Thoughts on a Tuesday Eveing

I haven't written for awhile, not necessarily because I don't have anything to say.  Of course I have things to say.  Don't you know me?  I always have things to say, long involved stories often about nothing.  The problem is right now I have too much to say.  I can't even get a handle on my emotions.

I want to write about my thoughts on serving a mission (29 days.  Twenty. Nine. Days.)  but being aware of the depth and vast range of those emotions, I can't even begin to delve into them.  It's much much easier to recognize that I'm leaving, and stop there.

I'm excited mind you.  I don't want that to be a question for a minute.  I don't doubt my choice.  But humans are hardwired to fear the unknown right?  I think I wrote an essay about it way back in my AP European History Class.  And I'm adventuring into the unknown, a weird kind of structured unknown where I kind of think I know what I'm doing?  The general logistics and overall goal and all that, yeah. But the details?  No clue.  What will my companions be like?  No clue.  What's going to happen to my family, friends, and certain relationships while I'm gone?  No clue.  I mean I have trust and faith and all that, so I'm not really to ulcer level anxiety or anything but if I'm being real then yeah, there's a little bit of fear there.  (Read: TERROR)  And I could go on and on about that.  But I don't want to.  I don't want to concentrate on that.

I want to tell you about visiting my family back east, the sights we've seen, the states we've visited, my lovely and interesting relatives.  And of course the stories of finals, heavily studded with Billy BYU moments.

You know I'm a nostalgic old man right?  Papa Jim style?  Well I'm brimming with nostalgia and sentimentality, and maybe even a few fond tears and I want to talk about that.

Mostly though I want to continue the tradition I started last year, cataloguing some of the people I found in these two semesters of school.  I need to tell you about my roommates, how I'm drastically happier than I've ever been since beginning college.  But two of the most important relationships I've experienced... well I don't think I have the words for those. Here's my conundrum.

1.  These two experiences were crucial to my development and I want to do them justice.
2. I don't want to gloss over them like they didn't exist, though they turned (or may turn) out not so happily in the end.
3.  And I hate people who give mysterious allusions to an event without actually giving details.  Usually I tend to think those people just need validation from others begging to know what happened.
4. I don't want to be like that, because that's not what this is for me.  I write pretty much for me.
5.  BUT this online any joe shmoe can read.
6.  And because it's online and involves other people and is very personal, I can't really say everything I need to anyway.

So I can't NOT write about them, I can't KIND OFF write about them, and I can't COMPLETELY write about them.  I don't know.  I'm pretty sure this can be categorized as a quintessential Catch-22*

All this leads to being a little overwhelmed.  I'm tired already.  Too much to say, too little time.  But I'm going to try.  Beginning tomorrow I'll peg away at the ice block of my brain, hopefully fast enough before it melts into a mess.

Let me put it this way.

"i have come to believe that writer’s block is not so much an absence of ideas as it is a tremendously strong desire to take a nap, all. the. time.

when the desire to sleep is greater than the desire to write–to say something–that’s writer’s block.

perhaps it is that the act of writing or thinking or forming words is the very thing that overwhelms and exhausts. sometimes it’s just harder. sometimes it just costs more.

All this thinking and pondering and remembering crap has worn me right out.  So in light of that, I'm going to bed.  Sweet dreams.  I'll see ya tomorrow.

* I hated that book.  Call me an uncultured unappreciative neanderthal**.  I don't care.  Really, go ahead, do it.

**Irony: needing to look up how to spell "neanderthal"

Intervention.

I think I have a problem you guys.  I'm staging my own intervention.  With myself.  Thanks Self.  You're the best.  And your hair is growing out so nicely!  Psych.  You look like a fetching mullet gone wrong.  But that is not the point of this post.

The point is, you have an unhealthy obsession with wearing men's outdated clothes, and thriving on compliments about them.  Someone said they liked your jean jacket?  Do NOT triumphantly declare (in your head or otherwise) "THANKS!  It was my DAD'S!  TWENTY YEARS AGO!  People do not care.  They do not care and likely they think you're a freak for 1) happily admitting such a thing and 2) for wearing that outfit in the first place.  The same goes for his socks, his shoes, and multiple items purchased from the DI.  Did I mention people don't care?  Oh I did?  Good.  Because not only do they not care, but there's a very good chance they don't actually mean any of the compliment.

There's two kinds of compliments you see.  There's the sincere compliment (rarely given) and the stuff people say trying to make their words sound like a compliment when in reality, what you're doing/saying/wearing is so completely embarrassing that they feel awkward for you and all the stares you're getting.  Thus, they try to diffuse the pathetic situation by addressing the elephant in the room (YOU) and making it seem admirable somehow.  You know this.  You've watched this happen between OTHER people.  But when it comes to you, well then, all bets are off.  Because you tend to not be able to read any social cues when it comes to yourself.  Your sad sad naive self tends to think that every word people say, every gem that falls from their mouths is completely sincere and honest.  We call this Papa Jim syndrome.  You walk away from every interaction thinking, "MAN.  That person is SO NICE."  Unless they just killed your dog and tripped you.  Then you think, "Well they probably had a hard day, maybe someone forced them to commit murder.  And as for the trip, well that was pretty funny wasn't it?  What a great sense of humor."

While this innocence may be endearing to some, it's really messing up your sense of reality.  As in, you have none.

GET A GRIP

Why do you get such a perverse pleasure from it anyway?  Are you trying to flaunt some societal norm?  Listen, I'm not asking you to wear a sock bun or black leggings with tall brown boots or anything else worn by seemingly every.  fetching.  female. at BYU.  Go ahead, flaunt some style or whatever you call it.  But ENOUGH with the bragging about outdated mens clothes.

Grace please come back into my life.

Trust me, your future self (there's quite a lot of these "selfs" aren't there?  have you checked your meds lately?) will thank you.

I'm glad we had this little talk.

Thought Processes

The Testing Center intimidates the fetch out of me.  Why you might ask?  Well let me go all therapist/patient on you.  IT'S MY PARENTS FAULT.

Before I came to BYU, my parents had a favorite story to tell me.  Actually they have lots of these favorite stories.  Always warning stories, "you know who else didn't clean her room?  Jenna.  Do you know where she is now?  DEAD."  Like every time I drive through the intersection of 27th and Highland Papa Jim MUST tell me about the time our neighbor got T-boned there.  "Now Sierra, you know this is the intersec... YES DAD.  I KNOW"  And then I speed up and pretend to ignore oncoming traffic.  I love our conversations.

Luckily for me they also have a story revolving around the testing center, so I could be sufficiently cowed and terrified before I walked in.  Apparently a cute charming charismatic boy from our ward didn't just get IN TROUBLE (enough to scare me right there) but got KICKED OUT and got A ZERO on a test for goofing off.  And by that point I'm curled in a fetal position on the floor because an embarrassing spectacle, disapproval, and bad grades?  Sweet lanta just kill me already.

Now I've already made it through a semester and taken more than a few tests, in fact, I even got away with wearing leggings during one test; so when I walked in on Monday, the trepidation levels were minimal.  Which means of course it's time to wreak havoc with my irrational fears.  Hello brain.  It's been awhile.

I'd lost my calculator a few days before but that was no problem right?  Really.  It would be fine because I could rent a calculator.  Everyone says so.  (But what if they're out of calculators?  What if they really don't have calculators?  What if they laugh at me and I have to walk of shame home past everyone in line?) NO.  It will be Oooooohhh Kaaaayyyy.  Breathebreathebreathe.

Luckily they really did have calculators for a mere 50 cents, so I took one, found an open desk, and sat down.  Halfway through taking my test I realized that my calculator, you know, that piece of plastic I'd sweated over getting actually didn't. work.  Whenever I tried to multiply or divide the calculator added a few zeros.  5 divided by 10 became 5 divided by a thousand.

Crap.  Crap crap crap.

(Am I allowed to stand up if I'm not done with my test?  What if they think I'm going to look at notes and cheat when I'm really only going to exchange a calculator?  Do I take stuff with me?  Do I raise my hand?  I DON'T WANT PEOPLE TO LOOK AT ME)

I kept the calculator.

I know, I know.  Pathetic.  Just wait.

Because, I rationalized, I can just move over the decimal points by two places.  No problem.  I can handle this.  Crisis averted.

Then I left the center, studied for an hour, and returned to take another test.  This time they gave me a working calculator and didn't even charge me for it because it came with the test.  I sat down under a large poster that read "KEEP YOUR BACKPACKS COMPLETELY UNDER YOUR DESK AND DON'T OPEN THEM AT ANY TIME" Normal.  

Things were going my way.  Until I opened the pocket of my backpack where I always keep my pencil.  The pencil I'd had less than two hours ago to take my other test.  It wasn't in there.

Crap.  Crap crap crap crap.

(I know it's got to be in my backpack somewhere! If I just keep looking through it... But what about that poster?  They're going to kick me out for peaking at a cheat sheet!  Why is the sound of looking for a pencil so dang loud in this deathly silent hall??  Why am I freaking out about this?  It HAS to be there!  ...  It's really not there.  Should I stand up?  Should I raise my hand?  Do they rent pencils too?  And then there's the whole issue of OH MY GOSH PEOPLE ARE STARTING TO LOOK AT ME)


I took the test with a spare piece of lead.

Four

3 down.  Dos mas.

My arms aren't actually long enough to click the photo button AND get my sweater in AND my face.  Also did you know that opening the camera folder comes with instructions?
1. Tilt the camera down
2. Gaze up into the lens
I followed them exactly.  That's clearly why I look so good.  It's all about the right angle.

 Shout out to Papa Jim from whence this sweater came.

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."





C-ROLL.  PLEASE DO NOT FEEL UNLOVED OR OF LESSER VALUE.  I PROMISE YOU WILL GET YOUR OWN WHOLE POST TOO.  I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOU

The Good

Look at that.  Three posts in the SAME. WEEK.

Are you suprised?  You shouldn't be.  I promised I would write.  And now that I'm at BYU my promises are soooo much more meaningful.  Like Karl G. and the Honor Code, I'm bound by my word of honor. Draw a line in the sand!  I shall die in this blogging circle with mine honor intact!  Read that with chariots of fire playing in the background.  Way inspirational.

Filthy honor code.

In order to write this much, it means that I'm putting off other things.  Like schoolwork.  Which you know is probably not that important anyway.  Except when I fail my classes and can't get into my program and have to drop out because school is too expensive it's going to be YOUR basement I'm living in.  Yeah I'm talking to you Marleen.  I hope that with all your urging for me to write more you factored in the possibility of having a hobo trying to sneak into your basement, filching bits of your food, and scaring your children.  It'll be so much fun.  You can make sure I have fresh cardboard every week and in return I'll write clever clever things.

But on to the good.  With all the tests and scheduling problems and unhelpful advisors I've gotta remember the good.

The size. I thought living at this huge school with all these people would kill me.  Except for the few time I did hide in the library shelves to avoid crowds though, I was wrong.  I love the anonymity.  Yesterday I watched a guy walk across campus with a legit boombox on his shoulder.  Didn't even phase anyone.

The resources.  Last year to study for biology I, ok Slamdon had to buy a recording device to record lectures so we could review them over and over.  This year, my anatomy teacher records his lecture on his own and puts it online where I can listen to it any time.  On top of that there's about 800 TA's that hold lecture reviews several times every week.  Last year in my science lab I went once a week for two hours and then didn't return until the next week.  This year in lab, there's a two hour lecture and a possibility of four hours of open lab offered from as early as 7:00 am until 11:00 pm.  There's an accounting lab, a chemistry tutoring center, which I've basically set up camp in.

The people I'm living with.  I explain the difference it makes to live with girls that I actually know and like.  They're so dang cool.  Here's something that'll really blow your mind.  They actually cook.  Like prepare meals for themselves.  Like human beings.  This instead of buying $40 of groceries and then leaving them in the back of the fridge to rot and eating fast food instead.  Weird right?  They make homemade applesauce, they train for half marathons, play the violin in a band, edit applications for grad school.  They also dog pile on the top of the bunk bed while I'm trying to sleep.

Wait I'm making it sound like I live in some superhuman sorority house.  It's really not like that.  They've only thrown bologna at me while I sing Celine Dion ONCE.

There's just a million little things.  It's the walk to school.  It's the prayer before anatomy class - not nearly as pod people as I thought it would be.  It's the extended library hours, the international cinema, the window conversations with the neighbors next door.  It's being able to give my dad a heart attack by jumping out at him when I see him on campus.

I just love it here.  I love life.

I've Become One of THOSE People.

You've seen them in the library, slumped against chairs.  You've seen them in the hallways, tucked into corners.  You've seen them sprawled on the grass, limp on desks, and even collapsed on the floor.  They are...
THE SLEEPING PEOPLE.

During freshman year, whilst I was attending my favorite University in Cedar City, my good friend Katie F went to BYU (good friends in the way that we went to the same school, and talked at least once and I always thought she was like the coolest person in the world and even though we never actually "hung out" ... ok spoke... outside of sitting in the same classroom I always wanted to be her friend so I'm gonna claim it ok?  Give me this one).

There she found that sleeping in public is apparently a societal norm.  I looked at her pictures and lauuuuughed at those poor hopeless bums.  I also swore that when I went to BYU I'd never be caught in such a pathetic situation.

It took me three days.

I can't help it.  I fight it, really I do.  But it's just so conVENient.  There's all these little couches in little nooks of the library where all you have to do to be comfortable is lean your head back... like so... and
BAM.  out.  Out like Papa Jim when he tried to read me bedtime stories.  I don't think he ever made it past page four.  I always thought it was so dang weird.  Who could really be that tired?  Who could actually have so FEW inhibitions that you could truly Sleep in Public??

Ah the blessings of anonymity and sleep deprivation.

My inhibition have flown out the window.  Out the window, to the car and are currently road-tripping to Canada.  AYE????

Buenos noches from the comfy library chair in the most hidden corner.  (I do have some pride.)  And I know I'm basically a celebrity to you but please... no pictures.

Home (Ah Home. Let Me Come Home. Home is Wherever I'm With You)

I get it. I think I finally understand why home is so important. There's a reason it's been repeated at least once a week 52 weeks a year 20 years of my life.

I've been so burned out lately. I didn't want to study, or do homework, or care at all about d-a-m-n residents (spelling it out makes it not a swear word, or so says Papa Jim). All I've wanted to do is go to the gym, and cook, and sleep, and read. I couldn't go home for a full weekend, but as I was sitting at the computer on Thursday, near tears, I just decided to leave.

I walked straight out of that d-a-m-n library, cancelled my Friday morning appointment with my English teacher, and drove home. Drove home like a bat outta hell. Like a reporter after a story. Like my brother when he sees a Cadbury Creme Egg.

I can't exactly describe the feeling of home. It's different for everyone I guess. I picture them in colors. Some homes are a full soft orange. Golden brown orange, something akin to baked sweet potatoes. They're busy and loud and noisy. Mine is cooler. Quieter.  Light blue/grey dryer sheet that softens the edges of a hard day and absorbs my insecurities.

Walking in that front door, a blue door with a star scratched in by my younger self, felt so right. I hadn't even told anyone I was coming home. For once this wasn't a trip for me to socialize and catch up with a bunch of friends. I just wanted to be with my family and do homework in the uninterrupted peace of my basement. Going home was my secret last resort, a little piece of relaxation I wanted all to myself. Have you ever read The Wanderer? It's about a girl who goes on a boat trip with her family, in a little boat they built. In it she describes a pair of socks (of all things.) I can't quote it directly but she basically says: "everyone hoards one pair of dry socks. you keep it and protect it and when you can't stand the dampness one second longer you slip on that dry pair and ahhh, relief." That's exactly how coming home felt.

I guess if I didn't have a home to return to I'd find some other way to manage. I'd find solace in something else, maybe have a good cry, and turn to my friends. But I don't think I could find the same kind of satisfaction and rejuvenation that I did from that little brick house with a big garden and twisted driveway. Before, my obstacles were insurmountable. Now, I they just look like a long walk uphill, one that I have the energy for.

I get why I hear so many church leaders talk about the sanctity of a home. I don't care what a home is to you; I know they're as varied as the people on the earth. I don't care if you have one parent or two, one or eighteen. I don't care if your home is a shack, a mansion, a bookstore even. Everyone needs to have a place to retreat to and feel welcomed. Having a place that holds people who've promised to rely on each other, to build each other, to make those rooms (or room) a place of peace and safety is as close to heaven as I think we can get.

Whatever I do in my life, however I break up my days and spend my time, I want to be sure that part of it is spent participating in and creating that little piece of imperfect perfection. Maybe I'll do this with a full-time career, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll do it with a bunch of kids, maybe I won't.

Thanks to the people who've made sacrifices so I could have that pair of dry socks. After a long, wet semester, they were much needed.

P.S. Papa Jim, you crying yet? Not my goal. But a bonus.