Life is noisy. Even the mind cannot shut out the background distractions, the parts of the brain that keep tickertape on your spending and a laundry list of things to-do in case one has a spare moment (for we must avoid those devilishly idle hands). In class, professors tell us what they think and what Great Thinkers have thought before us. What do you think about those thinkers, their tests ask us, and from a more practical standpoint, what will the professor think about what we think about these thinkers? My sisters quote movies at me, and while I am responding to the situation at hand my brain is scouring my repertoire to find the right character with the right voice with the right line who matches not only what was said but what I am expected to say next. It’s like I’m in a play with a script the length of all media I’ve consumed in days past. Think, think, think. Did you get that reference? Are you on your toes?
Sometimes I just want the world inside my head to be a little less bombarded by the world outside it. I need to stop thinking what I’ll term as motor thoughts. These are the types of thoughts that get us from one place to the next, that get us through a test, a conversation, a chore. These are like motor skills, those which result in motion, the more precise the better. Thoughts can be like that: some result in motion through life, some quite task-specific and others rather more foundational. Converse to motor thoughts are latent thoughts, as related to the first as potential energy is to kinetic energy in physics. The two cannot exist at the same time. Sometimes I need latent thoughts.
Latent thoughts are always there, but they are quiet, so quiet that the rest of the mind must be absolutely still in order to hear them. They are Potential. These are personal philosophies, dreams and creative energy. We have worlds inside our heads waiting for our God-like forces to unleash them. But we never pause long enough to understand. Self-reflection is a way to listen to latent thoughts. Journal writing, poetry, art, a long walk dedicated to observing. These are ways in which we begin to listen to the little voices inside, these little voices which sound somewhat arbitrary (for they are not relevant to the external world of motor thoughts) and oftentimes deep in some silly way. It is when we are listening quite hard that new ideas begin to form and God-dropped seeds begin to ferment and grow.
I have never wondered the purpose of my existence in the same moment in which I am balancing my budget. I have never let my mind trace the edges of eternal mysteries when I’ve gone over a class syllabus. I don’t dwell on hope and love and dreams when I am watching Arrested Development. But I can do those things when I take make the conscious effort to stop thinking my motor thoughts, to leave the world of kinetics behind. Then I am free to focus on Potential.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
the second time around
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!
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!
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.
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