The first time I got accepted to BYU, it was a very quiet affair. I took the letter from a stack of mail and walked slowly to my room. I opened the letter in private, and I may have held my breath. I did not feel excited. I felt afraid, and any betrayal of excitement was giving into that fear, giving it power to snatch something away from me. I lived with too many disappointments, which is why I opened the letter alone and why I did not smile when I calmly told my antsy mom and dad that I had gotten in. By the time I had finished opening the letter, I was already bored by the news of my admission. It was self-preservation.
This time, however, it was all different.
Oh, it started out the same, the applying last minute (though this time was a little later than last minute) and expecting a refusal. Hell, this time I got a rejection, but somehow that made it easier. What did I have to lose by submitting a letter of appeal? All they could do was tell me no, and they'd already done that. I think the whole point, for me, was seeing if I really wanted it, or if I would be content with waiting. I thought I would be. It turns out, I wasn't.
The admissions committee meets every Thursday, so I expected to wait a week for news. Maybe I could have been blase had they sent a letter the following week, but maybe not. I had already shown myself just how much I wanted this. So, while the phone call on Tuesday did catch me off guard, I think the excitement was waiting already to spill over. I was completely set up for a crushing disappointment. Instead, I heard the man bluster and stutter as he tried to sort his way through data on his desk, while I hung on his every much-spaced word. Did he say what I thought he said? The phone call ended eventually with me saying thank you a million times as he tried to repeat, again, that I was indeed admitted to BYU and could start my registration November 2nd.
I hung up the phone. Was I calm, bored, dignified? No! I laughed aloud. I danced. I was in public, and I began twirling and shouting just to release the joy and gratitude I felt. The triumph!
I got in!
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
home
Ah, here I am blogging on a computer in the Cannon Center. It feels like the two years of my life that have passed. I feel like I am home. There is my family here, whom I love more than air, and so many familiar faces. The smells get to me the worst. It smells like home, peace, enthusiasm, and innumerable other things. Who'd have thought that peace smelled like mountains and enthusiasm like the cleaner used in the Canc. Home smelling like Nora--that's predictable. It makes me want to chuck it all and stay. You can't force me on that plane on Monday! Everything I need I have in this backpack. I put off coming back too long, or not long enough. I am interested to see the lasting results from this weekend.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
the price of eggs
The cake ended up using fifteen eggs. Oh no, that's not in the recipe, but by the time I had started over--again--I had to dip into my new roommate's stores. I don't know why the first cake came out as flat as a pancake, but I do know why my egg whites wouldn't stiffen the second time around. You'd have thought I was a baking novice! I ended up with a splendid dessert at the last, glad that eggs were a dime a dozen, even if I did have too much ganache and whipped cream left over and clogging the limited freezer space. Finally came time to eat.
At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).
The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.
It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.
The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.
I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.
At church I had told Jared that I'd be making a cake, to which he replied, "Look at that! All of a sudden, we're friends again!" So he came Sunday bringing Dan, and the four of us--Holly, my new roommate, completing the circle--began to feast. We hung out until both Jared and I felt it was time for bed (a ridiculously early 9:30pm).
The next night I brought home Vivian and Elizabeth for cake (this was--is--a very large cake), joined once more by Holly who has insinuated herself beautifully into the group. Jared showed up uninvited, asking without preamble as he crossed the threshold, "Where's the chocolate?" and helping himself to the contents of my fridge.
It was then, sitting in the corner of my dining/living room, watching those I've wanted for friends eat my baking, that I realized my happiness. I have no greater joy than being with those I love, enjoying laughs, conversation and comfortable silences, depending. The only thing to increase that joy is if I have contributed to it. Perhaps that is why I adore feeding people. My happiness in cooking triples when someone else partakes, increasing exponentially with their reactions. Praise me obscenely for cooking and you will have no more loyal, grateful friend than I.
The world was full of goodwill last night, as the yellow glow of my lamp lit faces filled with laughter. We lounged on couches, my couches, as Elizabeth planned and Vivian bemoaned blind dates. I knew the stories and jokes and suckings of the last bit of chocolate off forks had to end eventually, though I felt loathe for it to do so. Jared put in the movie, quite unceremoniously, as though mi casa era su casa. My 13'' TV didn't feel too small with 5 of us kipped on the floor around it to watch the Wedding Planner. We trickled to bed one at a time until I was left asleep on the floor. It was the first time in over three weeks that I had fallen asleep easily and without pain.
I awoke this morning to a day off, filled with leftover euphoria. I walked to the kitchen, noticing that Vivian had reassembled my red love seat before she left. And while I laugh at Jared's level of comfort in my home, I noticed as I grabbed a bowl for cereal that he had done my dishes of the night before. I felt almost sad that the night had ended, wishing that I could be certain I'd have another like it. When I opened the refrigerator, I saw a good third of the cake still left. I looked at it for a moment, still beautiful with its fresh berries on top, and wondered if its marvelous powers stemmed from the unorthodox amount of eggs that went into its making. It was worth every one of the fifteen. I think I'll officially change the recipe.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
playful
I feel like swinging or climbing trees or jumping on a trampoline. Alas that I must pack instead!
Sunday, July 1, 2007
ultimate
I. Played. Ultimate. Frisbee.
I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.
So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.
I did. You should believe me. I didn't believe me at first but I said it with such honest conviction that despite having the wrong number of fingers in the air for scout's honor, I eventually came to the realization that I was telling the truth. I played a sport. And I loved it. My weekend of activity began with volleyball the night before. I played long and hard (and terribly) until my arms were bright red and I could no longer see. I caught the bug.
So last night I changed from the dress I wore to the wedding reception, and with my hair still in a formal up-do I ran the length of a field about infinity times until I thought I would faint. I found it a much better release for aggression than immature swearing (and yes I tried really hard to make the swearing sound ridiculous so I'd quit). I played with those who unlike me have played before. Luckily they stacked the teams. The middle players were on one team, and the two best players were with the two worst. The two guys, instead of passing to one another to win, made sure that we girls were involved and encouraged. They played like Bryan Dunn, Matt Bushman or Ted Long: they played exceptionally well, with the intent to win, but also with the spirit of fun. Because they would pass to me even after I dropped the Frisbee, I eventually began to catch it. Soon I caught it often. By the end, I had it unless it went wild. Throwing is another thing. I'll work on that.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
class of
The last time I saw these people, we were wearing mortar boards and sitting in a chapel the size of the Death Star. Now they are again wearing those goofy hats and dresses and facing a dark and unknown future while a band plays Pomp and Circumstance and their parents wave rosettes. I looked at them walking through the Co-op with their fan clubs in tow, parents who arranged jobs for them either through contacts or prayers, and I thought what a joke it all is. And then I started crying. I just got left behind. First Rory and now all of my high school class have taken that next step from which I am temporarily barred.
Then, Sunday, I received two messages via Facebook from two such persons, not met in four years, only these were the pleasant visage of the high school memories:
Brittany and I became immediate friends on the first day of fifth grade. The friendship stuck, though with differing school schedules we were not as close during high school. Then after the fateful walk we never talked again. Until Wednesday, when after a few brief emails we figured out that we are both in town and I called her to make plans to meet up. The conversation felt like we had talked the day before, that those four years hadn't existed. It is lovely to think I have a friend in town. A friend who can remind me of the good parts of my past. A friend who knows me already. A friend who hasn't graduated college yet. I knew I still loved her when I heard her say, "I was so depressed this weekend with our entire class graduating that I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't see anyone." Kindred spirits!
The second girl is Rachel Werth, who above anyone I've ever known, even Joyce, has marched to the beat of her own drum. And I wouldn't say there was any sort of rhythm. Or much marching for that matter. She kinda ambled to her own lute. She disappeared before we donned the caps and gowns, slipping out of the system and my life. I've worried about her for almost five years, but now I know she is okay. She is happy. And she is graduating before I will! Oh, the injustice! She dropped out and got knocked up and still, still, she is going to beat me across the finish line.
I know. I know. It's not a competition. The point is making sure I am driving myself with the best of what's in me, working for my goals, trying to reach my potential, never quitting. (Can you hear the sarcasm or the maniacal self-torturing laughter?) With all these reunions, on top of all the new people I've met, it has never become any easier to say I am taking time off from school. I get the same pitying look from everyone when I tell them I plan to graduate, like even those who have no education themselves don't think very much of my plan. That's why I like Brittany and Rachel--even though it's not a competition--because both of them know what it's like to alter the prescribed four year plan. And what it's like to hate with poisonous envy those who could fulfill it every jot and tittle and diploma.
Then, Sunday, I received two messages via Facebook from two such persons, not met in four years, only these were the pleasant visage of the high school memories:
Brittany and I became immediate friends on the first day of fifth grade. The friendship stuck, though with differing school schedules we were not as close during high school. Then after the fateful walk we never talked again. Until Wednesday, when after a few brief emails we figured out that we are both in town and I called her to make plans to meet up. The conversation felt like we had talked the day before, that those four years hadn't existed. It is lovely to think I have a friend in town. A friend who can remind me of the good parts of my past. A friend who knows me already. A friend who hasn't graduated college yet. I knew I still loved her when I heard her say, "I was so depressed this weekend with our entire class graduating that I locked myself in my apartment and wouldn't see anyone." Kindred spirits!
The second girl is Rachel Werth, who above anyone I've ever known, even Joyce, has marched to the beat of her own drum. And I wouldn't say there was any sort of rhythm. Or much marching for that matter. She kinda ambled to her own lute. She disappeared before we donned the caps and gowns, slipping out of the system and my life. I've worried about her for almost five years, but now I know she is okay. She is happy. And she is graduating before I will! Oh, the injustice! She dropped out and got knocked up and still, still, she is going to beat me across the finish line.
I know. I know. It's not a competition. The point is making sure I am driving myself with the best of what's in me, working for my goals, trying to reach my potential, never quitting. (Can you hear the sarcasm or the maniacal self-torturing laughter?) With all these reunions, on top of all the new people I've met, it has never become any easier to say I am taking time off from school. I get the same pitying look from everyone when I tell them I plan to graduate, like even those who have no education themselves don't think very much of my plan. That's why I like Brittany and Rachel--even though it's not a competition--because both of them know what it's like to alter the prescribed four year plan. And what it's like to hate with poisonous envy those who could fulfill it every jot and tittle and diploma.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
swing
I sit sour on a swing and study the world
with all its rich purple textures
and perfumed sounds, lost to it all,
even the russet grating under my palm.
Pensive. Pendulous.
I press my feet against the torpid ground
and feel my thighs force the earth away.
The corpulent globe recedes amid a cacophony
of rusty squeaks before it rushes back.
Do not break the fall.
The fulcrum carries me into flight away from dour doldrums
until I soar chained and dip in my dance,
running a pendulum course.
The air with her violent kiss breaks my maw and feeds me
until all my pain is nursed away
in the rhythm of fro and to.
Dismounting,
the verdant mattress still ebbing and billowing under my toes,
I find my thoughts are once more ductile,
stilled by the motion of the earth and me.
with all its rich purple textures
and perfumed sounds, lost to it all,
even the russet grating under my palm.
Pensive. Pendulous.
I press my feet against the torpid ground
and feel my thighs force the earth away.
The corpulent globe recedes amid a cacophony
of rusty squeaks before it rushes back.
Do not break the fall.
The fulcrum carries me into flight away from dour doldrums
until I soar chained and dip in my dance,
running a pendulum course.
The air with her violent kiss breaks my maw and feeds me
until all my pain is nursed away
in the rhythm of fro and to.
Dismounting,
the verdant mattress still ebbing and billowing under my toes,
I find my thoughts are once more ductile,
stilled by the motion of the earth and me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)