Sometimes there are things that are just more important than getting your sleep. Examples:
Last night I was awake until 2:30. My friend Hannah and I stayed up, talking about anything and everything. We have a lot in common and see the world the same way, share most of the same opinions. I do enjoy talking to people who are different from me. It's interesting when a certain situation sends someone else's mind on a completely different path than mine. But it's really refreshing when you find someone a lot like you, who thinks the same things, who thinks the same way. Talking with friends, building bonds is worth an hour of sleep. I can ALWAYS always sleep. But it's times like last night that only come along when they happen to come along. And it tends to be these times that make a difference in life.
Second example: I take the days slowly. I do my HW at my own pace. Maybe it'd be better if I sped read and crammed all HW into 2-3 hours and then went to bed on time. But honestly? No. If I did that, I'd be stressed and uptight all the time. I take life at my own speed. So I lose a few hours of sleep. But I love every day. There are people I know who focus solely on hw and school and sleep. So they get their 8, 9 hours (opposed to my 3, 4, 5). Maybe these people love to live like this. But would I be a happy person? No. Fun to be around? Nope.
Life is fun. I can't imagine throwing away four years worth of it just because I'm in college. In fact, the college years should be years overflowing with living--with fun and happiness, experiences and memories. Four years worth of relative pronouns, solubility charts, cotangents, dates, and rhetorical devices is not living. And neither is four years of dreams unlived.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
My Dear Mother
Today, a successful woman is one who sacrifices her life, her relationships, for a promotion. Last year, I lived in the dorms amongst freshman girls—girls who were determined to disprove the stereotype that they were only there for a husband. All BYU freshmen females fight this typecast. They want to be doctors, business women. They are going to tour the world and save the pandas in China. Now, I do not think this is a problem. I respect women with a drive for success and intellectualism. And I believe every living person needs something to be passionate about.
But I do see a problem when girls decide there are more important things to accomplish before, or in lieu of, marriage and children. I am not writing of the fifties mindset that the woman is supposed to marry and shrink under the shadows of men. But I do think marriage and family are becoming less and less admirable. I’ve heard girls say they may get married in this life, but that it is less important than… let’s say those pandas. Now, Mother Teresa was never married and didn’t
have any children. And she has done things for Heavenly Father’s children that no one else was capable of. Her works and her heart were so great that only a small number of people will accomplish things of the same magnitude. But think about those people who have been able to reach nearly every human being on this earth—mothers. And the fact that EVERY mother that earns the term in a non-biological sense has changed the lives of each of her children. I respect my own mother just as much as Mother Teresa.
Bobbylee Anderson has, alongside with my dad, done more for me than anyone else in this world. She is one of the most selfless people I know. For over a month, she spent every day she had off of work at court. From 9-5 she sat through a trial for the son of a woman in the ward she wasn’t particularly close to. I still remember a time that I called her on a Saturday and asked what she’d done and what her plans were for the rest of the day. She’d said that she’d helped a girl in the ward with something, gone to one of my brother’s games, had a presidency meeting, and was going to sew curtains for her niece’s new bedroom. Nothing for herself, only others.
On a bad day, there is no one I’d rather call. When I have exciting news, there’s no one who shares the e
xcitement as well as she does. She knows me better than anyone else. When I am debating a decision, I always call her. Not as a mother who’d command me, but as a friend who knows what I’d like most and what would be best for me. I was never a rebellious child, so while growing up, I was able to build a strong friendship with my mom. No, she wasn’t one of those irresponsible mothers who just wanted to be a friend. She is every meaning of the word “mother.” But she knew I also needed a friend. And that’s what she’s become.
She’ll listen to me rant and follow all the tangents I take. She doesn’t try to control my life now that I am of the age to make my own decisions, and never has. I tell her the things I’ve decided and she tells me what she thinks. But if I need advice, I always go to her and am always helped. When I’m wrong, she’s the only right I’ll see. She has a strength and a testimony unlike any I’ve ever seen. She loves me in a way no one else in this world does. She loves me despite how well she knows me, despite all the weaknesses I’m sure she’s seen. And yet, I feel as if she sees good things in me I’m not aware of, strengths only the love of a mother can detect.
And I know everyone feels this deeply about their own mother. Who could feel otherwise about a woman who wants nothing other than their happiness? So I call for the realization of the ideal role model—our own mothers. And for the respect and awe for the sacred calling of mother.
But I do see a problem when girls decide there are more important things to accomplish before, or in lieu of, marriage and children. I am not writing of the fifties mindset that the woman is supposed to marry and shrink under the shadows of men. But I do think marriage and family are becoming less and less admirable. I’ve heard girls say they may get married in this life, but that it is less important than… let’s say those pandas. Now, Mother Teresa was never married and didn’t
have any children. And she has done things for Heavenly Father’s children that no one else was capable of. Her works and her heart were so great that only a small number of people will accomplish things of the same magnitude. But think about those people who have been able to reach nearly every human being on this earth—mothers. And the fact that EVERY mother that earns the term in a non-biological sense has changed the lives of each of her children. I respect my own mother just as much as Mother Teresa.Bobbylee Anderson has, alongside with my dad, done more for me than anyone else in this world. She is one of the most selfless people I know. For over a month, she spent every day she had off of work at court. From 9-5 she sat through a trial for the son of a woman in the ward she wasn’t particularly close to. I still remember a time that I called her on a Saturday and asked what she’d done and what her plans were for the rest of the day. She’d said that she’d helped a girl in the ward with something, gone to one of my brother’s games, had a presidency meeting, and was going to sew curtains for her niece’s new bedroom. Nothing for herself, only others.
On a bad day, there is no one I’d rather call. When I have exciting news, there’s no one who shares the e
xcitement as well as she does. She knows me better than anyone else. When I am debating a decision, I always call her. Not as a mother who’d command me, but as a friend who knows what I’d like most and what would be best for me. I was never a rebellious child, so while growing up, I was able to build a strong friendship with my mom. No, she wasn’t one of those irresponsible mothers who just wanted to be a friend. She is every meaning of the word “mother.” But she knew I also needed a friend. And that’s what she’s become.She’ll listen to me rant and follow all the tangents I take. She doesn’t try to control my life now that I am of the age to make my own decisions, and never has. I tell her the things I’ve decided and she tells me what she thinks. But if I need advice, I always go to her and am always helped. When I’m wrong, she’s the only right I’ll see. She has a strength and a testimony unlike any I’ve ever seen. She loves me in a way no one else in this world does. She loves me despite how well she knows me, despite all the weaknesses I’m sure she’s seen. And yet, I feel as if she sees good things in me I’m not aware of, strengths only the love of a mother can detect.
And I know everyone feels this deeply about their own mother. Who could feel otherwise about a woman who wants nothing other than their happiness? So I call for the realization of the ideal role model—our own mothers. And for the respect and awe for the sacred calling of mother.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Footless Halls of Air
Wow. This was the first CNN news story on my iGoogle. Top news, my friends.
Socks, former Clinton cat, put to sleep.
On to my purpose for this blog today. I remembered a beautiful poem I discovered my senior year and thought I'd share it with you all since I don't want to study for chemistry.
During the early days of World War II, while the US was still neutral, many Americans crossed into Canada to enlist. John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was among them, giving up a Yale scholarship for a place in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was soon flying in England where, at 19, he was struck with the inspiration for a poem: "To Touch the Face of God." He wrote a quick verse while in the air and concluded the poem on the ground shortly after landing. He wrote out the poem on the back of a letter to his parents. Magee died a few months later from a mid-air collision. On his headstone reads the first and last lines of his poem:
"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth- Put out my hand and touched the face of God."
During the early days of World War II, while the US was still neutral, many Americans crossed into Canada to enlist. John Gillespie Magee, Jr. was among them, giving up a Yale scholarship for a place in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was soon flying in England where, at 19, he was struck with the inspiration for a poem: "To Touch the Face of God." He wrote a quick verse while in the air and concluded the poem on the ground shortly after landing. He wrote out the poem on the back of a letter to his parents. Magee died a few months later from a mid-air collision. On his headstone reads the first and last lines of his poem:
"Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth- Put out my hand and touched the face of God."
High Flight
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
John Gillespie Magee, Jr.
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter- silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air…
Up, up the long delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind- swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew-
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
You Learn Something New Everyday: CONTRONYM
This is interesting:
Cleave: 1 to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly
2 to separate into distinct parts
Cleave is its own antonym—a contronym. Huh! Here are some more. Comment with any others you can think of. Some of these are a bit of a stretch, but I like them anyway:
bolt - secure v run away
buckle - fasten v fall apart
custom - usual v special
dust - add fine particles v remove fine particles
fast - quick v unmoving
left - remaining v departed from
mean - average v excellent (e.g., "plays a mean game")
out - visible (e.g., stars) v invisible (e.g., lights)
screen - show v hide
I hope you find this as interesting as I do. You think about things like this too, right?
Cleave: 1 to adhere firmly and closely or loyally and unwaveringly
2 to separate into distinct parts
Cleave is its own antonym—a contronym. Huh! Here are some more. Comment with any others you can think of. Some of these are a bit of a stretch, but I like them anyway:
bolt - secure v run away
buckle - fasten v fall apart
custom - usual v special
dust - add fine particles v remove fine particles
fast - quick v unmoving
left - remaining v departed from
mean - average v excellent (e.g., "plays a mean game")
out - visible (e.g., stars) v invisible (e.g., lights)
screen - show v hide
I hope you find this as interesting as I do. You think about things like this too, right?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
I Love the Story
I love stories. A lot. There are many reasons and many manifestations.
First off, I've noticed my whole life that I have a deep love for music, reading, dance, theatre, movies, sculptures.. all the arts. There are probably many reasons, but one conclusion I drew was very interesting and fits nicely into this little piece: I love the story. And these are all different ways of telling a story. Music has a beautiful way of telling a story and expressing the emotions. There is such a beauty and depth when the melodies and harmonies are added to the lyrics of
Les Misérables . And then the music swells for emphasis as the human voice personifies the message and adds a testimony, experience to the words. Literature has the ability to look into the minds and hearts of the characters, to explain the reasons people behave the way they do. I've often found connections between myself and characters that are deeper and much easier to see than those between myself and normal people. DANCE. All forms, but there is nothing in this world more beautiful to me than ballet. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen or performed in The Nutcracker. And when Christmastime comes, there's still nothing I'd rather do. Theatre. Now, to some, its sappiness and annoyingly high dose of melodrama is overwhelming and hard to get past. But when I do get past it, what an incredible thing to be able to witness. An actor takes a charact
er and shows you how he saw the character in his mind. Movies. Again, I love seeing how the actor brings alive his character. And then there's the filming and lighting, the make-up and costuming, the music; the overall cinematography is something I can't help but notice. And sculptures—capturing a whole story, a whole range of emotions in a single moment. I am not at all an expert in art (or any of the past things) and I'm sure am generic and inexperienced in choosing the Pieta as my example of a beautiful sculpture. As Mary holds the limp body of the Savior, her face and her body show every emotion she feels in the instant and all that was felt previously.
I daydream. All the time. Not because I hate my life and daydream of how it'd be better. It's about my future life—I’ll think of the orphans I'll meet a
and help when I finally do get to go to an orphanage, of the beautiful secluded, canopied, dappled backyard my husband and I are going to have. I love my life. A lot. BUT at times, it doesn't quite seem like a story, and I think those are the reasons I daydream about my present life. There once was a girl who woke up and went to work. and then school. after that she stayed on campus. Every day, she does her homework, comes home, and goes to bed. next day, repeat. next day, repeat. Not a very exciting story.
It would seem. But I know better. (Although I still can't hold back my imagination during the 35 minute walk to work.)
There were many times in high school, and still now, when, although invited to a party or asked to hang out, I'd rather stay home and read or watch a movie. People would say I was lazy or wasting time watching a movie. But oh no. I'm being quite stimulated.
I still remember those friends. The ones who would call and set my mind on ultra speed as I fought to find some half- truth excuse. But somehow they'd always find out I'd spent the night with a blanket and movie. Perhaps they knew me better than I thought.
The best music videos, songs, or dances, as my friend Melissa, and any other person, will tell you, are those that tell a story. Music Video—“If I Were a Boy" by Beyonce. Song—“Helena” by Nickel Creek, "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy. Dance—any ballet, "Bleeding Love" by Chelsie and Mark of So You Think You Can Dance.
Lastly, story time. It's the greatest. One time I was with a group of friends. As it
was getting late and the room was getting dimmer and dimmer, we started story time. Everyone told a dream or funny story or memory. I loved it! How fun!
My friend Cait and I love to make up stories for each other. Stories that usually end up with an attractive, Banana Republic wearing, internationally and economically-minded, business majoring, trilingual husband. They contain their fair share of adventure as well.
And if you think about it, stories lead to inside jokes, which are, honestly, the stepping stones and markers of a friendship.
Well, my friends, this was my thought on a Thursday night as I shoved my homework aside and made a terrible batch of brownies.
First off, I've noticed my whole life that I have a deep love for music, reading, dance, theatre, movies, sculptures.. all the arts. There are probably many reasons, but one conclusion I drew was very interesting and fits nicely into this little piece: I love the story. And these are all different ways of telling a story. Music has a beautiful way of telling a story and expressing the emotions. There is such a beauty and depth when the melodies and harmonies are added to the lyrics of
Les Misérables . And then the music swells for emphasis as the human voice personifies the message and adds a testimony, experience to the words. Literature has the ability to look into the minds and hearts of the characters, to explain the reasons people behave the way they do. I've often found connections between myself and characters that are deeper and much easier to see than those between myself and normal people. DANCE. All forms, but there is nothing in this world more beautiful to me than ballet. I cannot tell you how many times I have seen or performed in The Nutcracker. And when Christmastime comes, there's still nothing I'd rather do. Theatre. Now, to some, its sappiness and annoyingly high dose of melodrama is overwhelming and hard to get past. But when I do get past it, what an incredible thing to be able to witness. An actor takes a charact
er and shows you how he saw the character in his mind. Movies. Again, I love seeing how the actor brings alive his character. And then there's the filming and lighting, the make-up and costuming, the music; the overall cinematography is something I can't help but notice. And sculptures—capturing a whole story, a whole range of emotions in a single moment. I am not at all an expert in art (or any of the past things) and I'm sure am generic and inexperienced in choosing the Pieta as my example of a beautiful sculpture. As Mary holds the limp body of the Savior, her face and her body show every emotion she feels in the instant and all that was felt previously.
I daydream. All the time. Not because I hate my life and daydream of how it'd be better. It's about my future life—I’ll think of the orphans I'll meet a
and help when I finally do get to go to an orphanage, of the beautiful secluded, canopied, dappled backyard my husband and I are going to have. I love my life. A lot. BUT at times, it doesn't quite seem like a story, and I think those are the reasons I daydream about my present life. There once was a girl who woke up and went to work. and then school. after that she stayed on campus. Every day, she does her homework, comes home, and goes to bed. next day, repeat. next day, repeat. Not a very exciting story.
It would seem. But I know better. (Although I still can't hold back my imagination during the 35 minute walk to work.)
There were many times in high school, and still now, when, although invited to a party or asked to hang out, I'd rather stay home and read or watch a movie. People would say I was lazy or wasting time watching a movie. But oh no. I'm being quite stimulated.
I still remember those friends. The ones who would call and set my mind on ultra speed as I fought to find some half- truth excuse. But somehow they'd always find out I'd spent the night with a blanket and movie. Perhaps they knew me better than I thought.
The best music videos, songs, or dances, as my friend Melissa, and any other person, will tell you, are those that tell a story. Music Video—“If I Were a Boy" by Beyonce. Song—“Helena” by Nickel Creek, "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy. Dance—any ballet, "Bleeding Love" by Chelsie and Mark of So You Think You Can Dance.
Lastly, story time. It's the greatest. One time I was with a group of friends. As it
was getting late and the room was getting dimmer and dimmer, we started story time. Everyone told a dream or funny story or memory. I loved it! How fun!
My friend Cait and I love to make up stories for each other. Stories that usually end up with an attractive, Banana Republic wearing, internationally and economically-minded, business majoring, trilingual husband. They contain their fair share of adventure as well.
And if you think about it, stories lead to inside jokes, which are, honestly, the stepping stones and markers of a friendship.
Well, my friends, this was my thought on a Thursday night as I shoved my homework aside and made a terrible batch of brownies.
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