Keep Faith

As I lay in bed the other night, not quite ready to fall asleep, I went through the meager photo gallery on my phone. I deleted a few pictures and reset my wallpaper with a picture of a picture of my aunt's cat dressed as James Bond I'd taken a couple weeks ago when we were visiting my grandmother over Christmas. The picture that had previously graced my phone background since the beginning of December was one featuring a quote my friend Erica had forwarded to me in light of a low point at the end of the semester.

Because of the quote wallpaper, I had had to delete the text banner I'd had on my phone. So, naturally, when the cat James Bond picture was put up, I went back into my settings to reset the banner. What I've always wanted to have--but never have had the space for because the banner is limited to a certain number of characters--is "Keep each other safe. Keep faith. Goodnight," the closing to Potterwatch in the Harry Potter books (which was thus adapted by the amazing PotterCast as their closing). Shortening it to just "Keep safe. Keep faith" was still too long. I tried fitting the simplified phrase in again in the hope that it would somehow fit, but to no avail. So, as I'd had to do before, I typed in "Keep faith" and hit save.

The last year and a half has provided its share of both high points and low points. For the most part, I feel in close to the same place as I did in my last post; things seem much more complicated while I feel simultaneously better equipped to understand what makes up my anxiety and depression. In August I started grad school, which has improved things to some extent. My experiences thus far have provided an enormous but not unexpected amount of challenges, but overall I feel happy. Fall semester was rough, but I feel stronger for it.

And yet new anxieties have set in alongside those that were there last year. While I find myself more hopeful, I'm navigating new and different concerns, and it has continued to take its toll in the form of anti-peptalks and nights I cry myself to sleep. I haven't been writing as I've wanted to, as evidenced by the fact that my novel is still comprised of character notes and freewriting in addition to the lack of posts on this blog over the last year. It's been hard to overcome the negative head spaces. That's not to say that I haven't been writing, because I've done some solid writing, especially since school started. I'm thankful for it. But despite this, I know I have a long way to go, both with writing and everything else in life, because the funk has seemed to slip into everything else, too.

Last week was New Years. I spent it with the old roomies. It was a fantastic holiday following a much better Christmas than last year, and it was good to just be and catch up with my friends, most of whom I hadn't seen in months. I talked to them about what had been going on, about school, the quarter-life crisis, my fears, worries, everything. One of the girls pointed out, "You have to stop looking at it negatively; it's not that you have a long way to go. It's in how far you've come already."

Truth be told, I haven't had much faith in myself or in my own abilities lately. I didn't really realize it until New Years, when I was spending quality time with my friends and making up resolutions for 2014. The combination of anxiety and depression has manifested itself into my insecurities and made things so much harder, and I've let all the negative thoughts carry me off into the void. What I've realized in the last week, though, is that it's that faith that needs to be restored. Things don't have to be perfect. Things will work out. Little by little, I am gaining confidence, and I can't let the insecurities of today that have built up with those of years past break down the strength I have.

I chose the "Keep Faith" banner because I liked the simplicity of it. It can mean many things beyond the context of the Potterwatch message. It is a daily reminder that I need faith in every way, keeping it close. It is the way I will navigate the dark days, and the way that I need to allow myself the benefit of the doubt. It is how I will love myself fully and unconditionally. It is protection. It is hope.

Baby Pink Platforms

A few days ago, my mother asked me--or rather, reminded me--to go through dresses and artwork for a garage sale our church back home is doing later this fall. It was something she'd mentioned to me before, but I hadn't done so the last time I was home and the deadline for having things ready was coming up fast. Another very brief trip home was in order.

I started going through artwork in the basement after I arrived earlier this afternoon, and that was...interesting. Some of it was stuff I'd forgotten I'd done, and the majority of the work was pretty weak from what I remembered. I joked to Mom that one of the pieces I'd chosen was from my "Blue Period," except that the drawing was horrible, and it happened to have been done during a really bad time in high school. At least Picasso's Blue Period produced beautiful, thoughtful work; I went through a period where I didn't care about what I was doing, and it is clear by looking at each and every piece.

The dress search was its own trip. I found one dress that I couldn't bear to part with; it is a deep mulberry color, one my mother made for me for my senior Winter Formal, that has a beautiful cut-out at the base of the skirt and lace stretching across the neckline. I told her I'd take it later, once I have room in my closet to keep it. I found the dress I wore to my high school graduation; it was never very comfortable and it poofed out strangely in front. The ball gown I'd worn to my senior prom, I finally decided, would be donated to the garage sale along with the graduation dress, a skirt I wore once or twice, and a couple of dance costumes.

When I was poking around my bedroom, I found a ton of things that brought back memory after memory. But then I found the platforms.

I'd gotten them at Wal-Mart when I was in junior high. They're baby pink--my favorite color at the time--and I wore them maybe once or twice. In fact, I don't even remember really wearing them--just admiring them, considering whether to wear them or not. Like, perhaps people would think I was trendy if I wore them.

The strangest thing about it all was the fact I'd found them the same weekend I repurchased the second Britney Spears' album, one that I have a love/hate relationship with. I listened to it again in its entirety yesterday, and it brought back memories of a group of friends I spent a lot of my time with in junior high, making up dances to each of the songs and listening to it for hours on end. Two of these friendships were especially toxic; one girl continuously brought me down, reminding me at every chance she could how much better she was at everything, and the other was close to the same, but she lived in my neighborhood and so we saw each other a lot until she decided to ignore me. And then, I entered high school and decided to spend more time in my room reading than socializing.  

One of the girls wore shoes much like this on a regular basis. It was her style, and I wanted to wear the same kind of stuff she did. I bought them hoping that she would approve, and that others at school would consider me trendy enough to spend time with. But I never really wore them.

This kind of nostalgia is something I'm not sure how to handle. At times it's great, because I can tap into the emotions easily when writing. I remember the good things about being that age, about wanting to wear makeup and nailpolish and getting prettied up, feeling as beautiful as Britney or Beyonce or the girls from B*Witched. I've talked a little bit about this before. I was reminded of it again earlier this week when I put in Hocus Pocus and my roommate and I were reminiscing about how different it was watching it as much later. There was something really exciting about growing up at the turn of the century. Listening to that music, watching those movies I loved as a kid--they all bring back the good things. Before the internet was something I depended on, when Disney Channel showed good movies and began airing shows that would stick with me for years to come. Every once and awhile, that mental journey is wonderful. I remember where I was, and how far I've come. 

Other times, however, it's somewhat depressing. At thirteen, I wasn't able to see how those friendships would break down my self-esteem, nor how I would think back on that experience often, understanding what it meant in my life. It puts me in a weird headspace, much like that when I read an old journal. 

But it keeps me thinking, wondering, discovering and rediscovering. I sang along to the album as I've listened to it this weekend, remember the things I love about it, as well as the things I don't. I even tried the baby pink platforms on, just to see how well they fit. And they did. I felt like a Spice Girl as soon as I buckled them. Baby Spice. She's the one who wore the platform shoes most often. 

I walked into the kitchen to show Mom. "Well, what do you think? How do I look?" I asked, striking a pose. 

Mom turned, glancing down at my feet. "Oh, yeah. Clunky."

I laughed, glancing down as well. My mulberry nail polish clashed with the pink in a strange way. "You're right. I gotta take these off."

Top of the World Without Flashlights

On the day of graduation back in May, after a rousing and hilarious game of Apples to Apples, my roommates and I and the remainder of our party guests decided to go to Top of the World* so that Abbey, Emma, and I could see it before we were "officially done" with undergraduate. So, we piled into two cars and followed Amanda up the hill to the outlook point.

Top of the World, if I'm explaining correctly, is a scenic outlook at the top of the tallest point in Manhattan. The hill can easily be identified by 'MANHATTAN' in very large letters that has been put into the side of the hill. Visitors can sit and observe the view from the letters, or take various trails that lead down the hill. The night of graduation was the first time I'd ever been there, so I was especially excited though I knew that it was probably the last time I'd get to spend time with Abbey before she left for Chicago.

Once we'd parked and realized that we'd forgotten flashlights--it was after dark--Amanda led us to the Manhattan sign, were there were two couples enjoying the view,** and we took a moment to enjoy the city at night, from Wal-Mart over to the other side of Tuttle Creek Boulevard.

"There's another place that I should show you, c'mon," Amanda said, leading us back up the path and into brush.

My phone was my only light source, and as soon as she headed what seemed in the dark as off the path, I got really nervous. Regardless, I followed Heidi and everyone else down another short path and up onto a wide expanse of concrete surrounded by trees. Here, we couldn't really see a good view of Manhattan because of all the trees, but we could see the stars. Granted, we couldn't see a lot because of the lights from the city, but there were a few that shone brightly enough for us to catch a glimpse of them.

There was a rustling in the brush bordering our viewpoint. Then there were noises. My scaredy-cat side thought we were minutes away from being attacked.

"Are you okay?" I asked Heidi, who was nearby.

"Yeah."

The others became louder. Emma and Amanda scoffed at the sounds, and Abbey was jumping around. Alisha was talking about Darren Criss. I stepped closer to Heidi.

"Seriously?!" I finally called out. It wasn't funny anymore. "This is immature. We are in college. GOD."

Amanda came over to me and placed her hands on my shoulders. "Heather, it's just those jerks we interrupted earlier. We are not going to be attacked. They got mad that we interrupted their make out session, and they're trying to get back at us."

"I KNOW," I shrieked. "But I have an overactive imagination that's going crazy right now. This is why I can't handle horror movies."

We made our way back to the outlook point by the parking lot, giggling, talking, and making jokes while trying to soak up every last delicious moment of what had been an amazing, wonderful day. It had been, truly, the best day, and as curfew came at 11pm, I was devastated that it was over. We said goodbyes to Abbey, exchanged hugs with one another and went our separate ways.

This summer, as far as I can remember, was probably the one that went by the fastest. I read a lot, worked, fine tuned my resume, applied for a few jobs. Packed. Moved into a wonderful little apartment that puts the Tiny Blue Room to shame a hundred times over. Classes have been in session for about two weeks, and it's been so incredibly strange not to be going on to campus. As I wait to hear from the jobs I applied for, I am trying to keep my head in the mindset of what I want to accomplish. Graduation day was so long ago, but it feels like it just happened. I'm thankful for the break, but I know I'll be ready to get back into the groove once graduate school gets here.

How strange time is.


*To this day, I'm not sure if it's officially called Top of the World or Manhattan Hill. For the sake of continuity in this post, I'm going to refer to it as Top of the World.

**They were making out. We were being loud. It was awkward.

Journaling Through Time

My sophomore English teacher required us to journal at the beginning of nearly every class period. He'd write a question in the corner of the marker board, and we'd write for five minutes exactly. The question must be answered, but we were allowed to talk about other things, if we so wished.

When I was home over the weekend, I came across the very Blue Books I'd written in for that semester and a half. Heidi and I took turns reading them before dinner yesterday. 

Me (when she picked up the other off my lap): You do know you are reading my personal, private journal that I wrote in class when I was fifteen? The one that only I (and Mr. Cook) know the contents of? 

Heidi: Yes. 

Heidi (later, jokingly): EW. You are rude: "My sister keeps telling me that she's planning something special for my b-day, but I figure that if she is, she'll probably forget. She does things like that." Well, now I know what you think of me. 

Reading the journals made me embarrassed not only for myself, but for my English teacher, who, I'm sure, had to read many of these hormone-ridden sob-fests over the years. (I'm sorry, Mr. Cook. I wish I'd written something more philosophical and interesting for you to read.) But mostly, I was intrigued, because I learned some important things. 

1. I repeatedly mentioned how I wished everyone would understand that my writing wasn't to gain vengeance on my classmates. (I wonder if I was paranoid.)
2. I tried (and failed) writing HP fanfic at 15. 
3. For the first chunk of journal, I mention the first two HP movies, but never by name. I can bet you fifty bucks that everyone (including my teacher) knew exactly what they were. 
4. There is a lot of this: "...THAT I AM NORMAL!! Well, kind of...maybe. I don't know" and this: "I can be an okay person if people would give me the time of day. Oh, and another reason I enjoy writing is because Heather has no social life, so she spends her time making up fantasy social lives so that she doesn't go insane with boredom." This is some of the most honest bits of the journal; I remember feeling this way every day. 
5. Above everything else, what I valued most in others (and prayed, in turn, others would value in me) was a good heart and good mind as opposed to a pretty face and hot bod. 
6. I talk a LOT about Prisoner of Azkaban movie (which, at the time, was to come out after that school year ended), Daniel Radcliffe, and Return of the King. 
7. The above, I realized, was because I needed a distraction to everything that was happening that year. And that year, truly, was a nightmare. I kept a lot of my feelings to myself. My emotions (and the events that affected them) were not safe in those blue booklets. 
8. As soon as my grandmother passed away that year, the entries spent a lot of time agonizing about how unfair life was. Her passing shattered everything. 
9. I was lonely. It becomes more evident as the journal progresses toward my 16th birthday, the age my parents told me I was allowed to begin dating. In relation to that, I was naive enough to think that there would be people lined up, waiting to date me. I don't think the loneliness was limited to romance, however. I mention my sister and my best friend, but I don't mention any of the other people I knew I hung out with in school. 

Out of curiosity, I pulled out the diary I kept for most of that year, just to compare the two. My real, private diary is a little more honest, but I know I kept things from it, too. The real diary contains better writing (at the beginning, before the entries become distracted with talk about crushes and movie stars). But there are correlations. Small ones, at that, but they're there. 

"God, I was such a drama queen," I declared as soon as I finished reading both booklets. Dad chuckled a little, and five minutes later, Mom let us know that dinner was ready.

A drama queen, yes. And yet the things I want to respond with: You will change your opinion of Buffy, though you technically won't see much more of the show than you have at this point. You will still be afraid of death, though you will fervently admire Emily Dickinson's view on the subject. Wait till you see DH parts 1 and 2 (and you will still love the HP books like there's no tomorrow, appreciating it more and more as you get older, for many reasons). For goodness sake, read Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson and The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky. And you will certainly meet some beautiful, wonderful human beings who love you, and whom you will love in return; these people will stick themselves to you like glue. 

And so on. There are, of course, a few other things I'd add, but I would probably keep them to myself. Because I have to learn things, and grow. 

Treading and Geraniums

When my upstairs roomie came back from work today, I greeted her with a big smile and threw my arms out. "I AM MAKING US DINNER," I announced.

She gave me a worried look.

"What?" I asked her, my smile falling. "Seriously, it'll be good. And it'll use up some of the stuff from the freezer so we don't have to move it next month. I called my mom and she gave me a recipe suggestion."

Her face didn't change at all.

Ultimately, I screwed up the baked potatoes. I forgot to poke them, and they were still a little hard in the middle. I had to reheat mine in the microwave. The chicken was kind of dry (though I encounter this problem whenever I heat up/bake chicken), but the salsa and seasonings tasted all right. My roomie didn't say anything about how she felt about the meal, only answering with an indifferent "fine" when I asked her how the chicken was.

I came out of the experience knowing that my roomie thought my cooking skills were appalling.* But I suppose it doesn't matter that much.

I leave the Tiny Blue Room in a month and a half. The room after the Tiny Blue Room will likely be the same size or even smaller. I don't trust my memory of how big the room really is. It will be, after all, a mere corner of the apartment I'm moving into with my roommate. There is much I have yet to pare down, and it's already halfway through June.

Another of my roomies, Amanda, brought me back a geranium from her work a few weeks ago. She works in a flower shop and has been bringing back ferns, flower arrangements, and just today, a Venus fly trap, for us to enjoy and care for. I was excited about the geranium. I've been trying not to over-water it and pulling off the browning leaves every few days. When we move, I want to put it just outside our door so it can enjoy the fresh air. 

Life after something so ingrained is almost bizarre. Everything seems so much more domestic, much more alien to the senses. The plants need to be watered. Walking the dog doesn't have to be a chore. Cooking is suddenly something that can actually be done, most of the time, but mostly it seems nearly impossible. Time between, before, and after work shifts must be used wisely. Evenings have become open. What is this strange stasis I've found myself in?

The crazy thing is that it's not really a stasis at all. It's more transitionary. I'm trying to adjust myself to the schedule of a graduate. A lot of my college friends have moved: Crystal is in Indiana, Whitney and Abbey in Illinois, others have or soon will be returning to their respective hometowns or new homes in far off places. I've just started the job search and will soon be diving into the grad school application process. Time seems to work differently, now. Things don't work per semester in the real world. I wonder if it's more by season, or perhaps the days meld together in one big clump and the only way to know the date is by the weather when you leave for your lunch break.

I know I'll be glad to get back into the learning mode whenever I start grad school. But for now, I'll enjoy writing, drawing, and adjusting to this new life. Especially evenings like tonight, in which Amanda suggests making pina coladas and indulging in both chips and salsa and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Which, of course, is a delicious combination.



*With that being said, another of my roomies tried the chicken and liked it. When I make the recipe again, I'll know what to do and what not to do.

Parallels

I like to believe that things tend to come full circle. Or, at least, most of the way around.

During my first week of college classes, I was trying to adjust to the work load. I spent my first day of my history class nodding and nodding and nodding at everything the teacher said when talking through the syllabus. I was devastated that by that Friday, I hadn't finished reading Pride and Prejudice for my first English class (entitled "The Novel"). I did eventually finish the book, about three weeks later, and loved it.* Everything was bright and strange and weird. I'd also fooled myself into thinking that riding my bike to class and getting up at 6:30 every morning was how I was going to spend my time every day of every semester.

This past week was my last official week of classes as an undergraduate. On Monday, I spent a good three hours working on my final illustration project (an illustration of Emma Watson that turned out a lot better than I thought it would), fighting exhaustion from only a few hours of sleep the night before. On Tuesday, I finished up the drawings for my final drawing series as well as the illustration project, and made it home early enough to watch the new Glee episode with Alisha. On Wednesday, I tried to focus my attention on the rough draft of my drawing thesis paper, and wrote late into the night, as has been my tendency with papers. Thursday was a blur of a critique in drawing, which promptly turned into a nightmare when I got frazzled trying to navigate Photoshop and InDesign while working on my portfolio in BFA studio. I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday, angry at myself for not being as talkative as I would have liked.

Friday was my last official day of class. Work was work. Someone brought up Scooter Girl before Advanced Fiction and a thousand memories of my first years in the dorms came rushing back to me. We ate cookies (beautiful, delicious, non-alcoholic confections called 'cookie shots') while singing loudly to the tune of the graduation march while my Creative Writing professor handed out congratulatory cards from the English department to those who were graduating. And then she said her goodbyes, we did TEVALS, and it was done.

As I was walking through the quad on my way back to my car, I witnessed, finally, a group of the tight-rope walkers. And I wanted to cry.

I went to Hunter's and Vicky's BFA reception. Their work in the gallery was INCREDIBLE. The English banquet later that night was beautiful and the finality of the semester really started to hit me. I was simultaneously lamenting the end of everything I'd grown to love over the last few years and eager to dive right into the next step: writing, reading, working, prep for grad school, the freedom from stress. Bittersweet, and understandably so. Being surrounded by friends and teachers and people who loved many of the same things I loved was the perfect way to end the semester. I'll miss it.

The more I think about everything I've experienced over the last six years, the more overwhelmed I become. I feel like I've been experiencing emotions I don't even have names for. But enough sentimentality.**

And then there was this afternoon, when I got a call from one of my oldest college friends, Jenna, as she was in town for the day and wanted to get together with Prairie and I. I met them at ColdStone, our favorite place to go together. We used to go there regularly the first few years of college before we got busy (nearly every Tuesday, when you could get a second Like It for $.25 with a student I.D.). Jenna gave me my graduation present, a gift card for ColdStone, and I ordered my usual, as was the tradition: Cookie Doughn't You Want Some, with extra napkins because it gets messy.


*I'm a slow reader. And that week I was really, really overwhelmed.

**I'm terribly sorry about the sap. I'm working on it.

Things

Life during the last month, some instances of which are in bullet points. 

• Our BFA reception was a few weeks ago, and it was lovely. I think I might have some kind of social anxiety, though, as there were a lot of people and I was very nervous and overwhelmed because it. We had a good turnout, and I was so happy that people were able to come see the show. 

• I'm very glad the show is over, but senioritis has hit me hard in the last week, and I still have a few things to finish up. I'm trying to stay motivated by not thinking about how in two and a half weeks, I will be graduating. 

• Today is one of those days in which music sounds really good. Which is nice, of course, because on Monday and Tuesday all I wanted to do was skip every song that came up on my shuffle. 

• As graduation approaches, I am feeling two different emotions: first, a sense of relief after what I've been able to accomplish and excitement at what is to come. I've never not been a student before in my life. This next year off (as I apply for graduate programs) should be interesting. Second, an oddly muted sense of sadness and nostalgia, because I fucking love this campus.  The people I've met and the faculty I've been able to learn from and the things that I've discovered about myself and my interests and life in general in addition to everything I've learned....That little part of me looks at things like how beautiful campus looks at this time of year and the experiences I've had in English and Art classes and Sigma Tau Delta and the place I've been to because of K-State and the sidewalk chalking and things like that, and suddenly all I want to do is curl into a little ball in the middle of the Quad and cry. Six years. I can't believe it. 

• I love thunderstorms, but not when the chance of tornadoes are involved. For about eight hours on the Saturday before last, I was convinced we were going to get hit, and hard. I went through my things, pulling things I wanted to ensure wouldn't get lost/damaged in the worst-case scenario and put them all into bags and toted them down to the basement. (My problem is that I over-worry. I tend to get carried away sometimes.) Luckily, we didn't have much worse than wind and other severe thunderstorm conditions. 

• I feel like I've experienced nearly every emotion known to man in the last four weeks. That's spring semester for you. 

• I had the urge to draw for kicks last night as I was looking for reference for my last illustration project, and it made me so incredibly happy, because that means I haven't learned to hate drawing. THE LAST TWO YEARS IN DRAWING HAVE NOT MADE ME HATE IT. I think this calls for a celebration!

• Last night's Glee was especially good, but it made my heart hurt, like, a lot. Before, of course, things got better in the end (I was really head-over-heels in love with the episode). So many feelings as of late....

• Two things I have been (somewhat) silently obsessing over: My So-Called Life and One Direction. MSCL is wonderful. Seriously: a teen drama that features realistic, subtle drama, lovable characters, and the main character of Angela, who is insightful and wonderfully imperfect. The only show that I feel justified in comparing it to is what I've seen of Degrassi, but even then the two seem different to me. It's completely unlike anything I've seen, and so, so much more interesting and wonderful than a lot of the stuff I've seen on TV lately. As for One Direction...I can't seem to quit them. 

• This is the grooviest song/video I've ever heard/seen. In fact, Gotye's "Making Mirrors" album is beautiful. 

• Last year around this time I wrote about the tight-rope walkers. I haven't seen many ropes this spring, but I have seen tons of hammocks strung between the trees. I imagine it's quite peaceful. 

• I am really, really going to miss my creative writing class. 

Happy Christmas (early)

We're leaving for my grandparents' house tomorrow afternoon, and I'm not sure if I'll have internet access while we're there over the weekend, so here's a little note of Christmas tidings while I still have the opportunity. I've been relaxing a lot over the last week, spending time with my sister, knitting (rather poorly, I might add), watching a lot of movies, and sleeping. I've tried to give myself a general break from everything. I'll post more once we're back after the weekend is up. It's been nice to just be for awhile, but I know I have to get back on track soon because of my ever-growing list of things to do during the break....

Christmas is my favorite holiday. I love the joy, I love the love that seems to travel around, I love the music, and I love the tradition (and non-tradition) of it all. I especially love the story of the Nativity, and how simple and complex and wondrous it is. And the angels! Nearly everything about Christmas is special to me. I also love how Christmas takes place around the time of Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and New Years. Happy Holidays indeed.

I have a lot of really good memories that I associate with this time of year, and all of them--good and bad--mean a lot to me one way or another. My favorite Christmas movies include the Charlie Brown Christmas special (anyone catch the reference in Glee's Christmas episode last week? So awesome.), It's A Wonderful Life, and White Christmas. I tend to associate Harry Potter with Christmas--even though it is appropriate any time of the year, there's just something about it around Christmas that makes it seem extra special. I love the memories I have of being up at my grandparents' house, because the experience itself is so much what Christmas has become for me. It doesn't totally feel like Christmas to me when we're not there. I mean, I know that things will change--and have already changed--but the feeling, the joy, I think, will remain the same.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy Kwanzaa. Whatever it is that you do to celebrate these wintery months, much love and joyous tidings to you and your family.

Gratitude

This may be a little cliche to do, but I think there's something really special (and important) in celebrating the things that make us happy, healthy, and safe. It is Thanksgiving, after all. (Though, as my friend Melissa pointed out on Facebook this morning, we should be thankful everyday rather than saving it for one day a year.) Thus.

I'm thankful for my family. They mean so much to me, and I am truly blessed. When I am home, it is for them.

I am thankful for my sister's sense of humor. She knows exactly what to say to make things not so bad. She and I have the same kind of sense of humor. I am also thankful that she laughs at my jokes, because I know I'm not that funny.

I am thankful for God's love in many ways.

I am thankful for books and art. What kind of a person would I be without them?

I am thankful that my health has been good.

I am thankful for my open-mindedness.

I am thankful for Coca-Cola, Milky Way bars, Arby's/Hardees curly fries, and Cranberry Limeades.

I am thankful for the opportunities I've had in my life to travel. They have been few, but worthwhile all the same.

I am thankful for The Westing Game, Harriet the Spy, and the many Nancy Drew mysteries I read in elementary school, because they helped me to appreciate a good mystery.

I am thankful for the ability to drive around the Little Apple without being too nervous. I haven't quite overcome my fear of driving completely, but I'm getting there.

I am thankful for Oldies and 60s British Invasion rock 'n' roll. But mostly I'm thankful for my dad's excellent taste in music. I couldn't have asked for a better kind of music to grow up with.

Though it has been hard, and not to mention emotionally taxing, I am thankful that the drought of any romance in my life has allowed me to seriously consider what I'd like in a relationship and understand my stance on many things.

I am thankful for my mother and her perseverance, creativity, and compassion. I learn more and more from her everyday.

I am thankful for the things I have learned from our trips to Michigan, and most especially the memories they left with me. It has been a long time since my grandparents (my dad's parents) passed away, but I think of them almost every single day.

I am thankful for the tradition and love from my mom's side of the family. My grandparents have been married 60 years, and they are the heart of my mom's large family. I feel very blessed to be a part of it.

I am thankful that I decided to pick up and read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone in sixth grade.

I am thankful for writing and the joy I get from it. The power of the story is kind of awesome. And, in a way, it kind of saved my life.

I'm thankful for college. It is one of the best things that have happened to me. I have learned so much and in so many different ways, and I have changed so much from the person I was five years ago. I feel like I'm finally me.

I'm thankful for authentic Mexican food and authentic Indian food. I am also thankful for my grandmother's spaghetti, my mom's pasty, and cheesecake.

I am thankful for Glee, Star Wars, and the Georgia Nicolson series.

I am thankful that John Keats (and all related British Romantic poets), W.B. Yeats, William Shakespeare, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Jane Austen, Sarah Dessen, John Green, Maureen Johnson, and J.K. Rowling all decided to write stuff down.

I am thankful for movies. I am also thankful for movie theaters (though not the raising ticket prices). I am especially thankful for Steven Spielberg and Focus Features.

I am thankful for 80s music and 80s movies.

I am thankful for music and concerts. Especially the trip I took with Brandi and Cassie last year to Kansas City, where we went to Warped Tour and then Lady Gaga's Monster Ball within the course of 48 hours. It was incredible.

I am thankful for my friends. My friendships have, and always will be, extremely important to me. I love my friends dearly. I'm very blessed.

There will always be things to be thankful for, and this list certainly doesn't cover everything. Happy Thanksgiving.

Home Again

My weekends at home are much too short, and I have noticed each visit seems to get shorter and shorter.

Anyway.

Fall is my favorite season. There is a small maple tree in the yard, and one of the best things about fall is watching its leaves turn from green to yellow and orange to a rich red-orange. I missed the turning this year; most of the leaves have fallen from the branches, and the red-orange on most of the remaining leaves has faded to a gorgeous burnt orange color.

I missed homecoming for the first time in years this year, and I can't decide whether I'm upset or not. At the moment, it's an ache that I can't really put my finger on. I love homecoming; it was and will forever be part of my favorite memories of growing up in my hometown.

Heidi's birthday is this coming week, so my family and I have been having a sort of mini-celebration for her. She's been home since last Monday for her fall break. After the having survived this horrible week, I wish I'd been able to have my fall break at the same time.

As is the tradition for being home, we've watched a Harry Potter movie (two this time around, both Prisoner of Azkaban and Order of the Phoenix on Heidi's request as she is the Birthday Girl). Heidi and I went to see the Footloose remake last night at the Astro 3, and despite the fact that there was a country remake of the title song during the last scene of the movie, we were both pleased and genuinely entertained. It was very good, and I'd definitely see it again.

After the movie, Heidi and I went cruising to talk and listen to music. Conversation is a beautiful thing, and those I have with Heidi are some of my most treasured.

I'm not looking forward to having to return to the Little Apple tomorrow; not that I hate it, because I don't. I just need more time here. I haven't been home much since the beginning of the year. In the last 24 hours alone, I've felt more calm, laughed more genuinely, and had more of a focus on life than I've had in ages. Thanksgiving break cannot come soon enough.

A Few Brief Thoughts on Learning

The reading we were discussing in French Lit today included a couple essays from the French essayist Montaigne. The excerpts we had to read discussed the concept of death from Montaigne's point of view. Back at the beginning of the semester in my non-fiction class, we talked a little about Montaigne as one of the earliest essayists (in the traditional sense of non-fiction, anyway) in history. He's well known, and his writing is highly regarded.

When we talked about him in Adv. Non-Fiction, we discussed how the word "essay" derives from the French "essayer," which means "to try" or "to attempt". Essays, therefore, are one means for the writer to make an attempt to make sense of the world in relation to their own viewpoint; it can also be a kind of attempt to make a point (as in an essay supporting and promoting a certain argument).

Today, we talked a little about the origins of "essais," the French for essays. Again, "essayer" is the word from which it derives. 

For some reason, when my professor asked us what it meant in English, and we answered "to attempt," I had a moment of clarity. Essays are attempts. An attempt. I knew I made the connection back at the beginning of the semester, but it seemed to finally click, and the connection between these two things, French literature from the Renaissance and the art of writing non-fiction (essays in particular), solidified itself within my mind. True to the humanistic spirit of the Renaissance, Montaigne's essays explore and exemplify the idea of individual thought. 

I've been fascinated with the idea of coming to some sort of understanding through the act of writing, particularly how memory can assist with that in addition to the intriguing idea of a kind of fallible  memory. (This, of course, is thanks to the amazing Non-Fiction writing class I'm currently in.) Memoirs, for instance, are reflections upon an event or more that may be connected in some way. These reflections attempt to make sense of who we are as human beings, as individuals, as one small part of the collective human race. There is so much freedom in this: non-fiction (including the memoir) can be anything, explore anything. Montaigne is trying to come to an understanding of his own views on death in relation to the viewpoints from various philosophers of and before his time.

Understanding. Attempting to understand, to make these connections in what we know, what we remember, and what we may not know. 

I have random moments similar to this fairly often. I will be sitting in lecture, and something--or everything--will suddenly click. Perhaps there is an overlap, or even repetition in the information. Perhaps it is also an honest interest in what we're learning. I love those grand moments of understanding. Little by little, the world starts to make a bit more sense. Perhaps this is what my answers to the Sorting questions on Pottermore indicated when I was officially sorted into Ravenclaw.* Maybe, maybe not. 

I think it simply comes down to learning and how this (an many other kinds of learning) continues. Our minds, as well as our capacity and desire to gain knowledge, is an intriguing thing. 

*I explain more on this (and other thoughts on Pottermore) later; I'm still in shock. But a good kind of shot. It's hard to wrap my mind around it...

It Was a Tuesday

At least, I think it was a Tuesday. I was in eighth grade, and was sitting in second hour, Advanced English.

Mrs. Bower, the gifted teacher, was in the room preparing things for the days' lesson; she came every Tuesday in class to do different activities with us. Sometimes we did projects, sometimes stories with holes, sometimes different writing assignments aside from what Mrs. Anderson was having us do. I don't remember what she had planned for that day.

Shortly after class had started, Mr. Young, the American History teacher for in the high school (the junior high was connected to the high school) popped his head into the room.

"Some idiot just ran a plane into the World Trade Center," he told Mrs. Bower and Mrs. Anderson.

Channel One, a news program we watched every day at the beginning of second hour, didn't have any news that day about the WTC. I knew it was because it was taped before anything actually happened in New York City. It wasn't until the next day that we saw anything related to the tragedy.

We watched the news in almost every class for the rest of the day. Mr. Thexton, my Earth Science teacher, snapped at our class when some of us weren't paying attention to what we were seeing on screen. Some people in my classes joked a little about it. I remember being horrified when I saw images of people running away from a train of billowing smoke down the street. And it continued to get worse, and I wondered this real thing that was actually happening would never end. That kind of thing only happened in movies.

At lunch, the teachers had set up a television on a rolling cart in the cafeteria and had turned on the news.   I sat at a round table close to where the t.v. set was, watching and trying to process what was happening as I waited for the rest of the group I sat with to arrive. Tessa and Leanne came, talking.

Bethany, one girl who I used to call my best friend (and I seemed to go through a lot of them), was one of the last of us to sit down. She walked up to the table in a mild rage, her feet attached to some invisible engine propelling her forward. She slammed her tray down, and looked at us all before taking her seat.

"I can't believe it," she said, her tone serious and tinged with snark. "I was going to visit the World Trade Center some day and now I can't even go because someone knocked it down."

I sat there, shocked. Was she really going to make this all about her? Did she not realize what had happened? How many lives were lost, from the employees inside the building to the people on the planes and then those who tried to save them? How many families were affected, including, as I would find out later that day, a distant cousin on my mom's side and his two daughters, who were much to young to fully grasp what had happened, who had lost a wife and mother that morning?

This was much bigger than that. It affected all of us.