I've been perusing two folders I have on my laptop hard drive, one created after I had already forgotten about the first. "Blog" and "Writing" are both in my "Work" folder, in a feeble attempt to put my dreams into some sort of action. Neither folder contains many documents. A few I could delete because they really did end up on this blog in some form or another, which I'm pleased about. One I wrote when I was incredibly depressed and I must say it is incredibly good. It will probably never find a place to be displayed for other's admiration for fear of it's implications of my mental health (despite the fact that it's been over a year since writing it.) One I just wrote because I realized I need to write every day and I tried to relax and I couldn't stop thinking about everything and I had read two articles today about relaxing so what should that say to me? In the "Blog" folder I also found a draft of the first ever post I put on this blog. The draft had absolutely nothing to do with the version that ended up being the inaugural post on this blog, but it certainly got me thinking tonight.
When I was 12 a church leader read this poem to my class one Sunday and I have never stopped identifying it as most likely my favorite poem. I was supposed to learn about Ralph Waldo Emerson in one of the classes I've already taken as an English major but either I never actually learned anything or I already forgot it (the curse of being forced to obtain knowledge as opposed to the sponge I can be when I get to learn on my own time.)
What is success?
To laugh often and much
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children
To earn the approval of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends
To appreciate beauty
To find the best in others
To give of one's self
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition
To have laughed and played with enthusiasm and sung with exultation
To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived
This is to have succeeded.
Forgive me if I've blogged about this before, I really can't remember and lack the patience to search through all of my old posts to find this poem. I've been contemplating attempting to get a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction (i.e. the genre I'm writing this blog in, e.g. memoirs, personal essay, etc.) There are so many variables, I started to type them out here and realized my own brain doesn't even want to deal with these issues so it pushes them in the back of my mind. More than anything, I wish I could ask my current creative non-fiction professor "Am I good enough? Will I get accepted by a school with faculty I will love and write like and then get published as I teach other students this craft, preferably at a college in the Pacific Northwest?" I doubt he would give me answers, let alone the ones I wanted to hear.
And in the end, does it matter? I define my personal success now as praise from my current workshop class and acceptance into an MFA program and being published somewhere, somehow. But Ralph tells me that's a pretty crappy yardstick. Underneath my constantly reeling brain and ever-bleeding heart, I think I'm inclined to agree, but I often forget (so much that I question my belief in his measurement system at all.) But then there's this blog post, that I'm actually really pleased with. And the wonderful comments I get from family and friends (maybe not the most critical judges, but they sure do help my self-esteem) on so many of these posts. And the tingling, giggling feeling I get when I read incredible essays assigned for my class. It's an odd rising feeling starts just below my sternum and pulses through my clavicle and esophagus, and hovers behind my eyes in a mist that never comes out of my tear ducts (for which I am grateful) that manifests to me that I really want to do this, more than I've wanted to do anything before. That's not to discredit my absolute passion for crime-solving or firefighting as a (younger) child, or my dream of directing a high school band that disintegrated a few short years ago. It's a different kind of manifestation that includes a nugget of hope that I'm not as bad at this as the dementor-like specter would have me believe. It usually sits just inside my left ear and starts sucking out my confidence immediately after I hand in an essay for my workshop class to critique.
I've achieved a lot of the points on Mr. Emerson's list, and I'm still just a baby, so I think I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. Sometimes it's hard to remember that. Someone said this to me once and I love it for it's impeccable attention to the detailed connotations within words we use. I try hard to follow it always: follow your bliss.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A letter to and from Brian Doyle
So a) check this guy out, Brian Doyle. He's awesome and he has published a ton of awesome pieces but "A Sin" is recent and was near the top of my Google search so that's why it's linked here. I wholeheartedly recommend his most recent book Grace Notes, which I just had to read for my class. When he came to my class last Thursday to be interviewed by my classmates and me, I asked him about his lack of Wikipedia page, so don't try looking there because none of those Brian Doyle's are him.
b) I went to his reading, open to the whole campus, on Friday afternoon and since I had one of his books, I stood in line afterwards and got him to sign it. I shook his hand and said thanks for the reading, and that I had 15 minutes in line to think of something intelligent and failed. He laughed and said he should've done the same thing (thought of something intelligent to say) and then wished me well and I left.
c) I was really bothered by this exchange and he had already admitted to the auditorium that he responds to every single e-mail or letter he receives so I went back to my office and wrote him the following letter, and his reply follows that. Enjoy.
From: Laurie
To: Brian Doyle
Subject: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
I stood in line thinking of something to say for 15 minutes and came up with something, but when I finally got to hand you my book, I got too nervous. In hindsight, I've decided that what I came up with is kind of a nice thing to say about someone and his or her writing, so I think it's worth an e-mail. Sorry for giving you more letters to wade through.
b) I went to his reading, open to the whole campus, on Friday afternoon and since I had one of his books, I stood in line afterwards and got him to sign it. I shook his hand and said thanks for the reading, and that I had 15 minutes in line to think of something intelligent and failed. He laughed and said he should've done the same thing (thought of something intelligent to say) and then wished me well and I left.
c) I was really bothered by this exchange and he had already admitted to the auditorium that he responds to every single e-mail or letter he receives so I went back to my office and wrote him the following letter, and his reply follows that. Enjoy.
From: Laurie
To: Brian Doyle
Subject: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
I stood in line thinking of something to say for 15 minutes and came up with something, but when I finally got to hand you my book, I got too nervous. In hindsight, I've decided that what I came up with is kind of a nice thing to say about someone and his or her writing, so I think it's worth an e-mail. Sorry for giving you more letters to wade through.
I love reading your writing because you're such an optimist and I'm such a cynic, and I feel healthier after I read your words. Thank you for that respite from myself.
To: Laurie
From: Brian Doyle
Subject: RE: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
Subject: RE: You just signed my book at BYU . . .
Aw, that is the kindest gentlest loveliest note I have had for a long time. Thank you, Laurie. I savor the youness of you. Brian
Don't worry, I got/get misty-eyed when I read/read it.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Of smells
Every few weeks in my "Writing Creative Non-Fiction" class, we have to submit a 500-1000 word "experiment" with a prompt given to us by the professor. This prompt was to find an essay by Michel Montaigne, use the title and quote a line from the essay somewhere within our own piece.
Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate with me as well as one who “scent[s] at a greater distance . . . than other men.” Rank or sweet, I can pick out a scent sooner than most. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting ready to go to church on Sunday morning and I am lying on her bed, watching her in the mirror just so I can be with her longer.
Maybe the doctors will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate with me as well as one who “scent[s] at a greater distance . . . than other men.” Rank or sweet, I can pick out a scent sooner than most. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting ready to go to church on Sunday morning and I am lying on her bed, watching her in the mirror just so I can be with her longer.
Maybe the doctors will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Monday, July 25, 2011
On Harry Potter
I have known that I physically need to write a post on my feelings about Harry Potter for a long time. I have a draft of it, sitting out on the internet, but I was just never satisfied with it. I have no idea where to begin to express Harry and me, or even Joanne and me. Having since written and re-read this entry, I find it inadequate as well, but it does a little better than my other draft.
My fifth grade teacher read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my class. I borrowed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone from my neighborhood friend after Mrs. Zachrison finished reading in class, so I was caught up on all the details of Harry's life. During all of this, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban had come out, so I borrowed that from my same neighborhood friend and was now in the same wonderful place as every person cooler than me who had heard about the series before I did. I ordered the next three books (four through six) online so I wouldn't have to do the midnight thing but would get them that day. When I was packing for college, I thought the first six books of the series would be really important to have with me, so I packed them and gave them a shelf in my limited dorm space. I re-read them all in preparation for the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I went to the midnight book release on BYU campus with friends (dressed as a muggle) and read the whole thing that night, before my test the next morning at 10am.
During all of this the movies came out. I couldn't submit to that kind of slaughter of my favorite characters in my favorite world. As the release of the final installment of the movies was drawing near, I was invited to go with some friends and I had to admit I'd never seen a single movie. I watched all 7 in three days, then the last movie in theaters, at midnight, on the fourth day. It had been so long since I had read all of the books that I was detached enough from the movies to not be too offended by what parts of the stories were changed or left out. (except for the third movie . . . I find that movie truly offensive. So much was changed without reason! Arg!) I enjoyed the last movie but I realized it was probably more because I had only read the seventh book once and didn't remember many details. So, I read seven Harry Potter books in seven days to get back in touch with my roots.
It was interesting reading them as an English and editing student. J.K. Rowling uses more adverbs than anyone alive, I think. Her favorites seem to be shrilly and darkly. She was purposefully wordy at some parts. From any other author, in any other series, these two things alone would have driven me berserk. But it doesn't really matter to me, because I fell in love with these books long before I learned that adverbs are taboo and being wordy doesn't make you sound smart. I was trying to classify my passion for Harry Potter, as if I had to explain it to an outside observer. I wouldn't say I'm obsessed; I don't own Harry Potter paraphernalia, I've never dressed up as a Harry Potter character. I did have some wizard duels in 6th grade, and I'm sure I donned a robe to go to a themed party. So how do I convince someone that I'm a true fan, without all of these other outward expressions?
The best way I can think to describe it is like a pure love. Simple, unadulterated, pure. I hope in my life I can do something just as selfless and noble and loving as Harry or Hermione or Ron or Albus or Neville or any of the characters (Sirius, Severus, Lily, James, the list is as long as the books). Juvenile literature gets knocked because they make the good guys so good, but isn't that a glimpse of how wonderful the world could be if we tried to emulate our literary heroes? I don't remember clinging to these books in times of trouble in my youth, I know some people have stories about Hogwarts saving their lives because they were so alone and in such a dark place. I just loved them because they were so wonderful. Is that a good enough reason? Does that qualify me enough to be a super fan? I don't know . . . I don't know who decides these things either, but I hope whoever does comes across this blog post someday. These books are pure, and good, and right, and they're still some of my most favorite literature I've ever read. They're friendly and comforting and still make me cry every time because there isn't a place that draws me in further than Hogwarts and Britain and the wizarding world.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Open Windows
I wrote this May 1st but due to some recent posting I didn't want to overburden my readers. Here it is now, and it still holds true.
I'm not a very clean person. I mean, every once in a while, I reach a breaking point and go ape on my mess of a room for a solid hour, but that happens . . . maybe once every 4 months. Lucky for me, tonight was one of those nights. In actuality, this was prompted by the impending visit of my parents, so thanks again Mom and Dad, for picking up after me one way or another for my whole life.
A great outcome of this (aside from not living like a slob any more) was that I can finally use the desk in my room. Previously a holding place for a lot of empty envelopes that I never throw away for some reason, it is now a dust-free writing center. I've heard time and again that to sleep more effectively, only use your bed for sleeping in, so your brain isn't confused when you lie down, mistaking your desire to sleep for the internet surfing you were doing in your bed a few hours prior. Plus, although it's called a "laptop," I absolutely despise having my laptop on my lap. That is some intense heat! (get your minds out of the gutter, all of you).
The result of these cleaning sprees is usually me breaking a sweat, and since I only do that about once every 4 months, the benefits of cleanliness are two-fold (cardiovascular and respiratory health). Invariably, that will force me to open the window and let the cool night breeze (currently a balmy 42 degrees Farenheit) dance into my room. And this, three meandering, self-indulgent paragraphs later, is what prompted me to being this blog post. (would more people read these posts if they weren't so lame in the beginning?)
My roommates love the A/C. I moved into this apartment last August and through October they were blasting the A/C. I'm too passive-aggressive to bring it up, or even change the dial myself, but I'm a firm believer in either freezing or sweating it out if the established A/C or heater temperature isn't to your satisfaction (see: miser). So on rare nights like tonight, when no one else realized it was 75 degrees in our apartment, I got to crack the window and listen to the white noise from the distant busy road and smell fresh air for the first time in 5 hours (I don't move very much on Sundays). And then it gets to the point like right now, where it's getting a little too cold and I'm starting to get goose bumps but I don't want to say goodbye to that breeze and that freshness and the hum of passing cars (and the occasional car full of men singing "Party in the USA" at the top of their lungs as they drive by) that reminds me cleanliness is next to godliness and that some fresh air does the body good.
I'm not a very clean person. I mean, every once in a while, I reach a breaking point and go ape on my mess of a room for a solid hour, but that happens . . . maybe once every 4 months. Lucky for me, tonight was one of those nights. In actuality, this was prompted by the impending visit of my parents, so thanks again Mom and Dad, for picking up after me one way or another for my whole life.
A great outcome of this (aside from not living like a slob any more) was that I can finally use the desk in my room. Previously a holding place for a lot of empty envelopes that I never throw away for some reason, it is now a dust-free writing center. I've heard time and again that to sleep more effectively, only use your bed for sleeping in, so your brain isn't confused when you lie down, mistaking your desire to sleep for the internet surfing you were doing in your bed a few hours prior. Plus, although it's called a "laptop," I absolutely despise having my laptop on my lap. That is some intense heat! (get your minds out of the gutter, all of you).
The result of these cleaning sprees is usually me breaking a sweat, and since I only do that about once every 4 months, the benefits of cleanliness are two-fold (cardiovascular and respiratory health). Invariably, that will force me to open the window and let the cool night breeze (currently a balmy 42 degrees Farenheit) dance into my room. And this, three meandering, self-indulgent paragraphs later, is what prompted me to being this blog post. (would more people read these posts if they weren't so lame in the beginning?)
My roommates love the A/C. I moved into this apartment last August and through October they were blasting the A/C. I'm too passive-aggressive to bring it up, or even change the dial myself, but I'm a firm believer in either freezing or sweating it out if the established A/C or heater temperature isn't to your satisfaction (see: miser). So on rare nights like tonight, when no one else realized it was 75 degrees in our apartment, I got to crack the window and listen to the white noise from the distant busy road and smell fresh air for the first time in 5 hours (I don't move very much on Sundays). And then it gets to the point like right now, where it's getting a little too cold and I'm starting to get goose bumps but I don't want to say goodbye to that breeze and that freshness and the hum of passing cars (and the occasional car full of men singing "Party in the USA" at the top of their lungs as they drive by) that reminds me cleanliness is next to godliness and that some fresh air does the body good.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sister Kramer
I was "best friends" (quotes because I kind of hate that term) and roommates with the same person for about 3 years of my life. In August, we parted ways and I would be lying if I said it was no big deal. For me, it was a big deal. I realized I didn't know how to have fun or be myself or do things on my own, especially in Provo. I'd be lying if I said I figured it out. I don't think I have. But that's part of this summer social program and this try-new-things agenda I've made for myself, and I think things are going well. Better than before, anyway.Before, I didn't know where to even begin. I was too insecure to strike up conversations with people, let alone make new friends. I was too insecure to just go places on my own (still really bad at that). I spent an inordinate amount of time eating, sleeping, and watching TV, and nothing else.
Sometime during fall semester last year, my co-worker McKenna casually invited me to go to a dance and cultural event on campus with her and a friend. It was a simple gesture that was easy enough for me to accept. This is what McKenna does: makes people feel at ease, even if they're not at ease with themselves. It sparked similar invitations. This is what McKenna does: thoughtfully remembers others. Over a short time, this created a friendship. This is what McKenna does: makes new friends with ease and is incredibly loyal.
I like to think I put up a tough front but to those who spend every workday with me,(McKenna) I'm sure I'm actually pretty transparent. So, I like to think that McKenna didn't realize this incredible service she did for me, by doing this one simple thing so many months ago, and she's just that friendly. But maybe that's exactly it; maybe McKenna saw how much I needed a friend and extended a hand. Each scenario is as likely as the other. And while I'm focusing on this one act, over eight months ago, the truth is that her continued friendship has inspired me to be better, and to find myself how I want to be: fun, friendly, and serving others.
McKenna is beginning an 18-month proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on July 27th, serving in Budapest, Hungary, speaking Hungarian. McKenna leaves on Monday to go home and prepare to serve. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't miss her and her hilarious sense of humor and her positive attitude and her willingness to always put up with me and all of my quirks. I'm struggling to put what I'm feeling into words because I think so much of this friendship has been about things unsaid, about an understanding without having to spell out feelings or back track to retract misstatements. There's been a very common ground in this judgment-free relationship, and while I'm going to miss so many things about McKenna while she's serving, that might be what I'll miss the most. How many people do you find in your life, that just kind of get you? I think I'd be more worried, except I know that I won't meet too many people in my life as wonderful as McKenna, so I'm not going to let something as small as a year and a half on the other side of the world stop this friendship.
Sometime during fall semester last year, my co-worker McKenna casually invited me to go to a dance and cultural event on campus with her and a friend. It was a simple gesture that was easy enough for me to accept. This is what McKenna does: makes people feel at ease, even if they're not at ease with themselves. It sparked similar invitations. This is what McKenna does: thoughtfully remembers others. Over a short time, this created a friendship. This is what McKenna does: makes new friends with ease and is incredibly loyal.
I like to think I put up a tough front but to those who spend every workday with me,(McKenna) I'm sure I'm actually pretty transparent. So, I like to think that McKenna didn't realize this incredible service she did for me, by doing this one simple thing so many months ago, and she's just that friendly. But maybe that's exactly it; maybe McKenna saw how much I needed a friend and extended a hand. Each scenario is as likely as the other. And while I'm focusing on this one act, over eight months ago, the truth is that her continued friendship has inspired me to be better, and to find myself how I want to be: fun, friendly, and serving others.
McKenna is beginning an 18-month proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on July 27th, serving in Budapest, Hungary, speaking Hungarian. McKenna leaves on Monday to go home and prepare to serve. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't miss her and her hilarious sense of humor and her positive attitude and her willingness to always put up with me and all of my quirks. I'm struggling to put what I'm feeling into words because I think so much of this friendship has been about things unsaid, about an understanding without having to spell out feelings or back track to retract misstatements. There's been a very common ground in this judgment-free relationship, and while I'm going to miss so many things about McKenna while she's serving, that might be what I'll miss the most. How many people do you find in your life, that just kind of get you? I think I'd be more worried, except I know that I won't meet too many people in my life as wonderful as McKenna, so I'm not going to let something as small as a year and a half on the other side of the world stop this friendship.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Welcome back!
Disclaimer: It's about to get real in this blog post . . . but hopefully still delightful.
I know what you're all* (none of you are) thinking: "Laurie, you've been working full-time and not in classes and just loafing around for the past three weeks. Where are your witty and endearing blog posts about recesses of your life that everyone* (no one) wants to read about!?" Based on past experience, a reader of my blog would assume an apology is forthcoming. In this instance, you are incorrect. No apology, because I have nothing to apologize for. I have been living life for the past three weeks, and it has been glorious.
New leaves are always easiest to turn over when there is some noticeable, tangible shift to hide behind. I picked the change from winter to spring semester here in Provo. Turnover in church attendees, no classes, and working full-time all adds up to a perfect opportunity to reinvent myself as a socialite. This is a role I've never taken on in my life before (except for maybe a few miraculous months of sophomore year in high school) and I have to say: I was incredibly nervous to try this social experiment. People who know me best probably think this is strange. People who have known me the past four years probably think this is normal. The phenomenon of my personality switch from outgoing to introverted is probably good fodder for a dissertation, not a blog post, so I'll skip that for now.
My number one method for kicking this habit of hermit-ism was to attend every church function, big or small. It started out small, but it's grown. Now I'm also on an intramural ultimate frisbee team (which used to be a huge passion in my life so I'm pleased as punch to get back to the sport). I've started running a few times a week (to stop embarrassing myself while playing ultimate frisbee). Would you even believe I've started going to bed at 11pm so I can get the recommended amount of sleep every night? (except when I have blogs to write or games to play with new-found friends).
This didn't start out easy. Three weeks later, it's pretty easy, but that first week, I wanted to throw in the towel. The second week, I still kind of wanted to throw in the towel. Last weekend, to the beginning of this week, I've built up some social endurance and I'm getting ready to roll. I doubt anyone who reads my blog needs this advice, and make no mistake: this isn't for you; it's for me because here is what I don't want to forget:
I woke up Saturday morning to the sun peaking through the blinds in my bedroom, with strips of soft light lazily falling onto my face and pillow. I ate breakfast and went to an ultimate frisbee game where I rediscovered how much I truly love to be competitive and active and that I am actually very slightly good at ultimate frisbee. My calves burned and my lungs were stabbed by every breath I gulped down in the rare moments of rest in the game. My face and arms were flushed from exertion and the sun that was starting to beat down in earnest as the hour wore on. I jumped for the disc and collided with someone and laid on the sparse grass, relishing the cool earth on my face. I got up and halfheartedly tried to wipe the grass and dirt of my shirt, shorts, and shins. I felt pleased that at least I was playing good enough defense to get in the way. I could feel the soil that had snuck into my socks and shoes.
Afterwards, I confidently wore brand new denim shorts and a pink t-shirt with ruffles to lunch with two friends that I hadn't seen in over six months. We laughed and ate delicious food and I couldn't stop smiling when I thought about how blessed I am to have such wonderful people in my life. I quickly made plans to spend the afternoon with another friend. As I drove to her house, it hit me as hard as the opponent had in the frisbee game that morning.
Although I had been happy at times through the past two years, this day was by far the happiest I had been in a very long time.
There are still a lot of things in my life that are stressing me out, that I complain about, and that I wish I could change, don't get me wrong. But there was this instance where I was driving in my car and it was running well and the radio was playing a good song and I was singing pretty loud with it and the sun was tanning my arm as it hung lazily out my window and I was warm and felt mild exhaustion after exerting a concentrated effort into performing at a sporting event. And everything was great. Sometimes I'm foolish and wish for perfection in my life. I'm lucky enough to have moments like last Saturday where I realize that not everything in my life is perfect, but there is an intense pleasure that comes from small things, like good friends and active bodies and new leaves.
I know what you're all* (none of you are) thinking: "Laurie, you've been working full-time and not in classes and just loafing around for the past three weeks. Where are your witty and endearing blog posts about recesses of your life that everyone* (no one) wants to read about!?" Based on past experience, a reader of my blog would assume an apology is forthcoming. In this instance, you are incorrect. No apology, because I have nothing to apologize for. I have been living life for the past three weeks, and it has been glorious.
New leaves are always easiest to turn over when there is some noticeable, tangible shift to hide behind. I picked the change from winter to spring semester here in Provo. Turnover in church attendees, no classes, and working full-time all adds up to a perfect opportunity to reinvent myself as a socialite. This is a role I've never taken on in my life before (except for maybe a few miraculous months of sophomore year in high school) and I have to say: I was incredibly nervous to try this social experiment. People who know me best probably think this is strange. People who have known me the past four years probably think this is normal. The phenomenon of my personality switch from outgoing to introverted is probably good fodder for a dissertation, not a blog post, so I'll skip that for now.
My number one method for kicking this habit of hermit-ism was to attend every church function, big or small. It started out small, but it's grown. Now I'm also on an intramural ultimate frisbee team (which used to be a huge passion in my life so I'm pleased as punch to get back to the sport). I've started running a few times a week (to stop embarrassing myself while playing ultimate frisbee). Would you even believe I've started going to bed at 11pm so I can get the recommended amount of sleep every night? (except when I have blogs to write or games to play with new-found friends).
This didn't start out easy. Three weeks later, it's pretty easy, but that first week, I wanted to throw in the towel. The second week, I still kind of wanted to throw in the towel. Last weekend, to the beginning of this week, I've built up some social endurance and I'm getting ready to roll. I doubt anyone who reads my blog needs this advice, and make no mistake: this isn't for you; it's for me because here is what I don't want to forget:
I woke up Saturday morning to the sun peaking through the blinds in my bedroom, with strips of soft light lazily falling onto my face and pillow. I ate breakfast and went to an ultimate frisbee game where I rediscovered how much I truly love to be competitive and active and that I am actually very slightly good at ultimate frisbee. My calves burned and my lungs were stabbed by every breath I gulped down in the rare moments of rest in the game. My face and arms were flushed from exertion and the sun that was starting to beat down in earnest as the hour wore on. I jumped for the disc and collided with someone and laid on the sparse grass, relishing the cool earth on my face. I got up and halfheartedly tried to wipe the grass and dirt of my shirt, shorts, and shins. I felt pleased that at least I was playing good enough defense to get in the way. I could feel the soil that had snuck into my socks and shoes.
Afterwards, I confidently wore brand new denim shorts and a pink t-shirt with ruffles to lunch with two friends that I hadn't seen in over six months. We laughed and ate delicious food and I couldn't stop smiling when I thought about how blessed I am to have such wonderful people in my life. I quickly made plans to spend the afternoon with another friend. As I drove to her house, it hit me as hard as the opponent had in the frisbee game that morning.
Although I had been happy at times through the past two years, this day was by far the happiest I had been in a very long time.
There are still a lot of things in my life that are stressing me out, that I complain about, and that I wish I could change, don't get me wrong. But there was this instance where I was driving in my car and it was running well and the radio was playing a good song and I was singing pretty loud with it and the sun was tanning my arm as it hung lazily out my window and I was warm and felt mild exhaustion after exerting a concentrated effort into performing at a sporting event. And everything was great. Sometimes I'm foolish and wish for perfection in my life. I'm lucky enough to have moments like last Saturday where I realize that not everything in my life is perfect, but there is an intense pleasure that comes from small things, like good friends and active bodies and new leaves.
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