Fun fact: I am going on a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I will be serving in the Brazil São Paulo West Mission, speaking Portuguese, from August 2013 to February 2015. For those who struggle with calendar math (such as myself), that's 18 months in which I will be a full-time missionary in a foreign country, on a different continent, speaking a language that I currently don't know. While I am doing all of this, I will be completely dedicated to teaching the gospel of Jesus Christ. (Go here for more information about what a mission is. Or feel free to ask me any questions you may have!)
There will come a time in which I have much, much more to say about what all of this means to me. In fact, those posts are currently drafts.
But I wish to post something in the meanwhile. So stay tuned for the deeper stuff, it's on its way.
You know, my mom sometimes tells a story of my younger self. She always sang a lullaby when she tucked us in at night--usually whatever we chose. "Oh, Hush Thee, My Baby," was among the favorites. But it didn't take me long to catch on to something: my sneaky mother was trying to con me into thinking I was still a baby. And guess what? It wasn't working. On at least one occasion, my fiery red-headed self boldly informed my mom that, "I'm not a baby. I'm a big girl." And, in order to appease me, she changed the words. "Oh, hush thee, my big girl; a story I'll tell..."
(She also tells a story about my 18-month-old self running away from her, wagging my finger and yelling, "No no, Mommy, no no." But that is another tale for another day.)
I report to the missionary training center in 44 days and counting. Which means the deadline is fast approaching. The little details can't be overlooked for much longer--like the fact that I have only purchased a fraction of the wardrobe I will be needing to get me through 18 months of missionary service. So I'm becoming increasingly aware of the things that need to be taken care of and, apparently, so is my mother.
Every so often, my mom contacts me with various questions. It's usually sparked by troubles that other members of our congregation are having as they work through preparations for their missions, so the questions are along the lines of, "So-and-so is having trouble with his visa because of this, have you done that?" And I remind her that I was applying from the other end of the country and I applied through a different consulate.
Sometimes, however, the conversations are more varied. The following are samples of things I have said to my mother regarding my mission:
"Yes, I have been checking my church email. But remember, my mission is a new one and won't open until July. It doesn't exist yet."
"No, I can't go to Canada--I don't have a passport. Don't panic, I have a passport, but not with me. Yes, I know I will need it to get into Brazil. Mom, the church has my passport. They'll send it to me a week before I go to the MTC. I don't know how my visa status is, they'll tell me a week before I report if I'm going straight to Brazil or if I'm going to Provo first."
"I know I need clothes. Yes, I will need a suitcase. Mom, I can't bring that to Brazil with me--it's a giant teddy bear, I don't have room in my suitcase."
"Okay, I will try my hardest to get a present to Benny before Christmas. But remember how the mail is there. Sometimes the post office goes on strike and things."
"Yes, I've heard of the protests happening in Brazil, but who told you? Mom, you cannot keep reading the news about Brazil. It'll put you in a panic! You don't need to be that informed. I'll write you and tell you how things are going. Mom! This is like the time you watched a video of a hip replacement surgery before you got the surgery. You thought you needed to be informed then, too, and it turned out to be a horrible idea. Mom, really, don't follow the news in Brazil."
I am of the firm belief that my mom and I will be having the same conversations for the remainder of . . . forever. Because apparently we've had this one before. And you know how it ended?
If I recall the story correctly, the song went along the lines of something like, "Oh, hush thee, my big girl."
Showing posts with label Everyday Adventures. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Everyday Adventures. Show all posts
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Wind Chimes
Wind chimes remind me of our Arizona days. They sound like childhood. They sound like sweet relief from the sweltering summer sun, as the faintest breeze makes its way through the yard. They sound like the old polaroid camera I used play with--running around the streets, fascinated that I could see the picture almost instantly.
When I hear wind chimes, I remember Paul--a recently sprouted palm tree my sister and I discovered. We tracked its growth weekly with a ruler made with paper, pencils, and inch approximations based on the distance between the first and second knuckles of my forefinger. When I hear wind chimes, I remember rollerblading on those black, black roads. I remember swimming with cousins, and simply adoring the novelty of being able to see underwater when I wore goggles. I remember blue raspberry snow cones, and thinking that my cousin was really odd for reading a book with as strange a title as "Harry Potter." Because, really, who names their child Harry?
I remember feeling so cool as I swept our back patio while using my mom's walkman--jamming out to Enrique Inglesias the whole time. I remember singing to my dad over the phone, wishing he were there. When I hear wind chimes, I am lead to the morning I walked out of my room to get ready for school and found my mom sitting on the couch in shock--hands over her mouth, staring at the TV screen as an airplane flew into the second twin tower. I remember loudly singing "God Bless the USA" in school.
Wind chimes remind me of Visitor, a cactus wren who occasionally flew in through our open kitchen window and made himself quite at home. I remember hikes through the cactus forests. I remember realizing that, though only five minutes apart, twenty minutes seemed an eternity longer than fifteen. Wind chimes bring memories of the class clown who, against multiple warnings from every teacher, stroked a cactus in the small garden of our school. Through tears, he explained that he did it because he, "thought the cactus was bald." Wind chimes remind me of treading fertilizer into a garden barefoot as a class, and learning the reason why it smelled so bad. It was in that class that I was taught that smart person is never bored, because she can find a way to entertain herself always.
Wind chimes remind me of the days when I didn't mind the heat one bit, and when I thought it was exciting that we happened to move into our new home on the hottest day of the year.
Today I heard wind chimes. And I remembered the days of carefree imagination. Today I played games with a three year old who shot me with his toy gun, then kissed me on the cheek to wake me from an otherwise deathly slumber. Today my baby brother gave me the biggest hugs when I needed them most, and today I caught a piece of how far I've come since the faraway days of the wind chimes.
I've still got a long way to go, but I think I can get there.
When I hear wind chimes, I remember Paul--a recently sprouted palm tree my sister and I discovered. We tracked its growth weekly with a ruler made with paper, pencils, and inch approximations based on the distance between the first and second knuckles of my forefinger. When I hear wind chimes, I remember rollerblading on those black, black roads. I remember swimming with cousins, and simply adoring the novelty of being able to see underwater when I wore goggles. I remember blue raspberry snow cones, and thinking that my cousin was really odd for reading a book with as strange a title as "Harry Potter." Because, really, who names their child Harry?
I remember feeling so cool as I swept our back patio while using my mom's walkman--jamming out to Enrique Inglesias the whole time. I remember singing to my dad over the phone, wishing he were there. When I hear wind chimes, I am lead to the morning I walked out of my room to get ready for school and found my mom sitting on the couch in shock--hands over her mouth, staring at the TV screen as an airplane flew into the second twin tower. I remember loudly singing "God Bless the USA" in school.
Wind chimes remind me of Visitor, a cactus wren who occasionally flew in through our open kitchen window and made himself quite at home. I remember hikes through the cactus forests. I remember realizing that, though only five minutes apart, twenty minutes seemed an eternity longer than fifteen. Wind chimes bring memories of the class clown who, against multiple warnings from every teacher, stroked a cactus in the small garden of our school. Through tears, he explained that he did it because he, "thought the cactus was bald." Wind chimes remind me of treading fertilizer into a garden barefoot as a class, and learning the reason why it smelled so bad. It was in that class that I was taught that smart person is never bored, because she can find a way to entertain herself always.
Wind chimes remind me of the days when I didn't mind the heat one bit, and when I thought it was exciting that we happened to move into our new home on the hottest day of the year.
Today I heard wind chimes. And I remembered the days of carefree imagination. Today I played games with a three year old who shot me with his toy gun, then kissed me on the cheek to wake me from an otherwise deathly slumber. Today my baby brother gave me the biggest hugs when I needed them most, and today I caught a piece of how far I've come since the faraway days of the wind chimes.
"We are the creatures of our thinking. We can talk ourselves into defeat or we can talk ourselves into victory."
-President Gordon B. Hinckley, entire address here.
I've still got a long way to go, but I think I can get there.
-----------
Conference Weekly here.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Friday's Letters
 |
| Niagara Falls on our recent (a few weeks ago...) trip to Palmyra |
Dear movers, we still can't get over the fact that you backed your moving van all the way down our 1/3 mile long driveway. Considering the winding tunnel through the forest that it is, that is an incredibly impressive feat. Thanks for the laughs.
Dear USPS, you are my favorite. Please don't go out of business, or reduce your days of delivery. I love my letters too much to lose time.
Dear Christmas in July, you are the best. I celebrated with a morning mug of Stephen's hot chocolate and some holiday tunes. It was the best.
Dear mornings, I've missed you. Let's hang out more often.
Dear three-day thunderstorm, where are you? I've been super excited to experience the crazy natural disaster storms that supposedly happen out here on the other end of the continent. I would be a big fan of a power outage. I need a story to take home, after all.
Dear Costco, I still love your chicken bakes. A lot. Three dollars of Heaven-sent goodness.
Dear imagination, it's good to see you again. The stresses of attempting to fit into this grown up world took me away from you for a time, but with all the time I've been spending with crazy kids, I think I'm finding my way back to you. It's been a good time. Let's keep in touch, okay?
Dear Olympics, I'm really excited about you. Really, really excited.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Hide-and-Go-Seek
Pretty much every morning this past month has gone down in the same lack-of-routine type of way. Meaning, I have no schedule, but similar things seem to happen in whatever random order they choose. You'll see what I mean in a minute.
Basically, I have lost all ability to wake up and get out of bed, with the exception of that one morning. And kind of today--I've been awake for two whole hours now, but that's about the extent of it. My theory is that 10 months of colleging instead of sleeping has finally caught up with me. Anyway, I generally out of bed when I'm too stiff to stay in there any longer (I'm nineteen, why do I sound like an old grandma talking?) or when my darling mother decides I've wasted enough of the morning away and I must get up. Either way, I groggily stumble my way into the kitchen and start fixing myself some breakfast, when my energetic three-year-old brother comes leaping and bounding into the kitchen with a stream of "Yet's pway a game! Yet's go outside! Do you want to ride my bike wif me?" spewing from his little mouth that has long since woken up and been fed.
I, however, fully intend to eat the delicious breakfast that I have slaved over. (Toast, most likely. Or something that requires a skill level akin to that of toast-making.) But, more often than not, I will leave my carefully crafted meal for a moment or two to play a game, and thus satisfy the small man-child that I might feast in relative peace.
One particular morning, the name of the game was hide-and-go-seek. I played a few rounds, and eventually began "hiding" on the stool directly in front of my tropical-blend smoothie. This must have gotten old, because he soon pulled Mom into playing with him. When she returned to her previous activity of "Monk-ing the house" (have you seen that show? we LOVE it in our house), Benny decided that he would play hide-and-go-seek with the remaining person in the near vicinity--himself. The conversation went as follows:
Benny: I'll play hide-and-go-seek wif myself! One-two-free . . . weady or not, here I come! [Clearly too excited about the vast array potential outcomes to count to the usual ten]
Benny: Now, where could I be?
Benny: Here I am!
The "Here I am!" was complete with a jump of sincere surprise, as if he was completely stunned to have found himself standing right where he was.
We often look at this boy and think, "Oh, to live Benny's life." Oh, to find such joy and surprise in playing hide-and-go-seek with yourself. Oh, to have that imagination. Oh, to be adored by all.
Just the same, I don't think I've quite grown out of the search for myself. Aren't we all in a continual search to discover who we are and what we can become? And as we look behind the couches and in the closets and all throughout the house in the most unsuspecting of places, I think it's fair to say that we are, on occasion, sincerely astonished to find ourselves. As if we hadn't known all along right where our personhood was hiding.
And that's the fun of it all. That's life--full of surprises, and the best ones are when you surprise yourself.
May we all find joy, excitement, thrill, and surprise as we search for ourselves throughout this life.
Basically, I have lost all ability to wake up and get out of bed, with the exception of that one morning. And kind of today--I've been awake for two whole hours now, but that's about the extent of it. My theory is that 10 months of colleging instead of sleeping has finally caught up with me. Anyway, I generally out of bed when I'm too stiff to stay in there any longer (I'm nineteen, why do I sound like an old grandma talking?) or when my darling mother decides I've wasted enough of the morning away and I must get up. Either way, I groggily stumble my way into the kitchen and start fixing myself some breakfast, when my energetic three-year-old brother comes leaping and bounding into the kitchen with a stream of "Yet's pway a game! Yet's go outside! Do you want to ride my bike wif me?" spewing from his little mouth that has long since woken up and been fed.
I, however, fully intend to eat the delicious breakfast that I have slaved over. (Toast, most likely. Or something that requires a skill level akin to that of toast-making.) But, more often than not, I will leave my carefully crafted meal for a moment or two to play a game, and thus satisfy the small man-child that I might feast in relative peace.
One particular morning, the name of the game was hide-and-go-seek. I played a few rounds, and eventually began "hiding" on the stool directly in front of my tropical-blend smoothie. This must have gotten old, because he soon pulled Mom into playing with him. When she returned to her previous activity of "Monk-ing the house" (have you seen that show? we LOVE it in our house), Benny decided that he would play hide-and-go-seek with the remaining person in the near vicinity--himself. The conversation went as follows:
Benny: I'll play hide-and-go-seek wif myself! One-two-free . . . weady or not, here I come! [Clearly too excited about the vast array potential outcomes to count to the usual ten]
Benny: Now, where could I be?
Benny: Here I am!
The "Here I am!" was complete with a jump of sincere surprise, as if he was completely stunned to have found himself standing right where he was.
We often look at this boy and think, "Oh, to live Benny's life." Oh, to find such joy and surprise in playing hide-and-go-seek with yourself. Oh, to have that imagination. Oh, to be adored by all.
Just the same, I don't think I've quite grown out of the search for myself. Aren't we all in a continual search to discover who we are and what we can become? And as we look behind the couches and in the closets and all throughout the house in the most unsuspecting of places, I think it's fair to say that we are, on occasion, sincerely astonished to find ourselves. As if we hadn't known all along right where our personhood was hiding.
And that's the fun of it all. That's life--full of surprises, and the best ones are when you surprise yourself.
May we all find joy, excitement, thrill, and surprise as we search for ourselves throughout this life.
 |
| He also wears flippers while riding his tricycle. |
----------
Conference Weekly here.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Flashback
I forgot what it feels like to look for my test scores on the screen of the testing center. That moment completely void of emotion--too scared to feel hope or dread. And then the moment of discovery, and instant joy, satisfaction, or the sudden appearance of a black hole somewhere in the depths of my insides.
The prayer that always follows, grateful for the opportunity to learn, to trust in Him.
And always the renewal of motivation to study harder.
Tests will be different this fall. I won't be walking back home through campus on cold, damp, winter evenings. I won't watch as the Christmas lights reflect in the puddles--at least, not in the same way.
Still, I'm excited for a new adventure. For viewing the home that campus has become in a new light. To develop new habits and traditions for myself.
And hopefully I'll be more successful with my tests than I am with soccer. I was creamed by an 8-year-old yesterday. I lost, 2-10.
The prayer that always follows, grateful for the opportunity to learn, to trust in Him.
And always the renewal of motivation to study harder.
Tests will be different this fall. I won't be walking back home through campus on cold, damp, winter evenings. I won't watch as the Christmas lights reflect in the puddles--at least, not in the same way.
Still, I'm excited for a new adventure. For viewing the home that campus has become in a new light. To develop new habits and traditions for myself.
And hopefully I'll be more successful with my tests than I am with soccer. I was creamed by an 8-year-old yesterday. I lost, 2-10.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Let's Squish Our Fruits Together
Have you guys seen that video? It's hilarious. I regularly reference it in my day-to-day conversation ever since AP World History my junior year, when I saw it for the very first time. I mean, a grocery store musical? Brilliant. I love Improv Everywhere.
In other news, finger painting with the little brother is awesome.
In other news, finger painting with the little brother is awesome.
Seriously, I don't remember the last time I finger painted before this. But you guys--you have to do it. Seriously. Go out and buy some washable paints, and just smear it everywhere. Make tie-dye colored handprints. Paint a house. Or a dog. Or a family. Smear all the paints together and make a brownish-red colored piece of paper. Paint each other. Paint yourself. And, for heaven's sake, get messy!
I promise, it's worth every extra second in the shower washing it off. It's not that many extra seconds anyway.
What can I say? I just really love this boy. And I am absolutely determined to never grow up anymore than I have to.
----------------------
Conference Weekly here.
Also, last week's is here.
Sorry it's late.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Pink Umbrellas
A summer project of mine is underway: reread the entirety of the Harry Potter series. So far, I have relieved years one and two with some of the greatest characters known to wizardkind, and I am enjoying myself immensely. Much sleep has been lost over this project, as I seem to have developed a habit of starting a book and refusing to go to sleep until it is finished. But hey, Harry Potter is more fun at 2 AM anyway.
But here's the thing. Now I think about Harry Potter all the time, and how great it is and how much I love it. The other day, as my mom, sister, brother, and I returned from a rather exciting day spent at Six Flags, I asked my dear mother a question.
Mom, if Harry Potter were real and I got a letter from Hogwarts, would you have let me go?
Her response? No. Who says that? I mean, obviously Harry Potter is real and I just didn't get my letter from Hogwarts at age 11 because the wizarding world needed me to stay here and protect the muggles, but still. Really? I was in shock. And I didn't speak to her for the remainder of the drive home.
Okay, that's a lie. My furious silence lasted about 15 seconds before I realized that, in my anger, I was failing to protect my muggle family as I was assigned to do by my lack of letter. It was then that I used my secret de-angering technique and continued to intently stare out the window in search of any sign of danger. You know, fixed bludgers, swarming owls, Dark Marks, that kind of thing.
The other day, my sister and I wanted to watch a family favorite: My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding. I guess we all kind of connect to it--we're loud and crazy too. The trouble is, our copy is very . . . well loved. In other words, the DVD has all kinds of scratches on it. Generally, we just skip past the first time it freezes, and the rest of the movie works fine enough. However, we have since misplaced the DVD player remote, so we were rendered completely helpless upon its first freezing. In desperation, I cast my eyes about the room in search of something, anything, that I could use to circumvent the scratches. And that's when I saw it.
The pink umbrella.
Having recently been reminded of our dear friend Rubeus Hagrid, I instantly knew what to do. I picked up that pink umbrella, swiftly made my way over to the DVD player, and gave it a few light raps. And, I kid you not, the movie began playing again a few moments later. Not one more glitch the entire duration of the presentation.
It was the greatest of my achievements to date. Thanks, buddy. Let's do that again sometime.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Happy Happy. Double Happy.
You know how there are days when something incredibly unexpected comes along?
Sometimes, on those days, you discover the beauty of life. And sometimes you just discover happiness.
Sometimes, on those days, you discover the beauty of life. And sometimes you just discover happiness.
I've known about this song for a while, but today I actually ventured over to their website and downloaded the entirety of their free album. I'm currently going through it. So far, I adore it.
New obsession: Ian Axel.
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Fireworks and Freedom
Happy 4th of July from the land of 88 degrees and 46% humidity!
This girl from the intermountain west is still trying to get used to it all. It is very hot and sticky. I'm more accustomed to raging wildfires as the crazy summer happenings. (Pray for rain in Utah, will you? Those fires are getting awfully close to home.)
In other news, let's share some happy and hilarious 4th of July moments from the past.
This girl from the intermountain west is still trying to get used to it all. It is very hot and sticky. I'm more accustomed to raging wildfires as the crazy summer happenings. (Pray for rain in Utah, will you? Those fires are getting awfully close to home.)
 |
| This is how I feel about humidity on an optimistic day like today. |
In other news, let's share some happy and hilarious 4th of July moments from the past.
Meagan McGlover is my hero.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
It Finally Happened.
You guys. A miracle occurred at 6:15 this morning. A miracle, I tell you!
I actually woke up to my alarm.
This is a big deal. Not normally, no. Because normally I wake up to my alarm just fine. I get up for my 4 AM freezing cold runs and I go have my frigid morning time adventures, and that's just that. But ever since it became summer time and I moved away from all the hectic existence that is my life in Provo, I suddenly just can't wake up.
And it's not one of those, "hear the alarm go off, let out an enthusiastic groan, fumble around for the off switch, accidentally hit the snooze button and repeat the process all over again in five minutes" situations. I have set my alarm clock for varying times literally every morning since my arrival save two. I recall them very distinctly. I know that my alarm works--I have been using it for years. But I must have somehow been turning it off in my sleep every day for the last two weeks, because I have absolutely no recollection of even hearing it go off. Ever.
So the fact that I actually got up early enough to have some quiet morning study time, go on a run, get showered and dressed, and clean my room before my mom started warning me that I had better head out for my run before it got too hot out? It's a pretty big deal. I'd even venture as far as to call it a miracle.
It's a miracle.
Am I alone in this? Or are you fellow bloggers and blog readers familiar with this phenomenon as well? To be entirely honest, this is a new thing for me. But here's to hoping that it's a little less bizarre and concerning than I thought. Regardless, I've got my fingers crossed that this miracle holds out for...forever. I mean, I've got a life to live!
On a completely unrelated note, look at this picture and just try to tell me that I do not have the most adorable cupboard under the stairs sized bedroom.
I actually woke up to my alarm.
This is a big deal. Not normally, no. Because normally I wake up to my alarm just fine. I get up for my 4 AM freezing cold runs and I go have my frigid morning time adventures, and that's just that. But ever since it became summer time and I moved away from all the hectic existence that is my life in Provo, I suddenly just can't wake up.
And it's not one of those, "hear the alarm go off, let out an enthusiastic groan, fumble around for the off switch, accidentally hit the snooze button and repeat the process all over again in five minutes" situations. I have set my alarm clock for varying times literally every morning since my arrival save two. I recall them very distinctly. I know that my alarm works--I have been using it for years. But I must have somehow been turning it off in my sleep every day for the last two weeks, because I have absolutely no recollection of even hearing it go off. Ever.
So the fact that I actually got up early enough to have some quiet morning study time, go on a run, get showered and dressed, and clean my room before my mom started warning me that I had better head out for my run before it got too hot out? It's a pretty big deal. I'd even venture as far as to call it a miracle.
It's a miracle.
Am I alone in this? Or are you fellow bloggers and blog readers familiar with this phenomenon as well? To be entirely honest, this is a new thing for me. But here's to hoping that it's a little less bizarre and concerning than I thought. Regardless, I've got my fingers crossed that this miracle holds out for...forever. I mean, I've got a life to live!
On a completely unrelated note, look at this picture and just try to tell me that I do not have the most adorable cupboard under the stairs sized bedroom.
And yes, that is my room in its entirety. As seen from my front porch. Darling, right?
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Life is Great, and Connecticut is Not a Desert.
I managed to leave my brand new pair of running shoes 2,300 miles away. And as much as I adore this video, it would be a little hard to reenact when the only love I have to run to is the pair of shoes I'd need to get there. Which is a bit of a problem, you know?
I can't just not run. Not running isn't an option. Even when I am dead, I will find a way to run. I think we established long ago that I am a runner through and through, but just in case you haven't caught on just yet, check out this Pinterest board of mine.
Now that we've removed any doubt, I will tell you good news. As it turns out, it's actually good to have a second pair of shoes to alternate with--you get a little more life out of them when they're allowed a little break every so often. You can't really blame them. I'd want a break too, if I had the job of a running shoe. So new plan: one pair for the summer, and I'll be able to alternate once I locate my missing pair somewhere in the depths of my Utah things.
I can't just not run. Not running isn't an option. Even when I am dead, I will find a way to run. I think we established long ago that I am a runner through and through, but just in case you haven't caught on just yet, check out this Pinterest board of mine.
Now that we've removed any doubt, I will tell you good news. As it turns out, it's actually good to have a second pair of shoes to alternate with--you get a little more life out of them when they're allowed a little break every so often. You can't really blame them. I'd want a break too, if I had the job of a running shoe. So new plan: one pair for the summer, and I'll be able to alternate once I locate my missing pair somewhere in the depths of my Utah things.
The trouble with getting new shoes is that I feel the need to take them on a run right away. I mean, look at these babies--they deserve to know what life is. Tomorrow is Sunday, and they just couldn't wait all the way until Monday morning. So, even though it was 90 degrees, I laced them up for the first (and only--I never untie my running shoes) time and took my first beautiful steps with my new best friends.
Then we kept going for four more miles.
And you know, it was glorious and all. I've missed running--this was my first real run since my marathon. (Oh hey, did I tell you I ran a marathon? June 9, 2012. 4:06:17. It was a blast. I'll get back to you on that.) I powered up High Valley with the sun blazing down, and I thought about how great it feels to start pulling myself back together after 10 months of college unraveling. But I learned something very distinctly.
I've always known that humidity makes everything in general more wet. (Like the toilet tank, for example. There is condensation on the toilet tank.) I knew it makes you feel like you never dried off after taking a shower, and I knew it makes you drip about ten times more sweat than you would where it evaporates off you in half a second. But I got a good laugh when a Fleet Feet worker came in the store and said to his coworker, "It's like a freaking desert out there--it's so hot and dry! The air just has no moisture in it." No, sir, Connecticut is not a desert. And until the entire state erupts into wildfires, I will stand my ground. Because here, it takes about three steps before I am absolutely dripping with sweat. To be entirely honest, that was a fantastic feeling--sweat pouring down my face as I took step after burning step, pushing my way up that enormous hill. It's been too long since I pushed myself just for the sake of it. Somewhere along those four miles, a found a piece of myself I had misplaced in the hustle and bustle of life.
Still, I think I'll wake up before the sun for my run on Monday. And every day after that.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Die Hard
Some things just die hard--and I think that pure love and habits are two of those things. Allow me to elaborate.
I love rain from the very depths of my soul. When clouds start to roll in, warm tinglies shoot through my entire body as if to say, "Something very exciting is about to happen. Are you ready?" And I almost always am.
Rain is an instant priority.
There are seldom few circumstances that will keep me from the rain. Whatever I have to accomplish that day has a way of slipping to the back burner until I have had my chance to get drenched from head to toe.
So when the Connecticut thunderstorm rolled its way on in yesterday, it wasn't long before I was standing out in the yard, arms outstretched towards the sky and mouth wide open. It wasn't long before raindrops were running off my chin and my elbows, and it certainly wasn't long before I was running around the yard giggling in delight.
Eventually, the runner in me put forward a convincing argument and I found myself racing through the rivers we had once called streets. Cars driving by sent sheets of water crashing over my head, widening my smile and quickening my pace. When the rain let up, my feet eventually found their way back home, where I discovered my little brother quietly playing in a mud puddle by himself.
I couldn't resist.
We chased each other around the yard with handfuls of mud in a game of "mud frow," we splashed in the puddle to our hearts' content, and smeared in a little extra mud where things just looked too clean.
A combination of cross country and childhood has instilled a necessity to smear mud all over me whenever I happen upon it. Good mud should not go to waste, and I firmly believe that faces are happiest when they have wars stripes painted on them. Mud should be shared, and so should experiences--so should lives.
Rain and mud are just a chance to let go. To forget about obligations and stresses and fears, to stop trying to uphold an image and just be. Just live. Just experience. And, in the process, share it with someone else.
I guess you could say that's childish of me. But, to be entirely honest, it's likely that I'll always be a child in this regard. I simply can't see myself ever growing out of this.
Because some things just die hard.
Some things are habits, and some things you just love. Some things, however silly they may be, are a part of who you are. They make up who you are.
And you know what?
I'm okay with that.
I love rain from the very depths of my soul. When clouds start to roll in, warm tinglies shoot through my entire body as if to say, "Something very exciting is about to happen. Are you ready?" And I almost always am.
Rain is an instant priority.
There are seldom few circumstances that will keep me from the rain. Whatever I have to accomplish that day has a way of slipping to the back burner until I have had my chance to get drenched from head to toe.
So when the Connecticut thunderstorm rolled its way on in yesterday, it wasn't long before I was standing out in the yard, arms outstretched towards the sky and mouth wide open. It wasn't long before raindrops were running off my chin and my elbows, and it certainly wasn't long before I was running around the yard giggling in delight.
Eventually, the runner in me put forward a convincing argument and I found myself racing through the rivers we had once called streets. Cars driving by sent sheets of water crashing over my head, widening my smile and quickening my pace. When the rain let up, my feet eventually found their way back home, where I discovered my little brother quietly playing in a mud puddle by himself.
I couldn't resist.
We chased each other around the yard with handfuls of mud in a game of "mud frow," we splashed in the puddle to our hearts' content, and smeared in a little extra mud where things just looked too clean.
 |
| "But I don't want to take a bath!" |
A combination of cross country and childhood has instilled a necessity to smear mud all over me whenever I happen upon it. Good mud should not go to waste, and I firmly believe that faces are happiest when they have wars stripes painted on them. Mud should be shared, and so should experiences--so should lives.
Rain and mud are just a chance to let go. To forget about obligations and stresses and fears, to stop trying to uphold an image and just be. Just live. Just experience. And, in the process, share it with someone else.
I guess you could say that's childish of me. But, to be entirely honest, it's likely that I'll always be a child in this regard. I simply can't see myself ever growing out of this.
Because some things just die hard.
Some things are habits, and some things you just love. Some things, however silly they may be, are a part of who you are. They make up who you are.
And you know what?
I'm okay with that.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Shot.
Okay, let's just establish something right now. I really am the lone, wounded gazelle, wandering around the Serengeti. (Recall this post if you're confused.)
Today, as I sat in peaceful solitude in a secret, unnamed place on campus--remaining secret and unnamed so that none of you can come and disturb me in my peace and solitude--a car drove by. Okay, given the location, that wasn't terribly out of the ordinary. However, the woman sitting in the passenger seat was practically falling out of the window as she leaned out with her gigantic camera, snapping shots of who even knows what.
I'm sure she wasn't taking pictures of me. I mean, there was a lovely little bit of landscaping behind me, and I'm just a student lounging around in my natural habitat. Nothing special. But then again, I'm sure the gazelles think the exact same thing.
In the end, we'll probably never know.
Today, as I sat in peaceful solitude in a secret, unnamed place on campus--remaining secret and unnamed so that none of you can come and disturb me in my peace and solitude--a car drove by. Okay, given the location, that wasn't terribly out of the ordinary. However, the woman sitting in the passenger seat was practically falling out of the window as she leaned out with her gigantic camera, snapping shots of who even knows what.
I'm sure she wasn't taking pictures of me. I mean, there was a lovely little bit of landscaping behind me, and I'm just a student lounging around in my natural habitat. Nothing special. But then again, I'm sure the gazelles think the exact same thing.
In the end, we'll probably never know.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
I am Strong Enough.
There are days when everything is overwhelming. There are days when it's all too much, and all you can do is sit down and eat spoonful after spoonful of peanut butter and chocolate chips. There are days when all you need is a storm--pouring rain to wash everything away. And sometimes, on those days, the clouds will come.
But sometimes they don't.
I turned the shower into a rainstorm. An absolute downpour. I stood with my face in the stream, coming in so fast that I hardly had time to get a breath before my mouth filled with warm, soothing, cleansing water. And as I stood there, barely breathing, I remembered something.
We were sitting in Stats 121 auditorium last semester, waiting among 700 other students for class to start. "I love seeing the moms go back to school," she said, as a woman in her 30s walked down the aisle a few rows down. The truth of that statement resonated within me. I remembered a time before.
Sitting outside the testing center--panicked as I studied for my first test of college. More like crammed. More like stared blankly at the heaping pile of notes I had yet to memorize. Somehow, through the frenzy, I entered a conversation with another freshman girl and a back-to-school mom. She made the both of us swear that we would graduate now, that we wouldn't let anything stop us. "Don't let those boys sweet talk you finishing later," she counseled us, "And do NOT start popping out those babies until you have graduated." Finish now, she told us. Before we have a family to look over, and bigger bills to pay. Before we're asked to commit to more than planning a church activity once a semester. Before life gets even crazier. And, as she spoke, I remembered something else.
I remembered my mom, being that very same. She was once the back-to-school mom. She was the one walking down the aisles of the classroom, waiting for class to begin. She was the one sitting outside the testing center, dreading walking up those two flights of stairs and handing over her student ID card. She may have been counseling young girls like me, I don't know. But what I do know is that with every step that she took on this very campus, she was an example and a source of strength to everyone around her--especially the young girls, just starting out and feeling very overwhelmed. I know because that is what those moms are to me now. They're a symbol of hope, in a way. They remind me that I can do it, that there is a very real and a very important purpose in it all. That life will certainly get harder, but it will also get better. They remind me that beauty always increases, and that we never stop seeking growth in ourselves--not for anything.
When my mom graduated from Brigham Young University, I was in middle school, and I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of what she had just accomplished. I got a new dress, we took a billion pictures, and we probably celebrated with a delicious meal at some point or another. It was an exciting day, and, despite the fact that I had no idea what she overcame, I was proud of my mom.
I've never been one to draw strength from those that came before me. I guess it was never much comfort knowing that someone else could do something, because their circumstances and situations and entire persons were completely different than mine. But as I stood there, face aimed straight into the shower head, tears of gratitude mixed in with the water pouring down my face. I thought of those moms--I thought of my mom--and I knew that I was strong enough. I knew that there was a purpose. I knew that I not only could overcome, but there was a reason to overcome. That I am working towards something bigger and more beautiful than what I have eyes to see right now.
For the first time in my life, I have found comfort, power, and motivation in the words, "If she can do it, so can I." So thank you, Mom, for living the rainstorm that washed away my doubts. You have shaped me in more ways than you know.
But sometimes they don't.
I turned the shower into a rainstorm. An absolute downpour. I stood with my face in the stream, coming in so fast that I hardly had time to get a breath before my mouth filled with warm, soothing, cleansing water. And as I stood there, barely breathing, I remembered something.
We were sitting in Stats 121 auditorium last semester, waiting among 700 other students for class to start. "I love seeing the moms go back to school," she said, as a woman in her 30s walked down the aisle a few rows down. The truth of that statement resonated within me. I remembered a time before.
Sitting outside the testing center--panicked as I studied for my first test of college. More like crammed. More like stared blankly at the heaping pile of notes I had yet to memorize. Somehow, through the frenzy, I entered a conversation with another freshman girl and a back-to-school mom. She made the both of us swear that we would graduate now, that we wouldn't let anything stop us. "Don't let those boys sweet talk you finishing later," she counseled us, "And do NOT start popping out those babies until you have graduated." Finish now, she told us. Before we have a family to look over, and bigger bills to pay. Before we're asked to commit to more than planning a church activity once a semester. Before life gets even crazier. And, as she spoke, I remembered something else.
I remembered my mom, being that very same. She was once the back-to-school mom. She was the one walking down the aisles of the classroom, waiting for class to begin. She was the one sitting outside the testing center, dreading walking up those two flights of stairs and handing over her student ID card. She may have been counseling young girls like me, I don't know. But what I do know is that with every step that she took on this very campus, she was an example and a source of strength to everyone around her--especially the young girls, just starting out and feeling very overwhelmed. I know because that is what those moms are to me now. They're a symbol of hope, in a way. They remind me that I can do it, that there is a very real and a very important purpose in it all. That life will certainly get harder, but it will also get better. They remind me that beauty always increases, and that we never stop seeking growth in ourselves--not for anything.
When my mom graduated from Brigham Young University, I was in middle school, and I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of what she had just accomplished. I got a new dress, we took a billion pictures, and we probably celebrated with a delicious meal at some point or another. It was an exciting day, and, despite the fact that I had no idea what she overcame, I was proud of my mom.
I've never been one to draw strength from those that came before me. I guess it was never much comfort knowing that someone else could do something, because their circumstances and situations and entire persons were completely different than mine. But as I stood there, face aimed straight into the shower head, tears of gratitude mixed in with the water pouring down my face. I thought of those moms--I thought of my mom--and I knew that I was strong enough. I knew that there was a purpose. I knew that I not only could overcome, but there was a reason to overcome. That I am working towards something bigger and more beautiful than what I have eyes to see right now.
For the first time in my life, I have found comfort, power, and motivation in the words, "If she can do it, so can I." So thank you, Mom, for living the rainstorm that washed away my doubts. You have shaped me in more ways than you know.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Fresh Air
Windows closed.
In every sense. Well, maybe not every sense. I mean, it's not like all the opportunities in life are closed off or anything. But just that all of the windows in my apartment are always closed. The blinds, the windows themselves, closed.
And I just think that it's really odd. It's lovely outside. Why not let a little of the lovely in? You know?
Plus it's just really stuffy in here.
So, I've taken it upon myself to open windows as I go by. The moment my roommate leaves, I open our bedroom window. When I'm cooking in the kitchen, I open the kitchen window. I bask in the fresh air that doesn't smell like carpet cleaner and the stale stench of fragrant food still hanging thick days later. I hear the birds and the soft wind chimes. Ah, I think to myself, much better. And it is.
I leave the room for one reason or another, and by the time I've returned, the windows are closed again.
I can't help but laugh to myself. I just think it's funny.
In every sense. Well, maybe not every sense. I mean, it's not like all the opportunities in life are closed off or anything. But just that all of the windows in my apartment are always closed. The blinds, the windows themselves, closed.
And I just think that it's really odd. It's lovely outside. Why not let a little of the lovely in? You know?
Plus it's just really stuffy in here.
So, I've taken it upon myself to open windows as I go by. The moment my roommate leaves, I open our bedroom window. When I'm cooking in the kitchen, I open the kitchen window. I bask in the fresh air that doesn't smell like carpet cleaner and the stale stench of fragrant food still hanging thick days later. I hear the birds and the soft wind chimes. Ah, I think to myself, much better. And it is.
I leave the room for one reason or another, and by the time I've returned, the windows are closed again.
I can't help but laugh to myself. I just think it's funny.
Monday, April 23, 2012
{Nostalgia} Raw Feet
I remember that feeling--raw feet. The asphalt, hot and rough, is blistering my heels, my toes. But I can't put shoes on. Not now. It's summer.
Instead I move over to the grass. It's still early enough that dew drops remain on each blade, waiting to be melted off, licking my sore feet as I drag them along in the coolness of it all.
I spent all of last summer that way. Barefoot on the sidewalk, grass, hilltops. Barefoot everywhere. Racing up the dirt pathway to see who could see the sunset first, and leaving our shoes far behind. We ran through the nights in the company of the every-so-often streetlight, giving the world a yellowish tint.
We ran marathons, we hiked hikes, we splashed through rivers and tromped through the remaining snow. We smiled a lot and laughed even more, and the majority of it all was absolute bliss. I spent the summer with some of the best people around.
Those raw feet told stories. They held memories. With each scrape, with each blister, with each line of dirt, something had happened to put it there. Each came from a step that I had taken, a place that I had been. Each came from running around and playing make-believe, they came from chasing after dreams and ambitions. They came from chasing memories, too.
Last summer was an adventure.
The summer adventure is just around the corner, and I wonder what it will have in store for me this year. A little classes, a whole lot of Econ, some settling into a new home, and a lot of friend making. An airplane flight, far too much humidity, and a home without air conditioning. Mosquitoes and fireflies, some big bears, and the occasional woodchuck sightings.
I'm not entirely sure what this summer has in store for me. But I sure hope it involves raw feet, the soles blacked with stories and adventures.
Instead I move over to the grass. It's still early enough that dew drops remain on each blade, waiting to be melted off, licking my sore feet as I drag them along in the coolness of it all.
I spent all of last summer that way. Barefoot on the sidewalk, grass, hilltops. Barefoot everywhere. Racing up the dirt pathway to see who could see the sunset first, and leaving our shoes far behind. We ran through the nights in the company of the every-so-often streetlight, giving the world a yellowish tint.
We ran marathons, we hiked hikes, we splashed through rivers and tromped through the remaining snow. We smiled a lot and laughed even more, and the majority of it all was absolute bliss. I spent the summer with some of the best people around.
Those raw feet told stories. They held memories. With each scrape, with each blister, with each line of dirt, something had happened to put it there. Each came from a step that I had taken, a place that I had been. Each came from running around and playing make-believe, they came from chasing after dreams and ambitions. They came from chasing memories, too.
Last summer was an adventure.
The summer adventure is just around the corner, and I wonder what it will have in store for me this year. A little classes, a whole lot of Econ, some settling into a new home, and a lot of friend making. An airplane flight, far too much humidity, and a home without air conditioning. Mosquitoes and fireflies, some big bears, and the occasional woodchuck sightings.
I'm not entirely sure what this summer has in store for me. But I sure hope it involves raw feet, the soles blacked with stories and adventures.
----------------------------------
Conference Weekly here.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
{Nostalgia} The Reality of Reality
I didn't sleep that night.
I was too busy shoving everything I owned into white trash bags and plastic bins.
My move-in time was 6 AM, it was about midnight, and I had only just begun packing. My mind was intensely focused on those trash bags--on my clothes going into them, on the stack of my belongings growing in the corner. Somewhere in the very back of my mind was that nagging, that fear. I guess you could really just call it reality. But I was so determined to ignore that uncertainty that I buried myself deeper and deeper into those garbage bags, furiously packing, with an occasional pause to look around, to reminisce.
I lived with my aunt and uncle that summer. About 20 minutes from where all the goings on were happening, since everyone I knew hadn't moved to Springville with me. I worked full time at my dad's dental office, and kept one of every kind of outfit in the trunk of my car. In hindsight, I realize that reality came more gradually than it felt like it did. It just pretended to not see it until it was all that I could see--shielding my eyes to everything but the last speck of innocence until that, too, had faded.
I was scared. I didn't admit it to myself or anyone else, but I was absolutely terrified. So much was ahead, and I didn't know anything. At 5 AM, my sister and I loaded up my uncle's old beater truck, and I spent the entire 20 minute drive in filled with an emotion that came nothing short of ecstasy because I had so missed driving a stick shift. We pulled into the lonely parking lot, and spent a good half an hour searching for someone--anyone--who could help me check into my new home for the next eight months.
I didn't want to call the number that was posted on every single door. I didn't want anyone to have to wake up at my expense. But, when it had been long enough, I finally caved under the logic that the phone number was posted for a reason. Five minutes later, an RA had walked me through the basic mechanics of a fire extinguisher, and I had a key to my apartment.
We made it into the apartment just fine. But, try as I might, I could not get the key to turn in my bedroom door. I sheepishly called that poor man again, asking if there was a magic trick to make the door open. He came to help and quickly informed me that I was trying to open the wrong door.
Tori will never let me live that down.
The reality of it all is that it was always reality. Every moment just as real as the next. Every moment growing and climbing and learning. Falling, too. In fear or inadequacy. But always picking back up and continuing onward.
Still, this moment felt especially real. Starting something absolutely new. I was on my own, but I came armed with a drive to succeed that came from who knows where. I guess I'll have to find it again, though, because this is going to happen all over again on Monday.
And even though I've done it before, I don't feel any less afraid.
I was too busy shoving everything I owned into white trash bags and plastic bins.
My move-in time was 6 AM, it was about midnight, and I had only just begun packing. My mind was intensely focused on those trash bags--on my clothes going into them, on the stack of my belongings growing in the corner. Somewhere in the very back of my mind was that nagging, that fear. I guess you could really just call it reality. But I was so determined to ignore that uncertainty that I buried myself deeper and deeper into those garbage bags, furiously packing, with an occasional pause to look around, to reminisce.
I lived with my aunt and uncle that summer. About 20 minutes from where all the goings on were happening, since everyone I knew hadn't moved to Springville with me. I worked full time at my dad's dental office, and kept one of every kind of outfit in the trunk of my car. In hindsight, I realize that reality came more gradually than it felt like it did. It just pretended to not see it until it was all that I could see--shielding my eyes to everything but the last speck of innocence until that, too, had faded.
I was scared. I didn't admit it to myself or anyone else, but I was absolutely terrified. So much was ahead, and I didn't know anything. At 5 AM, my sister and I loaded up my uncle's old beater truck, and I spent the entire 20 minute drive in filled with an emotion that came nothing short of ecstasy because I had so missed driving a stick shift. We pulled into the lonely parking lot, and spent a good half an hour searching for someone--anyone--who could help me check into my new home for the next eight months.
I didn't want to call the number that was posted on every single door. I didn't want anyone to have to wake up at my expense. But, when it had been long enough, I finally caved under the logic that the phone number was posted for a reason. Five minutes later, an RA had walked me through the basic mechanics of a fire extinguisher, and I had a key to my apartment.
We made it into the apartment just fine. But, try as I might, I could not get the key to turn in my bedroom door. I sheepishly called that poor man again, asking if there was a magic trick to make the door open. He came to help and quickly informed me that I was trying to open the wrong door.
Tori will never let me live that down.
 |
| This is my, "What are you doing over there?" face. |
The reality of it all is that it was always reality. Every moment just as real as the next. Every moment growing and climbing and learning. Falling, too. In fear or inadequacy. But always picking back up and continuing onward.
Still, this moment felt especially real. Starting something absolutely new. I was on my own, but I came armed with a drive to succeed that came from who knows where. I guess I'll have to find it again, though, because this is going to happen all over again on Monday.
And even though I've done it before, I don't feel any less afraid.
---------------------------------
Conference Weekly talk found here.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Baby Steppin' it Along
Like the ever-diligent college student that I know you all believe me to be, I woke up long before the sun rose a few mornings ago to write my second to last paper of the entire semester. While persistently writing, I took a wake-myself-back-up break and searched my kitchen for any food that might have my name written on it. I hadn't (and still haven't) gone shopping for food to put in my freezer for quite some time, but I thought I'd check again. Just in case.
And you know what? Normally all I see is my roommates' ice cream and frozen goodies. But oh, this day was different. For on this day at precisely 5:43 in the AM (maybe not quite so precisely, but around that timeish) I discovered this little beauty:
Words will never be adequately capable of describing the excitement I felt. I simply could NOT wait until it was lunchtime and I could gobble down this microwavable delicacy. But I had to. I mean, there are papers to be written, classes to be attended, and breakfast to eat before it was time for lunch. My goodness, I couldn't just skip straight ahead to lunch with so many things to accomplish beforehand!
But eventually lunch did come. However, I have a question for you all. Maybe you have more wisdom than I. As I read the instructions for cooking my meal in the microwave oven (I contemplated the conventional oven for all of 30 seconds, when I realized that my roommate was already using the oven and I would have to wait an additional 12 minutes to the already prescribed 25 of cooking), I came across some...interesting instructions. I thought I'd share the joy.
And I quote:
--Now wait just a minute, I do not speak Spanish. How am I supposed to underst...oh, I found the English instructions. Here we are:
And you know what? Normally all I see is my roommates' ice cream and frozen goodies. But oh, this day was different. For on this day at precisely 5:43 in the AM (maybe not quite so precisely, but around that timeish) I discovered this little beauty:
Words will never be adequately capable of describing the excitement I felt. I simply could NOT wait until it was lunchtime and I could gobble down this microwavable delicacy. But I had to. I mean, there are papers to be written, classes to be attended, and breakfast to eat before it was time for lunch. My goodness, I couldn't just skip straight ahead to lunch with so many things to accomplish beforehand!
But eventually lunch did come. However, I have a question for you all. Maybe you have more wisdom than I. As I read the instructions for cooking my meal in the microwave oven (I contemplated the conventional oven for all of 30 seconds, when I realized that my roommate was already using the oven and I would have to wait an additional 12 minutes to the already prescribed 25 of cooking), I came across some...interesting instructions. I thought I'd share the joy.
And I quote:
- Cort y retirela la película que cubre el filete de--
--Now wait just a minute, I do not speak Spanish. How am I supposed to underst...oh, I found the English instructions. Here we are:
- Cut and remove film cover from beef steak and potatoes. Microwave on HIGH 3 minutes.
- Stir potatoes. Microwave an additional 2 to 2 1/2 minutes. Microwave ovens below 1100 watt may require additional cook time to reach proper temperature.
- Let stand 2 minutes. CAREFULLY remove as PRODUCT WILL BE HOT.
- Check that product is cooked thoroughly. Internal temperature needs to reach 165ºF as measured by a food thermometer in several spots.
Now, I would just like to explain the things that are my favorite about these instructions. I would also like to continue to phrase my sentences as awkwardly as possible.
Moving on.
I am a big fan of the words that they have chosen to bold or type in ALL CAPS. But it makes me wonder, if those words are the most important, shouldn't we just save on ink and only print those words?
- Cut remove Microwave HIGH
- Stir Microwave Microwave ovens below 1100 watt
And so on. Let's be considerate of the environment here, people.
My other favorite part of these highly informative instructions is the small print found on Steps 2 and 4. I know I memorized my microwave oven wattage the moment I set foot in my apartment--safety first. And I'm sure that, by now, we are all aware of the fact that a food thermometer is a must-have when it comes to microwave dinners. Again, safety first.
Oh! While I'm on the safety track, don't forget to wear your helmets, safety belts, turn off the sink while brushing your teeth, and look both ways when you cross the street. Barney has a song to teach you about the importance of these things, so if you can't quite remember why it's important, contact me and I can provide you with a catchy little ditty to help you out.
Oh! While I'm on the safety track, don't forget to wear your helmets, safety belts, turn off the sink while brushing your teeth, and look both ways when you cross the street. Barney has a song to teach you about the importance of these things, so if you can't quite remember why it's important, contact me and I can provide you with a catchy little ditty to help you out.
Let's just baby step our way on through life, shall we?
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Among the Interference Patterns and Entropy
Student: Is there a review PowerPoint online for the final?
Professor: This is it. It's not a very good review though, there's just no way that I could fit all of the review into one PowerPoint. It's best to just go though each unit's review PowerPoint and study that way.
It's always comforting to hear your professor say that there is so much material to cover for the final that he couldn't possibly fit it into one PowerPoint. He's demonstrating to us that he sees our vast potential to retain knowledge and understand the world around us!
It's a good thing that I strangely find the contents of my massive Physical Science book fascinating, otherwise this could be an incredibly stressful remainder of the week.
Professor: This is it. It's not a very good review though, there's just no way that I could fit all of the review into one PowerPoint. It's best to just go though each unit's review PowerPoint and study that way.
It's always comforting to hear your professor say that there is so much material to cover for the final that he couldn't possibly fit it into one PowerPoint. He's demonstrating to us that he sees our vast potential to retain knowledge and understand the world around us!
It's a good thing that I strangely find the contents of my massive Physical Science book fascinating, otherwise this could be an incredibly stressful remainder of the week.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
His Divine Sacrifice
Snapshots and quotes from a weekend of love, inspiration, devotion, and revelation. We are lead by living prophets by a loving and living Savior. For more about General Conference, go here.
To read any of the full addresses from which the following quotes are taken, visit this link. [The quotes come in the same order as the list.]
"Sometimes the most powerful way to teach our children to understand a doctrine is to teach in the context of what they are experiencing right at that moment."
-Sister Cheryl A. Esplin
"The Lord wants the members of His Church to be fully converted to His gospel."
-President Donald L. Hallstrom
"The feeling of love from our Heavenly Father is like a gravitational pull from heaven. As we remove the distractions that pull us toward the world and exercise our agency to seek Him, we open our hearts to a celestial force which draws us toward Him."
-Elder Paul E. Koelliker
"I am confident that our Heavenly Father's arms are constantly extended, ever ready to embrace each one of us and say to each one with that quiet, piercing voice, 'I love you.'"
-Elder Paul E. Koelliker
"Knowing what my Savior did for me--His grace in suffering for my sins and in overcoming death so I can live again--I feel privileged to make the small sacrifice I am asked to make in His service."
-Elder Dallin H. Oaks
"It is never too late to strengthen the foundation of faith. There is always time."
-President Henry B. Eyring
"His concern is for the faith at which you finally arrive, not the hour of the day in which you got there."
-Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
"Let the redemptive, loving power of Jesus Christ brighten your life now and fill you with the hope of eternal promise. Take courage. Have faith and hope. Consider the present with fortitude and look to the future with confidence."
-Elder David S. Baxter
"You can't be right by doing wrong; you can't be wrong by doing right."
-President Thomas S. Monson
[quoted by Elder Ulisses Soares]
"Mothers and fathers praying with children may be more important than any other example."
-Elder Quentin L. Cook
"Persistence is the answer, and a sense of humor helps."
-Elder Quentin L. Cook
"I'm grateful that that same support can come from a beloved companion on the other side of the veil. Thank you, Jeanene."
-Elder Richard G. Scott
"When it comes to hating, gossiping, ignoring, ridiculing, holding grudges, or wanting to cause harm, please apply the following: Stop it!"
-President Dieter F. Uchtdorf
"For the Atonement of the Lord and His gift of resurrection--for this sublime message of Easter--thanks be to God!"
-Elder Russell M. Nelson
"Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where do we go after this life? No longer need these universal questions remain unanswered."
-President Thomas S. Monson
"Remove any of your fear with faith. Trust in the power of God to guide you."
-Elder M. Russell Ballard
"Of all the help we can give ... young people, the greatest will be to let them feel our confidence and that they are on the path home to God and that they can make it."
-President Henry B. Eyring
[quoted by Elder Larry Y. Wilson]
"As you ask, 'What thinks Christ of me?' you will know that you are His disciple; you are His friend. By His grace He will do for you what you cannot do for yourself."
-Elder Neil L. Andersen
"I assure you that our Heavenly Father is mindful of the challenges we face. He loves each of us and desires to bless us and help us. May we call upon Him in prayer."
-President Thomas S. Monson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)