weeks of study in German and Latin. Out of all of them, I particularly liked German and I ended up taking four semesters of it at MTSU. In studying a different language, I began to turn the thoughts I was having about it toward my own language in order to gain a new perspective I had never had as a native speaker. As a result, not only did my interest in studying my own language increase, my interest in language in general grew like it never had before, and I developed a fascination with the way people communicate.

My life thus far seems to have lent itself to nurturing an affinity for language that seems to have been there from birth. I have a feeling that my love for language will only increase as my life continues. Now that I'm aware of this love, indeed ever since I became aware of this love, I am motivated even more to spend time and energy contemplating and learning about language. Each new discovery I make sparks new interest, so the more I know the more I want to know.

Counting eggs and forgetting blessings.

As I have mentioned in recent writings, I went back to school this past week. It was simultaneously great in blessing and in trouble and frustration.

My classes themselves were amazing. I really think I'm going to like this semester. Each subject is fascinating and I have an exceptional group of professors.

But everything else hasn't turned out so well. The greatest evidence of that is that it's Sunday night, my last class this week ended Thursday afternoon, and I still don't have my homework done. There has been obstacle after obstacle to climb over. I'm thanking God that tomorrow is a holiday.

Aside from the fact that I like to be on top of things anyway, I have extra incentive. This fall, I have made a lot of plans. The realization of those plans depends mostly upon how well I'm keeping up in school. I really don't want to sacrifice any of them. But if I'm to see them come to pass, getting as far ahead as I can is a must. In my mind early this week, I had all of my immediate homework done by Saturday, and all of my freetime until heading back to school on Tuesday would be spent doing extra work. Just having that scenario playing out in my head made me feel so good.

But it didn't happen. And I panicked. Funny how catastrophic everything seemed even though I'm not technically behind. I'm right on schedule. You hear that, self? I'm right on schedule.

Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow begins a new week. Both are a great grace. And none of my plans have to be forfeited yet. I will cross those bridges as I come to them. Let this stand as a reminder to not count my eggs before they hatch.

Another reminder I'm grateful for is the reminder of God's love and care. My pastor said this morning that he had been thinking a lot about me and my family. Then, this evening a friend told me that I had been on her mind. Both were like God saying to me "Hey, I haven't forgotten you."

The Lord is good.

Irrational distaste.

To some of you, my next statement, or rather the one I am preparing you for, may be shocking. But to look at things in a positive light, that may not be an entirely bad thing. We can look at shock as something to get our attention, to change us in some way, change our perspective, change how we feel, make us more aware of realities around us. Anyway, I digress. What is this statement I am so slowly meandering toward?

I often have to temper a great dislike of the television. Most of the time, I don't just hold a passive disinterest, I actively feel negatively when thinking and/or looking at it. In general, if I had my druthers (to borrow a phrase from my grandmother) every TV in the vicinity would just disappear. Less space would be taken up, they wouldn't collect dust, and life would just generally be better. In fact, I sometimes feel so strongly that if I were an aggressive type, I'd probably be more inclined to smash them, or dismantle them, or tear them apart in some way before they disappear.

Is this rational? I am well aware that it's not. I strive for being rational, but that doesn't mean I always am. If I were, there would be no need for striving.

Why do I feel this way toward an inanimate object that is not, nor can it be, anymore bad than a teacup? Because so often the TV represents things with which I have little patience or tolerance: wasting time, the glorification of that which is unholy, grossly exaggerated materialism, the promotion of mindlessness, and there are probably others.

As soon as I am living on my own, I am tempted to not even have a TV. Having never lived without one, I can't know for sure how well that would work out. I might find that for all my steaming, not having one around would make me actually want to use one on occasion. We'll see. I am rather certain that I don't want to pay for any programming, so if I have one, it will likely only be used for occasional movie watching (movies being a topic which could also inspire a rant, albeit a less intense one). But even if I did find myself longing for one, I still think my life would overall be fine, and I would soon get over it and move on to something better.

Ironically, or perhaps not, all this is brought to you by a grown-up (can I call myself a "grown-up") who was once a kid that watched a lot of TV. Like most kids usually are, I was up on pop culture. Practically every show on TV, those directed at my age group at least, was my favorite. I watched them all with few exceptions. Hours and hours, and days and days of my life were spent with the screen flashing in front of my face, and at the time, I enjoyed every minute.

But I think maybe now that's why I feel so opposed to it. I realize how much time I spent, and it's shocking to me now. There were so many other things I could have been doing that would have brought much more benefit. Avid reader though I was, I could have read even more books! I could have played more. I was a kid, so I did indeed play, but as I've mentioned many times before, I wasn't a typical child, so playing wasn't as big of a part of my life as my peers. Looking back on it now, I wish it had been. But then, I guess I wouldn't have been me, so that's why it's a good thing wishes aren't always granted. Getting back on subject, so much of the time I spent watching TV was thoroughly meaningless. And most of the things I was filling my brain with weren't beneficial, in some cases possibly destructive.

Thus the position I have come to today. My opinions on the whole subject were much more reasonable seven, eight, nine years ago. I had started to realize how I could be better spending my time and energy, but I hadn't yet reached the cynical peak at which I am currently. Maybe there's some way I can regain that balance.

Until then, no one buy/give me a TV, since I know that's what all of you are clambering to do. I will appreciate your generous spirit, but that appreciation will have some serious competition, and at the very least, your gift will not get used. A much safer and less expensive option would be a deck of playing cards. With a gift like that, you might just become my best friend. But beware, I would expect you to play card games with me from that point on. Give at your own risk.

Trying to remember the line of a song that references Ferdinand Magellan and failing.

I'm getting the road trip itch again.

This time, it's not because I haven't journeyed more than 50 miles from my house in the past two weeks (was it really just two weeks ago that I spent more than 8 hours in my car?). It's because of a new gadget I acquired this evening.

I am now a proud owner of a Magellan Roadmate 1212. That's a GPS, for those who don't know. I haven't played with it much yet because it needs to charge. The only charger that came with it is one for the car, so it is currently outside sitting in a cup holder. And I am waiting patiently inside.

I made the decision to purchase this device relatively quickly according to my standards. I've been thinking for a while that I would like to have one, but didn't seriously consider it more than a couple of days. I'm one of those people who visits Google Maps nearly daily, indicating that I'm always wondering where some place is located, usually in relation to me, and usually so that I can see if planning a trip is plausible. When you spend a great deal of time traversing pavement, a GPS makes sense. For a while, however, I have contented myself with finding directions on the Internet, and hoping that I'm not such a terrible navigator that I end traveling hundreds of miles in the wrong direction. On the whole, that strategy has worked well enough.

Until two weeks ago, that is. I think that particular incident pushed me over the edge, and made me seriously consider that having a GPS would be a good thing.

What incident am I referring to? Oh, yeah, I never did share this experience with you, did I?

Jason Gray was playing at the Mall at Johnson City in East Tennessee. My brother and I wanted to go and we invited friends to accompany us. One of them started the journey with us here at our house, the other one we were going to pick up on the way at her school in Jefferson City. I started the trip optimistically, but between here and Jefferson City, I got lost. More than once. One wrong turn this way, backtracking, another wrong turn, more backtracking, etc. We finally made it to Jefferson City, then I made another couple of wrong turns trying to leave town. We made it to the mall one hour and fifteen minutes after the concert was supposed to start. I was hoping that Jason would still be standing around and we could say "hi" at least. By the time we found the stage five minutes later, there was a crew tearing everything down and Jason was nowhere to be found.

Needless to say, I was disappointed. I had fun, don't get me wrong. We chilled in the mall for a while, then managed to spend over an hour and a half in a Books-A-Million and didn't even make it around the whole store before we were forced to leave due to it closing. But driving that far away to see someone then not seeing them is a bit of a letdown.

I'd really like it if that didn't happen again. I'm hoping that old Ferdinand's namesake will help to ensure that it doesn't.

If things go as planned, I'll have a chance to test it for the first time in about two weeks, on, incidentally, another trip to see Jason Gray. It's funny, to my mind at least, to think that my love of live music inspired the purchase of a navigation aid. :-)

As lights extinguish and other eyes close.

I think, maybe, I've figured out at least one of the reasons I light up at night and find it to be such a delightful time to be conscious and busy doing things.

I constantly feel responsible for other people. This does not always translate into me actively taking care of them or doing things for them. Rather, it means that I'm always thinking about them, trying to be aware of any moment when I do need to help them, or talk to them, oftentimes feeling helpless, doing nothing more than wondering what I can do.

There is rarely a moment when it's just me. Even when I may be somewhat physically sequestered, my heart and mind are still with other people. I can't feel released to move and act independently because I'm not independent.

Until the world starts to fall asleep, that is. As lights extinguish and eyes close, I feel like a weight falls off of me. However tired I felt before, this release of burden grants me fresh energy, and I suddenly feel inspired to do things I was too weary to attempt in the day. All of the people I feel responsible for are now sleeping (or at least confined in their beds, attempting to sleep) and the best thing I can do to help them right now is leave them alone. I am free.

I should have come to this conclusion sooner. I've been this way since childhood. In my five-person family, I've been most often the privileged one with her own bedroom (there have even been times when my parents didn't have their own room, yet I did) and ever since the youngest of our number was born, my poor brothers have never had their own room. Yet with this extra blessing of personal space, there has still been a substantial amount of time when not even I have had space to call my own and in those moments are when this characteristic is most apparent.

The first examples that come to mind are all of the times I've had to share a bed with my littlest brother. There have been countless nights when it seemed like all he wanted to do was talk to me, tell me stories. I would listen for a long while, even joining him in conversation and jumping into the tales of his imagination, but after a while, I felt that enough was enough. It was time to go to sleep. As he would get quiet, I would feel this tension in my body that I didn't know was there start to release. As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I felt released to go to sleep. But only when he was asleep. Lying there quietly wasn't enough to coax me to relax. There was one night we were staying at our grandparents', Austyn around the age of four or five, and he rather kindly listened to me when I told him it was time to be quiet. But as we were lying there in silence, I noticed he wasn't going to sleep very quickly. After a time, he decided to inform me, just in case I didn't already know, that "Emily, I can't go to sleep." "Just lay there and be still. You'll go to sleep soon." Minutes turned to over an hour. Still awake. He naturally felt inclined to start talking again. Even after my utterances of "shhh," the silence only lasted a few moments, then he started talking again. Not loudly or intrusively. Just a few words. But I finally felt desperate. Even though he had so sweetly laid there in silence for a very long time and had done nothing to disturb me, I could not go to sleep, couldn't even relax. I needed him to go to sleep, so very much. I turned to him with tears and pleaded, "Austyn, please, please be quiet and go to sleep. It's very, very late, and I can't go to sleep. I need you to please be quiet and go to sleep." "......okay, Emily." And he finally went to sleep and I finally relaxed and soon followed him into the land of dreams.

With this obviously ingrained in me from an early age, am I doomed to be a creature of the night forever, I wonder. Will these moments alone be the only times I find it possible to relax? Will I continue my tradition of midnight blogging and writing down in various forms my thoughts and the things I feel within me, because I never can tell what I feel or think acutely enough in the day to be able to bring it out of me?

Time will tell. Until then, I am slowly unraveling the mysteries of my affinity with the night.

Music theory with Dr. Linton.

I think I'm going to like Mondays.

Music Mondays is what I should call them this semester, I think. All I have the first day of the work week is music theory and choir. Two hours in class. That's it. And one of them is super simple. All I do is sit there and sing. Oh frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!

I think the best part of my day was music theory. I have my original theory professor again this semester.

I didn't realize how much I missed Dr. Linton. The minute class commenced was like drawing in a breath of fresh air. A lot of students around MTSU can't stand the man, but I think that's just because they loathe the subject and he doesn't let people slip by.

But he's a treasure trove of information; indeed about music, but also about a million other topics. The basis of the structure of university education is certainly something he advocates, that is studying more than just your chosen field, which is why we get to experience the joys of general education classes. He believes in being a well-rounded, much-learned individual.

And he's funny! In his own quirky, refined professor, music nerd, super smart person kind of way. He even wears suspenders. If I were a man, teaching at a university, I would wear suspenders.

He posted our syllabus online yesterday for us to have this morning. Before I even made it to class today, reading it last night started reminding me why I love this guy. There's a section in it that I think gives a good glimpse into his personality, and perfectly demonstrates why I think he's so great:

"The Southern Association of Colleges and Schools...is insisting that instructors include in the syllabi "learning outcomes," and that these "outcomes" must be "measurable." Such a notion displays a profound ignorance of what it means to be an educated human being in love with learning and, at best, should be greeted with patronizing amusement. I wonder how the members of the SACS would suggest Socrates, or Zoroaster, or Moses, or Augustine, or Abelard, or Peter Drucker might calculate the love of learning exemplified by their students? Socrates to Plato: 'This afternoon I score you at a 73.4% knowledge on the meaning of life, rather better than yesterday when you only got a 68.4, but do try to do a little better so that you can score at least a 82%, no grad school will accept you with a score lower than that.'"

Once he explains the method of grading that he has been forced to institute he ends the section with this, in bold print:

"But the purpose of this course is to teach students (student, from the Latin "studeo", "to be eager for") about great music so that they might develop a deep and abiding love of it, and for that there is no test but living itself."

Here, here.

It also didn't hurt that we spent the greater portion of today's class watching portions of My Fair Lady. There are worse ways to spend class time.

Fall 2010

I get to go to school tomorrow!

I've been plastering that phrase all over the Internet and thought it was worth repeating here.

Can you tell I'm excited? I'm afraid my exclamation point might be a little too subtle. Please know that I am burgeoning with glee.

Not only am I excited because I'm a nerd who gets a thrill at the idea of buying textbooks, but I'm also particularly pleased (thus far) with the classes I'm set to be taking. Here's a rundown of my 16 hours this fall:

Concert Chorale - Not much to be said here. The choir I've been in every semester of my college career. But I enjoy it oh so much, and I'm delighted to participate yet again. It wouldn't feel like a normal semester at MTSU without it.

History of Popular Music in America - I was just looking at the schedule for this class and, if I was paying attention closely enough and not entirely absorbed in what I was reading, I'm pretty sure I was smiling the whole time. There's a list of songs I have to listen to before almost every class of varying styles throughout the semester. Force me to listen to music? What torture!

Introduction to Linguistics - The catalog entry for this class reads, "Anatomy of sound production, levels of structure in language: phonological (sound), morphological (meaningful segments), syntactic (interrelation of words in a sentence). Various meanings of language." Fascinating. No, really, I do think that's fascinating.

The Bible as Literature - I'm not entirely sure what to expect out of this one. But I'm intrigued. I can see how harm could potentially come from it; the point is to study it as words put together to communicate a point like all other literature in the world, not as the living, breathing Word of God unlike all other literature in the world. But I think I'm sufficiently grounded in the truth of what I know the Bible to be, so even if it's stripped down to just pretty words, or a repository of historical information, I know that those pretty words and historical records have much more substance, and hopefully my understanding of that substance will be enhanced.

Themes in Literature and Culture: Tolkien and Rowling - That's right, a class in which I have to read The Lord of the Rings and the Harry Potter series. I just reread Harry's adventure over the summer, and I'm already chomping at the bit to do it again. And it's been ages since I've dived into Middle Earth, so a visit is overdue. My biggest concern is the volume of the material. Just for this one class, that's roughly the equivalent of 10 novels and what I am estimating to be at least 3,000 pages. Don't quote me on that, though. I'll have to count and see. But I'm a fast reader, right? And yes, I've heard Dr. Sherman is hard, but right now I'm so enchanted by the subject matter that not even hard-to-please professors are intimidating. Not much.

Theory and Aural Skills IV - Music theory, that is. My fourth and last semester. Music theory has never been my strongest point, but I've loved every minute of it and I'm giddy at the fact that I've managed to get this far when every semester I have feared failure. Seems my fears were unfounded and I pray that's the case one last time.

As you can see, every class pertains to either my major or minor field of study. That's a first. It's nice to have general education be a thing of the past. Guess what else? I don't have class on Friday! Another first.

I feel like my schedule is charmed this semester. I pray it still manages to retain even the tiniest smidge of its appeal by the time December rolls around.

It all begins in approximately nine hours! Here's to more adventures in hard work and learning!