What exactly is noping?
Have you ever heard the song "Chasing Cars"?
The chorus goes, "If I just lay here, will you lie with me and just forget the world?"
Ignoring the stanch grammatical crime this song commits (the first lay should be lie), we find in these beautiful lyrics a pretty good definition of noping. The song continues, "Let's waste time chasing cars around our heads." That is also a pretty good example of noping.
But for me, noping will forever be defined by the first time I encountered the term (though I am sure I had noped many a time before then).
It was a Wednesday night. I had spent, literally, all day in the library working on two research papers that I had put off until only a few days before their due date: Thursday at noon. My only break was to run over to a Prelaw Pie Social, of which I am a part only because of my status as editor of the Prelaw Reveiw. I didn't want to stay too long because, after all, I had essays to get back to, but I managed to stay just long enough to be one of the last remaining people and pick up an extra pie on my way out. I chose a banana cream, not because it had the most pie left to it (only myself and one other girl had had a slice), but because it's one of my favorites, so it was definitely a bonus that it was relatively untouched. I grabbed two plastic forks on my way out, because you never know what fate can throw at you--a strapping young man, a good friend . . . or perhaps, just two free forks. Either way, I figured they could come in handy.
From there, I rushed back to the library where I would be meeting a small group from my Mandarin class to practice for our final dialogue performance. Rachel, of course, was there, as were Eliza, Catherine, Maddie, and Emily, nearly all of whom will, as was intentionally planned, be joining me next semester in the same section of Mandarin part two.
Rachel had arrived to our study group slightly late because, with the basketball game and art auction, parking around campus had been horrendous. She had parked some ways to the northeast of campus at the parking for the freshman dorms, the ones I lived in my freshman year and that she will be moving to shortly.
As we were walking down the paved path to the dorms, Rachel went over to the high curb and sat down.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Yep," she responded, "I'm just gonna nope."
I had never heard such an expression before, but, perhaps because it was coming from Rachel, who verbs all the time, I knew exactly what she meant, and so I sat down to nope with her.
It was already dark out--nine o'clock or nine-thirty. It was cold enough that my jacket was necessary, but I had kept my coat draped over my arm as we'd walked. It was the ninth of December and there were scattered clumps of ,melting snow here and there, but so long as it wasn't snowing and it wasn't below freezing, I wasn't going to wear my coat.
From where we sat on the curb, we could look out on the west side of Provo. To our right was a bridge on which the traffic that Rachel would be headed into shortly had come to a near halt, and so, in part, it justified our noping. We decided we would wait for the traffic to clear up, realizing this could be a long wait. But the thing is, it didn't really feel like waiting. When you nope, if you do it properly, you don't take time into account anymore. This means I really have no idea how long we sat there talking. It also means I forgot all about the unfinished research papers waiting for me in the library.
At long last we got up and walked the rest of the way to her car.
I asked Rachel to drop me back off by the library. As I was grabbing the pie, I said to her, "Sorry, I would have offered it earlier, but I didn't want to break it out in our study group" (not to mention you're technically not supposed to have food in the library).
Long story short, my two forks proved serendipitous and insightful. Rachel pulled into a parking spot and we dug in and talked quite a bit more.
At some point in the conversation, Wikipedia was mentioned, and so I asked Rachel if she had ever played the Wikipedia game. She hadn't, and so, a game was in order. For those of you who are not familiar with this beautiful, addicting pastime, to play the Wikipedia game you need two devices that can pull up Wikipedia.com. Then, each player selects a random word. One word is entered into the search box and the game begins, with each player following links in the articles with the goal of being the first player to find a link to the second word.
For one of the rounds that Rachel and I played, I don't remember where we started, but we were headed to "balloon." I gave up on going the path of war and decided to start by finding "birth" and then "birthday party." Some time later, slightly frustrated at not being able to find it, I said to Rachel, "I have gone through every sexual organ!" which of course required some explanation. Rachel, meanwhile, was in Star Wars.
Eventually I found myself in obesity and other eating disorders and diseases, which lead me to "gastric balloon" which we decided was close enough. (A funny side note we discovered: "WWII" and "my little pony" are only two links away from each other).
It was almost 11:00 by the time I was headed back to finish my prison sentence in the library (I finished my papers shortly before the library would close at 2:00 am). It was a late night, but noping was worth it. It was so fun and relaxing, and I was much more productive because of it. I guess you could say that noping is a lot like demolishing a banana cream pie--it's good in most any proportion because it remains just as sweet with every bite. It's most enjoyable when you really ought not to be doing it. And it's best done with a friend and two plastic forks.
Candidly,
Cookie
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
An Orange World and How to Be in It (Trust Me, You Want To Be In It)
Some of my favorite lyrics read, "Stand me up and look inside. So many people shape my life. I am pieces of them all. They are why I stand tall."
To tell you about each and all of these wonderful people would take, well, a lifetime (and it has) and so I will tell you about all of them--by telling you about just one. Her name is Katelyn.
Katelyn is one of those people who lights up the room when she walks in. She makes you feel precious, loved, and special, and I never leaver her but that I feel that I am a better (and happier) person than I was when she found me. In short, Katelyn is an orange person. What do I mean by that? Well, let me take you back to a conversation we had some weeks ago--Saturday, November 14th.
It was a relatively warm day for November. My hands would get chilly when I took them out of the pockets of my navy-blue sweater, and I was thankful for long socks beneath my jeans. It was a cold day for a native Georgian, but, like I said, relatively warm for Utah.
The air was dry and crisp, as it always is in Utah. Even in rainstorms, the air feels dry compared to the stanch humidity of Georgia. It means the nuisance of having to put on lotion at least three times a day, but it also means the brown and scarlet leaves strewn over the sidewalks make a beautiful crunching sound beneath my feet as I walk.
The walk to Katelyn's place is a long one by anyone's standards other than my own. Having no mode of transportation aside from my own two feet, I'm accustomed to long walks, and, the honest truth is, I rather enjoy them.
As I walked, I sang. I talked to myself. I turned around often to look at the mountains. I checked the time on my phone. I talked to myself again. I listened to the crunch of the leaves and the noises of traffic. I checked the time again. 2:30. I was right on schedule.
Some weeks earlier, my sister, Kylie, and her husband, Josh, had taken me to get a root beer float at possibly the most adorable little shop in all of Provo: Pop 'n Sweets. If Willy Wonka owned a tiny little shop in the heart of Provo, this would be it. Along all the walls are bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors, filled with sodas of all sorts of flavors--"Butter Beer," "Chocolate and Bacon Breakfast Surprise," "Blood Orange and Cranberry Tart," "Sasquatch Sarsparilla," "Cotton Candy Dream" . . . .
The center of this tiny shop is cluttered with displays of various candies and chocolates from a wide span of places and eras. And in the back of the shop is the counter where Katelyn and I sat on our red, cushioned bar stools and sipped our free root beer floats (our prize for taking an online survey).
My original plan had been to go to Pop 'n Sweets later that evening, but Katelyn was going on a date that night and had informed me that she was rather busy with homework and the like, so 2:30 had been our best option. I was surprised, then, when, over an hour later, we were still sitting at the "Mormon bar" talking. It was as though both we and the night had drunken from the waters of Tuck Everlasting, and I soaked in every minute.
By the time we were making the walk back to Katelyn's apartment, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow on the mountains.
Katelyn remarked that she loves when the mountains turn orange and I made some remark on how orange used to be my least favorite color but has since become my favorite. "Have I told you this story?" I asked Katelyn.
"No," she replied.
Perhaps you've heard it said that all good stories start with "Once upon a time," but in my experience, most good stories start with "no," as did this one.
"When I was little," I began, "my mother read to us a book called I Love You the Purplest." I turned to Katelyn, "Have you read it?"
Katelyn responded in the negative and so an explanation was in order.
Essentially, I Love You the Purplest is about two brothers who asked their mother which of them she loved the most. If you have a sibling and have asked your mother this question you've probably gotten the typical "You're my favorite second-oldest daughter" or "You're my favorite oldest son." The mother in this story decides to, instead, give each of her sons a color. "I love you the redest," she says to one. And to the other, "I love you the bluest."
Well, at some point in our childhood, my sister and I got smart and decided to ask my mother what color she loved us the best. And she loved me the orangest. At the time, orange and purple were my least favorite colors--the only colors, in fact, that I didn't like. So you can imagine I was a little disappointed that she loved me the orangest--that is, until she told me why.
I reminded her of the sunrise--and the sunset. I reminded her of the sunrise because I was always hopeful, positive, and radiant. I reminded her of the sunset because it is calm and peaceful and because the world feels like a better place after a sunset.
Katelyn told me about one of the goals her uncle had shared with her--one that she had subsequently adopted as her own. The goal was simple and it was this: to leave people better than you find them.
"It's just like you were saying," she told me. "It's an orange thing." She paused, smiled, and then paid me one of the greatest compliments I've ever received, "You really are an orange person, Brooke. I'm always happier when I'm around you."
Have you ever been paid a compliment you weren't sure you really deserved but wanted to and so you resolved to do things that would make yourself feel worthy of it? I had just been told I was an orange person by one of the orangest people I know. Of course I didn't feel worthy. And so all month I've thought about that simple goal--to leave people better than I find them. And can I just tell you it has been an incredible month.
Now, every time I look at the mountains, I think of the conversation we had on our walk back from Pop n Sweets that night in early November. I look at the orange mountains and I want to be like them. I want to make people happy. I want to inspire them with just a glimpse of their unlimited potential and beauty. I want to leave people with a smile. With a lighter heart and with the knowledge that they are loved. I want to leave people better than I found them.
In short, I want to be like Katelyn--and all the other wonderfully orange people I have been blessed to know and love in this wonderfully orange world.
*to read more about this and how to "Leave People Better than You Found Them", check out Katelyn's latest blog post "Leave Them Better Than You Found Them"
To tell you about each and all of these wonderful people would take, well, a lifetime (and it has) and so I will tell you about all of them--by telling you about just one. Her name is Katelyn.
Katelyn is one of those people who lights up the room when she walks in. She makes you feel precious, loved, and special, and I never leaver her but that I feel that I am a better (and happier) person than I was when she found me. In short, Katelyn is an orange person. What do I mean by that? Well, let me take you back to a conversation we had some weeks ago--Saturday, November 14th.
It was a relatively warm day for November. My hands would get chilly when I took them out of the pockets of my navy-blue sweater, and I was thankful for long socks beneath my jeans. It was a cold day for a native Georgian, but, like I said, relatively warm for Utah.
The air was dry and crisp, as it always is in Utah. Even in rainstorms, the air feels dry compared to the stanch humidity of Georgia. It means the nuisance of having to put on lotion at least three times a day, but it also means the brown and scarlet leaves strewn over the sidewalks make a beautiful crunching sound beneath my feet as I walk.
The walk to Katelyn's place is a long one by anyone's standards other than my own. Having no mode of transportation aside from my own two feet, I'm accustomed to long walks, and, the honest truth is, I rather enjoy them.
As I walked, I sang. I talked to myself. I turned around often to look at the mountains. I checked the time on my phone. I talked to myself again. I listened to the crunch of the leaves and the noises of traffic. I checked the time again. 2:30. I was right on schedule.
Some weeks earlier, my sister, Kylie, and her husband, Josh, had taken me to get a root beer float at possibly the most adorable little shop in all of Provo: Pop 'n Sweets. If Willy Wonka owned a tiny little shop in the heart of Provo, this would be it. Along all the walls are bottles of all shapes, sizes, and colors, filled with sodas of all sorts of flavors--"Butter Beer," "Chocolate and Bacon Breakfast Surprise," "Blood Orange and Cranberry Tart," "Sasquatch Sarsparilla," "Cotton Candy Dream" . . . .
The center of this tiny shop is cluttered with displays of various candies and chocolates from a wide span of places and eras. And in the back of the shop is the counter where Katelyn and I sat on our red, cushioned bar stools and sipped our free root beer floats (our prize for taking an online survey).
My original plan had been to go to Pop 'n Sweets later that evening, but Katelyn was going on a date that night and had informed me that she was rather busy with homework and the like, so 2:30 had been our best option. I was surprised, then, when, over an hour later, we were still sitting at the "Mormon bar" talking. It was as though both we and the night had drunken from the waters of Tuck Everlasting, and I soaked in every minute.
By the time we were making the walk back to Katelyn's apartment, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow on the mountains.
Katelyn remarked that she loves when the mountains turn orange and I made some remark on how orange used to be my least favorite color but has since become my favorite. "Have I told you this story?" I asked Katelyn.
"No," she replied.
Perhaps you've heard it said that all good stories start with "Once upon a time," but in my experience, most good stories start with "no," as did this one.
"When I was little," I began, "my mother read to us a book called I Love You the Purplest." I turned to Katelyn, "Have you read it?"
Katelyn responded in the negative and so an explanation was in order.
Essentially, I Love You the Purplest is about two brothers who asked their mother which of them she loved the most. If you have a sibling and have asked your mother this question you've probably gotten the typical "You're my favorite second-oldest daughter" or "You're my favorite oldest son." The mother in this story decides to, instead, give each of her sons a color. "I love you the redest," she says to one. And to the other, "I love you the bluest."
Well, at some point in our childhood, my sister and I got smart and decided to ask my mother what color she loved us the best. And she loved me the orangest. At the time, orange and purple were my least favorite colors--the only colors, in fact, that I didn't like. So you can imagine I was a little disappointed that she loved me the orangest--that is, until she told me why.
I reminded her of the sunrise--and the sunset. I reminded her of the sunrise because I was always hopeful, positive, and radiant. I reminded her of the sunset because it is calm and peaceful and because the world feels like a better place after a sunset.
Katelyn told me about one of the goals her uncle had shared with her--one that she had subsequently adopted as her own. The goal was simple and it was this: to leave people better than you find them.
"It's just like you were saying," she told me. "It's an orange thing." She paused, smiled, and then paid me one of the greatest compliments I've ever received, "You really are an orange person, Brooke. I'm always happier when I'm around you."
Have you ever been paid a compliment you weren't sure you really deserved but wanted to and so you resolved to do things that would make yourself feel worthy of it? I had just been told I was an orange person by one of the orangest people I know. Of course I didn't feel worthy. And so all month I've thought about that simple goal--to leave people better than I find them. And can I just tell you it has been an incredible month.
Now, every time I look at the mountains, I think of the conversation we had on our walk back from Pop n Sweets that night in early November. I look at the orange mountains and I want to be like them. I want to make people happy. I want to inspire them with just a glimpse of their unlimited potential and beauty. I want to leave people with a smile. With a lighter heart and with the knowledge that they are loved. I want to leave people better than I found them.
In short, I want to be like Katelyn--and all the other wonderfully orange people I have been blessed to know and love in this wonderfully orange world.
*to read more about this and how to "Leave People Better than You Found Them", check out Katelyn's latest blog post "Leave Them Better Than You Found Them"
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
When Sadness Makes You Happy . . .
The flat that I call home is still and quiet
But I've been up since five
Tip-toeing across the creaky floor
Afraid to make a noise
The rumpling of my bedsheets
Seems the echoing of thunder
So I straighten out my quilt
And call it good
I grab the rose gold ring
The one my brother gave me
And the necklace from my sister
With a silver elephant
It's upturned trunk a symbol of good luck
I keep them on a shelf above my bed
That groans beneath the weight of all my books
Austen's "Pride and Prejudice", "Walden's Pond", "Unwritten"
'The Road Less Traveled", books of poetry
A bible and at least a couple journals
Stuffed with notes and letters
Thirsting for my pen
Cautious of the screeching hinges
That guard our bedroom door
I gather all my books
My black boots, laptop, pencils
A scantly sleeve of crackers
And the Nutella that I snacked on all last night
And exit to the kitchen
Where I at last turn on the light
It's in that very moment
That the grand debate begins:
I really want cracked oats again
But my bananas aren't quite ripe
I could cook some Spanish rice
Roll it in soft tacos
But there are days when even instant takes too long
French toast seems in order
Because I'm really craving syrup
But nearly all my white bread went to feeding Bae and Steady
(My two web-footed friends down at the pond)
Cold cereal was yesterday
And I go through milk too quickly
And this is why two dozen eggs
Barely lasts a week
I turn on podcasts while the eggs cook
Videos of conference
And creative writing lectures
Because I haven't yet let go of dreams
To one day be an author
And with my schedule so demanding
This is sometimes the extent of my pursuits
As I make the walk to campus
I write stories in my head
Like an enchantress with her magic spells
I tell them all out loud
But never to an audience
Except that rare occasion when someone overhears
So I just pretend that I am talking on the phone
Because talking to yourself
Is weird.
Campus is deserted
And when the anthem plays
People turn to statues
With their hands upon their hearts
Shivering beneath their scarves and coats
Their thoughts turning to the busy day ahead
In my thoughts, I'm in my Mandarin class
Rachel's giving me a look that says "Morning came too early
Again."
And I reciprocate
She talks excitedly about her fandoms
And I cry over my recent breakup
With my pillow and my bed
She laughs when someone says her favorite word
"Interesting" in Mandarin
My favorite word is "Pungyou"
Which means friend
In my mind we're walking to my next class
And before I know it
Rachel is reminding me I have another class to go to
Because she knows that I could talk with her all day
After class I go to get hot chocolate
I order a float: hot chocolate with ice cream
And the sweet lady beside me takes the bill
I run into a friend whose eating lunch
And stay to chat a while
She asks me to in just two minutes
Recall life's recent highlights
I recall game nights with Savannah, Tyler and Cameron
Ultimate Frisbee tournaments on a Saturday afternoon
Dancing in the rain with my friend because we're both Pluviophiles
Watching movies with the girls downstairs who help me grade my papers
Walking down the street to pick up pizza Friday night
Getting called in for an interview with Writing Fellows
Which is every writer's dream job, or at least it's mine
I recall grabbing FROYO samples as I walk to my apartment
Walking to the temple Wednesday nights
Drinking hot chocolate floats at the "mormon bar" (just rootbeer and coco)
Talking with a friend for hours
Going on a late night run with my running buddy, Laura
Playing Banana Grams with my sister and her hubby
Walking out of the testing center with a smile on my face
Receiving a sweet note that I keep in my phone case
Because it makes me smile every time I read it (even though I have it memorized by now)
Editing a paper for a friend (because, yes, it's true, I actually enjoy that)
And then lying in my bed at night
And smiling
Because I know that when I wake
All I need to love
Will be right before my eyes
My bedroom door no longer creaks. I fixed it with a bit of the grease I use for my French Horn. And I've actually been out of eggs for a while. Come to think of it, I've been out of everything for a while. I keep meaning to go shopping, and it will happen eventually. In the meantime steel cut oats has become a staple. Breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.
I have, since this poem, strengthened my relationship with my pillow and bed, which is a good thing really; our long distance relationship wasn't working out so hot.
And I've taken my writer's dreams beyond podcasts in the morning; I recently entered a speech contest, but it'll be another couple weeks until I hear the results.
I made it through my last round of midterms and am celebrating on Friday with Oreos and Peanut Butter while I watch Inside Out with Rachel, who I can't believe hasn't seen it yet. In case you couldn't tell, I kind of really love this movie. I find it a little ironic that Sadness is my favorite character. Why? because she makes me happy.
And when even sadness makes you happy . . . life doesn't get much better than that.
Candidly,
Cookie
But I've been up since five
Tip-toeing across the creaky floor
Afraid to make a noise
The rumpling of my bedsheets
Seems the echoing of thunder
So I straighten out my quilt
And call it good
I grab the rose gold ring
The one my brother gave me
And the necklace from my sister
With a silver elephant
It's upturned trunk a symbol of good luck
I keep them on a shelf above my bed
That groans beneath the weight of all my books
Austen's "Pride and Prejudice", "Walden's Pond", "Unwritten"
'The Road Less Traveled", books of poetry
A bible and at least a couple journals
Stuffed with notes and letters
Thirsting for my pen
Cautious of the screeching hinges
That guard our bedroom door
I gather all my books
My black boots, laptop, pencils
A scantly sleeve of crackers
And the Nutella that I snacked on all last night
And exit to the kitchen
Where I at last turn on the light
It's in that very moment
That the grand debate begins:
I really want cracked oats again
But my bananas aren't quite ripe
I could cook some Spanish rice
Roll it in soft tacos
But there are days when even instant takes too long
French toast seems in order
Because I'm really craving syrup
But nearly all my white bread went to feeding Bae and Steady
(My two web-footed friends down at the pond)
Cold cereal was yesterday
And I go through milk too quickly
And this is why two dozen eggs
Barely lasts a week
I turn on podcasts while the eggs cook
Videos of conference
And creative writing lectures
Because I haven't yet let go of dreams
To one day be an author
And with my schedule so demanding
This is sometimes the extent of my pursuits
As I make the walk to campus
I write stories in my head
Like an enchantress with her magic spells
I tell them all out loud
But never to an audience
Except that rare occasion when someone overhears
So I just pretend that I am talking on the phone
Because talking to yourself
Is weird.
Campus is deserted
And when the anthem plays
People turn to statues
With their hands upon their hearts
Shivering beneath their scarves and coats
Their thoughts turning to the busy day ahead
In my thoughts, I'm in my Mandarin class
Rachel's giving me a look that says "Morning came too early
Again."
And I reciprocate
She talks excitedly about her fandoms
And I cry over my recent breakup
With my pillow and my bed
She laughs when someone says her favorite word
"Interesting" in Mandarin
My favorite word is "Pungyou"
Which means friend
In my mind we're walking to my next class
And before I know it
Rachel is reminding me I have another class to go to
Because she knows that I could talk with her all day
After class I go to get hot chocolate
I order a float: hot chocolate with ice cream
And the sweet lady beside me takes the bill
I run into a friend whose eating lunch
And stay to chat a while
She asks me to in just two minutes
Recall life's recent highlights
I recall game nights with Savannah, Tyler and Cameron
Ultimate Frisbee tournaments on a Saturday afternoon
Dancing in the rain with my friend because we're both Pluviophiles
Watching movies with the girls downstairs who help me grade my papers
Walking down the street to pick up pizza Friday night
Getting called in for an interview with Writing Fellows
Which is every writer's dream job, or at least it's mine
I recall grabbing FROYO samples as I walk to my apartment
Walking to the temple Wednesday nights
Drinking hot chocolate floats at the "mormon bar" (just rootbeer and coco)
Talking with a friend for hours
Going on a late night run with my running buddy, Laura
Playing Banana Grams with my sister and her hubby
Walking out of the testing center with a smile on my face
Receiving a sweet note that I keep in my phone case
Because it makes me smile every time I read it (even though I have it memorized by now)
Editing a paper for a friend (because, yes, it's true, I actually enjoy that)
And then lying in my bed at night
And smiling
Because I know that when I wake
All I need to love
Will be right before my eyes
My bedroom door no longer creaks. I fixed it with a bit of the grease I use for my French Horn. And I've actually been out of eggs for a while. Come to think of it, I've been out of everything for a while. I keep meaning to go shopping, and it will happen eventually. In the meantime steel cut oats has become a staple. Breakfast. Lunch. And dinner.
I have, since this poem, strengthened my relationship with my pillow and bed, which is a good thing really; our long distance relationship wasn't working out so hot.
And I've taken my writer's dreams beyond podcasts in the morning; I recently entered a speech contest, but it'll be another couple weeks until I hear the results.
I made it through my last round of midterms and am celebrating on Friday with Oreos and Peanut Butter while I watch Inside Out with Rachel, who I can't believe hasn't seen it yet. In case you couldn't tell, I kind of really love this movie. I find it a little ironic that Sadness is my favorite character. Why? because she makes me happy.
And when even sadness makes you happy . . . life doesn't get much better than that.
Candidly,
Cookie
Sunday, November 1, 2015
A Writer's Debut
I was reading back over some of my old blog posts and came across a post called "Writing from the Heart."
It got me thinking about where I've taken writing, and where it's taking me. There's a quote that I love that reads "Writing may be as much a matter of what we do to it as what it does to us."
And, for a time, I felt as though I was ignoring it and it, in turn, was killing me. I was editing all the time. But I hardly ever had time to write. Often I would be in the middle of editing a paper and think, why am I editing this? I could write this. And then I would be upset that I hadn't. I hardly wrote more than two poems a month, I wrote only the occasional blog post, I hadn't touched my story, and all the while I'm surrounded by incredible writers and left wondering how I could ever measure up.
Then I watched the movie "Magic Beyond Words", the story of J.K Rowling's childhood, career, and ensuing rise to fame and realized all I really wanted was to write. So I rearranged my entire schedule to fit in two writing classes, and I was happy. Then I wrote a blog post and was met with all-too-kind comments, comments such as "You are an incredible writer--few people have as much talent as you do," "How do you write this well? This is uncanny", and "Can you write a book? Please? I just want to keep reading. Your writing has a way of sucking me in and making it all feel so comfortable. Like snuggling up in a blanket next to a fireplace on a rainy day . . . Seriously. Love your writing Brooke! Don't stop doing it!!"
I let myself believe them, and I started writing more. I wrote another blog post. I wrote in my journal, and I even pulled out the story I've been working on for far too long now. I allowed my friend to convince me to enter a speech contest. I'll find out how I did with that in a couple weeks. I applied to work as a Writing Fellow next semester. I wrote a draft of a paper to submit to an online journal.
And, sitting on the couch, as the credits rolled, after watching the movie that started it all, "Magic Beyond Words," I hurriedly scribbled the following poem.
It got me thinking about where I've taken writing, and where it's taking me. There's a quote that I love that reads "Writing may be as much a matter of what we do to it as what it does to us."
And, for a time, I felt as though I was ignoring it and it, in turn, was killing me. I was editing all the time. But I hardly ever had time to write. Often I would be in the middle of editing a paper and think, why am I editing this? I could write this. And then I would be upset that I hadn't. I hardly wrote more than two poems a month, I wrote only the occasional blog post, I hadn't touched my story, and all the while I'm surrounded by incredible writers and left wondering how I could ever measure up.
Then I watched the movie "Magic Beyond Words", the story of J.K Rowling's childhood, career, and ensuing rise to fame and realized all I really wanted was to write. So I rearranged my entire schedule to fit in two writing classes, and I was happy. Then I wrote a blog post and was met with all-too-kind comments, comments such as "You are an incredible writer--few people have as much talent as you do," "How do you write this well? This is uncanny", and "Can you write a book? Please? I just want to keep reading. Your writing has a way of sucking me in and making it all feel so comfortable. Like snuggling up in a blanket next to a fireplace on a rainy day . . . Seriously. Love your writing Brooke! Don't stop doing it!!"
I let myself believe them, and I started writing more. I wrote another blog post. I wrote in my journal, and I even pulled out the story I've been working on for far too long now. I allowed my friend to convince me to enter a speech contest. I'll find out how I did with that in a couple weeks. I applied to work as a Writing Fellow next semester. I wrote a draft of a paper to submit to an online journal.
And, sitting on the couch, as the credits rolled, after watching the movie that started it all, "Magic Beyond Words," I hurriedly scribbled the following poem.
You cannot fear the waiting page
It’s white space like a snowy field
Hardening with age
It’s icy crust like dragon’s skin
Impossible to penetrate
The fire, cold within
Ready to consume whatever words
You attempt to mark upon it
It chills the writer’s hand
Freezes thoughts
And keeps the words in fear
Huddled in the pen for warmth
Afraid to die, yet never brought to life
You cannot command the words
Any more than you can rewrite the laws
Which govern all the earth
For who can govern gods
And who can own the words,
The tools of their creations?
Words, you see, cannot be commanded
Words, you see, cannot be commanded
But they are lead
A writer is a leader
Someone they can trust
Endowing them with human passions
Arraying them like strokes upon a canvas
Like an army, to stand before its enemy
Endowed with confidence and order
Marching down the author’s arm
Rushing out the pen
Leaving tidy black footprints
Upon the icy field
Then, finding their intended resting place
They lay down upon the feild
They make their sacrifice
Such are words:
Memorials
Imprints of their lives
When we write
We send these valiant words to die
And this: the paradox
Those afraid to die are never brought to life
Those afraid to live will only die
But those that do not fear to live
Change lives
That is why we write
Greatness
Comes with sacrifice
And writers do not fear
To pay the price
I wrote this poem because I realized I could not let the fear of striking out keep me from playing the game. I was given a gift that makes me so happy--I could see no good reason not to use it. J.K Rowling went through a lot before her work was published, but she wrote because she loved it. And that's why I write. It's true that writing changes lives, but I think the life it changes the most is the author's. It's true that writing comes with a price, a risk, but only if you're playing to win. Me: for now, I'm playing to play. One day I'll play to win, but winning isn't about being famous or published. It's about being satisfied and being happy, and right now I get that just from playing. And the best part? I not only own the board and the pieces. I own the rules. I know all the rules, so I know all the loop-holes. And I know the greatest secret of writing: there are no rules, just passionate preferences. And I passionately prefer to make up my own.
No fear here.
On the contrary, I'm having a blast.
Candidly,
Cookie
Coincidence? I Think Not.
It was almost Tuesday night and I had just gotten back from a much-needed run with a friend. I had a quiz due at midnight, an essay to finish, a dialogue to memorize for my Mandarin class, readings to do for my grammar class, and readings and exercises to do for my Modern American Usage of English class which were to prepare us for the take home quizzes that were due the following morning.
The following night, Wednesday, I went straight from orchestra rehearsal to the temple and returned home equally late with an equally long to-do list. Both mornings would see me up by six and to bed some time long past midnight. Monday had been a late night too.
But let's rewind to Tuesday night. I got to bed around one a.m and got up around 5:30 the following morning. By the time I had showered, grabbed breakfast, packed a lunch and dinner, and made it up to campus I had roughly half an hour to memorize the dialogue for my Mandarin class. Usually, this takes me at least an hour. Not to mention this was our longest dialogue yet. By some miracle, I got a perfect score on the dialogue. In my next class, grammar, we had a pop-quiz on the readings, which, of course, I hadn't done. I guessed on all the answers and got them all right, plus the bonus question. With five minutes left in the class and only fifteen minutes before my next class would start, I realized I had not done the take home quizzes for my next class. Skipping the readings and the practice exercises, I went straight to the quizzes, finishing them as I walked to my next class, where they'd be due. Out of three quizzes, I missed only one question.
I don't say this to flaunt my intellectual prowess, nor to brag on my vampire-like abilities to, evidently, function rather well with limited sleep. On the contrary, I function rather poorly on limited sleep and spent the weekend making up for it.
I tell you this because I believe miracles happen, and this to me, was most definitely a tender mercy. It would be easy to say that it worked out by coincidence or due, in some part, to my own intellectual abilities, but it would be making a mockery of God to do so.
And, as proof that I really couldn't do it on my own, after roughly four and a half hours of sleep a night all week, I nearly failed my Mandarin quiz on Friday and then slept the rest of the day, all night, and well in to the following morning. Coincidence? I think not.
Saturday found me thinking back on the first few weeks of school. Obviously, the first few weeks aren't as rigorous, but even so, I was so much more on top of things--there seemed to always be enough time. Aside from the increased amount of tests and other assignments in recent weeks, I felt there must be something else . . .
I pulled up my hour-by-hour schedule of the first few weeks and instantly realized what it was. Tuesdays and Thursdays after class I had gone straight to the library to study. Friday nights were spent at home grading papers or in the library. Wednesday nights, after attending the temple, I walked straight home. Sundays were spent catching up on the reading for my religion classes. Free time was spent studying.
Now, most Tuesdays and Thursdays I "study" after class with Shan Yue, which most days translates to spontaneous excursions, episodes of Death Note, long conversations, laughter, and the possibility of the occasional assignment getting some attention.
Friday nights are spent on dates, watching movies with roommates, or walking with Katelyn to Pop 'n Sweets to grab hot chocolate floats at the "Mormon Bar" and talk as though both we and the night had drunken from the waters of Tuck Everlasting.
Wednesday nights I no longer attend the temple alone every night. Occasionally, a friend will join me and another forty-five minutes to an hour is added to my night, walking her home.
Most of my "free time" now is spent editing essays for friends.
Most Sundays are spent doing visiting teaching, having my sister and her husband over for dinner and games, or walking over to the freshman dorms where my best friend from last year works as an RA. We're both so busy that Sunday tends to be our one and only time to catch up, and it's time well spent. Last week, we came across a group gathered in one of the dorm rooms jamming. Pretty soon it was over twenty people and two guitars crammed into a dorm room having the time of our lives.
Most of my "free time" now is spent editing essays for friends.
Most Sundays are spent doing visiting teaching, having my sister and her husband over for dinner and games, or walking over to the freshman dorms where my best friend from last year works as an RA. We're both so busy that Sunday tends to be our one and only time to catch up, and it's time well spent. Last week, we came across a group gathered in one of the dorm rooms jamming. Pretty soon it was over twenty people and two guitars crammed into a dorm room having the time of our lives.
So what happened? What made the difference between those first few weeks when life was pretty easy and I was on top of everything, and now? The answer's simple: I found friends. And I put them first.
Do I regret it?
Not one bit.
Grades and learning are as important as ever, but last year I learned an important lesson. Last year, my first semester of college, I studied hard, and I reaped the benefits. I thought my first semester was pretty close to perfect. Then second semester started and my roommate moved out. It was quite the eye-opener. It was then that I realized, while I had been in my dorm studying, I had missed Foot Ball games, late night runs to the creamery for ice cream, chats out in the hall with my hall-mates, and games and socialization after ward prayer. All the girls were sweet to me, but, when it came down to it, I had no friends. Second semester was harder: my grades were good, but not perfect. BUT, I had friends.
Sure, my grades are glued to my transcript. They aren't going anywhere and they'll follow me all through college. But good friends will stick with you long past college. And even if they don't, their memories will. No one remembers their grades with fondness, or looks back with a smile on those nights they spent studying alone in the library.
My first semester I honestly thought college was a lot easier than I'd thought it would be, but I've realized the hard part comes with the realization that college is more than classes and text books. It's not just learning -- it's enjoyment, discovery, relationships, memories . . . friends.
When God created the world he saw everything as good, except one thing that was decidedly "not good." It was not good that man should be alone. And so, I think the Lord smiles down on friendships. Were it not so, why would He have so obviously and so quickly aided me in finding them?
I remember one day when I was walking with Shan Yue to one of her classes, she was asking me something or other about fandoms and Marvel and Animae and it lead to the spoken observation that we really have almost nothing in common. I've known people with whom I've have shared nearly every possible commonality and it didn't work at all. And then I've known people for whom it worked because they had just enough in common. But what Shan Yue and I realized that day was that virtually none of our interests are similar and I wouldn't have paired us based on personality either. True, we both like Mandarin and we both enjoy the occasional spontaneous excursion, but right about there, the commonalities end. And yet, we're such good friends.
Coincidence? I think not.
Candidly,
Cookie
Friday, October 30, 2015
The "Dangers" of "Safety"
(This post was inspired by Pride and Root Canals by Katelyn Dalton. Check it out--she is wise beyond her years and has a gorgeous way of expressing that wisdom in writing).
In her post, Katelyn discusses why it is that we are often so reluctant to ask for help, boiling it down to one fault: pride. With this, I couldn't agree more. But I believe there can be another motive for hiding weakness: it's safer. It seems counter-intuitive. And honestly, it is. But not entirely.
One of my very favorite books of all time is Ender's Game. I still have memories of lying in bed with my dad as he read it to me back when I was--oh, probably ten or so. He was so good at the voices--my favorite was Graff's. I loved the book so much that I've read at the start of nearly every school year since--roughly eight times now. With each reading, I found myself empathizing with different characters and gaining new perspectives. One of my favorite quotes from the book is when the main character, Ender, reflects on his relationship with his enemy, the buggers.
"In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then in that very moment when I love them - "
"You beat them."
I've always loved that quote, but it wasn't until my much later readings that I began to truly understand it.
To be loved and understood is to be vulnerable. When someone knows your struggles, knows your weaknesses, knows what you love and what you fear, knows your secrets . . . they can hurt you.
They can judge you, condemn your weakness as folly, leave you when you need them most, tell your secrets, betray your trust . . .
And so, especially for those who have been hurt, it seems better--safer--to handle things alone.
But there's a terrible flaw in this.
It's hard to wipe a tear that hasn't fallen.
How often do we lend comfort or counsel to those whose lives seem perfect?
Most often, we don't.
And that's where this idea of "safety" becomes dangerous. It's harder to get hurt, but it's also harder to get help. We aren't meant to suffer on our own.
This is where pride comes back in. Because some are too prideful to admit faults, others fear to do so.
Because some are too prideful to ask for help, others never get the chance to give it, and to realize they are not the only ones who need someone--that they are not alone. They miss out on one of the best cures: perspective.
When we pretend to be perfect and fine we not only give in to pride, but we contribute to the fear and insecurity that stifle so many cries before they can even be uttered.
When we are willing to ask for help when we need it we are not only helping ourselves but helping those whom we ask it from and those who would have otherwise been too afraid to ask. Perhaps it may be eye opening, but not wrong, to say then, that when we try to do everything on our own we are in fact being selfish.
So today I want to ask you to do two things. One, give someone the opportunity to help you and, two, dry a tear before it falls--give someone a hug, call a friend, leave a nice note.
Just because some are too afraid to cry, does not mean there are not tears to dry.
Candidly,
Cookie
In her post, Katelyn discusses why it is that we are often so reluctant to ask for help, boiling it down to one fault: pride. With this, I couldn't agree more. But I believe there can be another motive for hiding weakness: it's safer. It seems counter-intuitive. And honestly, it is. But not entirely.
One of my very favorite books of all time is Ender's Game. I still have memories of lying in bed with my dad as he read it to me back when I was--oh, probably ten or so. He was so good at the voices--my favorite was Graff's. I loved the book so much that I've read at the start of nearly every school year since--roughly eight times now. With each reading, I found myself empathizing with different characters and gaining new perspectives. One of my favorite quotes from the book is when the main character, Ender, reflects on his relationship with his enemy, the buggers.
"In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it's impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then in that very moment when I love them - "
"You beat them."
I've always loved that quote, but it wasn't until my much later readings that I began to truly understand it.
To be loved and understood is to be vulnerable. When someone knows your struggles, knows your weaknesses, knows what you love and what you fear, knows your secrets . . . they can hurt you.
They can judge you, condemn your weakness as folly, leave you when you need them most, tell your secrets, betray your trust . . .
And so, especially for those who have been hurt, it seems better--safer--to handle things alone.
But there's a terrible flaw in this.
It's hard to wipe a tear that hasn't fallen.
How often do we lend comfort or counsel to those whose lives seem perfect?
Most often, we don't.
And that's where this idea of "safety" becomes dangerous. It's harder to get hurt, but it's also harder to get help. We aren't meant to suffer on our own.
This is where pride comes back in. Because some are too prideful to admit faults, others fear to do so.
Because some are too prideful to ask for help, others never get the chance to give it, and to realize they are not the only ones who need someone--that they are not alone. They miss out on one of the best cures: perspective.
When we pretend to be perfect and fine we not only give in to pride, but we contribute to the fear and insecurity that stifle so many cries before they can even be uttered.
When we are willing to ask for help when we need it we are not only helping ourselves but helping those whom we ask it from and those who would have otherwise been too afraid to ask. Perhaps it may be eye opening, but not wrong, to say then, that when we try to do everything on our own we are in fact being selfish.
So today I want to ask you to do two things. One, give someone the opportunity to help you and, two, dry a tear before it falls--give someone a hug, call a friend, leave a nice note.
Just because some are too afraid to cry, does not mean there are not tears to dry.
Candidly,
Cookie
Perception
is the one reality
Reality is
not the things we see
But rather,
it’s connections, friendships, love
The things,
unseen, we only can perceive
How great,
how glorious, how complete this sight!
One in which
our hearts and souls delight
A world that
shines by filaments of love
Where all
are seen for their potential light
A world
where sep’rates only true in sight
Sight, that
instrument that sings us lies
For though
we may feel all alone, our love
Does bind us
with inseparable ties
So hug me. For
a moment, hold me close
That my eyes
may see the truth that my heart knows
Friday, October 16, 2015
I'm Falling In Love . . .
With Quotidian.
I came across the word in a narrative essay. It was love at first sight. It made me think of old quills, scratching out chinese characters--the dark ink seeping out of the feather and flowing on to the page , settling the way it was intended to rest, in perfect characters. And when I think of characters I think of Shan Yue, my friend. I think of studying together in the library, in a one-windowed study room on the top floor. I think of spontaneous study breaks, like when I told her about the bridge in the Fine Arts Building that's been nick-named the Star Wars Bridge. Of course, we had to go find it. And we did.
When I think of Quotidian, I think of quotes--not the kind you hear across the pulpit from eminent speakers, historic heroes, or pop-culture celebrities, but the kind that influence in a more intimate way. I think of those quotes I hear every day like, "I love you" and "It's good to see you" and then I think of those quotes that, though you hear them only once, strike you so deeply that they are replayed in your sleep like a favorite song that plays itself over and over, creeping into the most mundane moments. I think of what I was told by a classmate in my English grammar class. "You're a very eloquent person," she told me. "Also, you have a very good . . . feeling about you. I just think you're great." I used to think eloquent was one of the highest compliments I could be given. If ever I was told that by someone such as E.E Cummings or Jeffrey R. Holland, my life would be complete, but surprisingly, it was what followed that meant the most.
I think, too, of another time when I was in my Chinese class. A group had just presented a dialogue in Mandarin and our teacher was writing notes about their scores. "He's writing a lot," said one of the presenters, "we must have done pretty bad. He's writing down all our mistakes."
"Or he could be writing down compliments. There's just so many to give," I countered.
"Brooke, you have to be the class optimist," Shan Yue said, laughing. And then, after a pause. "That's why Brooke is my soul." Of course she said it loud enough for our small class to hear, but I didn't care, because by then anyone who hadn't figured that out had zero powers of observation. I only laughed because it was the first time such a thing had been said and it was just like Shan Yue to say it so candidly, so emphatically, and just grand enough to actually be true.
When I think quotidian, I think "tidy." Not necessarily as in "neat" but more like "routine." There's a certain sense of order and . . . oh, what's the word? Control. There's a sense of control and security that comes from following a routine, which is why I have one. Every morning I wake up and make my bed first thing. After getting dressed, I fold my pajamas and put them neatly under my pillow. I grab the rose-gold CTR ring that my brother gave me and slip it on the middle finger of my right hand. From the same spot on the shelf above my bed, beside my journal, my scriptures, and my favorite books, The Giver, MoonRaker's Bride and Unwritten, I grab the silver necklace with a small elephant charm from my sister, and put it on, the elephant's trunk always facing to my left. I grab my laptop, backpack, and scriptures, and exit quietly to the kitchen where I pull up General Conference talks on my laptop to listen to as I make breakfast. I try to listen to a new one every morning, but sometimes I come across ones such as Dallin H. Oaks' "Strengthened by The Atonement of Jesus Christ" which merits more than one listening. I give it a week's worth. After washing my dishes, I curl up on the couch and read for half an hour or so, then head up to the library on campus, looking for familiar constellations as I walk, amazed that anyone could sleep so long they miss the view I get every morning. One morning, I discovered my own constellation: a question mark. It sits right above the mountain I see outside my bedroom window and it makes me smile because it's right above the big cement Y on the mountain. I smile because even after all you learn in college, there seems to be more questions than there ever will be answers. Sometimes it's absolutely daunting, and other times the intoxicating thrill of uncertainty is also the promise of unlimited possibilities. It's all in your perspective.
I get to campus and find what I am convinced is the best kept secret in the library--the comfy chairs in the far left corner of the second floor. By then it's seven o'clock and the library is empty, which is how I like it best. At 7:40, I leave for class, which doesn't start till 8:00, giving me just enough time to sit down at the piano in the lecture hall and play "Velvet Tear" until my mind is calm and relaxed. Then it's on to class with Shan Yue.
After class, she walks me to my next class in the Joseph Fielding Smith Building, my favorite building on campus. I milk every minute. Sometimes its so hard to go to class, even though I love it, because it's those little moments and those little things we share and laugh at that I know I'll miss the most.
Every Tuesday and Thursday when I walk home from campus, I take the long route that goes by the Frozen Yogurt place and grab a free sample. It's not quite a sampling though, because I know beforehand exactly what I'm going to get and it's always the same--coconut and chocolate. And then on Wednesday nights after Orchestra rehearsal, I walk to the temple, and on my way home I grab a small bowl of coconut-chocolate frozen yogurt, and recall those summer days when I would bike with my brothers to the frozen yogurt place by our house and pester Dallin for taking so long to eat, while paradoxically wishing he would never finish so that our time would never end.
Come to find out, Quotidian means"daily", "ordinary."
The key to living a happy life and loving it is to fall in love every day with quotidian things. Every day there is something to love and when you find it, you'll begin to love every day. You'll find that it's in the small and ordinary that we find the great and extraordinary. It's the smile from a friend you take for granted. It's the constellations that paint the sky every night. It's the things you hear so often you're almost sick of hearing them, but that you'll miss so desperately when they're not said.
It's the quotidian things that we'll remember, cherish, and love.
And so, I am delighted to say that I am falling in love . . . with Quotidian.
Candidly,
Cookie
I came across the word in a narrative essay. It was love at first sight. It made me think of old quills, scratching out chinese characters--the dark ink seeping out of the feather and flowing on to the page , settling the way it was intended to rest, in perfect characters. And when I think of characters I think of Shan Yue, my friend. I think of studying together in the library, in a one-windowed study room on the top floor. I think of spontaneous study breaks, like when I told her about the bridge in the Fine Arts Building that's been nick-named the Star Wars Bridge. Of course, we had to go find it. And we did.
When I think of Quotidian, I think of quotes--not the kind you hear across the pulpit from eminent speakers, historic heroes, or pop-culture celebrities, but the kind that influence in a more intimate way. I think of those quotes I hear every day like, "I love you" and "It's good to see you" and then I think of those quotes that, though you hear them only once, strike you so deeply that they are replayed in your sleep like a favorite song that plays itself over and over, creeping into the most mundane moments. I think of what I was told by a classmate in my English grammar class. "You're a very eloquent person," she told me. "Also, you have a very good . . . feeling about you. I just think you're great." I used to think eloquent was one of the highest compliments I could be given. If ever I was told that by someone such as E.E Cummings or Jeffrey R. Holland, my life would be complete, but surprisingly, it was what followed that meant the most.
I think, too, of another time when I was in my Chinese class. A group had just presented a dialogue in Mandarin and our teacher was writing notes about their scores. "He's writing a lot," said one of the presenters, "we must have done pretty bad. He's writing down all our mistakes."
"Or he could be writing down compliments. There's just so many to give," I countered.
"Brooke, you have to be the class optimist," Shan Yue said, laughing. And then, after a pause. "That's why Brooke is my soul." Of course she said it loud enough for our small class to hear, but I didn't care, because by then anyone who hadn't figured that out had zero powers of observation. I only laughed because it was the first time such a thing had been said and it was just like Shan Yue to say it so candidly, so emphatically, and just grand enough to actually be true.
When I think quotidian, I think "tidy." Not necessarily as in "neat" but more like "routine." There's a certain sense of order and . . . oh, what's the word? Control. There's a sense of control and security that comes from following a routine, which is why I have one. Every morning I wake up and make my bed first thing. After getting dressed, I fold my pajamas and put them neatly under my pillow. I grab the rose-gold CTR ring that my brother gave me and slip it on the middle finger of my right hand. From the same spot on the shelf above my bed, beside my journal, my scriptures, and my favorite books, The Giver, MoonRaker's Bride and Unwritten, I grab the silver necklace with a small elephant charm from my sister, and put it on, the elephant's trunk always facing to my left. I grab my laptop, backpack, and scriptures, and exit quietly to the kitchen where I pull up General Conference talks on my laptop to listen to as I make breakfast. I try to listen to a new one every morning, but sometimes I come across ones such as Dallin H. Oaks' "Strengthened by The Atonement of Jesus Christ" which merits more than one listening. I give it a week's worth. After washing my dishes, I curl up on the couch and read for half an hour or so, then head up to the library on campus, looking for familiar constellations as I walk, amazed that anyone could sleep so long they miss the view I get every morning. One morning, I discovered my own constellation: a question mark. It sits right above the mountain I see outside my bedroom window and it makes me smile because it's right above the big cement Y on the mountain. I smile because even after all you learn in college, there seems to be more questions than there ever will be answers. Sometimes it's absolutely daunting, and other times the intoxicating thrill of uncertainty is also the promise of unlimited possibilities. It's all in your perspective.
I get to campus and find what I am convinced is the best kept secret in the library--the comfy chairs in the far left corner of the second floor. By then it's seven o'clock and the library is empty, which is how I like it best. At 7:40, I leave for class, which doesn't start till 8:00, giving me just enough time to sit down at the piano in the lecture hall and play "Velvet Tear" until my mind is calm and relaxed. Then it's on to class with Shan Yue.
After class, she walks me to my next class in the Joseph Fielding Smith Building, my favorite building on campus. I milk every minute. Sometimes its so hard to go to class, even though I love it, because it's those little moments and those little things we share and laugh at that I know I'll miss the most.
Every Tuesday and Thursday when I walk home from campus, I take the long route that goes by the Frozen Yogurt place and grab a free sample. It's not quite a sampling though, because I know beforehand exactly what I'm going to get and it's always the same--coconut and chocolate. And then on Wednesday nights after Orchestra rehearsal, I walk to the temple, and on my way home I grab a small bowl of coconut-chocolate frozen yogurt, and recall those summer days when I would bike with my brothers to the frozen yogurt place by our house and pester Dallin for taking so long to eat, while paradoxically wishing he would never finish so that our time would never end.
Come to find out, Quotidian means"daily", "ordinary."
The key to living a happy life and loving it is to fall in love every day with quotidian things. Every day there is something to love and when you find it, you'll begin to love every day. You'll find that it's in the small and ordinary that we find the great and extraordinary. It's the smile from a friend you take for granted. It's the constellations that paint the sky every night. It's the things you hear so often you're almost sick of hearing them, but that you'll miss so desperately when they're not said.
It's the quotidian things that we'll remember, cherish, and love.
And so, I am delighted to say that I am falling in love . . . with Quotidian.
Candidly,
Cookie
Sunday, September 13, 2015
People Are Just So Good
Utah has sucked me dry. Not only am I constantly thirsty and constantly reapplying lotion but it seems too, at least lately, that the ink of my pen on the pages of my journal is as sparse as rain in the Atacama dessert. My thoughts are scrambled and the right words elude me, which, for me at least, is a rare phenomenon.
College seems like such an ordinary part of life that I feel as though I am left with little subject matter.
Or perhaps the problem is that when there is something extraordinary, I just don't have words to describe it.
I'm just clean out of words. And so I'm left with the impossible task of writing what there are no words for.
There are few words to describe goodness besides perhaps good, but that's repetitive.
Similarly, there are few words to describe the way I felt on Friday night. I came home and turned on Taylor Swift, and even she fell short - but I sang my heart out anyway. I was packed full of that uncontainable joy that that seems bent on declaring to the world -- or, in my case, to the white walls of my dorm room and to my only audience, Lorrence and Fish, my two stuffed animals -- how incredibly happy you are. It was ten thirty or so; most nights I'd be getting ready for bed, but getting me to sleep that night was about as likely as getting a toddler to put away his toys after Christmas.
Friday night was my "date" with Tyler.
Of course, having panned to do my laundry on Saturday, I was left with nothing but a couple t-shirts, but my sister came to the rescue. She loaned me a shirt and some earrings, and so, feeling pretty darn cute in a striped pink and white shirt, dark blue jeans with faded knees, my hair having formed itself into perfect little ringlets to partially cover my pearl earrings that in technicality didn't match, I stood outside my apartment under the "sketchy lamppost" and waited for Tyler.
We walked up to the on-campus movie theater because neither of us had cars (though I prefer walking anyway) and talked the whole way.
It was my first time seeing Inside Out and I loved it. What a cute show!
After the movie, we went and got ice-cream, and upon my insisting, he let me pay. After all, he's already payed for our date next week to the dance concert. And, besides, ice cream was my idea.
We talked and ate our ice-cream as we meandered through campus and back to our apartments.
Which brings us back to where we started, with me dancing with my stuffed animals as I cleaned my room and jammed out to Taylor Swift's "Love Story", "Our Song" and "You Belong With Me."
When my roommates got home I was still too wound up to fall asleep so I joined them for a game of Apples to Apples.
Part way through, exhaustion hit me and so I switched places with my roommate, Katreena, who had come home more recently and had taken residence on the couch to watch.
It was not a quiet game, and yet, the next thing I knew, it was well past midnight and Calli was waking me.
"I was going to let you sleep, but I didn't think you'd want to sleep in your clothes," she said, and offered me a hand up.
When I told my mom, she said, "You have good roommates." And she's right.
I love to go for runs at night. One night, as I was headed out the door, sweet Calli asked where I was headed.
"Just for a run," I told her.
She proceeded to inform me that Provo really isn't as safe as one would think.
"Would you like me to tell you when I'll be back?" I asked her.
She would. And so now, whenever I go on a night run, Calli knows when I'll be home.
And while there are some nights I regret being bound by my watch, it means a lot to know someone cares.
I really have been blessed. And, of course, it doesn't stop there.
Andrea seems to be the one who keeps it clean around here and though it may be done more out of annoyance than love, I like to believe it's the latter.
And I shan't forget when I came into the kitchen one Saturday morning to find her and her boyfriend, Tim, eating French Toast, Bacon, Strawberries, and Oranges.
"I don't think I can finish mine," Tim says, speaking of the two pieces of French Toast on his plate which I have no doubt he could have finished. "Grab a plate, Brooke."
"I don't think I can finish mine either," Andrea adds, dishing a piece from her plate along with the one from Tim.
Tim scrapes his last piece of bacon onto my plate along with some oranges and Andrea dishes me some strawberries. It was the best breakfast I'd had since leaving home.
Then there's Rachel Anderson who is sweet enough to play Nertz with me even though I always win, Alison who gives me rides to the grocery store, and Katreena who is so kind to slip in quietly when she comes in late every night even though she knows how hard it is to wake me.
There's Rachel from my Mandarin class who took the time to explain all of Marvel and the Avengers because she either pitied my ignorance or couldn't believe I could live without her number one obsession. I didn't so much care about them because I knew I'd never watch the movies, but the fact that she was the first to, upon hearing that I knew nothing of them, actually take the full hour to explain it to me, says something.
There's Great Uncle Allen and his family who invite me over for dinner on Sunday nights and there are Kylie and Josh who invite me over to make cookies and save me when I don't have enough quarters to finish my laundry.
Utah may have sucked me dry, but the people here are overflowing with goodness, and I've been blessed enough to take a drink. There are few words to describe goodness and there are few words to describe this past week. It's been crazy, it's been hard, it's been fun, and all-around, I'd say it's been pretty darn good.
Candidly,
Cookie
College seems like such an ordinary part of life that I feel as though I am left with little subject matter.
Or perhaps the problem is that when there is something extraordinary, I just don't have words to describe it.
I'm just clean out of words. And so I'm left with the impossible task of writing what there are no words for.
There are few words to describe goodness besides perhaps good, but that's repetitive.
Similarly, there are few words to describe the way I felt on Friday night. I came home and turned on Taylor Swift, and even she fell short - but I sang my heart out anyway. I was packed full of that uncontainable joy that that seems bent on declaring to the world -- or, in my case, to the white walls of my dorm room and to my only audience, Lorrence and Fish, my two stuffed animals -- how incredibly happy you are. It was ten thirty or so; most nights I'd be getting ready for bed, but getting me to sleep that night was about as likely as getting a toddler to put away his toys after Christmas.
Friday night was my "date" with Tyler.
Of course, having panned to do my laundry on Saturday, I was left with nothing but a couple t-shirts, but my sister came to the rescue. She loaned me a shirt and some earrings, and so, feeling pretty darn cute in a striped pink and white shirt, dark blue jeans with faded knees, my hair having formed itself into perfect little ringlets to partially cover my pearl earrings that in technicality didn't match, I stood outside my apartment under the "sketchy lamppost" and waited for Tyler.
We walked up to the on-campus movie theater because neither of us had cars (though I prefer walking anyway) and talked the whole way.
It was my first time seeing Inside Out and I loved it. What a cute show!
After the movie, we went and got ice-cream, and upon my insisting, he let me pay. After all, he's already payed for our date next week to the dance concert. And, besides, ice cream was my idea.
We talked and ate our ice-cream as we meandered through campus and back to our apartments.
Which brings us back to where we started, with me dancing with my stuffed animals as I cleaned my room and jammed out to Taylor Swift's "Love Story", "Our Song" and "You Belong With Me."
When my roommates got home I was still too wound up to fall asleep so I joined them for a game of Apples to Apples.
Part way through, exhaustion hit me and so I switched places with my roommate, Katreena, who had come home more recently and had taken residence on the couch to watch.
It was not a quiet game, and yet, the next thing I knew, it was well past midnight and Calli was waking me.
"I was going to let you sleep, but I didn't think you'd want to sleep in your clothes," she said, and offered me a hand up.
When I told my mom, she said, "You have good roommates." And she's right.
I love to go for runs at night. One night, as I was headed out the door, sweet Calli asked where I was headed.
"Just for a run," I told her.
She proceeded to inform me that Provo really isn't as safe as one would think.
"Would you like me to tell you when I'll be back?" I asked her.
She would. And so now, whenever I go on a night run, Calli knows when I'll be home.
And while there are some nights I regret being bound by my watch, it means a lot to know someone cares.
I really have been blessed. And, of course, it doesn't stop there.
Andrea seems to be the one who keeps it clean around here and though it may be done more out of annoyance than love, I like to believe it's the latter.
And I shan't forget when I came into the kitchen one Saturday morning to find her and her boyfriend, Tim, eating French Toast, Bacon, Strawberries, and Oranges.
"I don't think I can finish mine," Tim says, speaking of the two pieces of French Toast on his plate which I have no doubt he could have finished. "Grab a plate, Brooke."
"I don't think I can finish mine either," Andrea adds, dishing a piece from her plate along with the one from Tim.
Tim scrapes his last piece of bacon onto my plate along with some oranges and Andrea dishes me some strawberries. It was the best breakfast I'd had since leaving home.
Then there's Rachel Anderson who is sweet enough to play Nertz with me even though I always win, Alison who gives me rides to the grocery store, and Katreena who is so kind to slip in quietly when she comes in late every night even though she knows how hard it is to wake me.
There's Rachel from my Mandarin class who took the time to explain all of Marvel and the Avengers because she either pitied my ignorance or couldn't believe I could live without her number one obsession. I didn't so much care about them because I knew I'd never watch the movies, but the fact that she was the first to, upon hearing that I knew nothing of them, actually take the full hour to explain it to me, says something.
There's Great Uncle Allen and his family who invite me over for dinner on Sunday nights and there are Kylie and Josh who invite me over to make cookies and save me when I don't have enough quarters to finish my laundry.
Utah may have sucked me dry, but the people here are overflowing with goodness, and I've been blessed enough to take a drink. There are few words to describe goodness and there are few words to describe this past week. It's been crazy, it's been hard, it's been fun, and all-around, I'd say it's been pretty darn good.
Candidly,
Cookie
Sunday, September 6, 2015
College Week One: Everything's Cooler in [Chinese] Characters
My first night in Provo I couldn't sleep. I was so excited to be back, but I was also apprehensive. This year is filled with so many unknowns and so many firsts. Most of my friends from last year are gone on missions or living far enough away that I won't see them often. I didn't know my roommates before moving in, and I couldn't really predict what my schedule would be like. When I'd tell people I was going to take Mandarin, they'd say something like, "Wow, Mandarin's hard." As if that didn't add to my apprehension . . .
My roommates were very kind but I quickly learned that they were seldom home. I was glad to be left to myself to unpack, but that night, when my roommates didn't return until long after I'd gone to bed, I was a little sad. And the following morning, since I was still on Eastern Time, despite a restless night, I was up by 4:45.
Not wanting to wake the apartment, I laced up my running shoes and went for a jog. The stars were breath-taking. I could see all the constellations I'd learned about in my senior-year astronomy class--Andromeda, Orion, the Big Dipper--they were all there, and absolutely beautiful. You don't see stars like that in Georgia.
I wandered up to campus and felt as though I was joined to it. The rosy-tan humanities building with its large front window and beautiful courtyard looked exquisite, and it felt like home.
But later that day wen the stars were shunned by the bright noon-sun and campus was buzzing with freshman walking their schedules, and everyone else walking along with their groups of friends, I suddenly felt like everyone was part of something I wasn't. A crowd isn't company; the more crowded campus got, the more alone I felt.
I came home to an empty apartment, had a bowl of cold cereal and watched the clock. Again, I couldn't sleep. Again, my roommate came in late, and again, I left before she awoke.
I was thinking things couldn't get much worse, and, for once, I was right.
They got better. Much better.
I still don't see my roommates all that much so I feel like I still don't really know them, but my first impression was that they would be quite easy to get along with and, fortunately, that impression has failed to change upon closer acquaintance. They are seriously the kindest people.
And though they're hardly home, now that school has started, neither am I.
The other day, I left at 7:00 A.M. and came home at 10:30 P.M. After classes, I'd met up at the library with a girl from my Chinese class, Rachel, to practice a new dialogue and review the characters for our homework. Now let me back up just a little to tell you about Rachel. On the second night of school I prayed that I would find a friend. The next day in Chinese class, I sit next to Rachel, with dark brown hair died dark red and slate-blue eyes, jeans and a red Ninja-turtles t-shirt. She's taken Chinese in high school so she's good with the characters and pretty good with pronunciation, both of which I could use some help on. I, on the other hand, am told I am quite good at the tones--something Rachel struggles with. We were given a dialogue to practice and Rachel and I finished quickly and began adding on with the little Chinese we had learned.
By the end of it, Rachel turns to me and says, "I think we're going to be good friends."
Now fast forward to last night. We ended up studying for over three hours and honestly, it was a blast!
Rachel taught me to text in Mandarin, which is honestly quite hilarious, because, given our limited vocabulary, our text messages translate to something like this:
"Hi. How are you?"
"I'm good. How are you?"
"I'm good."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
And somehow we get a kick out of this. Everything's cooler in Chinese characters.
Then we decide to go split a footlong sub because by now we haven't eaten in over five hours. The lady making our sandwiches asks, "Are you guys together?"
Rachel replies that we are.
"I meant the sandwich," the lady adds quickly. Uh-huh. Nice save.
We couldn't stop laughing.
Classes are going great. Honestly, I'm a little nervous about my class editing for the Prelaw Review Journal, but, all in all, things have gone better than I could have imagined.
Candidly,
Cookie
My roommates were very kind but I quickly learned that they were seldom home. I was glad to be left to myself to unpack, but that night, when my roommates didn't return until long after I'd gone to bed, I was a little sad. And the following morning, since I was still on Eastern Time, despite a restless night, I was up by 4:45.
Not wanting to wake the apartment, I laced up my running shoes and went for a jog. The stars were breath-taking. I could see all the constellations I'd learned about in my senior-year astronomy class--Andromeda, Orion, the Big Dipper--they were all there, and absolutely beautiful. You don't see stars like that in Georgia.
I wandered up to campus and felt as though I was joined to it. The rosy-tan humanities building with its large front window and beautiful courtyard looked exquisite, and it felt like home.
But later that day wen the stars were shunned by the bright noon-sun and campus was buzzing with freshman walking their schedules, and everyone else walking along with their groups of friends, I suddenly felt like everyone was part of something I wasn't. A crowd isn't company; the more crowded campus got, the more alone I felt.
I came home to an empty apartment, had a bowl of cold cereal and watched the clock. Again, I couldn't sleep. Again, my roommate came in late, and again, I left before she awoke.
I was thinking things couldn't get much worse, and, for once, I was right.
They got better. Much better.
I still don't see my roommates all that much so I feel like I still don't really know them, but my first impression was that they would be quite easy to get along with and, fortunately, that impression has failed to change upon closer acquaintance. They are seriously the kindest people.
And though they're hardly home, now that school has started, neither am I.
The other day, I left at 7:00 A.M. and came home at 10:30 P.M. After classes, I'd met up at the library with a girl from my Chinese class, Rachel, to practice a new dialogue and review the characters for our homework. Now let me back up just a little to tell you about Rachel. On the second night of school I prayed that I would find a friend. The next day in Chinese class, I sit next to Rachel, with dark brown hair died dark red and slate-blue eyes, jeans and a red Ninja-turtles t-shirt. She's taken Chinese in high school so she's good with the characters and pretty good with pronunciation, both of which I could use some help on. I, on the other hand, am told I am quite good at the tones--something Rachel struggles with. We were given a dialogue to practice and Rachel and I finished quickly and began adding on with the little Chinese we had learned.
By the end of it, Rachel turns to me and says, "I think we're going to be good friends."
Now fast forward to last night. We ended up studying for over three hours and honestly, it was a blast!
Rachel taught me to text in Mandarin, which is honestly quite hilarious, because, given our limited vocabulary, our text messages translate to something like this:
"Hi. How are you?"
"I'm good. How are you?"
"I'm good."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
And somehow we get a kick out of this. Everything's cooler in Chinese characters.
Then we decide to go split a footlong sub because by now we haven't eaten in over five hours. The lady making our sandwiches asks, "Are you guys together?"
Rachel replies that we are.
"I meant the sandwich," the lady adds quickly. Uh-huh. Nice save.
We couldn't stop laughing.
Classes are going great. Honestly, I'm a little nervous about my class editing for the Prelaw Review Journal, but, all in all, things have gone better than I could have imagined.
Candidly,
Cookie
Friday, August 21, 2015
Change
A little butterfly
Once in a cocoon
Knew not then I
That beauty comes so soon
Back at the beginning of summer, I roamed the yard looking for the perfect spot to plant a small tray of freshly sprouted Marigolds. I cleared away the mulch from a small flower bed in the back, dug nine holes, filled them with fertilizer and placed nine marigolds in the cool, damp soil. And there, all summer, in the bright evening sun, they flourished. They are a reminder to me of the beauty in change.
I often find myself wishing things would never change. But if they didn't, I'd still be a lifeguard this summer, my bed would never be made, I would never have been able to revisit a high school teacher and find a friend, my marigolds would still be tiny sprouts, and that little butterfly would still be a caterpillar.
I would be the same person I was one year ago, before I ever boarded a plane for Utah to begin my year at BYU. I would never be able to say those sweet words that Shakespeare so masterfully penned "Twas I, but tis not I."I would still be an English major who wanted to minor in ballroom dance and creative writing. I would know nothing of the joys of editing, language, and linguistics. I would never have met my good friend and running buddy. I would never have laughed with the girls down the hall or joined them as we sat outside in the freezing cold late one night eating grilled PB and Js. I would never have sung duets with my coworkers in the dish room as we washed dishes with the gay-heartedness of the seven dwarfs singing on their way to the mines. I would never have met the wonderful group of people that work with me at the Dentist's office, nor the sweet, sweet children that I have the privilege to play with at the YMCA play center.
I heard a story once of how a man who was planning to go home and commit suicide, but, after attending a concert, changed his mind when he heard the beautiful music. I'm sure the artist had a beautiful voice, and I do not doubt the power of music, but after a summer working with young children, I am convicned that any toddler could produce the same change.
If nothing ever changed, I would take everything for granted, like a roommate, friends, a home, grades, and marigolds. With friends all across the globe - at home, or on missions - I've made keeping contact a priority, because I've realized that change is inevitable, and so you have to fight hard to keep anything constant, and friends are just that: not constants, per say, but two people constantly changing to, in change, be two that are constant.
And so, while I have my anxieties towards the upcoming year, I've resolved to welcome change, for without it, I could never recognize the constants.
My sheets are tucked tight. My bed, for once, is made. My suitcase and duffel are lying open in the corner, almost packed. My closet is full of empty hangers, a couple shoes and a bag of yarn. My bookshelf is crammed tight with all the books I wish I could bring with me but know better than to believe I'd have the time to read. There's a journal sitting beside my laptop that is finally absorbing ink after a summer's drought, as I try desperately to record the last few days of summer. There's a stack of notes, concert tickets, and memorabilia from college, that minus some pictures, is finally being scrap-booked. I did a terrible job of keeping up with friends from home, but my desk is littered with letters headed out to Mexico, California, and Russia, where my college friends are serving missions. Somewhere in some corner of my room is a little dust bunny crying because he is all alone after I went through and exterminated all his friends. Scattering the floor are a couple shoes, the gym shorts I'm supposed to be changing into to mow the lawn right now, my running shorts, which for once are clean, awaiting my half marathon tomorrow, a couple cords and chargers belonging to who knows what, the scrubs that I wore to the dentists office all summer and will have to be returning shortly, and a small stack of books I'm hoping will find room to squeeze into my carry-on.
But outside this mess is a small plant box, where, four months and forever ago, a young girl planted nine orange Marigolds.
And, there, all summer long, in the bright evening sun, they've flourished . . .
Candidly,
Cookie
***See A Summer's Portrait
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)