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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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