I wait and I tell myself, 'Life ain't chess'.

It should be known that thanks to Room on Fire, my favorite Stroke's album, I do actually stop and tell myself "Life ain't chess" when I am freaking out (frequently) about this or that. And it totally soothes. The imagery is perfect: I imagine the chess board set and laid out in front of me as I scrutinize and try to plan my next move. The futility of the scene is exaggerated by the fact that I don't know how to play chess. Like, at all. Most of what I know I learned from Harry Potter and let's be honest, so did you. Naturally, in a jest slightly more vehement than throwing up my hands in the air, I imagine myself knocking the chess board off those dainty chess tables and watching it fall to the ground, a storm of black and white. "Life ain't chess". With such violent imaginings (I love this word, by the way) it should come as no surprise to those who know me well that this kind of phantom role playing should soothe me.

The irony is perhaps that other thing that helps me in moments of wannabe crisis is repeating what M's mom says: "Am I on fire? No." Which is to say that I'm not a gonner (yet) and so not only could things be worse, but I am in a place to stop all the inward worry and turn it to outward action and make things better. Maybe I should, in honor of Julien Casablancas, rephrase that one: Am I in a room on fire? No.

Oh Julien.

Today's post is a direct result of my being a self-help book junkie. I'm not going to divulge the book I found myself reading (in my defense, it came to me through a set of old books someone asked me to go through and take what tempted me) but I'll indicate that the title of the chapter is: Get Comfortable Not Knowing. I'm just going to type it in here and let it speak for itself. As for me, I will now be adding the mantra "maybe so, maybe not". Third [mantra] is the charm, right?

"There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, "Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn't this the worst thing that could have possible happened?" The wise old man replied, "Maybe so, maybe not." The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn't he see this?

The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man's farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox-and he dd. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. "You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened." The wise man replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not." Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now.

But. once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer's son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, "How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won't be able to help with the crop. This time I'm sure that this is the worse thing that could have possible happened. You must agree this time." But, just as he had done before, the wise man looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not". Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village.

The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer's son was the only young man in the village who didn't have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die.

The moral of the story: If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well.

So live a life where spring has sprung

Today's title brought to you by the marriage of The Books, José Gonzalez (who I saw in concert two weeks ago and learned-thanks C-that the guy was studying for his PhD in, oh, don't worry, Biochemistry, when his musical career took off) and apparently Nick Drake too (thank you Youtube, I did not know this was a cover) in the form of The Cello Song.

This is not the actual wording: 'live' is not the verb used. But I took some poetic license and improved the lyrics. You see, The Shins have this song that I love, Girl on the Wing. I didn't understand the lyrics exactly the first few dozen times I heard it but I felt like they said exactly what I felt. Then I looked up the actual lyrics and didn't like the song as much. I want to say that I was one word off and back then I cared more about correct form and so I obliviated (yes, a harry potter verb though no, I don't own a wand) my version for the correct one. And now I can't remember my version. It's a sort of loss. In the same way that understanding a foreign language comes at the expense of hearing the sounds for what the are, out of the context of meaning. Thus I'm doing away with doing away with my incorrect versions of songs that I like. At best, I'll keep in remembrance both versions.

So yes, "live". Because it seems the less passive verb; more demanding. Something like reaching. Which is what spring is all about, after all.

In my preschool class at school we planted beans, maybe two weeks ago now. I am obsessed with them. There are over 23 clear plastic cups lining the window sills of our classroom and every morning I come in, even on Tuesday and Thursday when I work in Kindergarten, to check on their progress. No joke, I pick every one of them up, one by one, turning the cups and examining the difference in a few hours, a little daylight, and some water. Sometimes I water them too but even then they get more than a once-over. I'll start watering at one end of the row and as I go the anxiety builds so that by the time they are watered and I can take the time to lift them, tilt, and admire them, I am like one of my 5 yr olds who comes through the door everyday bouncing on her toes she's so excited to be there.

It's weird because my sister is having a baby and that hardly phases me. Maybe because babies aren't incubated in clear plastic cups or maybe because the wonder of it is too big for me to grasp. All I know is, every morning I come in and find myself looking at these plants and saying to myself "But you came from NOTHING!" Something like a phenomenon.

I'm thinking of starting my own bean growing operation at my apartment but I'm worried about there being enough sunlight. I've fairly convinced myself that if I can successfully grow my own personal bean stalk to love and stroke and admire, that I will awake or perhaps merit that hereditary green thumb that must hiding out somewhere in my genetic makeup. Surely nature misread 'green' for 'little' and I'll end up with both.

It's no wonder though, this fascination for coming-from-nothingness. It's kinda where I'm at right now.

Example Number One: A few weeks ago I had a talk on the phone with some friends about my running. The sad truth is, I am still out of commission as far as running is concerned. One friend expressed concern about my running and all too frequent injuries. ( It was at this moment that I realized that I don't like it, and really don't like it, when people show concern for me. I figured out that the reason is because it raises the suspicion that, after all my meticulous analyzing and decision making, I don't know best. If people are concerned, clearly I must be doing something wrong. And, as we all know, I hate being wrong. This would be some much more accurately expressed in French: on deteste. I'm going for universality here.) I was expressing my frustration with another friend who is also a runner and also, like me, perhaps not a natural. My frustration was due to the lack of conviction I inspired in others regarding my ability to run and not be weary. Or injured. It was this fiery conversation about me conquering the world and proving everyone else wrong: I was going to defy, though I'm not sure whom. The problem is, the experts don't agree, you see. My podiatrist tells me I need a hard orthotic. My chiropractor tells me that doesn't solve the problem, but only masks the symptoms. My chiro also tells me I need a shoe with more stability and cushion than my barefoot shoes offer and the barefoot community tells me that we were made for minimalization. My knees tell me that I don't like shoes that aren't minimal and my feet tell me that they don't like running anymore, possibly because I ran in minimal footwear.

But I had this conversation and pumped myself up and talked to more people and became all the more convinced that I could learn to run and not get injured. I even started to think, hey, maybe one day I'll tackle a marathon.

Except that right now, just walking is still hurting. And, well, I might cave and go to a Dr so one can derive that things are pretty bad. So right now, I've got nothing. I've got sunny days and blue skies and hour upon hour during which my feet ache to hit the pavement, figuratively speaking, while my feet literally, well, just ache. But I'm holding out for something. Out of nothing.

Example Number Two:

I have this conviction that this summer is going to be one of the best summers of my life. The truth of it is, it's unfounded: I have no plan. I keep having these visions of a perfect summer. Earlier this year that vision involved taking the 'long' out of 'distance'. Disintegration. Then the vision evolved into a mountainous escape working at National Parks: fresh air, trail running, high altitude sunrises, my camera, and bearded and braided granolas. Nonmaterialization. Now I'm torn between starting my new life in the bubble which is P-Town and spending the plentiful hours I'm not working poolside whilst reading my required French MA literature and running off to France to visit with old people for 6-8 gluttonous, delicious and terribly quaint albeit lonely weeks. Or I could waitress, nanny, take some jobs that my mom doesn't have time for, volunteer, sell my soul to a call center, write, spend my days reading and listening to French and well, you get the point. Indecision meets and possibly breeds nonmaterialization. This is a really big problem because I figure that when I want something bad enough, I'm pretty good at making it happen. I just don't want anything that bad this summer. I've already checked off all the big things from my list. When you have a job that allows for variety, creativity, structure, laughs and of course hugs and when you're waiting for the impending beginning of the end which is grad school, what you do in the interim just doesn't seem to compare or matter.

It is the middle of May, 2011. In 3 weeks I will have no job, no apartment, no roommate and certainly nothing monumental in sight.

But I gotta say: I gotta feeling.

Example Number Three:

I'm reading Tom Sawyer right now. Somehow, in the deprived childhood that I led and am still leading, I never read Mark Twain. I don't know how this happened? I have no explanations. All I know is, my children will read it. Most especially my boys. Because a little mischief does a'body good. And I've thought a lot lately about the crazy things I've done in my time. Maybe the correct verb is mourn: I feel like I've lost my edge or something. Gone is that version of myself that would think up ridiculous questions for the sake of striking up conversations with complete strangers. Gone is the sort of punk and gone is the sort of hippie. Gone is the honorary "Gentlemen's" and other such and less official club memberships that gave me "one of the boys" status. Gone is the rootless. Gone is the concert hall junkie. Gone is the planner of game nights and summer barbeques.

I hear Phoenix whenever I see my younger sister: Do you remember when 21 years was old? It's not maturity that prevents me from doing all the envious things she does, allowing the proper amount of drama and cruciality. It's something else. It's that I know better. Or that I've come to need a purpose and I can't remove that need.

Maybe life and the people in it is going too many different directions, maybe I'm just too tired to reconcile all these different facades of myself or maybe each require too much energy in their own right anyway. For whatever reason, I feel like I've lost an edge. I don't dream like I used to because I'm content where I am. Which should be great. And is.

And yet, sometimes, I think I miss having something to look forward to. I miss being completely unrealistic.

So I've started making unrealistic lists to compensate for the ailment, whatever it may be. I'm going to try to remember this summer what it is to be uncomfortable where one is. I've bought my third copy of Peter Pan, the boy who won't grow up. I once wrote a paper on it in college. My premise was that Peter is not in fact the protagonist but the antagonist of the story: the embodied truth that refusing to grow up is unnatural and harmful. I'm going to try to remember that.

Today, Charles Langridge Morgan, whose quote has been on my board for years though where I heard it and who he is is long forgotten, will help me:

"The art of living does not consist in preserving and clinging to a particular mood of happiness, but in allowing happiness to change its form without being disappointed by the change; for happiness, like a child, must be allowed to grow up."

For the dreams that came to you when you were young / told of a life where spring has sprung.

Something out of nothing. Or somethinglikethat.

How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes.

Disclaimer:

This is a blatant violation of my discretion policy and is an account of Grad School Decision Drama. While I wouldn't want to inflict being in my head on anyone, I think that I am the quintessential epitome of the undecided, divided, noncommittal persona. And that, by degree, someone out there can probably relate on some end of the scale. Even if you don't give the same credence to the man upstairs. You've been warned, He factors in a lot on this post here.

**********************

As usually happens when life gets complicated or overwhelming, lyrics pop into my head. Yesterday's choice lines brought to you by Spoon (who else, honestly?):

Everything hits at once/ what you need is just what you wants.

In an effort at brevity I'm going to try to start with the facts:

The relevant fact: After thinking about what I wanted to do with my life (infer from the word "thinking" excessive analyzing, late night internet searches, meeting with people, collecting and weighing opinions) for oh, the past 8 years of my life, I committed at long last mid October, 2010, to the pursuit of Grad Studies. At BYU. In French. Let's just say that the decision had been long in coming, that I had tried to decide otherwise, but that I kept coming back to this. And it felt, well, good. Logical.

Thus began GRE prep and the frantic and mendicant search for recommendations. In an effort to give my professors ammunition with which to write said recommendations, I went back and edited my capstone projects. I also reread one of my French texts and completely redrafted the original papers I had written on that text. It was a lot of work, yes, but purposeful. It felt good to have some direction in my life.

Fast forward to this week. I have been accepted into BYU's program. I have, quite unexpectedly, been offered a full tuition scholarship that will likely be renewed next year as well. I have been given a position as student instructor which is, not only one of the better paying jobs on campus, but, pointedly, a fantastic learning opportunity. I will be under the tutelage of some of BYU's master educators to learn how to effectively teach the French language. In the process, I will have experience teaching college aged classes. This is a chance to get direction in my teaching goals: children, or adults?

I meet with the chair of the department and find out that certification does not accompany this degree. As I study the coursework required, I notice there is little emphasis in methodology and pedagogy, which has been my expressed interest ever since having met with an advisor last spring and was also expressed in my statement of intent essay. The program overview on the website also specifies that this degree can help prepare students for a degree in education. All of the sudden, I'm wondering, "HOW?".

I wonder if I should have actually applied for the Masters of Second Language Teaching degree, also offered at BYU. I visit with the advisor of THAT program and am told that the French linguist is retiring this year, that they are not sure when he will be replaced, nor of the quality of his replacement. Apart from the other obstacles such as, oh, the fact that I don't quite yet have the credentials to apply for the program and that the application dates have passed, this is the greatest obstacle. Even currently admitted French students are being told to carefully consider their acceptance into the program.

I meet with another advisor, one who spearheads the secondary certification program at an undergraduate level. None the more promising, as I'd have to pursue a Master's program and an undergrad program simultaneously, which would drag out my program and probably result it cut funding. If that was even allowed at all.

This last person I talked to looking for advice runs the dual immersion program. She spent over 2 hours on the phone advising me that the best thing to do, if I want to be a competitive candidate when I am done with my studies, is to actually get a degree in, not French, but Education. Though apparently my French is not up to par and would simultaneously need to be improved upon. She told me that she has an MA in French and that all it got her were part time jobs teaching at the community college or university. No benefits.

Thus it was that in the course of ONE week I learned that the program I thought I wanted not only didn't offer what I thought it would (and here I had thought to have done my research) but I was being told that it was, in essence, redundant.

Everything hits at once, alright.

I was talking to my lovely roommate this morning about how sometimes life would be easier if one didn't in fact believe in signs. If I didn't truly believe that there was someone (with a capital S) who didn't have my best interest at heart and knew what was best for me and who tried to guide me along my happy way with a series of nudges and winks. Because the minute you believe in nudges, winks, and wrong, good, better, and bests for your life, you start reading into EVERYTHING. At least if you are me you do.

The logic that followed the discovery that I may in fact need to rethink my whole education to include a PRACTICAL Masters of Education (and thus certification) and that this education could not start this fall but next fall, at an unknown institution went something like THIS (for full effect, read at speed times 1.5-2.5):

Deep breath. Deep breath. Listen to Spoon. Weird...that usually helps. K, so I thought doing the French program at BYU was the RIGHT thing for me to do. I mean, what the heck?! I've only been praying about it and felt good about it for year, possibly 2 depending on the relative usage of the word 'good'. But then again, I've felt good about things that have been wrong for me before. I mean, I even blogged about the futility of emotion, speaking of the frustration that comes when you try to assign meaning (especially moral meaning) to emotion. The Shins are genius: fatal flaw. So I felt good about something? So what? Maybe I assigned to that 'good feeling' the moral implication that that choice was 'right' and what if it being right has all just been in my head?! And I just kept feeling good about things because everything kept falling into place and now here I am, at a crossroads (ugh, cupcakes), "seeing the light" at the most inconvenient of times to see if I really have enough faith to take the plunge and do, not what I have been planning to do for the past year or so, but to wait a year and do what is practical. I mean, test of faith and all that. Like this is God's way of showing me that he knows best and that if I really believe that then I'll abandon ship. Because honestly the practical alternative doesn't exactly seem to GLIMMER with promise either. I mean, could things GET any more ironic?! And what if irony is the point? I mean, I think God wants us to act on our dreams and that he allows us that liberty and so maybe that's what he's been doing, just letting me tread my own path until he had to interfere, big time, with a sign or say, a phone call, with big red letters saying "Do not pass GO"? How many times have I heard that if we've made the wrong decision, He'll be sure to make that clear to us. So the ironic timing is not anyone's fault but my own for making the wrong decision initially. And really I'm just being ungrateful for feeling so inconvenienced. BUUUUUUT, maybe that's not the test at all. Maybe it's another kind of test...........................

Trust me, there's more. Much more. Lots of particulars. From which I'll generously spare you.

This or some point around this point in time is where there were tears. Most of the time, I cry because of overwhelming circumstances/feelings: joy, the absence of joy, hilarity, anger/frustration. Then there is the rare occasion when I singlehandedly induce brain coma, the trauma of which causes physical symptoms in the form of eye-duct leekage.

I did some room pacing. Listened to more music. Oh, don't worry, the Fray came on (don't judge me): We'd never know what's wrong without the pain / Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.

Amen. But wait. So does that mean that because quitting my French program is hard that proves that it's the right thing? So sometimes things being hard is a sign things are wrong and sometimes things being hard is a sign that things are right........? Oh my stars. Just. Stop.

I called my mom. Those phone calls always help. Our joint conclusion was that I should stick with French. My personal conclusion was that I would rather make the wrong choice and be absolutely SURE of it being wrong instead of settling on another choice because my mind couldn't handle the second guessing; risking regret for the elimination of doubt so to speak. And then of course after the conversation was over I started to doubt her advice. Not because it is bad but because I am her daughter and it would follow that we draw conclusions from the same vein of inherited family logic and that maybe it was that logic that got me into this mess in the first place.

So I started a bit of research. I had been talking to my mom several days previously of my experience writing for the Century (institute magazine). It was on my mind. Then I remembered that I had in fact written an article about making decisions, drawing from other people's advice in turn to write it. I decided to track down that article, knowing that I had understood things once, and maybe a return to that understanding (especially as phrased by me) would be what I needed. Brought to you by my 22 year old self is the following article:

My father is fond of telling me, like an old war veteran who lived through the battles I am still fighting, how amusing he finds seeing me caught up in the “seeming cruciality” of life during college. Even with my eyes rolling at his amusement, I can’t blame him too much for the condescension of his post-crucial position; he has made life’s more crucial decisions and managed to live through them, and like a veteran, carries battle scars. That warrants a bit of respect, if not awe, as he was at the time a hippy, who achieved longer and blonder hair than I could ever hope for.

“Seeming” or not, however, I think it is a fact that as college students we are assaulted with crucial decisions all the time. Once we have chosen to “follow him”, becoming the person he would like us to be seems to be complicated by these decisions: Do I really want to date this person? Do I really want to stop dating this person? Am I going on a mission? Do I go to this college? What will I major in? Should I change my major? What classes should I take? Am I going to graduate school? Do I accept this job? Do I quit this job? Do I want to continue listing examples? No, not really. That one was easy.

Most of these decisions, however, are not. And if they are not necessarily difficult they are certainly important in determining our future landscapes and choices. And if you are anything like me, even the insignificant decisions can be overwhelming. I think, though I am not completely certain, that have pinpointed the cause of my habit of tardiness down to the failure of being able to make decisions: what shampoo do I use? What cereal do I want? What shoes do I wear? Do I really need a jacket? Yes, I am one of those people who cannot order until everyone else at the table has done so, until I have asked the waiter’s advice, and then thought about it for a couple minutes more. At which point, I will probably change my mind.

Though I have been told that my indecisiveness is not “normal”, I do know that I am not the only one who has found themselves wishing that for many crossroads I approached, a green flashing arrow would appear to point me in the “right” direction. Because believe me, I would take it. In many situations, it is not a failure to “choose the right”, but the lack of “an obvious right”. In the midst of so many possibilities, especially those which are often not black and white but equally favorable, I think we find ourselves wishing for an intervention, for an elimination of possibilities so that all that would remain is an outline of what “the best” way is for each of us to follow. Why is it that it is so tempting to wish away the very thing that our existence was fought over: our free will, our ability to choose?

It is not that many of us lack the desire to “choose the right“. That is why we seek the guidance of something we think greater and more correct than ourselves. But I hope to remember that desire is not enough when I am at that next crossroads. Choice is a defining action that is qualified by our possibilities. The ability to make decisions for myself and amount of decisions I have to make is something that separates me from the innocent person I was at age five. This ability-to go the extra ten percent from wanting to make a wise decision to actually making one- separates the complacent from the committed and is integral to the process of growth.

The inspiration to help make those decisions that really are “crucial” relies on the action on our part of making a decision first and then bringing it to the Lord: “There’s a fine balance between agency and inspiration. We’re expected to do everything in our power and then to seek an answer from the Lord, a confirming seal that we’ve reached the right conclusion.” (Bruce R. McConkie, New Era, Jan. 1975, 38 ). If we have the faith that those decisions will be taken care of with the Lord’s help, there is no need to become overwhelmed by many possibilities nor to take them for granted. The mere existence of possibilities is evidence that we are truly blessed. Rather than be hesitant or overwhelmed as we consider the decisions and possibilities before us, I hope we can remember that. Did you know, for example, that the University of Utah offers a “Pleasure of Chocolate” course? What kind of luxury is that!? Will I be taking that class next semester? Hands down. Probably.

Nothing life changing there, and I totally judge myself for using the word crossroads then and using it again today, but there was something in the juxtaposition about commitment and complacency that I needed to read. It was also nice to see that I have improved in some of my chronic indecisive habits. Or at least I hope so.

I continued my search for wisdom outside of the family vein. Courtesy of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland and perhaps what was to me the most helpful thing I read is this, excerpts from his "Cast not away therefore your confidence":

"It is the plain and very sobering truth that before great moments, certainly before great spiritual moments, there can come adversity, opposition, and darkness. Life has some of those moments for us, and occasionally they come just as we are approaching an important decision or a significant step in our life.

Moses' message to you today is, "Don't let your guard down." Don't assume that a great revelation, some marvelous illuminating moment, or the opening of an inspired path is the end of it. Remember, it isn't over until it's over.

I wish to encourage every one of you today regarding opposition that so often comes after enlightened decisions have been made, after moments of revelation and conviction have given us a peace and an assurance we thought we would never lose.

If it was right when you prayed about it and trusted it and lived for it, it is right now. Don't give up when the pressure mounts. Face your doubts. Master your fears. Stay the course and see the beauty of life unfold for you."

Elder Holland's words struck a chord and made me think of Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, which is essentially the story of a quest for dreams and the signs along the way:

"Before a dream is realized, the Soul of the World tests everything that was learned along the way. It does this not because it is evil, but so that we can, in addition to realizing our dreams, master the lessons we've learned as we've moved toward that dream. That's the point at which most people give up. It's the point at which, as we say in the language of the desert, one 'dies of thirst just when the palm trees have appeared on the horizon'. Every search begins with beginner's luck. And every search ends with the victor's being tested."

The advice from these two men complements each other. Each is essentially saying the same thing in different terms, and from a different context. But isn't encouraging when your sources add up? Ben oui.

At some point I remembered the maxim of my current Bishop: "Don't take counsel from your fears-it is bad council ALL the time. Take counsel in your faith."

Essentially, my fear was making the wrong decision and being too stubborn, too blind, or too mind-spun to recognize it or being too stubborn, too lazy, or too proud to make the right one. I thought a lot about fear. I got a little philosophical, perhaps.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized what a silly waste of time it is: fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of failure or anything is usually worse than the pain the loss or whatever else itself. I think someone has said that originally. The reason why the fear of the thing is worse than the thing itself is because, in fear, the thing is not a reality. It exists as only a figment of a handicapped imagination and depending on one's prowess in the realm of imagination, can become quite the monster. Because it is only a figment of the imagination, one is immobile and cannot act in that same realm. When you are in a position that is unpleasant, you have no other choice but to act, to deal with it.

If one thing can be said of the human race it is that we are no strangers to adaption. And that ability to adapt is no more apparent in our ability to find contentment regardless of circumstance. But when we fear we don't allow in our imagination any room for the ability to adapt. Because adapting exists in the now. As does acting. The other thing I know about us humans is our ignorance of our own strengths and limitations. Often I will live through something unpleasant and then, once the moment has passed, I look back with both relief and awe, and either a kind of remembrance or a kind of forgetting. Somehow, looking back, things don't seem as hard as they felt at the time. In a sense, it's as if we don't realize our own pith until we are seeing ourselves from a distance.

Basically, my conclusion didn't change from my conversation with my mom but I do feel better about it: I am still going to pursue French. Even if it is a pointless degree and even if that is hopelessly naive and quite possibly not the 'right' choice. If there even is one to be had in all this. This kind of optimism and naivite arises from the fact that I already have a degree that is deemed useless by most and have landed the best job a person can ask for. I just want more options, more schooling. And is it so horrible that I think that things can get even better?

Taking again from Coelho (this time from Manual of the Warrior of Light): "On some nights, [the Warrior of Light] has nowhere to sleep, on others, he suffers from insomnia. ‘That’s just how it is,’ thinks the warrior. ‘I was the one who chose to walk this path.’ In these words lies all his power: he chose the path along which he is walking and so has no complaints."

I guess in the end, perhaps the most important question I can ask myself is the rhetorical, 'How can a decision be the right one if I am not willing to fight for it?' Even if that means being proven wrong in the end. French, as silly and slave driving as it is, is my dream. And if I don't have the wherewithal to pursue it, I can't really claim it as mine. If things blow up in my face or if at some point down the road I have regrets, at least I will know that I chose this, that I did so out of faith, and that I can adapt to meet the difficulties WHEN they come.

And there you have it: the inner working of my brain complete with pep talk and lyrics.

/ Awake, my soul /

Sans titre

Sometimes, I feel like this:

Je ne voulais rien entreprendre qui n'eut une justification totale. Je souffrais de ne point parvenir à mettre des étiquettes définitives sur les choses et sur moi ; j'aspirais à la nécessité. La liberté c'est très joli mais épuisant. Je ne voulais pas d'un monde où subsistaient des choix, des remords et des compromis. Tout me paraissait vain si tout n'était pas assuré.
-Jean D'Ormesson

My relationship status with life right now: it's complicated. The next few months of my life are up in the air, refusing to subject themselves to my meticulous planning. It's times like this when I resort to lists and cold, hard, delicious facts.

Fact #1: I have applied for grad school.
Subfact: If attending grad school is as intense as applying for grad school, I may just be in over my head.

Fact #2: I don't know if I will get accepted to grad school.
Subfact: I don't know what I will do if I don't get accepted to grad school. But I've been working myself up for so many months now for a big change that I don't know if I can continue without some sort of upheaval. Nothing like a change in scenery to remind you you're alive.

Fact #3: I don't know where I will work or live this summer. And it's already March.
Subfact: I may remain ignorant for some time now on this account. There are many other factors that the where's and if's are contingent upon.

Fact #4: I have failed in the following New Year's resolutions:

• Do yoga every month at least twice. Yep, haven't touched the mat since January. Unless you count a few post-run downward dog stretches. Which I don't.

• Read at least one book a month. January only made the grade because I reread Chretien de Troye's Le Chevalier au Lion, in English, in order to rewrite a paper on the same. February found me part way through 3 books. One of them is under 50 pages. I will finish it tonight. A victory?
• A monthly post for the blog and journal. Yeah, nuff said.

Subfact: I have succeeded in the following resolutions:

• Maintain a new recipe a month. Success in this case is, quite literally, sweet. I have tried several new recipes a month. So much so that I can't keep track of them all. I even made curry the other day WITHOUT, yeah, that's right people, WITHOUT, SANS, SIN, a recipe. Oh yeah.
  
• Learn to live with less. If you don't take into account my body's voracious ability to need doctors, supplements and expensive, GF good, I think you could give this one a check. Plus. I haven't bought myself a book or item of clothing all year. I also have barely had time to buy myself groceries. But. like. whatever.

Fact #5: Sometimes, happiness is getting off work in time to watch the sun set.
Subfact: Happiness is exponentially greater when I am able to run in it. Rare. But not impossible.

Fact#6: I like running again! I nailed 7 miles this weekend and my recovery seems to be better every time. I'm even averaging 9:30 a mile instead of 10.
Subfact: Oh, and did I mention, my calves are getting bigger.

Fact#7: This weekend I got to run, read, nap, and hang out with friends after I was done being alone. Today, I cracked open one of my Runner's World magazine. I've been subscribed for 6 months and this is the first time that has happened. I feel completely spoiled. My dishes have been done the last 3 days. My room is semi-clean. I am prepared for school tomorrow. And I'm BLOGGING! I'm sorry for the friends I'm abandoning in the process of filling my me-time meter.
Subfact: All apologies aside, truly, I am a better person for these simple indulgences. Trust me.

Fact#8: Since having started this post last week there has been the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear explosion in Japan. I'm not going to attempt to touch on the magnitude of the thing. First of all because it's unknown and secondly and most importantly, I know there are so many other people out there living it whose stories won't get told or understand and I don't really want to waste anyone's time with mine. But, let me just say that I've felt a little guilty, this past week, going about things as if nothing had changed with the routine remaining the routine when there are thousands of peoples' lives which will never be the same. I am grateful for so many things and I feel like it's so unfair for me to have them when others don't. I've been plagued by an obsession with justice since before I can remember. I have a girl in one of my classes who suffers from the same condition. She's a walking panic attack, honestly, the 4 year old has "anxiety" written all over her. So I'm not saying it's a good thing. It's just a thing and if anything probably not a good one. But aside from all the injustice and my inability to really do anything at all, I'm reminded of Job, actually. And of my last post. The one about belief in God being a product of having to rely or not rely on him and all the varied, deep and well undiscussed implications. Yeah, that one. And so, in the spirit of vicarious fairness, I have been imagining myself in the middle of such a catastrophe. Not that I claim to be able to fathom. But human empathy has its uses and I claim them often. Human empathy has brought me to the realization however that no amount of self deprivation on the part of anyone or everyone else living is going to be able to set things right to the point that things will be how they were. And, looking at the history books, that's nothing new. Call me cheesy or whatever but it puts me in mind of a Lord of the Rings quote. Oh yeah, the one about deciding what to do with the time given to us that makes me cry every time. I guess what I'm trying to say is that there are a lot of things I feel unfit to do. But I think that the most meaningful thing I could do now and in the midst of any personal catastrophe is do what Job did. Or, as Journey puts it: don't stop believin'.

But better yet, I could use some good advice.

*This blog was started Saturday, September 11th. Incidentally, I ended up being social and leaving it unfinished until now. I can't recall what I ended up doing with my time. All I can remember about that day-apart from the obvious patriotic particularities-is that this is the day I didn't finish my blog. Probably shouldn't let that happen again. As I'm obviously traumatized.

I've been going through some sick blog withdrawls. Writing withdrawls, really. Committing certain aspects of my life to writing have helped me make them real. I look back at the last month and already I'm forgetting what happened, how I felt, and most importantly, what I've been thinking about. It seems like most of what goes on in my life-where the action is-is in my head. Now I know that sounds kind of mental but it's really not, I swear. But I ground and classify the days events by the thoughts I associated with them. So forgetting my thoughts feels like a loss of those days.

Anyway, I have a to do list the length of all my needing-to-be-sharpened pencils when they are lined up in a row. The thing is, I really really don't like feel like getting on it. I suppose it doesn't help that the first thing on said list is: find planner (so I can write my list down, obviously). By the way, I did clean what there was to clean in my room. Then I went for a run and tore it apart looking for my ipod running band. So the room has been re-cluttered and the band is still lost, thereby undoing the only productive thing I've done all day. Unless you count going running again, which I probably should. I should maybe mention here that I think my knee is better. Victory! Now I can start building up that mileage again. Joy of joys.

So here I sit, in a half empty room, smelly from my run but perfectly un-sweaty thanks to my new nike running gear. Might I add here that if nike wanted to pay me to advertise there stuff, I would gladly buy it and wear it all the time. Might I also add that my running capris look amazing. Which is great motivation to keep up running because if I don't well then, they won't look amazing anymore. Sounds like a fail proof plan to me.

So yes, back to me sitting. I got back to my apartment and was running over all the things I need to do. I was in serious turmoil because there's this part of me that feels the need to fill the whole day with busyness, productivity, efficiency and general lack of laziness. Then there's the other part of me that feels like I deserve a little lazy, don't I? Even if that lazy still feels ever so slightly like work. Like reading a book in Spanish. Watching a movie in French. Painting. Or better yet, getting caught up on my blog. The two sides of me, as always, put up a good fight. Then a voice of reason called a time out. Usually this voice is my mother's or my father's, whether in my head or on the phone. Today it happened to be my voice. I recalled this post: http://fromthebelltower.blogspot.com/2010_05_01_archive.htm in which I talked about the things that make me happy pretty much no matter what. And I realized that a to-do list complete with check marks next to every item does help me sleep at night, but it doesn't really bring me joy. If anything, it just makes me feel overwhelmed with the need to fill whatever time I have left and to do it effectively. Sometimes, I take my play way too seriously.

Maybe later on today I will be productive. Maybe later on today I will be social. I don't know and I'm not going to plan it out or write it down. It's time to take part of the "il bel far neinte. I feel like writing on this blog. I feel the need for some "intellectual and emotional indulgence" which doesn't require me to take several hours out of someone else's busy day to get it. I've been hearing a lot of really good advice lately. And I think it's time that I give myself time to commit it to paper or at least think about it. If I am going to insist on using a planner and having a to-do list, I should probably pencil in an hour everyday for unadulterated and guiltless thinking or blog writing. I may have been overly pampered in Colorado this summer as far as "me time" is concerned. Maybe an hour is a bit excessive. But then again, je suis excessive, moi.

So on with the advice. Or the conversations that led to my thinking. And don't expect closure. My thinking rarely wraps up nicely.

So a while back I finished Eat, Pray, Love. And maybe it was because at the time of my reading, I was rather embracing my more volatile side instead of denying its existence and so I felt like I really related this time around to the author. And I mean freakishly related to her. And whereas before I would find myself kind of annoyed that people said she reminded them of me, this time around I was utterly flattered. Obviously, Liz Gilbert's selling point is the sense of kinship-her book inspired, though probably not intentionally, vicarious living. The hate in my love/hate relationship with her comes from the fact that I want to live vicariously through my own life. I don't want to sit on the sidelines and read about someone else doing it, inspiring as that may be. So not only is she out there living her life and not someone else's, she's written and published a hugely successful book about it. Totally hate-worthy, right?

But even though the fact that I see so much of myself in her makes me feel like maybe I'm not that original after all and she's like the grown up, classier version of the me I will never grown up to be, I am grateful for the kinship factor. Because it makes me feel, cheesy as it may sound, less alone. I was reading on her website and came across this. It really describes a thought process I've had, especially last summer. And a big part of me still wants to subscribe to it. The difference being maybe that I don't know how serious I am about a "life of writing". I think I would be content to write something-one thing-that I feel really good about and that people hear about enough that a few people read and maybe it means something to them. Like "Quest for a Maid". Either way, her line of reasoning is scarily similar to mine, even if she is way more committed than me:

I believe that – if you are serious about a life of writing, or indeed about any creative form of expression – that you should take on this work like a holy calling. I became a writer the way other people become monks or nuns. I made a vow to writing, very young. I became Bride-of-Writing. I was writing’s most devotional handmaiden. I built my entire life around writing. I didn’t know how else to do this. I didn’t know anyone who had ever become a writer. I had no, as they say, connections. I had no clues. I just began.

I took a few writing classes when I was at NYU, but, aside from an excellent workshop taught by Helen Schulman, I found that I didn’t really want to be practicing this work in a classroom. I wasn’t convinced that a workshop full of 13 other young writers trying to find their voices was the best place for me to find my voice. So I wrote on my own, as well. I showed my work to friends and family whose opinions I trusted. I was always writing, always showing. After I graduated from NYU, I decided not to pursue an MFA in creative writing. Instead, I created my own post-graduate writing program, which entailed several years spent traveling around the country and world, taking jobs at bars and restaurants and ranches, listening to how people spoke, collecting experiences and writing constantly. My life probably looked disordered to observers (not that anyone was observing it that closely) but my travels were a very deliberate effort to learn as much as I could about life, expressly so that I could write about it.

So there you have it-in someone else's words-a justification of my desire to travel. The question has now become: when I go away for months on end every summer and come back with only a few pages of writing to show for it, can writing really justify these travels? And when my French is already fluent, can I justify traveling for the sake of unnecessary improvement? Especially when these travels interrupt any semblance of a social life I might have...?

My current epiphany has been to go abroad only a few weeks on a "holocaust tour" of sorts. Because the holocaust has always fascinated me and because I think it would yield a different kind of touristic experience, all while not imposing on my social life.

A recent conversation with a friend brought home to me the fact that my indecision is due to the fact that I've got nothing to dream for, nothing to build up to. Another friend (coworker) alluded to the fact that this lack of a dream is because we are living it and our lives are so fulfilling in the present that it becomes difficult to anticipate and plan (for) a future in which we aren't satisfied.
And I am fulfilled. I really am. And yet.

Restless.

Which begs the question: do I simply lack a dream or do I instead need the opposite?: to take a step (a big one) outside of myself and really just get over myself and my myriad of interests and personal development and delicious management of my needs and my time and give up of all of egocentric efforts for the sake of helping other people. If only for the sake of becoming less of a control freak/hermit.

Which leads me to the end of my logic.

Some words by the great Henry B. Eyring:

"The thirst for education that comes with the change the gospel brings can be a blessing or a curse, depending on our motives. If we continue to seek learning to serve God and His children better, it is a blessing of great worth. If we begin to seek learning to exalt ourselves alone, it leads to selfishness and pride, which will take us away from eternal life."

I have a lot of motives to question. But I'm fairly certain that if it's a dream I'm lacking, it's because I am no longer satisfied with a dream that is merely self-serving and validating. Which is an aspect of my life that anything that were to take me away from school-the one place where I do feel like I do in fact give and contribute in some small scale-would inevitably magnify.

In the meantime, I have to get to it eliminating those pockets of time that don't serve anyone else and not really myself either. Talking on the phone might be one such habit. Facebook most definitely. Though I won't go all hard core and quit, I think it's time I enforce rules.

Again, Elder Eyring is applicable: "We too often fail to take advantage of the moments we spend waiting. Think of the last time you sat in a barber shop or a beauty salon or the waiting room of a doctor’s office. It is so easy to spend time thumbing through any magazine that is stacked on a table there. In fact, if you think about it, you will remember how you wondered where they get those out-of-date magazines. There is much valuable reading you could do if you took a book with you to fill those islands of time.

It takes neither modern technology nor much money to seize the opportunity to learn in the moments we now waste. You could just have a book and paper and pencil with you. That will be enough. But you need determination to capture the leisure moments you now waste."

********************************

I had more good advice and thoughts to share on my digestion of said advice. But it got lost in the time between hearing it and writing this. So it's random and doesn't correlate, but I think I'll end with this, from my dear Paulo Coelho's Manual of the Warrior of Light:

A warrior of light carefully studies the position that he intends to conquer. However difficult the objective, there is always a way of overcoming obstacles. He seeks out alternative paths, he sharpens his sword, he tries to fill his heart with the necessary perseverance to face the challenge. But as he advances, the warrior realises that there are difficulties he had not reckoned with. If he waits for the ideal moment, he will never set off; he requires a touch of madness to take the next step. The warrior uses that touch of madness. For - in both love and war - it is impossible to foresee everything.

And those the rainy days they ain't so bad when you're the King (or queen)

Today was stellar. I learned a lot from Carine about patience. And about selflessness. I think most mothers could teach me this but I'm glad I get to learn it here first-hand. Plus she's a real trooper and lets me talk to her in French and then doesn't scold me when I get lazy and revert to English.

So today's highlight was my run. I thought for sure today was going to be MY day. It was drizzling as I was getting my shoes (Vibram's) on and when I took out Polski the dog beforehand. I was so stoked to get soaking wet and run with raindrops dripping down my nose.

As luck would have it, the rain let up the duration of my run and then picked back up once I was home. But the good news is that I put in another 3 miles even though my legs/muscles were not happy with me the last mile or so. I'm pretty sure I didn't do any irreparable damage and I still had tons of energy at the end of the run that had I wanted to risk it, I definitely could have kept going. I should add that it's been a LONG time (pre IT band problems/barefoot adventures) since I've felt that way at the end of 3 miles.

The neighbor was over here yesterday talking to Carine about training for a half in October. Apparently the key is to do two 3 mile runs in the week and then use the weekend for a long run, adding a half mile every week. Honestly, I haven't done the math and until I can break a six mile long run in my vibrams I won't look at races or dates, but that's my new plan. I think it's more effective than trying to run longer every day. Plus on my off days I can take it to the bike and have a hard core yoga session. Next week the plan is 3 miles Monday, Wednesday and a 4 miler Saturday. It's really not an intense schedule from an outsider's perspective but it will push me and it's a schedule. Yay for planning!

So I'm running to an especially awesome mix today. I just downloaded Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine who I should have known about earlier but am only now discovering. It's probably all I need to be happy right now. It's like the new and improved story of my life. Somehow. Anyway, I used that song to create a genius mix on my itouch. Let it be known Apple did NOT fail me today.

Well at the end of my run to give me that extra push as I sprint my little heart out I go back to Dog Days. And then the next song comes on, and it's this one. And if I thought life couldn't get any better I was wrong. It was my cool down song and it was nearly dark. So I pulled a Marseille and started busting out skipping/dancing/walking moves on the sidewalk. I got to the park and wanted to ran around/play in the grass but decided Mom would never forgive me if I got struck by lightning there in the middle of a huge open field. Even if I am only 5 foot 4 and would hardly consider myself a target. I can't be out in the rain without hearing her voice telling me to come in. And I got to thinking, that of all the ways to go, lightning would be okay by me; so long as it was quick. And it would be ironic to boot. I mean, my name is a weather pattern; my first word was rain. (I had mentioned this to Alex in passing and yesterday when the neighbor was over he introduced me and elaborated with "Her first word was rain". Kids, they never cease to amaze and amuse). It would only be appropriate you know. Not like I'm gonna tempt fate or anything. Don't worry, Mom, I sometimes still listen to your voice in my head. Though maybe not as often as I should. You can blame Kings of Leon.

***************Abrupt Transition*******************

So, I'm starting my book summaries. I don't necessarily expect anyone to be interested. But when I was in Highschool I would type up all the favorite quotes/passages of the books I read. I probably have over a hundred pages word document. I think if you're going to write, it's important to identify good writers, what makes them good, and what you like about them. However, I think that the main motivation I have for taking back that old habit is that if I am going to spend the time reading something I should spend the time letting it go through me. And that's not an entirely passive process. I have a lot of books I want to read; I won't always have time to go back and reread books if I want to read new ones. So I have to make them count.

Here goes with that effort. In the meantime, some words of inspiration from Nicole Krauss. Who may or may not be some kind of soul mate. Anyway, I love this. And I hate it; because I wish I had written it. But you can't hate truth; it's what sets you free. So I love. Mostly.

"Why does one begin to write? Because she feels misunderstood, I guess. Because it never comes out clearly enough when she tries to speak. Because she wants to rephrase the world, to take it in and give it back again differently, so that everything is used and nothing is lost. Because it's something to do to pass the time until she is old enough to experience the things she writes about."

Amen, girl. A-freaking-men.

This is me proving Zack wrong: a favorite pastime.

Today's run could merit a post all on its own. I set goals for myself last night as far as running and working out and it's doing wonders already. Case in point: I woke up feeling sick to my stomach and weak. I can't decide it this is actually a result of my running. My Dr. says that "running is hard on the female body" and that always makes me want to say, with some indignity "NOT fair". Anyway, I can't decide if it's the running that's doing a number on my "female body" or if it's just doing a number on my hypoglycemia. I wake up most mornings with a stomachache. I teeter-totter all day between being starving and force feeding myself because I have no appetite. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm not eating enough to compensate for the calories I burn. And if the heat is just too hot. Fancy that.

ANYway, my retarded body aside, I forced myself to go running this evening. It was delicious. Had my itouch, a storm coming in at my back and to-do lists running through my head. At the start of my run I passed this guy in a park on a bench. He had a huge water bottle and was writing in a notebook. "He's a writer for sure," I told myself. Then "I wonder what he's writing."

I ended my run and did my stretches in that same park. I ended with some cartwheels and when I was done I noticed that the guy was still there, standing and facing me. It looked like he was sewing up his pants-they had holes everywhere. And as I was laying there on the grass raindrops started to fall and I wanted to go back to running again until I was soaked all the way through. Yet I knew that I would be overdoing it if I did. So I thought, well, I could just stay here and lay here and let it soak me. But the rain was slow in coming and there was this dad playing ball with his son eyeing me. And there was this guy, on the bench but not on the bench. Because he was standing. And I didn't want either of them to think I was sticking around because of them. But the truth of it is, I really wanted to walk over and sit on that bench. And talk to that guy because he looked like someone interesting. Totally out of the ordinary. And I just wanted to soak it all in. And maybe get soaked by the rain to boot.

But I didn't want him to think I was hitting on him. That's what I hate about life these days is that you can't just walk up to someone and be interested in them without them thinking you're hitting on them. It's bad enough with guys but it's way worse with girls. I mean, I always feel awkward around girls. Which is really too bad because there are a lot of interesting ones out there but I feel like I have to pretend not to be too interested or else they get weirded out. The games are totally sick. And the truth about people who aren't in the ordinary is that you never know with them. The other truth is that I sometimes go home and take notes about them because they have great paper-back potential. Which is totally normal, I mean Steinbeck did it and all, but I didn't quite have a clean conscious on the whole thing. So I got in my car and drove home.

And vowed that before going back to Utah I am getting soaked in a rainstorm and the next Jack Kerouac moment I have, I'm taking it.

************************************************************************

ON ANOTHER NOTE. A very long-winded one.

Today's to-do list gets several major checks. The first one being I finally emailed the grad advisor at BYU to figure out the best way to do the letter of recommendation thing. I haven't taken a class in 4 years (going on 5) and my French is at least 4 times better than when I graduated. I couldn't even use the subjunctive for crying out loud. ( Oh subjunctive. I thought you were the bane of my existence until subjunctive in Spanish came along to haunt so many of my Montreal dreams.)

So my options are to either get a recommendation from an old teacher on outdated ability or go back to school, paying $1000 and inconveniencing everyone at work because the class is midday to go back and retake a class I took junior year. Is it any wonder why every time I break out my GRE book to study that I lack motivation? Yeah, this things needs to become a reality and it needs to do that fast.

That is, IF I go into French. I've been at this decision since 2005 and it has yet to be made. So lame.

The reason being that I'm still torn about not pursuing an English degree. Especially after reading this most terrific and inspiring book "Mindset". My work bought it for us to read this summer and I finished it in a matter of days. I have to say really quick that when I went back into the school to pick it up before returning to Colorado after going to Yellowstone that I totally got emotional walking through those doors. How much better can life get when you have a job that not only continually cultivates your mind but also feels makes you feel so good that when you come back from being away it makes you want to cry? K, so maybe I should clarify that those are tears of joy. I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that life doesn't get much better. Sometimes I don't know why I feel the need to leave.

I'll leave the sappiness and book-reporting for later because I have a couple of other books I want to cover as well. But I do want to say that the book brought me to one major realization about my writing aspirations: in the course of my college career in the English dept I came to believe that you either were a born writer, or that you weren't. And I never pursued English because I thought I was; I did it because I liked it and then had enough credits to graduate.

I was never the kid with a stack of different moleskin notebooks and fountain pens that flashed across pages so fast it could make you sick. I never had a satchel bag for my un-moleskin notebook and un-fountain pen. I wasn't "burdened" by the need to write-the 'sign' of a 'true artist', was well groomed and said "like" too much. I believed that writing came easier to me than other things, that I had a "knack" for poetry. But I never believed I was a "natural". And poetry doesn't even sell so that doesn't even count. Point here is, I wasn't very open to learning how to write. I accepted my limitations.

And I've started to wonder what might happen if I tackled writing like I tackled French. Reading this mindset book has me realizing that just because we have a certain mindset-a closed or open one-toward one thing doesn't mean that we carry that through to other things. Even in the world of academia. The trick is to identify your mindset towards everything in life and tweak it. In English, I accepted any strengths and defeats as inevitable; in French I was convinced that if I worked hard enough, even if that meant studying abroad and reading 60 pages aloud every night, I would one day get it. The irony here is that people tell me all the time I must have a gift for learning languages. And I laugh and try to get them to understand just how unnatural languages used to come to me; that I had a strong desire to defy my ineptness and I worked hard and taught myself how to teach myself the tricks to learning a language. That anyone could do that.

I think a huge part of what I love about French it what learning it has taught me about me. French has brought me to cities wrought with memories of people and feelings and fears and discomfort that turned into delicious familiarity that I wouldn't have experienced otherwise. French brought me to my job that I love. It brought me here, to Colorado. It brought me faith in the power of boldness and of sacrificing.

It's only too appropriate now to quote from the Little Prince, another thing that French brought me and that changed me. For any of you who don't know it, it won't do just to quote from one part and you really should read it but until then I'll copy this section:

***********************************

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince, "I am so unhappy."

"I cannot play with you," the fox said, "I am not tamed."

"Ah please excuse me," said the little prince. But after some thought, he added: "What does that mean--'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. "It means to establish ties."

"To establish ties?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world . . ."

"I am beginning to understand," said the little prince. "There is a flower . . . I think she has tamed me . . . "

"It is possible," said the fox. "On earth one sees all sorts of things."

"My life is very monotonous," [the fox] said. "I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, it will be as if the sun came to shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me hurrying back underneath the ground. Yours will call me, like music out of my burrow. And then look: you see the grain-fields down yonder? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields have nothing to say to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the color of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you have tamed me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat . . . "

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time. "Please--tame me!" he said.

"I want to, very much," the little prince replied. "But I have not much time. I have friends to discover, and a great many things to understand."

"One only understands the things that one tames," said the fox. "Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all ready made at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me . . . "

"What must I do, to tame you? asked the little prince.

"You must be very patient," replied the fox. First you will sit down at a little distance from me--like that--in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day . . . "

The next day the little prince came back.

........

So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . . "

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields." And then he added: "Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that yours is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I will make you a present of a secret."

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

"You are not at all like my rose," he said. "As yet you are nothing. No one has tamed you, and you have tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But I have made a friend, and now he is unique in all the world."

And the roses were very much embarrassed.

"You are beautiful, but you are empty," he went on. "One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose."

And he went back to meet the fox. "Goodbye," he said. "Goodbye," said the fox. "And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye."

"What is essential is invisible to the eye," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

"It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.'

"It is the time I have wasted for my rose---" said the little prince so he would be sure to remember.

"Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. You are responsible for your rose . . . "

"I am responsible for my rose," the little prince repeated, so that he would be sure to remember.

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Someone once told me that the root of the word "sacrifice" came from French. Faire: to make, and Sacré: sacred. To sacrifice for something makes that thing sacred to you.

I have sacrificed a lot for French. In a sense, it has tamed me. Now I am realizing that I, if I did the same thing for English, well who knows what might happen. The trouble of it all is that the price to pay is a high one. I would have to probably enroll as an undergrad again. Take some more classes and make a concentrated effort to get published more. Creative writing programs are super competitive. And the risk is that you come out a better writer but at the risk of losing your voice and sounding like every other MFA grad.

So I have some research to do and some commitment to make here soon. And I share all of this in detail because a) this is what happens when you (okay, I) deprive me (myself) of my telephone and facebook and b) because I finished reading The Alchemist today and it's all about the discovery of your "personal legend" and of not being afraid to follow it. And I think that I am not the only one trying to figure out what mine is and so the sharing of the details isn't too excessive. At least I hope.

Now,

I was giving advice to a friend who was trying to decide what to do the other day and I decided to take it into account. Like every other person out there, I give great advice; following it and applying it to myself is the real trick. The advice I gave her was to put out in her mind the things she wanted to do. And in order to figure out where her priority lies, to tell herself which of the things, if she ended up not having it or doing it, would hang over her as a regret the rest of her life. Now, I'm not about living in fear of regret. But I think that it helps to put things into perspective.

In prep for grad school I have also been playing with the idea of taking a year off to travel beforehand. A sort of Eat, Pray, Love thing. I love taking the summers off but experiences are different when you know something is short-term versus long term. And I keep telling myself that writers can only write what they know. And that the only way to learn the world is to live it.

I was giving my sister, Lis, some awesome advice that I have been reflecting on as well. She was talking about school and a mission and a job and traveling, etc. And I told her that school is something she will end up doing because the world will require that of her. And she will end up getting a job and then finding better jobs because the world will require that of her too. These are the things that just kind of happen to us in life for the most part: inevitabilities. But traveling is different. Traveling is not an inevitability.

I got an email today about internships in Brussels. I have been thinking a lot about next summer. About needing to leave the country. And I have to ask myself, "If life were to happen but it would mean your traveling days are over-or at least for the next couple of years-would you have any regrets?

And the truth is I don't know. But 'I-don't-know' is not 'no'. And if the answer is 'yes' then I have some figuring out to do.

I'll get around to typing up my book reports later. The mere habit speaks volumes on just how much I need to go back to school. Or join a book club. I have "A History of Love", "My Name is Asher Lev", "Screwtape Letters", "Mindset", and "The Alchemist" to cover in quotes. For you but mostly for me. But also for you because maybe you will be inspired to read them and if you don't have time well then I spared you the trouble and handed you the best parts on a silver platter, free of charge.

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Oh silly Zack. You though I was gonna cave by day two. You obviously underestimated my ability to converse with myself in equally exhaustive ramblings via this blog. I win.

So this is me scratching: a collage of thoughts I found undeserving of their own post.

Dear Google and all subsequent 'g' entities,

You are a godsend. I think I might love you, you and your autosave versions of everything. Your spell check, I also love your spell check. It's just more attractive than Word's. Less menacing? I can't explain it. Love is just like that.

Yours truly,
Buns

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My brain has been going a million miles an hour lately. I think I might have to make this a daily thing. Not necessarily the posting thing, but the writing. The more I do this, the more natural it comes. The more natural it becomes, the more it starts to feel like a journal.

Samuel Lover wrote, "When once the itch of literature comes over a man, nothing can cure it but the scratching of a pen. But if you have not a pen, I suppose you must scratch any way you can."I should confess that I have about 5 posts I am in the process of writing. Only half of them will see the light of day. You see, a journal.

I could never have a journal any other way but this way. And by this way, I don't mean electronically. I've tried a Word document and it just wasn't doing it for me. And writing on a page requires so much commitment; I can't just jot notes to make coherent later. Like I said, it's hard to explain.

But I attended this thing last week about family history and it made me realize that even if all I do is quote lyrics that speak to me, I want to leave something behind, for family, for posterity, for me. And sometimes what speaks to you can speak volumes about who you are. If I believe that art, literature, history can shape a person, a character, and an entire culture, then if all I do here is talk about music, books, and my present, well, that can't be a complete waste of gigabites. And if the saying proves true that you are what you think about, well, this will give an honest representation of how little I really am because most of my thoughts, like my actions, aren't great. Maybe this will help me to better filter. Qui sait?

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Remember how 2010 was supposed to be my YEAR? Yeah, well, I don't even know where it's gone. May already, are you even serious?!? And I think it (2010) will be over before anything monumental happens.

Not that it has to be monumental to be good.

But I do quite enjoy monuments. I like crossroads and turning points and cruciality. Which is not a word and I don't know why it isn't because it is nice and it should be.

I want to say that I have a good feeling about Colorado this summer. (Oh yeah, I'm nannying for a French family in Colorado Springs starting June 6th). But I have good feelings about a lot of things and I have had good feelings about a lot of things and good feelings rarely add up to monumental.

However, in my experience, the most crucial moments of my life were the least monumental. If that even makes sense.

So I guess that means one thing: 2010. You're still my year.

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I've been to Barnes and Noble and libraries a lot recently. Every time I do there I have this insane desire to simultaneously abandon everything and read or to abandon everything and write. Except that my writing improves with the quality of the books I currently read.

But honestly, the dreamer in me is awakened with a vengeance and I repeatedly promise myself "One day, you'll see your name in print on a hardback". Because hardback books are the ones with real life to them. Don't even get me started on that though; I could write a dedicatory poem to hardback books.

Well the other day I was visiting with a friend's sister in law and she had maintained a blog and then had it printed. Hers was more concise and related to events and not nervous ramblings but still, there it was, her words: in hardback.

And I decided then and there that if all other dreams failed me, having my blog in print would probably do the trick.

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I heard one of my second graders pass by me after school saying with authority to his friend, "Doctors recommend a square of chocolate a day".

He has undeniably captured the essence of the French that I like best: their ability to enjoy the little things in life. If I had doubts as to the success that he would have in life, they were instantly dispelled.

It was a little thing that made me smile.

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A live version of U2's "In the Name of Love" just played on my itunes. I don't think I ever really listened to it, or it I did I never could get Ewan McGreggor out of my head and his "one night in the name of love". Cuz see, I never knew it was about MLK Jr. or Christ or anything metaphoric like that. I also thought the lyrics were "women" every time it actually says "one man", making women the martyrs of the entire song. Which is of course why I liked it.

Not only does my newly acquired knowledge change everything but it shows how egocentric I am.

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I tutor for a lovely, talented girl named Clara who has four musically gifted brothers, also known as Les Sages. Their CD just came out and I was reading the little blurp on how positive it is and all and I realized that if I were to write songs they would probably be like my poetry: themed in irony, lined with sarcasm, and saturated with general angst.

And I can't figure out why I can't write fully positive, happy things. Why I don't like to read that bubbly stuff unless there's a lot of conflict between the fluff. Why my happiest music, at best, takes on a sort of "I've been looking in on the good life I might be doomed never to find" effect when I listen to it. And that's what makes me feel more alive.

Some people just come like that. And me, I am what I am (and it ain't that bad).

Or at least I hope so.

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