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.

Monday Moments: Backwards

Monday mornings are always a bit of a challenge.

Rolling out a bed never fails to be an obstacle and once I get going, things move rather slowly.  I probably open and close drawers several times before I actually pull out what I’m going to wear.  (Planning outfits would prevent this problem but I’m always worried that by the next morning I’ll have changed my mind anyway.)

Today I pulled out a blue shirt that I’ve owned for… probably forever.  I remember buying it at the store with my Mom and, due to the fact I’ve hardly grown, it still fits and it’s not worn out enough for me to get rid of. 

I noticed it had one black dot on the tag.  For a second I couldn’t remember why someone would have put one black dot on my tag but it quickly came back to me…wow, this shirt is old. 

When my mom used to do everyone’s laundry (years and years ago) she had no ideas which clothes belonged to which child, which makes sense considering there are 5 of us.  My clothes had one dot, child #2 had two dots and so on.  I can’t believe I’ve had this shirt since that time of my life.  I’ve been doing my own laundry for a pretty long time which means it’s probably from middle school and I’m currently in college.  That’s a little embarrassing. 

Then, unbidden, I remembered something else funny about my clothing from when I was younger.  When I was learning how to dress myself my mom would draw little arrows on my underwear that would point upward toward my bellybutton once I put them on.   It helped me figure out whether or not I had put them on the right way.   

I can’t even express how many times I put my underwear on backwards, regardless of the arrows, and how many times other people in my family put things on backwards as well.  Dresses, t-shirts, pants, underwear… it was always a problem.  My brothers were pretty good at putting things on backwards and inside out.  This is probably partially due to the fact we all learned how to dress ourselves at a very young age—it would have been impossible from my mom to dress all of us one by one in the morning. 

There’s a certain day I remember very clearly.  I was riding my scooter on the sidewalk behind my house and looking at my brother, who was on a scooter in front of me.  We were in elementary school at the time and he had his shorts on backwards.  The back pockets were in the front and the fly was in the back.  (How he managed to consciously do that I’m not sure).  Before I knew it I was doubled over in laughter at how ridiculous he looked.  I couldn’t tell him without laughing, and he ran back into the house to turn them around. 

I was talking to my friends on the way to breakfast this morning and I asked them, “Did you guys ever put your underwear on backwards when you were younger?  Or other clothing in general?”

Apparently they didn’t.  Apparently my family is the only one who ever had an issue with it.

#mondaymoments

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.  

The Flicker

Procrastination is a college kid’s best friend.

Tests?  Don’t study.

Paper?  Don’t write it.

Reading?  Just leave it. 

I’ve been doing a fairly good job of doing things on time this quarter, and using my time wisely as well.  But the snow week threw me for a loop though since I didn’t have any time structure to my day whatsoever.  Which means a lot of what I should have been doing didn’t get done. 

Last night I had to study for a psych and bio test that would occur within the same 3 hours of each other the following morning.  Of course, the best thing to do was play some intramural volleyball instead of studying how I should have.  I did end up studying later, but taking a little bit of a break was good.

We rounded up a meager 4 players, the bare minimum you can have to play a game, and headed down to the gym.  When we reached the bottom of the hill all of the lights along the street, in the buildings, and in the dorms flickered. 

Off.  On.

We paused for a second and continued walking.  Then it happened a second time and the world became dark for probably 30 seconds.  Yet, it felt like a couple of minutes instead because being caught in utter darkness is a bit nerve-wracking. 

The corner we were about to turn suddenly seemed to posses someone lurking behind it, waiting to spring out and grab us.  I reached toward Taylor and held tightly to her arm.  Thankfully the dorm at the top of the hill was still lit, allowing us to see where we were, but half of the campus had gone completely black. 

The power came back on and we continued to walk, nearly forgetting what had happened even though it had caused our hearts to skip a beat.  The world isn’t nearly as scary when there’s light. 

What I was thinking then emerged out loud and I said, “Imagine how scary the world would be if we didn’t have any lights as soon as the sun went down…” 

I didn’t like being caught in the darkness, not even for half a minute.

I belong in the light. 

The world belongs in the light.

I’m just really glad God made the sun.    

Unexpected Nostalgia

Today I’m dressed as if I’m two years old.  Ok, not really.  But I am wearing overalls, which just so happen to be some of my favorite apparel.  In Seattle you can pretty much get away with anything.  Plus, any outfit that looks weird can just be considered “hipster”, and that definitely works in my favor on the days where I randomly mix a bunch of things up and wear them.  Most of the time I’m a simply a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl.

Yesterday, my UCOR class was talking about forms of art and someone said that people are artistic with the way that they dress.  That definitely doesn’t apply to me.  I hardly care what I wear, as long as it fits and I can run around in it.  I also have to wear clothes that I’m not afraid to get dirty because I’m a rather messy human being.  It’s not worth buying a $50 shirt if I’m going to spill ketchup on it and ruin it during lunch. 

Today I walked down to Gwinn alone to eat before I started my day.  People kept asking me where my twin was (since it’s Twin Day for homecoming week) and I told them I didn’t have one.  Half of me wishes I had said she’s in class so that people would have tried to find someone all day that looked like me. 

But I didn’t say it.

I ended up talking to a few people and then I found a spot to sit and eat.  I tend to wander around Gwinn for a little while before I decide what I want to eat.  Today I spotted grill cheese sandwiches and french-fries and knew that was exactly what I wanted. 

I grabbed a sandwich, loaded some fries on the plate and then added some ketchup on the side.  To top it off I filled a glass of lemonade.

Now I was eating like a two year old as well, instead of just acting like one. 

I suddenly remembered when grill cheese sandwiches and french-fries were the only things my siblings and I would eat when we went out to dinner with our parents.  We survived on grill cheese when we took a family vacation to Yellowstone one summer.  And we always asked for a glass of lemonade, never water. 

Before I knew it I was having nostalgia to the max.  As an 18-year-old college student, I was sitting in my college cafeteria longing to be young and eat grill cheese, french-fries, and drink lemonade all the time. 

Those times have long passed—but that doesn’t mean I can’t take time to enjoy one of my favorite meals of all time every once in a while.

There are some things I won’t ever grow out of.  

Full in a Good Way

I didn’t like the food here first quarter, and I still don’t like it.

If anything it got worse after I spent a month at home with my Mom’s wonderful dinners on the table every night.  Then I came back to…Gwinner.

People get what we call the “Gwinns”.  It’s a legitimate problem. 

Because of this, all of us take every opportunity we get to eat off campus, especially if it’s a home cooked meal.  College kids are easily bribed and swayed by food.  When I was invited to eat home cooked chicken-pot-pie at someone’s house I immediately responded with a YES. 

My friend David made it with another girl from our dorm.  They went out and bought all of the ingredients and spent the midafternoon making a fantastic meal for us.  As if home cooked wasn’t good enough, it was also organic and the crust was made from scratch.

Food heaven. 

After we all sat down we stared at the steaming food and hardly knew what to do.  It’s amazing how a couple weeks back at college can make you forget what it’s like to have a normal family meal.  Yet instinct kicked in and we quickly began dividing it up and making sure that everyone had food before we ate.   

Then…

Silence.

“I guess the fact no one’s talking is a good sign,” David said.  We laughed.  It was beyond good.  The chicken, the carrots, and potatoes, and the crust seemed to melt in my mouth.  Even the salad was top notch. 

The best part about it was the fact we only had to pitch in a few dollars each for the cost of the food.  (Which reminds me I should probably do that if I ever want David to cook for me again…) 

Once people finished I said, “I’m doing the dishes!  The cook never does the dishes, that’s a rule.”  Everyone ended up helping anyway, which was good, because the process is always much faster with many people instead of one. 

The night ended with cups of tea, a few card games, and much laughter.

I felt full in a good way for the first time since I had been back.