When Life Doesn't Seem Fair

Life is like a diving competition . . .

I feel that sometimes we see someone land on their back or do a belly flop and we think, "Man, they're not so great."

But perhaps our cell phone or a conversation with a fellow spectator kept us from seeing the dive. Of course we notice the flop, but for the duration of the dive our eyes were shut or otherwise averted. 

Then comes the award ceremony and up there in first place is the one who repeatedly "flopped." We then think to ourselves, "What of the diver who landed without a splash and entered the water seamlessly?" 

Well, there is something called the degree of difficulty. What we failed to take into account is that the diver who flopped was performing a forward with four and a half summersaults and back flying two and a half summersaults. And he who entered the water seamlessly? Well, he just did a forward dive. 

So next time you see someone flop, consider that maybe they had a harder dive, a harder fall. 

And when you see someone who just seems perfect, when life doesn't seem fair, think how they would do in a Backward Flying Four and a Half Summersaults . . . and know if you're struggling maybe your degree of difficulty is just a little higher. If people are laughing now, or if you're feeling down on yourself, don't worry, you're reward will come. 

So then you take a look at these guys . . . well, I'm sure they've flopped too. Was it worth it? I'll bet they'll say it was. 

Candidly,

Cookie

Too Perfect

"You're ugly."
"You're fat."
"You're stupid."
It's easy to see the negative effects of such judgments. But what about, "You're perfect"?
"You're perfect" has come to have a much different meaning than what Christ meant when he commanded "Be ye, therefore, perfect."
We hear it all the time now in a sort of jest. "You're just too perfect."
Pride can look down, but it can also look up. So too can judgment, and "you're perfect" has become a form of judgement. It is no more a compliment than "teacher's pet."
To call someone perfect is to say they're a suck-up, a perfectionist, or that the level they have reached is unattainable. It is effectively, isolating.
The other day I was told, "Brooke, you're so perfect. You have no idea how many people look up to you."
No, I have an idea. Because when everyone is looking up at you, no one is looking at you.
I don't want to be looked up at. I want to be looked at.
I don't want to be up on a pedestal. I want to be down in the crowd, where there is someone to place their arm around me and realize, "Hey, you're human too."
Besides, when you're up on a pedestal, it's so easy to fall, and when you do people notice your stark imperfection and look down at you. But down in the crowd, everyone's imperfect. And you know what? That's okay. Because we're in this together.
We're all imperfect beings just striving to be better.

Candidly,
Cookie

The Birthplace of Dreams

I was staring at a shelf full of books - Dante's Commedy, Jane Austen, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Canterbury Tales, Aristotle's Rhetoric - a copy of Walden Pond by Daivid Thoreau clasped in my hand. The cover was of fine brown leather, as intricately patterned and precious as an elephant's hide, concealing within a whole other life, an entirely other world. I read the title in its flowing script, and the letters blurred.
Tears do that.
I'm note sure exactly why I was crying. Perhaps it was all those beautiful books, more than I should ever have the time to read . . .
Sometimes I wish I could just live in the library. I wish time would stop and I could sit and read for as long as I like. But knowing me, if that ever were to happen, I would lose all my contacts and my glasses would break. That, or the library would catch fire and, simultaneously, ebooks would cease to exist.
And so I must be content with the few minutes before bed when homework has ceased to make sense; when reason has shut its door and the imagination (the middleman of reason and affection) can take only from the emotions - which is what reading is for.
Staring at that shelf full of books in the BYU bookstore, I had imagined for a moment that there would be time to read them all, and in so doing had shut the door on reason; I had poured out my emotions in order to feed an impossible dream, in order to live for just a moment in my own Walden Pond, beneath the beautiful brown leather, within the elephant's hide, where the imagination soars and emotion thrives, where for a moment dreams are born, and for a moment reason dies.

When I don't have much time to read, I write about it. Kind-of pathetic . . . But what can I say? I'm an English major. And I'm loving it.

Candidly,
Cookie

A Belated Valentine to Adveristy

Dear Adversity,

You have been so good to me these past few months. You have such a generous nature, imparting to all of your substance and love, and by so doing, teaching all to be a little more humble, a little more selfless, a little more compassionate, a little more understanding, and a lot more loving. Who couldn't love such a benevolent teacher and boundless giver? Sure, you brought tears a time or two, but so do sappy romance novels, and those always turn out okay in the end.
My dear Adversity, we have spent so many a night together that sometimes as I curl up in bed I feel an emptiness, particularly an absence of the gentle pressure in my chest when you snuggle up against me, that constant confirmation you are there.
Unfaithful as you are, for I know you like to come and go and often need your space, there are times that I will miss you when you leave. There are times you come unwelcome, in fact, this is most often how you come. But because you know I need you, you stay despite my selfish love and gross ingratitude. You stay because you have my best in mind and in this you are both faithful and deserving. Because of this, in hindsight, I shall miss your sweet embrace. But you, knowing this and knowing me, never fail to leave with me a token of our time together, one that I may keep and hold until we meet again.
I used to hold your tokens, keep them close, but then I realized I could purchase with them so many precious things - things I never could otherwise have owned. I took these tokens to your elder brother who for these tokens only would sell to me his many priceless wares.
It might have been much easier had you told me where to take my heavy tokens, but you must have known that I like puzzles and so left me on my own to find his store, at least, I must assume that's what you left these tokens for - for me to buy the things that make me happy, to fill the empty space while you are gone.
I purchased understanding and a little extra love. I purchased some forgiveness, some acts of service to bestow, a little introspection to help me myself to better know. I purchased some more confidence to lend a helping hand, some more patience, some humility - I first must kneel to stand. I purchased ears to listen. I purchased eyes to see. And in the end found gratitude for the time you'd spent with me.

Candidly,
Cookie

Blind Date

Today I had my first blind date. And I learned a good lesson.
I could try to avoid the cliche by saying stuff like "all that glitters is either gold or got rubbed up against glittery wrapping paper", "don't assume a penguin can fly just because it's cute and has flippers," or "not all black dogs are evil" but I think I can correctly assume that you have already translated these in your mind to the unavoidable "don't judge a book by it's cover." Perhaps in my case it's not so cliche, because it is in fact literal.
All right, so my first blind date was with a book. I picked it from a rack of books wrapped in dark brown paper with short descriptions on the front. The description for my date read, "People are messy, unpredictable things . . . you look curious . . . do you question what others don't think about? Can you appreciate the humor of being human? If so, you're in for a treat because you and I were made for each other." Sounded alright, but when I opened it, I found that the book within was one that I wouldn't have picked out had I lived a hundred lifetimes in the library.
I found it fitting that I opened it while eating a lunch that someone had recommended to me, that in all honesty sounded disgusting but was actually delicious, and all while sitting with two incredible people I never thought I'd find myself friends with.
Not that I'm wishing to be blind, but just as life has much to offer for those who keep their eyes wide open, I think it's much more exciting to just every now and then keep your eyes shut.

Candidly,
Cookie

What Makes You Smile?

Just the other day I was asked the question, "What makes you smile?"

I thought about long walks in lanes of fiery orange, where the crisp leaves crunch beneath my feet, and the air stirs with the impatient anxiety of the coming winter, unwilling to yet relinquish the warm memories of summer.
I thought about the wide eyes of a newborn boy, the firm grasp of his hand around my finger, the way his mouth stretches into a shy sort of grin before he even knows how to fully smile, or even what a smile is.
I thought about chocolate, because, well, who doesn't smile at that?
I thought about elderly couples that are not overbearing in their passion, but who breath each others laughter and hold each others hearts, not with a grip that is afraid to let go for the fear that if they do their lover will slip out and leave them, but with a hold so light and tender that they choose to stay linked of their own accord, because that's how they are happiest. Their love is like the air they breathe; like the constant gentle thumping of the heart - that unnoticed, and that necessary.
I thought about handwritten notes, especially those not spurned by any occasion but that of love and a thankful heart, that are not beautiful for their eloquence nor penmanship, but for the thought that lead the pen to write.

Handwritten letters: they make me feel so loved! :)

I thought about friends' successes, that contagious joy that allows me to live their moment of rapture vicariously, so much is my happiness for them.
I thought about that one song that whenever it comes on the radio my heart comes bursting out my mouth and I just want to grab whomever I'm with (or the nearest unfortunate object if I'm alone - and yes, this has been done with a ladle) and twirl about the room, finding such a lively beat inside me that I fail to notice when the music stops.

I think of all these things and I cannot help but smile.
To return to the question of "What makes you smile?"
A smile. Or even the thought of one.

A cute little video to make you smile :)

Candidly,
Cookie

Looking Back

Sometimes looking back can give way to some unhealthy rehashing, but oft-times looking back is a way of looking forward. It's amazing to me how truly oblivious we can be. Life could be stacking itself even now in the favor of a path that we may only see when looking back.

This morning I found  a letter that my Literature teacher asked me to write on January 7th, 2012 - my junior year of High School. It had then been sealed and tucked away until the end of my Senior Year.

Dear Brooke,

As I'm writing this I can't help but think about time. How slowly it passes; how quickly it leaves. Eight months. That's how long you have before you head to college. Eight months to play three-man baseball with your brothers. Eight months to play Dominion with the family. Eight months of Mom's delicious cooking. Eight months to grow even closer to those you love before you have to leave them.

 . . . I can't wait for eternity. Nothing here lasts long enough. I want a dance that doesn't end when the music stops. I want time to think uninterrupted thoughts, moments measured by their worth and not a clock, and a hug that lasts as long as the love between two hearts . . .

. . . I'm setting my course for BYU to study Language Arts, rhetoric, psychology, law, or whatever else opens up to me, but most of all, one thing's for sure: I will serve a mission and I hope to one day meet the man I want to be with for eternity and raise a family. It's not so far off as it seems . . .

 . . . Work hard, love without limits, and remember to forgive yourself. You are a daughter of God, capable of remarkable feats. You are loved. And you are never alone.

Yours, Brooke

Looking back, my words seem almost prophetic. Two years later, one thing remains the same - time passes too quickly. I'm enrolled in two dance classes and I'm here to tell you that the dance still ends when the music stops.

Coming to BYU I still wasn't certain what to major in. Of course, most Freshman aren't, but I sure wanted to be. My problem is I don't seem to be any better at English than I am at Physics, Biology, Calculus and Chemistry, and I love both fields of knowledge. How was I to chose between them? As I was signing up for classes I realized it was the Literature and English classes that really had me excited, but I still didn't declare an English major. At least, not yet. I suppose I was waiting for a surer sign, not realizing it doesn't get much more obvious than that.

"Follow your heart." I'm sure you've heard it many times, to the point that it's on the verge of cliche, but there is so much truth and wisdom in this piece of counsel I received from my mother and friend, for looking back, I can see that while my head was engaged in furious debates, my heart had always been set. Junior year was the year I took physics. And I loved it. Yet, I made no mention of it in my letter among the list of things I wanted to study at BYU. You could say I had known all along, and just had no idea that I'd known.

The first week of classes when I entered the Humanities building I felt like I had come home. There's no other way to describe it. And my one class in the science building felt . . . wrong.

Two weeks into the semester I declared an English Major with a Writing and Rhetoric minor. I considered my course set. By the end of the semester I had made up my mind. I wanted to be a Professor of Literary Criticism. Naturally then, I wanted to take the class called Writing Literary Criticism. I wanted it more than anything. I even rearranged my schedule a couple times to be sure I would have room for it. Well, it was a week before the second semester would start and I was still sitting on the wait list. A couple nights later I got an email telling me that the wait list was being dropped and there would be no add codes. I was devastated. How was I to find a class to fill that spot with only a couple days left before school started? By now, most of the classes I needed would be full. On a whim, I decided to add Intro the English Language, the first prerequisite for the Editing Minor. I hadn't chosen it for the editing minor, I didn't even think I really wanted to be an editor. I chose it because it could fulfill an elective for the English Major.

It's incredible to me that when I wasn't able to get in to Writing Literary Criticism I saw it as a great hinderance to the path I was sure I should be on. I saw it as a closed door. But where God closes a door, he opens a window.

My first semester at BYU I had wanted to join the editing staff for one of the student journals, but was unable to. Through my Intro to the English Language class I was able to join three journals and get credit for them.  As Intro to the the English Language quickly became one of my favorite classes, I began to seriously consider the Editing Minor, but I still wasn't certain I wanted to be an editor, or even whether or not it was something I could enjoy.

One day I was sitting at my desk, preparing to begin my first editing assignment for the student journals. Ever seen someone really sick or someone with a terrible headache attempt to do homework? Or have you ever been faced with a calculus problem you just didn't even know how to begin? Well, that was me. I didn't know how to begin.

As I was sitting there staring at my assignment a friend from across the hall, Laura, came in. "Brooke," she said, "Raechel is applying to the music education program and has to write a couple essays for it. She was telling me that she needs someone to help her edit them and your name came to mind. Would you be able to help her?" I was flattered, but that's not to say I wasn't also apprehensive and a bit nervous. I'd edited papers for people before, but I had a feeling this was to be a little more involved, and I felt so inadequate. Nevertheless, I agreed to give it my best shot.

The necessary corrections came easily to me and though it was difficult and time-consuming I actually enjoyed it, and not to sound too conceited, but I was pretty darn good at it too.
 Of course, I still have a lot to learn, but nothing that the editing minor can't teach me.

Life has been stacked for me, leaving a pile of evidence that God has always seen who I am to be and what I am to do. Looking back, I am beginning to see it too, and, looking forward, I find the view to be breathtaking.

Candidly,
Cookie

The One Item on my Checklist I Know I Can Check Off

I like to abide by the checklist;  I'm also a bit of a perfectionist - a bad combination to have when my checklist grows to the length of the week and the week lasts barely a day.
On a typical day, here's what my checklist might look like:

1. Read 30 pages of the Faerie Queen for British Literary History (Note to self: if you try to do this past midnight, you'll have to start over in the morning.)
2. Read the first half of the debate on Free Will between Erasmus and Luther (A very interesting debate, but I'd much rather discuss it than read it. Too bad you can't really discuss what you haven't read.)
3. Review for a quiz in Linguistics (well, it's for extra credit, which for anyone else would mean, "oh good, I can wing it" but me, I know how rare a gem "extra credit" is, so this means a good hour or two of review)
4. Practice for my ballroom waltz test (this means finding a time that works for both myself and my dance partner, which is quite the task when my schedule alone leaves little to be negotiated.)
5. Read the assigned chapters for my Book of Mormon and New Testament class (if this weren't being squeezed in some time after midnight it would actually be a quite enjoyable, if not refreshing task)
6. Edit articles for the student journal Schwa (yeah, so I really don't know what I'm doing yet. I'm told that's okay - I'm not expected to know exactly how to do it, but once again, I'm a perfectionist, and so this sense of incompetence is not okay)
7. Review and rate articles for the student journal Criterion (they're actually quite interesting, it's just finding the time. That, and after reading all my other reading assignments, I'm generally not in the mood to read more)
8. Finish an essay on Chaucer (this is one of those reoccurring items that just keeps getting transferred to the following day's list, with a little extra weight each time. Usually we gain weight together, as in, "This essay is stressing me out. I need some chocolate.")
9. Practice my French Horn (getting down to the practice rooms definitely counts as practice time, right?)
10. Do laundry (to be done in the wee hours of the morning so I don't have to wait for enough washers to be open so I can get it all done at once)
11. Buy more milk (cold cereal's pretty bland without it. Besides, what else would I have for my second dinner? The dining center closes at 7:30 and around midnight I'm thinking, what college student is still satisfied at midnight with a dinner he ate five hours ago? That's what the vending machines are for, true, but even those can get old, and somehow a bowl of cold cereal always sounds good.)
12. Make my bed (I consider this accomplished so long as it is done before I climb back in it at night)

Looking at this, all I want to do is take a nap, but of course there's not time for that - I have to finish my checklist first . . .
But then I had the brilliant thought to add "nap" to my checklist. No sooner had I done so than I was crawling in bed, smiling, and thinking to myself, now at least there's one item I know I can check off.

Candidly,
Cookie

The Art of Rambling

What do I mean by the Art of Rambling? I mean the art of being able to continue on in a thought that is both unprecedented and unrestricted. I mean being willing to accept the first words that come to your mind as both well-intentioned and meaningful, despite that at first glance they may seem lacking in both sense and beauty. I mean being able to say something like "oatmeal is like a roller coaster" and "rolling" with it despite the audacity of such a comparison, which is precisely what I did when I encountered the seeming "slip-of-the-tongue", which could be the only possible explanation for such an absurd assertion.

But this isn't just any oatmeal we're talking about - it is a work of art. It is a presentation of what I affirm to be the best compilation of condiments to ever ornament such a measly brand of porridge. We're talking a crown of raspberry sauce, sprinkled with shreds of coconut, adorned by a ring of walnuts, and consummated with a shake of salt.

As you take the first bite, the gooey porridge gives way, allowing your tongue to sink in, in much the same way your stomach sinks and then all but drops out as you step on the ride, pull down on the harness and hear the click as it locks in place. The warmth of the raspberries relaxes your palate like the warming rays of sun that brush your skin as the cart emerges from the covering and rounds the corner, gradually picking up speed. You bite down and the walnuts crunch against your teeth like the clickity-clack of the cart as it trugs slowly up the tracks. Then comes the coconut, that sweet rush of wind as the cart plummets down the track with a gush of speed. As all else melts away you're left with the bitter sweet tang of a speckling of salt, its savor as entirely unexplainable as the mix of fear, relief and thrill that's pounding in your chest as the ride comes to a stop. It is that ultimate satisfaction that leaves you paradoxically dissatisfied in your bottomless craving for more.

Candidly,
Cookie

Looking Out

What causes the most unhappiness in life? I'll tell you. Selfishness. Much of the sins in this life are due to selfish thoughts. If you're view point in life is "What's in it for me?" there won't be enough for you in life. You'd assume it follows then that selflessness brings the greatest joy. I'd assumed so too . . .

A couple weeks ago I wrote the following journal entry,
"Today was one of those days that I wish I could bottle up in a jar and then take just one sip every day for the rest of my life. This semester is going to be wonderful. This morning I told God in my morning prayer that I wanted Him to give all my blessings to a friend. Tonight, as I sat reflecting on my day, I couldn't help but smile and think, "He must not have heard."
Well, I'm here to tell you that God does answer prayers.

I should be happy then right? Well . . . in a perfect world, I would be. But the world's not perfect and neither am I. At times you could say I get jealous.
In the weeks following that prayer I lost a good friend, but I've also learned what it truly means to be selfless.

I was sitting in church when the thought occurred to me, "Brooke, would you be willing to give up nearly all your friends and loved ones if by so doing you could ensure that no one would ever go without a friend?"
I thought about it for a moment. I wasn't sure. Then the thought occurred to me, "That's what Christ did for you."
He did nothing for himself.

Though at times I am jealous, though at times I wish that I could take back my prayer, when I am truly thinking of others and filled with the love of God, I could not be happier.
I could not be happier for my friend, and as I am able to find joy in her successes I find joy in my own life as well.
There are so many reasons to be happy, if only we have the heart to look outside ourselves.

In short, happiness is found while looking out.

Candidly,
Cookie

Looking Up

My favorite building on BYU campus is a rosy tan goliath. It is adorned with eyes of light from which those inside observe the world with an air of perception, and those outside look in with the wonder of a child perusing a picture book, wondering, were there words, what they would say.
It forms a square around a courtyard where a tall fountain and paths of green form my Eden. Long ago in Eden, God communed with man. He walked in the lushness of his own perfect creation. Every blade of grass would bend to hear his voice as he imparted to Adam and Eve the wonders of heaven. Here in my Eden the great writers of every age impart to me their wisdom and my every fiber reaches for their words.
Room 4142 on the top-most floor is claimed. It is to be mine when I am numbered with the great ones. It stands today as the office of Patrick Madden - a creative essayist. Soon, my name will adorn the plaque beside the office door. With my boxes of books and a framed bar of chocolate with the caption "In case of Emergency Break Glass" I shall make that space my home. Books spilling off of every surface like molasses, thick with the sweet words of wisdom, the gushiness of romance, and the slowness of a meditative mind . . . I shall kick back in my desk chair, my fuzzy black boots that lace to the knees propped up on the desk, a book or three in my lap, and a cup of steaming hot chocolate right within reach, stacks of papers enclosing me in my own little cubicle, light streaming in from the large window from which I shall pear out at the world with new eyes. Having reached the peak I shall look back on the climb, take in the beautiful vistas, and then, in pursuit of ever greater heights, I shall spread my wings and fly.
Somewhere along the way, I shall look down and see a young girl looking up with her eyes fixated on room 4142, a book in her hand, knee-high black boots walking amongst the Eden, with dreams as high as heaven . . .

Candidly,
Cookie