As Luck Would Have It

Four out of the past five times I have flown, I have been stopped by security.
The first time was when my hands were checked for chemicals. A security guard swiped my hand with a toilette, for lack of a better word, and fed it into the reader. Now here's the crazy part: I had just washed my hands. Somehow in the short period between the bathroom and security, I had managed to pick up a strange chemical. So, as would naturally follow, my luggage was checked and I got the full pat-down.
The second time, I washed my hands extra well, and I still managed to get stopped. This time it was because they had found a suspicious object in the bottom of my backpack. Now let me back up a minute. I am going to assume that everyone is very familiar with the fifty-pound weight limit requirement. I had weighed my suitcase again and again and again, and it somehow still managed to be about three or four pounds over the limit. This meant that anything heavy we could find was placed in my already-stuffed backpack, which was serving as my carry-on. By the end of it my backpack was so full we couldn't have stuffed in another sock, and carrying it around the airport hurt my back so much that I carried it in my arms, which ached horribly until they went numb.
Now back to the story: the "suspicious object" they had found was at the bottom of my backpack. It turned out to be my i-home, which, when I could prove that it told time and played music, they let through. But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst part was figuring out how to repack my backpack to make everything fit. One of the security guards had commented that my backpack was like Mary Poppin's bag. I found the difference was that with Mary Poppin's bag, things could go back in as easily as they came out. It took me well over fifteen minutes to stuff everything back in.
My third time flying I made it through security without being stopped. Thank goodness!
My fourth time flying, though, was definitely the most eventful, which is something you do not ever want to hear, or say, about a flight. Just two weeks ago, I was flying home from Salt Lake to Atlanta with a layover in Chicago. Once again, I was stopped by security. This time, you'll never guess what it was. Apparently, they had found metal in my stomach. Seriously. It's my abbs of steel.
By now the full pat-down seemed almost routine. That's not to say I like it though.
I made it to my gate with plenty of time to spare, but, as luck would have it, our plane was to be arriving late, which was eating away at my layover time in Chicago. By the time we had boarded, I had about thirty minutes between the time we would land in Chicago and the time that my plane would begin to board, which I thought would be plenty enough.
The plane was about to begin taxying out onto the runway when it came to the attention of the stewardess that someone in the back of the plane was quite ill. A little over half an hour later, we were finally taxying out, and I was beginning to get just a little apprehensive about my connection in Chicago.
The moment we had come to a stop in Chicago, I bolted to my next flight, which, as luck would have it, would be at an A gate. We had come in at F. I managed to sprint across the airport in roughly six minutes, and I made it just in time to board.
Once again, we are about to begin taxying out when the intercom comes on. We are informed that the power source to start the engines has gone out, and so we get to wait for ground crew to find an external power source and start our engines. As you can imagine, this was all very reassuring, and I was not at all fearful about the flight.
The flight went smoothly enough, and we landed in Atlanta some time after midnight, only to be informed that the train system was down, and so we would be shuttled back on the tar mac.
It was odd walking into baggage claim through the front doors of the airport, but I wasn't about to complain, because I knew, with my luck, things could have been worse, and I wasn't about to jinx it.
My flight home proved much smoother. I had lost my abbs of steel over the break, I had washed my hands thoroughly, and I was certain there was nothing that security could find suspicious. As luck would have it, I still managed to set off the alarm.
"Don't worry ma'am," the security guard informed me, "you didn't actually set off the alarm. You have been randomly selected for additional screening."


Candidly,
Cookie

Noping

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

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" 

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