Friday, November 30, 2012

Weekend Words (It's Been Awhile)

The light comes gradually, much like the rising of the sun.  
You can discern the increase of light on the horizon but never all at once.  ...  
Sometimes receiving inspiration is like a foggy day.  
There's enough light that you can tell it's not darkness anymore.  
It's not night.  
But it's not brilliantly illuminated.  
You can see just enough to take a few steps ahead into the cloudiness.  ... 
There's enough to take just a few steps.
And then the light continues ... just far enough to press forward.

David A Bednar

Full video here

This inspiration, this light, that comes so gradually isn't only related to spiritual matters in the stereotype of things spiritual.  It's also related to taking a few more steps when I run.  
It's a few more minutes productively studying.  
It's the slow replacement of apathy with passion.  
It's a little more peace with myself - the way I look.  
It's a little bit better lesson plan.  
It's a few more confused minutes as I try to understand questions that seem to have no clear cut answers - but at least I'm looking, at least I'm thinking, at least I'm trying.  
And it's a few more pieces of understanding, of becoming, creating, developing. 
Sometimes it's not getting lost a second time on the way to work.  
And sometimes it's getting lost even worse than two weeks before, only this time having the courage to ask for help sooner.  

All I'm saying is I think there's hope that someday the willpower will come.  Someday I won't even need willpower because it will be second nature.  Someday the confidence will replace the fears and insecurities.  And maybe that someday is today.  Just a little.  Just a degree.  But today.

Monday, November 26, 2012

Missing You

Missing some one is a really a strange thing.  Like love, there are so many different kinds of longing, of missing.  There's the missing of the best friend, the days spent in near perpetual company, the pain of knowing that phone calls (even with the best of intentions) can't quite span the distance, not when compared to feeling of lying on the kitchen floor, completely spent from laughter or tears.

Then there's the missing of the him.  The "significant other."

I don't know where to separate the idea from the reality.  Do I miss kissing him or just kissing?  Do I miss his responses to even the most mundane details of my day or do I just miss telling someone, anyone, all of those things?  Like so many gray areas, it's probably a combination of both.  The actuality is impossibly tied to the dream, the fantasy.

Tangible or not, I know exactly what I do miss.  I miss how he answered the phone, groggy in the morning when I called too early and woke him up.  I miss the, "oh hey girl" and the "hi dude" and the myriad of mis-spelled texts.

And the hardest part is the suddenness of it all.  How do you go from complete confidence to ... nothing?    How do you just cut that part out of your life?  But then again, how do you not?  Because you can't just tell someone out of the blue, after weeks of silence; "hey I didn't realize the importance of you in my life,and this is me letting you know I miss and think about you sometimes and there's a little depression in my heart where the connection used to be.  Not a big hole or anything, but just a little valley, like a spoon is pressing on it.  Hey I just want you to know that even if I didn't love you wholly or dramatically like the stories, I might have loved you as much as I can love anyone right now."

You just can't.  Because all this missing isn't enough for me to go back.  I can't tell someone that they were important and amazing and I miss them, but not enough to actually do anything about it besides acknowledge the sadness of the absence.  That's even worse than complete silence.

So here you go void.  Here's my confession, my acknowledgment.  If you're wondering if he/she ever misses you, the answer is probably yes.  Yes but.  And I'm sorry, pointless as that may by.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

I Eat This Crap Up

Accounting, while incredible painful, comes attached with two professors in possession of a wacky sense of humor.

Behold, an excerpt from one of my practice problems:

"Heber Smith, a college student in Utah, is investigating what he believes is a promising business opportunity.  His idea is to manufacture and sell plastic jello molds in the form of the Salt Lake Temple.  Heber has a tentative purchase commitment from a book and gift retail chain for 4,000 units over the first three months of initial operations."*

Plastic jello molds in the form of the Salt Lake Temple.**

Hold on.  Wait.  Just let me... one more time.




This is hysterical people.  I love crap like this.  Love it like a fat kid loves cake.  I love it when people have the that wry sense of humor and add it into small details of an otherwise normal or boring situation Bless you Norm Nemrow for being a wack job.  It's right up my alley.

*I just want you to know that I clicked back and forth between screens to type this up, it wouldn't let me copy and paste.  THAT'S how important I thought it was.

**Guess what you ALL are getting for Christmas??

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Dearest of the Dear Papa Jim

This is, admittedly, a belated post.  Welcome to my life.  I also was late to my second day of work yesterday.  Late in a I'm-so-fetching-lost-that-the-road-just-came-to-a-dead-end-in-the-middle-of-a-swamp-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-sort-of-way.  So that I'm wishing my him a happy day (albeit late) in   a class that I was EARLY to and not in the middle of a swamp is kind of a big deal.  And also the dress I'm wearing is intentionally backwards, instead of being accidentally inside out.  Cheer for me guys.

Well Papa Jim.  He has been mentioned on here once or twice before.  Mostly because I give him all credit for any swearing tendencies I might have.  The d-a-m-n spelling trick, the occasional nice loud, "oh HELL"... all Jim.

Yeah he's the best.

But not just because he cracks me up with a good curse every now and again.

Papa Jim and I go waaaaaaaaaaaay back.  Like twenty years back.

I love this man.

I mean seriously, how could you not?

Exhibit A

Just look at that bearded bespectacled wonderfulness.  I know I got my sense of (ahem *fantastic* ahem) style from him.  Literally.  I'm currently wearing one of his woolen vests.  I also have two pairs of his socks, one, two, THREE sweaters, and a pair of loafers.

Exhibit B

Don't we look alike?

Don't even waste your breath trying to tell me we don't.  Actually YES.  WE DO.  In seventh grade I went to my friend's house for her birthday party.  When my dad came to pick me up, her mom yelled downstairs, "Sierra your dad is here!  I didn't even have to ask who's dad it was because you two look SO much alike!!!"

Which really did wonders for a seventh grade girl's self esteem.

Exhibit C

This needs no caption.

I consider him one of my best friends.  He listens better than almost anyone I've ever met.  He doesn't say anything, he doesn't interrupt to offer advice while I'm talking, he just. Listens.  He lets me talk and talk and talk until I've almost figured it out.  As John Green put it, "that's who you really like, the people you can think in front of."  I feel completely safe thinking in front of him, without any worries that he'll judge me or think I'm stupid or shallow.  I can take out my brain, let it explode, ricochet off the walls and he won't say one word about the mess.  And then when I'm silent, he is too, not because he's unattached or uncaring, but because he's willing to wait, in case there's anything else I need to say.  There is so much beauty in a patient listener.

I've heard the old stereotype about parents trying to talk to their kids by sharing archaic un-relatable stories.  "WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE..."  But I love when my dad talks about his life.  It started out when my brother and I were kids, and he would have us in near hysterics over dinner, telling stories about his dog "Ginger the WonderDog"- whom, as I fondly recall, received that nickname because she was so fat, it was a wonder she could walk.  Often the dinner ended by me laughing so hard I spewed my milk.  Occasionally out of my nose.  What's that?  Why yes. I am a delightful dinner guest.  Please.  Invite me over.

As I grew older I still loved to listen to him talk about his life, because the stories changed from mere comic relief to stories about mistakes, lessons, important events, close friends and examples, and favorite memories.  I love it because they make him a person, not just an imposing authority figure, but someone I can really relate to.  And he was/is a cool person.  He was class officer, spent a month in Europe after his high school graduation, wore a white tux to prom: the pink boxers underneath are visible in some pictures, and wrestled through high school and college. I love it.  I love that he'll talk to me openly and honestly about his life.

More important than being my friend though, is being my father.  He spent many a day teaching me how to drive stick shift (whiplash, near death experiences, and all) and play backgammon (I've still never won a game.)  He cheers me on in every aspect of school.  He calls me out on my crap and loves me anyway.

Guys I could go on and on and on.

But I'll stick to three last points

1. He is so FRICKING passionate about what he does.  You ask him anything about grass, soil, plants, and his will light up and he'll say, "now listen.  this is so cool.  this is the name of the plant.  here's where it grows.  here are the conditions it needs."  and congratulations, you've just checked yourself into a solid half hour lecture about horticulture.  It's possible he know every single thing.  But he gets so. Excited.  I can't help but get excited too.  And he works hard at it.  He gets up at 4:30 every day to go to work, not because he's worried about money, but because he loves it.  I alway give the example of going back east and visiting the Smithsonian, and while we're standing outside the Cotton Pickin* SMITHSONIAN, my dad is going, "GUYS!  LOOK!  IT'S INDIAN BLUE-GRASS!"

2.  He is humble and service oriented.  This is the man that taught me that a prideful, powerful, and imposing "man" is not manly at all.  The most manly attribute I can think of that of a humble man.  The man who will get down, on his knees, to work on the ground, right along with his students; or choke up when talking about sacred things; or tell a funny joke about himself, without worrying what it may do for his image; this is a man.  He will help anyone because no one is "beneath" him, and he'll do it without the slightest thought of compensation.

3.  He is respectful and devoted.  I watched as my grandma, his mom, deteriorated further and further from Alzheimers, slowly forgetting my birthday and my name, and then his birthday, and finally his name.  But he never stopped calling her.  Every Sunday.  Even though she was on the other side of the country, and he would have to gently remind her, "mom this is your son Jim," he never stopped.  I will never forget that.  He loves my mom in the same way.  Doing his best to be aware of her needs, to help her out, to cheer her up.  He respects others, and I respect him.

I love you Papa Jim.

happy birthday damn it.

*another favorite papa jim-ism. right next to fetching, and "I'll beat you like a red-headed stepchild."