I Don't Always Clean My Room, but when I do...

I possibly just experienced the least productive day of my life.  Everything this morning was scheduled out perfectly and I was going to be right on track, but it all changed when I got a phone call during class.  After I got out of class I listened to the message on my phone, then called the lady back.  “Sure,” I said.  “Moving the interview to Friday at the same time will work just fine for me.” 

Changing the interview time for a job downtown meant I had three more hours of time to spare, so I kicked off my boots, climbed up onto my bunk bed, and snuggled under my cover while I watched an episode of Hart of Dixie.  (Let me tell you, watching the pilot episode of that TV show on Netflix is going to be the death of me, because now I’m outright addicted no matter how bad the acting may be.) 

Before I knew it, it was lunchtime, so I unwound myself from my cocoon and scrambled off my bed to grab some left over spaghetti out of the fridge.  People tell me it’s terribly unhealthy to warm up food in Tupperware containers since they’re plastic, but I do it anyway.  After my food had been nuked for a solid 2 minutes I climbed back into bed and watched another episode of my show.  As soon as that one finished I knew I had to start studying but, like any normal procrastinating college student, I had to check FB first. 

Which meant that I saw a post on my floor wall from one of the girls reminding the rest of us that the floor had to be decorated for Ashton Haunted Ball, which was occurring in 5 hours.  Other floors had started decorating a couple days ago. 

Let me tell you how much time we had invested into decorating.

None. 

So I took it upon myself, instead of studying, to walk down the hallway and pick up a wad of cotton “spider web-making” material to help aid in the decorating process.  For a solid hour I worked on my own, stringing spider web around the elevator and throughout the hallway.  Then a couple other girls joined me in the decorating process and I got sucked even further into it.  I couldn’t just leave after I had already done so much. 

Around 4pm I called it quits and went back to my room to study and get ready to go to dinner with my dad. 

I ended up cleaning my room instead.  Ironically, my roommate posted this photo on my wall right as I was in the middle of the cleaning process and it couldn’t have been more correct.

*sigh* I was wasting time away and I knew it. 

Needless to say, I didn’t study.  When my dad showed up (flowers in hand!) I took him through my hall, introducing him to various people and then I walked him to the guy’s side to show them that they had decorated for Halloween… with a Christmas theme.  They even had a TV, playing a never-ending clip of a crackling fireplace.  The last time I saw one of those was in a nursing home.

My dad and I left after a bit and drove to Ballard to find a restaurant I had chosen online, called “The Walrus and the Carpenter”, which is apparently named due to an Alice and Wonderland reference.  When we walked in and discovered it was a 45-minute wait we put our names on the waiting list and walked down the street to eat dessert at “Hot Cakes”. 

Delicious.  Always has been. 

We walked back to the restaurant and a blissful night of eating ensued.  When I eat real food it’s as if my stomach is a bottomless pit and I think I can proudly say I might have eaten just as much, or more, than my dad did.  We made sure we documented every food we tried on Forkly, a wonderful iPhone app that I highly recommend.  (If you want to read about my dad's last visit to Seattle, nearly a year ago, read Eating Happiness.)  

After dinner I got back to my room around 9:30pm since my dad and I first went to Will’s room to say hello.  They talked a lot about sports, no surprises there, and I would occasionally try to interject with something slightly smart and knowledgeable sounding.  Compared to most girls, I know a lot more about sports.  But, when a hearty conversation about terrible team-management is occurring between two guys, it’s hard to get a word in. 

So, eventually I get back to my room.  Did I study?  A little bit.  But a lot of other things happened within the span of three hours that were pretty distracting, and most of them won’t be served justice in a few words so I’ll save myself the trouble of trying to summarize.  After all, it was Halloween and no one wanted to settle in for a normal night. 

Welcome to my college life.  

Patches

The first few days back at school are always about re-finding a groove and getting used to new schedules.  Often I feel like I’m ripped from one world and placed in another, often attempting to sew myself once more into the quilt, trying to become comfortable.  I’m patches of a bunch of things now.  I’m some of Seattle, some Colorado, some little-girl, and some grownup.

I’m different than I used to be.  Anyone who goes to college is going to come out different on the other side and I’ve already had my fair share of change.  It all has to happen sometime.  Once I pushed to spread my wings and escape from the nest, and now I sometimes miss the safety of it.

On break I realized how little my world was in high school.  I picked my brother up from play practice one afternoon and went to say hello to some of the people I was in choir with my senior year of high school.  It was great to see them and I felt an overwhelming sense of a bubble.  Some people say we have an SPU bubble, which we totally do, but it was not nearly as protective as the one I had in high school. 

The brick walls and tiled hallways greeted me with, I’ll hold your hand all the way.

Now I’m in college and most of the time no one is around to hold my hand.  I’ve slowly figured it out on my own.  I’ve discovered that no matter where I go I’ll always miss someone, I’ve learned that I have a lot of questions, and I’ve learned that I’m always going to have to make money and there will be no end to expenses.  And I don’t think I’ve come close to fully learning that quite yet.    

(At the moment I feel like I’m writing a reflection paper of sorts that would be required in a class, which probably isn’t the most entertaining thing to read.  For that I am sorry.  I’m also sorry that I haven’t written in so long.  Many of you told me you’ve missed reading on a daily basis.  Honestly, I have missed writing and I guess time just got away from me.) 

While I am learning, I am growing.  Know what?  Growing hurts.  I feel like I’m a tree, stretching and producing new bark while shedding the old.  The growth of the tree branches is causing growing pains, much like it is hurting my heart to grow so much.  I’ve discovered the saying what you know can’t hurt you happens to be very true. 

There’s a lot of stuff in the world that hurts.  Life isn’t fair, it really isn’t. 

I’ve being doing my best to lean on God and trust him, but I need to do better.  I need to figure out where I should start because it just so happens I’m terrible at reading my Bible. 

I've discovered that, if I stitch God into the quilt I feel like I have become, I won’t ever fall apart.  And that’s the beauty of it.  He alone has the power to hold me together. 

Just pray that I’ll remember that.    

Organized Disorder

I’ve discovered my life is a constant organized disorder.

I love to know where things are, but I don’t like them aligned perfectly or placed nicely.  They need to be placed in an unorganized fashion.

My books all go on the bookshelf, but two books of the same height can’t go next to each other unless they are a part of the same series.  I like having my textbooks stacked on my desk, but the edges can’t align perfectly.  The pillows on my bed are set together at slight angles, instead of straight.   

The top drawer of my desk hold pens, sticky notes, envelopes, scissors, glue-sticks.  They all have their spot and I like putting them in their correct spot, but then they are just thrown in there.  I don’t have to align them in any certain way. 

I know where everything is, and in that way I am organized.  But I don’t put everything where it belongs in an organized way.

It’s almost a different version of OCD. 

I don’t understand myself.  

If it's Beating, I'm Breathing

I am not oriented toward the world of science at all.  My ability to regurgitate the information and facts I learn is an extremely difficult task for me.  I didn’t do very well on my first Psychology and Biology tests. (At least, not as well as I would have liked to do.)

It’s hard for me to focus on what is being taught and said, especially when it’s early in the morning.  Coffee doesn’t help at all, and I never get to bed as early as I want to.  Which means a lecture has to be sufficiently interesting for me to actually get anything out of it.

I’m a note taker no matter what.  Yesterday I was a vigorous note taker during Biology.

I was fascinated.  Absolutely fascinated.

My professor gave a lecture on the heart, and I was mentally present for an entire hour and twenty minutes.  I couldn’t believe that something the size of my fist could be so strong and enduring. 

To demonstrate, the professor had us open and close our hands to simulate the heart taking blood in and pushing it out.  Then he asked, “How long do you think you can do that?”

Most of us lasted 15 seconds until we could feel the burn in our forearms. 

There are so many things that impact the beating of our heart.  So many things have to happen in order for it to work right.  And somehow all of them do, for 24 hours every day. 

Blood receives oxygen in the lungs, flows through the heart, and flows to the rest of the body through arteries and veins and then capillaries.  Did you know working out too much is just as bad for your heart as being a couch potato and eating junk food all day? 

I was suddenly extremely in tune with the fact that my heart was beating.  I could feel it in my chest, in my neck, in my legs and my hands. I understood how it was working.  I was thrilled to be learning about something vital to my existence.  I now knew that the beating of my heart was due to the opening and closing of the semilunar valves.  (I feel like a bit of a nerd saying that.)

I was so excited I had learned about the heart I could have given an entire lecture on it during lunch.  However, I’m not sure my friends would have been as thrilled to hear about it as I was. 

I do have one more question about the heart though.

Who came up with this? à

It doesn't look anything like that.

From Dust to Dust

“The years go by like stones under rushing water.  We only know when it’s gone.”

-NEEDTOBREATHE

“Weep not for me, for in Glory I wait for thee.”

-Anonymous

I took a God walk today.  I grabbed my Bible, threw on some comfy clothes and exited through the back of the dorm.  I had a feeling I knew where I was going, I’d been there once before (not very long, and totally a different story) so I wanted to go back again.

I’m not sure why I was instinctively driven there.  Maybe because I knew it would be quiet and because I knew I would be alone.  I knew that the wind would be my only companion, and God if I could somehow find him.

I know that it seems silly that I would have to go find God.  He’s omnipotent, but it feels like I’m actually setting aside time for him when I talk a walk and plan on meeting him somewhere, like I would meet a friend at a coffee shop on a summer day. 

Except today was no summer day, and I was sitting among graves. 

Cemeteries give many people the heebie-jeebies but I find that it’s a place where I can sit and think among a hundred people who already understand what happens after death.  I know what I’ve been taught, but I can’t help wondering about the validity of it.  All I know right now is that when I have God, I have peace.  When my emotions are raging he is what settles me and puts me back on track.

That’s why I went there.  So I could talk to God among a group of people who already know the truth.  It’s a strange way to be comforted, I know.

I picked my way through the gravestones and among the grass while listening to trees that sounded like a creaky porch swing as they blew in the wind.  A few loose leaves were tripping on the ground and rustling in the grass.  Birds were singing and the wind was brushing against my back, picking my hair up from its warm place against my neck and touching my face, cooling my nose. 

I could finally think.  And there were so many things to think about.  My Bible remained tucked under my arm as I continued to walk and take in my surroundings, breathing in the Seattle winter air.

I sang Be Thou My Vision quietly to myself and found a place to sit.  I opened my Bible to Psalm 23, one of my favorite Psalms when I was young and it remains so.  “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.  He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.”

He restores my soul.  Sometimes I need to take time to breathe and remember where my breath comes from.  He is the one that has the power to take it or leave it.  He is the one that has the power to truly love and heal me.  I continued to read through the Psalms, since they were the prayers that I couldn’t seem to find and put into my own words. 

I turned through Psalms mindlessly, occasionally watched at the wind flipped pages, not in the mood to stop it from doing so.  Then I read Psalm 90:3-6. 

You turn men back to dust,

saying, “Return to dust, O sons of men.”

For a thousands years in your sight

are like a day that has just gone by,

or like a watch in the night.

You sweep men away in the sleep of death;

they are like the new grass of the morning—

though in the morning it springs up new,

by evening it is dry and withered. 

That verse directly correlated with the song I had been listening to by NEEDTOBREATHE.  These days will soon be over, I will be gone before I know it.  I will be just one more among these graves.  Yet while I’m alive, I’m extremely blessed.  I’ve been given the power to love. 

It turns out the cemetery was exactly what I needed.

Time to think,

Reflect,

and let myself come full circle once again.  

My Flower Memories

When I was a freshman in high school I saw dried flowers hung on a wall at a friend’s house.  Her mom had dried them and was keeping them around for decoration.  I was captivated.  I wanted to dry my own flowers and keep them for a bit of sunshine on a sad day.

So I started drying all of the flowers I received on my birthday, from various celebrations, from shows at school, on Valentine’s Day…any flowers I received were dried and placed on the bookshelf in my room. 

Eventually they started to pile up, but I enjoyed their preserved presence too much to throw them out.  At the same time some of the memories from certain bouquets were like a thorn in my side.

Remember whom those were from?  Remember what happened after that?  Remember what was said to you?  Remember this, remember that…. Remember? 

It took a strong emotional force to finally make me get rid of flowers after a certain point.  Letting bouquets of flowers sit in my room for months provided beauty, but also hurt at the same time.  In a way they were just piles of break ups, dates gone wrong, and dances that ended in tears. 

Looking back I wonder why in the world did I keep some of them around so long?  

I should have thrown them out the moment it was over.  But I didn’t because I cared too much about when everything was going right, and I remembered too easily all the times that went well.  At one point those flowers were everything, and then just around the corner they weren’t anything but I didn’t know how to get rid of them.

I especially remember throwing out a certain bouquet.  I had told myself many times, get rid of it already, you don’t need those flowers anymore, but I never walked over to pick it up and carry it to the trash can.  I don’t remember exactly what happened that made me march into my room one day and purposefully carry them to the dumpster in the garage, but I did.  And once I threw them out, I felt lighter.

If I remember correctly I ended up throwing out the rest of the bouquets that had been resting on my bookshelf as well.  I wanted a clean slate, I needed to start over and collect new memories, memories that would hopefully be happier and easier to look at. 

However, the cleaning process happened again about a year later and I once more cleared away all the flowers I had collected.  I didn’t want to keep them around anymore.  That time it was a little easier though, because I was getting ready to leave for college and start a completely new life.  I wasn’t going to leave a bunch of dead flowers around that wouldn’t mean anything to my sister. 

Now that I’m here I’ve started drying flowers again and hanging them from my dorm room ceiling by the window.  There’s not really a better place to keep them.

I have a bouquet from Pike Place, a bouquet from when my Dad visited me and took me out to the best dinner of my life (which you can read about in the blog post Eating Happiness) and a bouquet of roses from when my boyfriend and I made our relationship official. 

 I am fond of them, and I am fond of their memories.  And looking back I was fond of all my other flowers at one point too.  Which makes me realize, no matter what flowers I end up throwing out I’m sure I’ll get new ones that mean just as much, maybe even more.

I just hope I won’t be parting with the ones I have anytime soon.  

Someday I'll Have a Book

Last night I was reading for my UCOR class.  It was late and I had endured a rather emotionally tiresome day, but I was quickly able to immerse myself into the book and pick up where I left off in the storyline.

Before I knew it I was along the seashore chasing seagulls, admiring the beach houses, and painting.  I was standing in a room walking through sculptures and taking part of an art show.  I was there, or I might as well have been. I had fallen into the pages and become a part of story.

It’s as if the words were coming out of the page and dancing before me.  My imagination has always been this way, which is why I love to read.  Reading a good book is way better than watching a five star movie, that’s simply how I function.

The other day I watched Lord of the Rings for the first time.  So far I’ve only watched the first movie, but I was thrilled to discover that Bilbo Baggins’s home is exactly as I had envisioned it when I read the book.  I love it when the world I read comes alive and is transformed how I see it.  Which is also why it’s hard for me to read a book and watch the movie—it will never match up exactly. 

Anyway, last night I was reading and captivated by the story.  I loved that the author spent the time to create a world that I could step into.

Which made me realize, this is why I want to write.

I want to write so that other people can step inside a world that has been created by me, planned and executed with a certain style, transformed into something beautiful and moving. 

I can’t wait to get to that point.  I simply can’t wait.

However, I’ll have to wait and take general requirements before I get to take all the classes that will count toward my major.  But that’s not going to stop me from writing all the time.  I’ll write no matter what classes I have.   

Someday I’m hoping I’ll have 300 pages of something that people will want to sit down and read from start to finish.

Someday I’ll have a book. 

P.S. One of my best friends just came in a exclaimed, “You’re blogging again! Yay!”  (I feel the same way; it has taken far too long for me to find a captivating idea that I feel compelled to translate into words.  I’m glad I’m back.)  

The Sound of Snow

This is the kind of weather that I love.

It’s the kind that allows me to drink hot chocolate,

Or build a snowman.

It’s the kind that lets me snowboard

Or sit by a welcoming fireplace.

It’s the kind that lets me catch a snowflake

On my tongue—and it’s the life in me

That makes it melt. 

It’s the kind that gives me the opportunity

To pave a completely fresh path on my own,

And it’s the kind that makes me feel

Anything but alone.

It’s also the kind that takes hardly an effort to paint,

And the kind that doesn’t have much color,

But it’s also the kind that makes the world

Look a little softer. 

It’s the kind that makes it wonderful

To put on a heavy winter coat,

A pair of mittens, boots and snow pants,

(and maybe a scarf)

To take a nice winter walk

Before it’s dark.

And if I’m lucky, and not too cold,

I’ll take some time to sit in the snow

—and listen—

Then on my way home, I’ll hum a few notes

And wish that the world was this peaceful.  

The Road and Me

I had the strangest driving experience the other day.

I drove to Fort Collins to visit one of my closest friends and on the way there and back I encountered some of the thickest fog I have ever seen.

On the way there it swelled like a cloud and when I drove into it I couldn’t see a thing but the taillights of the cars in front of me.  It was so thick I thought I was driving through snow.  But no, it was just extremely intense fog.  

However, the drive back proved to be more interesting.  This time the fog was only on the sides of the roads, as if it had tried to creep onto the road but had been pushed back by the rushing flow of cars.  In addition, I could see on top of the layer of fog.  So there were random trees that I could only see the tops of, and in some cases the bottom.  The entire mid section of the trees was cut out by a blanket of fog. 

It gave me the feeling that, if I were to drive off the road, I would have fallen off a cliff like it happens in Mario Cart.  I could see perfectly in front of me, but I couldn’t see anything to the sides. 

It was just the road and me.

If only life was always like that.  Take this path, since it’s the only one you can see.

It’s not though.

Which is why I suppose it’s so interesting, and so dang fun. 

Different Looks for the Same Me

I have two different looks.  Probably more than that, but for the most there are two that continue to confuse people.  These looks result in the difference between having my bangs straight and down, or having them pulled out of my face.

I cut my hair 2 weeks before I left for SPU, so everyone at home was trying to get used to the new look; once I got here people recognized me as a girl with bangs.

Every so often I get sick of having them cover my face and I pull them up with a headband or bobby pins. 

This caused (and still causes) problems.

If I’m introduced to someone with my bangs down, that is how they will recognize me.  If I happen to have my bangs pulled up the next day and attempt to say hello, they look at me like I’m crazy.

It’s reached the point that when I’m introduced to people I tell them, “You may see me with my bangs up/down next time we meet and I’ve been told I look very different, so don’t be caught off guard!” 

So far it’s seemed to work a little better.

Then a few days back I curled my hair.  That didn’t help my problem much.  I don’t curl my hair often because it takes so long, and I’m not sure how soon I’ll do it again considering several people didn’t know who I was at first.  I may have received compliments, but I would rather be known.   

I’m not sure if I should be thrilled at my ability to change my looks, or unsettled.

My hair is causing a mini identity crisis.  Sheesh.   

The Importance of Scars

At some point in my life I will have a mid-life crisis.  At least that’s what I’ve heard.  It happens to everyone at some point.

Right now I have more of a “mid-quarter” crisis.  I’ve hit a funny spot in my college career where I’m always tired, less motivated than before, and ready to take a vacation.  Not to mention everyone seems to be asking, am I really doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and am I really meant to be here? 

There’s no doubt I still want to write, I’m just waiting to get all of my freshman classes out of the way so I can take something that teaches me what I need to learn.  Writing a blog is what keeps my creativity flowing—it’s the true practice I get.  At this point I’m doing a better job preparing myself than my classes are. 

(Disclaimer:  I promise I’m learning something.  Just not about what I’m most passionate about.) 

Lately I’ve been talking to various friends who are worried about their future.  And I am more than willing to hear them out.  If any of my friends need a good cry they can come to me, because I’ve been there many times before. 

“Tears are the safety valve of the heart when too much pressure is laid on it.”

~Albert Smith

There were three of us in my room last night, talking about our fears, hearing each other out, and allowing tears come every once in a while. 

But, being as distracted as I am, I often stray from the conversation at hand.  I asked one of my friends where she got a scar and before I knew it all of us were comparing scars and sharing stories.

You learn some crazy things about people when you talk about scars.  And we only covered the ones on the outside.  It really got me thinking about how many scars people must hold on the inside that I don’t even see, and I’ll never know about them unless they tell me.

And then I kept thinking.  Regardless of where we came from, we find common ground in the things that hurt most.  No matter how I feel about my classes, the weather, or the cafeteria food, the people here will influence me in more ways than I can currently imagine.     

Right now I have all my closest friends in one spot and, through learning more about them, I get the opportunity to learn more about myself.    

The Truth About Fire Trucks

There’s something about fire trucks that get children really excited.  Perhaps it’s the flashing lights or the blaring sirens, or the honking of the horn.  Maybe it’s just the color red that catches their attention.

My brother had a fire truck birthday party one year, which all of us thought was the greatest thing ever.  My Mom and Dad transformed a giant refrigerator box into a fire truck and we pretended to drive it around while screaming siren noises.  We became heroes in our own minds as we rescued people and put out fires.      

I don’t know if any child truly knows what a fire truck stands for, but I can remember the first time I realized what it was all about. 

My Dad, brother, and I were in the car one day driving through the neighborhood and I spotted smoke on the horizon.  “Daddy, there’s a fire,” I said.  He told me that, no, it wasn’t a fire, it was just smoke from a grill.  But I continued to insist that it was a fire and he drove us through the neighborhood until we reached a house that was engulfed in flames.

We got out of the car and stood along the other side of the street while we watched the house burn.  I can’t remember exactly how I felt but I did realize that there was no fire truck in sight.  My Dad and several other people were calling 911 and requesting help. 

I must have been 6 or so and I had never seen anything so real in my entire life.  The fire truck didn’t get there in time and there wasn’t much left of the house.  No one was hurt, but everything was gone. 

After that I went through a stage where I was paranoid about my house catching fire and burning to the ground.  I was most concerned about having my stuffed turtle, pet goldfish or dog get lost in the fire.  At some point it also crossed my mind that I could lose someone in my family…

If the fire truck doesn’t get there in time when someone is in the house, then what happens?  I started saying prayers whenever I heard sirens.  I wanted everyone to be ok.  It was still exciting to see a fire truck, but at the same time I knew what was on the other side.  Someone could be really hurt.  Whether it’s a car accident, a fire or other mishap, someone could die.

As soon as I started driving with a permit when I was 15 I would always get out of the way of a fire truck or ambulance as soon as I heard one.  Even if it was driving on the other side of the road I would pull over.  That’s what you were supposed to do, and everyone did it.  In Colorado it was fairly easy for emergency vehicles to get around quickly, and no matter where I was, no matter the time, the sound of sirens would diminish as soon as I heard them.

That’s not how it works here.  Once I hear sirens it seems like they go on forever.  This is partially due to the fact that the roads are small and hard to drive through in many places, but it is also due to the fact that people don’t get out of the way.  One of my friends was expressing her frustration at this the other day.  She told me, “People in Seattle don’t get out of the way like they should.  I can’t stand it.” 

I can’t either.  Granted, there is traffic because I live in a packed-in city but I want people to make the effort—there is someone on the other side that needs help. 

I would like to have a kids’ view of fire trucks again.  They see it as someone rushing to the rescue, which is true (I admire firemen greatly), but in the back of my mind I can’t help wondering who is hurt.  I want to believe that a fire truck always represents safety, but I can’t quite do that anymore.

This past summer when I was visiting Ohio I saw smoke on the horizon.

Here is what I wrote: 

Something is burning

On the horizon,

Black clouds of smoke

Permeate the blue

In sky, and I am

Sitting in my car

Watching through the

Window, from a distance

While someone is

Screaming—silently—

Surely someone is

Screaming, while

I watch (unfeeling)

The burning sky.

e.carlson

I might be doing ok, but there’s always someone who isn’t. 

This is reality.

And I just want to be the girl at the fire truck party.

The Psychology of a Band-Aid

After working with preschoolers for nearly a year, and babysitting on dozens of occasions, I could tell you the best cure for a scratch or boo-boo is a Band-Aid.

It doesn’t matter if it’s plain or has Mickey Mouse on it or Scooby Doo.

It just needs to be a Band-Aid.

It doesn’t even matter if they’re bleeding or not.

They’re still going to want a Band-Aid.

It makes them feel better and it reassures them that they’re going to be ok.

Whoever invented the Band-Aid was a genius. He created a common psychological necessity that will never go out of style.

I remember going through the same stage when I was a kid but now I’m in at place in my life where a Band-Aid doesn’t work as well anymore.

There’s not a Band-Aid for homesickness or lack of sleep or I have no motivation to do any homework whatsoever.

Truth is, nothing is ever going to be as easy as it was before.

But I can still go out and buy some Band-Aids no matter what.