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.
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nostalgia. Show all posts
Friday, July 20, 2012
Monday, April 30, 2012
{Nostalgia} Humidity
It was dark. When we first arrived at our 6 week home in Hawaii, we couldn't see a thing. So we let the sound, the smell, the feel guide us. The swelling of the ocean pulled us in.
Our feet hit the sand, and we ran until our toes felt the washing of the waves. Giggling in excitement, we breathed in the heavy, humid air in loonnng, drawn out breaths. In, out. In, out.
Like the waves.
An oceanside summer. It took some time for me to adjust to breathing in so much humidity--at first it felt so oppressing. Like I was being suffocated, like I was trying to breathe through a thick, down pillow. But I soon didn't notice.
The sun was hot. I woke up at 4 AM every day to get some miles in before the sun rose. Even still, I came back with my long ponytail dripping and flicking sweat every which way. I finished every run by kicking off my shoes, dropping my watch, and collapsing into the cool ocean water once the resistance was too much for me to fight.
I read. They were summer reading assignments for my classes that year--The Hobbit and 1776. More often than not, I fell asleep in the process. To the steady, soft sound of the ocean waves in the background.
I probably didn't appreciate the opportunity as much as I could have. I certainly was convinced that it was of the utmost importance that I spend a significant amount of time inside, reading those books with the fans blasting in attempts to combat the stifling heat of the upstairs bedroom. I could have enjoyed the ocean a little more, I could have spent more time with my family. I could have done a lot of things differently.
Still, I look back on that vacation fondly. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I have many wonderful memories of sunrises reflecting off the temple window, Angel's shave ice, and walk after slow walk with my mom.
And I guess that's how life always is. Filled with moments that could have been better appreciated, but generally composed of memories that make it all worthwhile. It's like humidity, looking back. At first it's overwhelming. But as time goes on, you begin to find comfort in it. It becomes soothing. And before you know it, you don't even notice anymore.
Our feet hit the sand, and we ran until our toes felt the washing of the waves. Giggling in excitement, we breathed in the heavy, humid air in loonnng, drawn out breaths. In, out. In, out.
Like the waves.
An oceanside summer. It took some time for me to adjust to breathing in so much humidity--at first it felt so oppressing. Like I was being suffocated, like I was trying to breathe through a thick, down pillow. But I soon didn't notice.
The sun was hot. I woke up at 4 AM every day to get some miles in before the sun rose. Even still, I came back with my long ponytail dripping and flicking sweat every which way. I finished every run by kicking off my shoes, dropping my watch, and collapsing into the cool ocean water once the resistance was too much for me to fight.
I read. They were summer reading assignments for my classes that year--The Hobbit and 1776. More often than not, I fell asleep in the process. To the steady, soft sound of the ocean waves in the background.
I probably didn't appreciate the opportunity as much as I could have. I certainly was convinced that it was of the utmost importance that I spend a significant amount of time inside, reading those books with the fans blasting in attempts to combat the stifling heat of the upstairs bedroom. I could have enjoyed the ocean a little more, I could have spent more time with my family. I could have done a lot of things differently.
Still, I look back on that vacation fondly. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I have many wonderful memories of sunrises reflecting off the temple window, Angel's shave ice, and walk after slow walk with my mom.
And I guess that's how life always is. Filled with moments that could have been better appreciated, but generally composed of memories that make it all worthwhile. It's like humidity, looking back. At first it's overwhelming. But as time goes on, you begin to find comfort in it. It becomes soothing. And before you know it, you don't even notice anymore.
--------------------------------
Conference weekly talk found here.
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.
Monday, April 9, 2012
{Nostalgia} Capable of the World
Balloons, candles, all things blue and orange. It was my teammate and best friend's birthday--and it was a big race. Little trinkets to celebrate. Scripture mastery showdowns. I remember.
I had potential to do well that day. I had the drive. I had nothing to fear, I knew nothing but hope. The world was still new.
I remember the dew on the pristine golf course lawn. I remember the tension, the excitement in the air. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw up. I just wanted to run.
I was running the frosh race. We started our warm up late and couldn't get a cheer in before the start, so we did it in the first straightaway. The gun shot off, and so did we:
I had potential to do well that day. I had the drive. I had nothing to fear, I knew nothing but hope. The world was still new.
I remember the dew on the pristine golf course lawn. I remember the tension, the excitement in the air. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw up. I just wanted to run.
I was running the frosh race. We started our warm up late and couldn't get a cheer in before the start, so we did it in the first straightaway. The gun shot off, and so did we:
Where do we come from? We come from T-I-M-P-V-I-E-W, orange white and blue!
We settled into the stillness of footsteps and heartbeats. The top 20 of each race got an award, and I was going to get one of those--I had decided. I ran hard. Step by step, I was keeping with the top girls. I ran past the spectators, I ran around the cones. Step by step, I was behind the rabbit--a golf cart. And I was tired. Somewhere in that middle mile, I lost the pack. I fought to close the gap. My lungs ached for air, my legs begged for rest, and still my heart longed to keep pace.
I crossed the finish line. Relief not quite as sweet as I had imagined for the past 23-something minutes. Clinging to the flimsy flags of the chute, I knew that I had run harder than ever before. Waiting for the lightheadedness and nausea to pass, I knew I had finished a few places behind 20.
But I had set a goal, I had gone after it with my whole heart. I later learned how to run even harder, even faster. This was the wake up moment. This was the time I first knew to push past pain for something more lasting. This was my first race.
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In other news, there are exactly enough talks from General Conference to take one every week until the next session in October. I hereby declare the beginnings of Conference Weekly--a more directed attempt to bring the words of the prophets into my life.
View President Boyd K. Packer's address here.
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