Yesterday, I came back to my blog for the first time in several months. Since my last entries, I have visited very occasionally, but I never took the opportunity to actually write something new. Each time I visit, I look, startled and amazed, at all that I created two years ago. I think about how keeping this blog was a unique and special experience; I think about how much the experience meant to me as I moved through my senior year. I think about how this blog gave me a vehicle to write for myself, to find my voice not as a student but as a person, a writer. And I think, with a touch of sadness, about how I rarely take the time to write for myself anymore, about how I miss it.
I think about how I miss it. But I never actually do it; I never actually open a notebook and begin.
But god, I miss it. I miss the feeling of words constantly lining up in my head, ideas anxiously awaiting their chance to be articulated. I miss the ease with which they flowed from my fingers, whether it was through a pencil or the click-clack of a keyboard. I miss how natural writing these entries felt, how once I started, even when I was unsure of where I would end up, my thoughts would take me to somewhere ultimately new and exciting. I miss the feeling of pressing "publish" on an entry that had particularly helped me articulate something new, the feeling of knowing that my words were floating in cyberspace to speak to anybody who was willing to listen. I even miss the feeling of uncertainty that anybody would read it at all, but perhaps this is because I also miss the feeling of not really caring one way or another. I didn't care because I knew that I was ultimately writing for me.
How can two years have gone by since I truly put forth effort to write in this blog? How can time slip through my fingers so quickly without me realizing it is happening? How can I spend two years thinking about how I much I miss the feeling of writing for myself and never actually do it? I look through my entries and I recognize the voice that wrote them. I remember being that voice. But how can I be that same girl after two years have passed, after I have started so many new chapters in my life that I can scarcely even count them?
I feel as though I have missed a valuable opportunity to do the very thing that I found myself obsessing over while I was writing in this blog: preservation. The months that I have spent not writing have swept in a wave of changes through my life. Had I written consistently throughout those months, I might have crystallized the precious and fragile process of becoming the person that sits here typing this entry.
I'm sure this isn't a loss that the world at large will feel, but I still feel it within myself all the same. But even more than that, it makes my heart heavy to think about how many times I wished I could feel the rush of words through my fingertips once more, and how many times I neglected to seize the opportunity to make that happen.
I suppose I cannot say that I have gone the last two years without writing for myself at all. In addition to making me see the world through a different lens and making me more comfortable with spontaneous discourse, this blog made me realize something else. It made me realize that there was always, always, at least one person I could count on to read my entries. And, in a way, it sort of nudged me toward, or perhaps planted the seeds for the realization that my gratitude and love for his consideration and loyalty was transforming into love for him. It's almost as though writing has become symbolic of our relationship, because a blogging kinship eventually turned into a letter containing three words nobody has ever said to me before, which in turn eventually became an entire summer of writing letters to bridge the gap created by geography.
I am realizing now that my writing found a way to exist even when I was not writing in this blog. My love letters to writing became my love letters to John. This relationship has facilitated my act of writing even in the absence of blogging, and for that, I am so grateful. Two years have not slipped through my fingers in the way my presence on this blog might suggest, and this is because a great deal of this has been spent building something as awesome and important as the person with whom I am building it.
I want to be better. I don't want to lose sight of the things that I love in the clutches of laziness or business or forgetfulness. I want to do things that make me feel real, like this blog once did. The biggest difference between two years ago and now, however, is that I have so many more things that help me do this. I have a boy that I love, a college that teaches me new things every day, and a swim team that makes me feel like I am part of something much bigger than just myself. I cannot speak for certain about the future of this blog, but I can say I hope I never find myself settling for anything less than feeling real and alive and important, anything less than doing (actually doing) the things that I love.
And god, do I love writing.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Thursday, November 3, 2011
a seeming void becomes a solid ground
When I revisited my blog last week, I read my posts again. Experiencing my thoughts backwards, remembering the nuances of time during which I was writing, I walked through the fifty posts I had created months earlier, and I was, frankly, weirded out. So much of the stuff I reread I had simply forgotten that I'd written -- some of the insights that I had made resonated within me almost as if they were new. Of course, there was an element of nostalgia, of familiarity, because at one point, those ideas had belonged to me as I experienced them, and yet when I read them once more, months later, I was startled by the novelty they seemed to have.
When do the thoughts and ideas we have cease to be ours? I'd like to think that because I have thought something beautiful, because at one point I felt so compelled by an idea that I wrote about it, the idea has changed the material that makes up me in some way. But what about the moment when you realize you've forgotten about something that once moved you enough to capture it in a blog, or on paper, or to a friend? What about the moment you realize you've forgotten something only because when you encounter it once more, it feels foreign?
It's a scary feeling, realizing you've forgotten something, especially something that once made your heart skip with weight and importance. Really, it's enough to make me feel stick to my stomach -- because ultimately, when that happens to me, what I am feeling (or at least scraping the surface of) is the sense that an idea nearly slipped away from me. It nearly ceased to belong to me.
It is strange to feel in the pit of my stomach like I am learning something from myself. The experience of reliving my blog one year later is, as I have realized, pretty much the closest possible way for me to experience my blog as an outsider, something whose perspective I have struggled to perceive my whole life. But am I reading my own words, or am I reading those of the girl I was one year ago? The events described happened to me, the words on the page are all ones that my fingers typed, but do the thoughts still belong to me even if I have changed, forgotten their nuances and details?
Does it even matter, in the end, that I struggle to perceive the ideas that other people have about me? If I am not the same person I was when I wrote my blog entries all those months ago, if I can experience them almost as an outsider who is learning, remembering, something that feels new, then how can the opinion of others in general be relevant in any way? Those opinions, like the nuanced thoughts in my blog, can be forgotten. Perhaps the perception that one person has of me is ephemeral -- not just because thoughts are ephemeral, but because I am ephemeral.
Perhaps the thoughts I wrote in my blog were "mine" because it was my brain that thought them up, but it's not them changing or being forgotten in my mind that would make them cease to be mine. Perhaps it is simply the changing of the person who has these thoughts, the person I am. This blog can capture, take a snapshot of more than just my thoughts and ideas. It can take a snapshot of the person -- the precious, ephemeral, tumultuous person I am at one given moment in time.
Thinking like that, going through my old posts seems less like a scary, surreal experience of remembering how much I've forgotten, and more like a trip through a museum filled with precious, lovely, one-of-a-kind versions of my ever-changing self.
Suddenly, the experience feels so much more beautiful.
When do the thoughts and ideas we have cease to be ours? I'd like to think that because I have thought something beautiful, because at one point I felt so compelled by an idea that I wrote about it, the idea has changed the material that makes up me in some way. But what about the moment when you realize you've forgotten about something that once moved you enough to capture it in a blog, or on paper, or to a friend? What about the moment you realize you've forgotten something only because when you encounter it once more, it feels foreign?
It's a scary feeling, realizing you've forgotten something, especially something that once made your heart skip with weight and importance. Really, it's enough to make me feel stick to my stomach -- because ultimately, when that happens to me, what I am feeling (or at least scraping the surface of) is the sense that an idea nearly slipped away from me. It nearly ceased to belong to me.
It is strange to feel in the pit of my stomach like I am learning something from myself. The experience of reliving my blog one year later is, as I have realized, pretty much the closest possible way for me to experience my blog as an outsider, something whose perspective I have struggled to perceive my whole life. But am I reading my own words, or am I reading those of the girl I was one year ago? The events described happened to me, the words on the page are all ones that my fingers typed, but do the thoughts still belong to me even if I have changed, forgotten their nuances and details?
Does it even matter, in the end, that I struggle to perceive the ideas that other people have about me? If I am not the same person I was when I wrote my blog entries all those months ago, if I can experience them almost as an outsider who is learning, remembering, something that feels new, then how can the opinion of others in general be relevant in any way? Those opinions, like the nuanced thoughts in my blog, can be forgotten. Perhaps the perception that one person has of me is ephemeral -- not just because thoughts are ephemeral, but because I am ephemeral.
Perhaps the thoughts I wrote in my blog were "mine" because it was my brain that thought them up, but it's not them changing or being forgotten in my mind that would make them cease to be mine. Perhaps it is simply the changing of the person who has these thoughts, the person I am. This blog can capture, take a snapshot of more than just my thoughts and ideas. It can take a snapshot of the person -- the precious, ephemeral, tumultuous person I am at one given moment in time.
Thinking like that, going through my old posts seems less like a scary, surreal experience of remembering how much I've forgotten, and more like a trip through a museum filled with precious, lovely, one-of-a-kind versions of my ever-changing self.
Suddenly, the experience feels so much more beautiful.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
like a fist, or a flower
"And then a thought came into my brain that wasn’t like the other thoughts. It was closer to me, and louder. I didn’t know where it came from, or what it meant, or if I loved it or hated it. It opened up like a fist, or a flower." -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
Today, something inside of me bloomed. Perhaps that is ironic, considering the world that is dying beautifully before my eyes; nonetheless, as the leaves turn red and gold and brown and tango with gravity to the earth, something within my chest is exploding in bloom, an entirely different kind of beautiful.
I am not sure what these blossoms look like, but I know they are lovely, because how could they not be? Anything growing, bursting into existence from nothing, speckling a barren landscape with miraculous punctuation, is bound to be beautiful.
Where did these blossoms come from? Did something plant the seeds inside of me? -- were they planted, lying dormant inside me, all along? Perhaps this is only the rebirth of something that had lost its petals long ago.
In a sense, I think that must be accurate, because I think part of what is blooming is my desire to create, to record my thoughts, to write in this blog once more. My last post marked the beginning of a very busy and complicated time of my life -- the most important two months of the swim season hand me at a championship meet nearly every weekend; following that, I had a lot of end-of-the year work to do, not to mention making one of the biggest decisions of my life thus far, choosing where I was going to go to college.
To be completely honest, though, I think the biggest reason I stopped blogging is because I lost momentum. I got busy, I got stressed, I had more important things to do and think about. And because it's so easy to not do things, I never really started back up once all of those things had passed.
Part of me is disappointed in myself, because I think a lot of transformative things happened in the months I was not blogging that I would have liked to document as they were happening. Obviously, for many of them, I can do my best to write in retrospect, but that is a different type of writing in itself. Part of what is lovely about blogging is that it preserves who you are, what you are feeling at the exact moment in time you are writing, and I would have liked to preserve that transformation truly and candidly.
I guess, though, there is not much I can do about those lost opportunities to write in the moment at the end of my senior year and throughout the summer. All I can do is try to remember, record how I feel about them now, start preserving myself once more.
Part of me is disappointed in myself, because I think a lot of transformative things happened in the months I was not blogging that I would have liked to document as they were happening. Obviously, for many of them, I can do my best to write in retrospect, but that is a different type of writing in itself. Part of what is lovely about blogging is that it preserves who you are, what you are feeling at the exact moment in time you are writing, and I would have liked to preserve that transformation truly and candidly.
I guess, though, there is not much I can do about those lost opportunities to write in the moment at the end of my senior year and throughout the summer. All I can do is try to remember, record how I feel about them now, start preserving myself once more.
In any case, it is nice to be back. I may not know what the blossoms of my desire to return look like, or when they were planted -- all I know is that in the end, they have come from me. And, for now, that is the most important thing I can realize.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
au printemps
I used to think that I didn't have a favorite season. When I was little, I was compelled to claim winter as my own, because after all, winter wrapped Christmas and stockings and carols and my birthday all into one stretch of months. But then there was summer, all sun and heat and sweat and tan skin amidst the shining absence of schoolwork -- how could I not enjoy the leisure time that was so blatantly missing from my usual life? And then there was autumn, when a new school year was still fresh and exciting, when the leaves turned red and gold and orange, when I could practically hear the announcer of a high school football game in the back of my head at all times. Autumn, when I welcomed in the crisp, rustic air to replace the thick, humid lethargy of August, when I marveled at the sudden beauty of the world that surrounded me.
But how can I explain the feeling of truly seeing the sun for the first time in months, feeling its rays caress your skin like a kiss from a long-lost lover? How can I explain the feeling of stepping outside and feeling as if nothing in the world can be wrong, the connotations of the warmth stirring excitement for the things to come in the pit of your stomach? How can I explain the feeling of the air greeting you with an embrace rather than the cold bite of iciness? How can I explain the way that the heavy layers of stress peel away from your body to reveal something both vulnerable and anxious to emerge the moment that the smell of spring tickles your nose?
I don't think words could ever adequately explain the way that spring makes me feel, nor why it is that the more springs that I experience, the more certain I become that it is in this season that my loyalty belongs. I think the only thing that could possibly explain that for me is feeling the first rays of sun, seeing the first strokes of lovely blue sky, smelling the air that is thick with new life and promise, for yourself.
I hope you feel new, just like I do.
But how can I explain the feeling of truly seeing the sun for the first time in months, feeling its rays caress your skin like a kiss from a long-lost lover? How can I explain the feeling of stepping outside and feeling as if nothing in the world can be wrong, the connotations of the warmth stirring excitement for the things to come in the pit of your stomach? How can I explain the feeling of the air greeting you with an embrace rather than the cold bite of iciness? How can I explain the way that the heavy layers of stress peel away from your body to reveal something both vulnerable and anxious to emerge the moment that the smell of spring tickles your nose?
I don't think words could ever adequately explain the way that spring makes me feel, nor why it is that the more springs that I experience, the more certain I become that it is in this season that my loyalty belongs. I think the only thing that could possibly explain that for me is feeling the first rays of sun, seeing the first strokes of lovely blue sky, smelling the air that is thick with new life and promise, for yourself.
I hope you feel new, just like I do.
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| photo via valeriemonthuit @ deviantart |
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
you were waking, day was breaking
A little over one year ago, I was unhappy. Not an "I'm in a bad mood" unhappy, or a "I had an unfortunate day" unhappy -- the kind of unhappy that made me forget things. That made me forget what it was like to feel a smile right down to the tips of my toes for more than a fleeting instant, what it was like to truly feel confident and comfortable and beautiful. It was the kind of unhappy signified not by one dark storm cloud that loomed temporarily over my head, but rather the total absence of sunlight.
I guess I am thinking about this because it was around this time last year that I emerged from the depths of this unhappiness, suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly. The winter of my junior year was marked by stress, self-loathing, and this persistent unhappiness; I slipped, along with the temperature, into my blackening surroundings. I have never thought of myself as a low-self-esteem girl, someone with no confidence or assurance who spends most of their time feeling unworthy and unappreciated. But the absurd contrast between feeling that unflagging winter's unhappiness and the joy and contentment that suddenly became a part of my life when I let go of my self-loathing felt, to me, as if I had been plunging without realizing it into the depths of something dark and frightening and had miraculously emerged, gratefully gasping the happiness and sunlight that I had been missing for so long.
But the stark contrast between joy and self-consciousness made me realize something strange: I hadn't even realized I was forgetting what it was like to feel happy. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd truly not worried about the person I was being subordinate to what I thought it should be. And as I emerged, I savored every single breath of happiness as if it were precious. Because, I suppose, it was precious, and it continues to be precious, even now. I can't say that I have spent the entire past year without once slipping into self-consciousness or pity, but I have never returned to the depths of where I was last winter.
Maybe it isn't going very far away from home that makes you realize just how far you have traveled -- maybe it is returning to the place you belong, coming back. Because if you are slipping away from the person you are gradually, how can you possibly realize it until it's too late? And how can you possibly appreciate the distance you have traveled, the hell you have faced, before you have come full circle?
I guess I just believe in the importance of remembering who you are. Because if you forget gradually enough, you might not even realize that it is happening. You can only stop yourself if you have someone or something to pull you out of the depths of unhappiness or self-loathing, but it's important to remember that sometimes, the only person who has that ability is you.
I guess I am thinking about this because it was around this time last year that I emerged from the depths of this unhappiness, suddenly and somewhat unexpectedly. The winter of my junior year was marked by stress, self-loathing, and this persistent unhappiness; I slipped, along with the temperature, into my blackening surroundings. I have never thought of myself as a low-self-esteem girl, someone with no confidence or assurance who spends most of their time feeling unworthy and unappreciated. But the absurd contrast between feeling that unflagging winter's unhappiness and the joy and contentment that suddenly became a part of my life when I let go of my self-loathing felt, to me, as if I had been plunging without realizing it into the depths of something dark and frightening and had miraculously emerged, gratefully gasping the happiness and sunlight that I had been missing for so long.
But the stark contrast between joy and self-consciousness made me realize something strange: I hadn't even realized I was forgetting what it was like to feel happy. I hadn't realized how long it had been since I'd truly not worried about the person I was being subordinate to what I thought it should be. And as I emerged, I savored every single breath of happiness as if it were precious. Because, I suppose, it was precious, and it continues to be precious, even now. I can't say that I have spent the entire past year without once slipping into self-consciousness or pity, but I have never returned to the depths of where I was last winter.
Maybe it isn't going very far away from home that makes you realize just how far you have traveled -- maybe it is returning to the place you belong, coming back. Because if you are slipping away from the person you are gradually, how can you possibly realize it until it's too late? And how can you possibly appreciate the distance you have traveled, the hell you have faced, before you have come full circle?
I guess I just believe in the importance of remembering who you are. Because if you forget gradually enough, you might not even realize that it is happening. You can only stop yourself if you have someone or something to pull you out of the depths of unhappiness or self-loathing, but it's important to remember that sometimes, the only person who has that ability is you.
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| photo via anjali @ deviantart |
Monday, January 31, 2011
we are all our hands and holders
On Saturday, I competed in my last league championship meet. My last CHLs ever. I suppose I don't really blog about this type of event very often, this sort of specific post about an event in my life (especially something swimming-related, considering I'm usually just going through the motions when it comes to meets), but this meet brought me back to the idea of last-things.
It's true that I have had my last first day of school, my last first semester, my last floatbuilding, my last fall homecoming. But I haven't really had any lasts regarding swimming, and so it's strange for this to happen and for me to look back on something I've been a part of for four years and see that it's coming to an end.
My freshman year, we were so much better than the other high schools in our league that we could make CHL champion t-shirts without worrying about someone else pulling ahead for the win. My sophomore year, however, we won the meet by one point, and my junior year, we lost. This year, we managed to win, but a team that for the past three years has flown under the radar took second place instead of our usual competitors.
It is all very interesting to look back on because I don't think that as a team we have gotten considerably worse or better. Yes, we have lost a few key swimmers through my four years, but honestly, the same could have been expected from all the other teams, and we have swimmers who have stepped up to maintain our success. It has been such an interesting four years, and yet I haven't realized until just now how amazing it is that we adjust to each year's team, find a new balance between us, and try so hard for success.
I can remember years where we have lost key swimmers and have wondered what in the world we were going to do the next year without them -- and yet each year, we have somehow pulled through; we have somehow fostered a bond among ourselves and been what I would definitely call successful. And I guess that says something not only about my high school team but about people in general: that we learn how to adjust. We cover our weak areas, are thankful for our strengths. We look to our friends and teammates for support, and they help us cope.
In a way, I am happy to have had my last league meet turn out the way it did. I did not place individually as well as I have in the past years, but my times were not considerably worse -- the competition was simply faster. And as I approach State feeling the pressure to repeat a third state championship, I am trying my best to feel calm, because all I can do is swim fast. All I can do is swim a time that I am happy with. If a fast freshman's best happens to be better than mine, then all I can know and understand is that I've done my very best to adjust to the circumstances, and no matter what, my team will be there to high-five me afterward.
It may have taken me four years to realize that, but it brings me so much peace to understand.
It's true that I have had my last first day of school, my last first semester, my last floatbuilding, my last fall homecoming. But I haven't really had any lasts regarding swimming, and so it's strange for this to happen and for me to look back on something I've been a part of for four years and see that it's coming to an end.
My freshman year, we were so much better than the other high schools in our league that we could make CHL champion t-shirts without worrying about someone else pulling ahead for the win. My sophomore year, however, we won the meet by one point, and my junior year, we lost. This year, we managed to win, but a team that for the past three years has flown under the radar took second place instead of our usual competitors.
It is all very interesting to look back on because I don't think that as a team we have gotten considerably worse or better. Yes, we have lost a few key swimmers through my four years, but honestly, the same could have been expected from all the other teams, and we have swimmers who have stepped up to maintain our success. It has been such an interesting four years, and yet I haven't realized until just now how amazing it is that we adjust to each year's team, find a new balance between us, and try so hard for success.
I can remember years where we have lost key swimmers and have wondered what in the world we were going to do the next year without them -- and yet each year, we have somehow pulled through; we have somehow fostered a bond among ourselves and been what I would definitely call successful. And I guess that says something not only about my high school team but about people in general: that we learn how to adjust. We cover our weak areas, are thankful for our strengths. We look to our friends and teammates for support, and they help us cope.
In a way, I am happy to have had my last league meet turn out the way it did. I did not place individually as well as I have in the past years, but my times were not considerably worse -- the competition was simply faster. And as I approach State feeling the pressure to repeat a third state championship, I am trying my best to feel calm, because all I can do is swim fast. All I can do is swim a time that I am happy with. If a fast freshman's best happens to be better than mine, then all I can know and understand is that I've done my very best to adjust to the circumstances, and no matter what, my team will be there to high-five me afterward.
It may have taken me four years to realize that, but it brings me so much peace to understand.
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| photo by Tyler |
Thursday, January 27, 2011
i remember every sound it made
I've been thinking recently about audience. I have been discovering more and more that there are actually people out there that read this. Who enjoy this. And while that may very well be the most fulfilling notion of my entire life so far -- that people are reading my thoughts and experiences and being prompted to think about their own -- it's still a little disturbing to have to realize (and reconcile) the fact that this is a blog. With my name attached to it. That anyone -- anyone! -- can stumble upon.
I'm honestly not so worried about strangers reading this (it's not like I put anything deeply personal on here that could seriously compromise my safety) as much as I am about people that I know. I wouldn't by any means prefer for a bunch of faceless strangers to read my writing than for people I love and care about to do so, because showing my thoughts to people I know may enrich their understanding of me as a person. But at the same time, it's disconcerting to think that this understanding of me could actually be warped by what I write. Or, even worse, they could feel personally attacked or offended by my thoughts.
Though I have learned to not blog when I am very angry at a specific person, especially if my anger cannot be harnessed in a positive, introspective way, and though I have learned that having an audience is one thing that keeps me writing again and again, I still find myself disconcerted by the thought of my mother reading even the briefest mention of the awkward New Year's experience I had (too complicated to explain to anybody, let alone a parent), or the occasional profane word that slips out through my natural voice. I find myself disconcerted by the thought of my friend's mother reading even a subtle detail of my tone that undermines her opinion of me. Or my swim coach stumbling upon a post that expresses my frustration with the sport. My English teacher even came across my blog and read a post in which I specifically referred to a paper that I wrote in her class. Not that I would have done this, because that was neither the point of the entry nor how I actually feel, but I could have easily written something denouncing the assignment or even the class in general. I could have easily -- even subconsciously -- carried in my tone a morsel of condescension or contempt.
If I had other things to say, I could have been a scandal rather than a girl whose unique endeavor to keep a blog is commendable. If I had let the power of writing publicly get to my head, I could have been the bitchy girl who trash-talks an authority figure or friend on a public online journal. It scares me to think that I do have power within these words. I do have the power to make people think and reflect and I have the power to show people who I am. But I also have the power to inadvertently wound, whether it be others or their opinions of me.
I guess I've just been thinking lately about the elements of myself that I cannot control on a blog with the same intricacy that I do to each person I meet. If my mom stumbles upon my blog, she is reading the same words that a high schooler would, even if these are words that I am so accustomed to being able to manipulate in person in order to be the person she expects me to be. While taking my audience into account helps me to think about things I have to say that might have a widespread appeal, there is also an element of blog-keeping that doesn't allow me to take into account very specific audiences that have an opinion of me that I'd like to maintain, like parents or teachers or coaches.
So this is a disturbing concept, not being able to have complete control of what I share with people on an intricate, individual level, but perhaps it also urges me to think about the impression I give on a more general level. Perhaps it allows me to think about -- and become comfortable with -- the person I am willing to show anybody, the person I am proud to be, regardless of which audience I am speaking to.
Perhaps, in a way, this is helping to free me from the confines of the various versions of myself that exist.
I'm honestly not so worried about strangers reading this (it's not like I put anything deeply personal on here that could seriously compromise my safety) as much as I am about people that I know. I wouldn't by any means prefer for a bunch of faceless strangers to read my writing than for people I love and care about to do so, because showing my thoughts to people I know may enrich their understanding of me as a person. But at the same time, it's disconcerting to think that this understanding of me could actually be warped by what I write. Or, even worse, they could feel personally attacked or offended by my thoughts.
Though I have learned to not blog when I am very angry at a specific person, especially if my anger cannot be harnessed in a positive, introspective way, and though I have learned that having an audience is one thing that keeps me writing again and again, I still find myself disconcerted by the thought of my mother reading even the briefest mention of the awkward New Year's experience I had (too complicated to explain to anybody, let alone a parent), or the occasional profane word that slips out through my natural voice. I find myself disconcerted by the thought of my friend's mother reading even a subtle detail of my tone that undermines her opinion of me. Or my swim coach stumbling upon a post that expresses my frustration with the sport. My English teacher even came across my blog and read a post in which I specifically referred to a paper that I wrote in her class. Not that I would have done this, because that was neither the point of the entry nor how I actually feel, but I could have easily written something denouncing the assignment or even the class in general. I could have easily -- even subconsciously -- carried in my tone a morsel of condescension or contempt.
If I had other things to say, I could have been a scandal rather than a girl whose unique endeavor to keep a blog is commendable. If I had let the power of writing publicly get to my head, I could have been the bitchy girl who trash-talks an authority figure or friend on a public online journal. It scares me to think that I do have power within these words. I do have the power to make people think and reflect and I have the power to show people who I am. But I also have the power to inadvertently wound, whether it be others or their opinions of me.
I guess I've just been thinking lately about the elements of myself that I cannot control on a blog with the same intricacy that I do to each person I meet. If my mom stumbles upon my blog, she is reading the same words that a high schooler would, even if these are words that I am so accustomed to being able to manipulate in person in order to be the person she expects me to be. While taking my audience into account helps me to think about things I have to say that might have a widespread appeal, there is also an element of blog-keeping that doesn't allow me to take into account very specific audiences that have an opinion of me that I'd like to maintain, like parents or teachers or coaches.
So this is a disturbing concept, not being able to have complete control of what I share with people on an intricate, individual level, but perhaps it also urges me to think about the impression I give on a more general level. Perhaps it allows me to think about -- and become comfortable with -- the person I am willing to show anybody, the person I am proud to be, regardless of which audience I am speaking to.
Perhaps, in a way, this is helping to free me from the confines of the various versions of myself that exist.
Friday, January 21, 2011
did you cut your hands on me?
Last Monday I sat in my seat at the end of my calculus class, overhearing bits and pieces of the conversation going on in front of me. They were talking about their English essays, how difficult or easy it was to get a perfect score from an AP grader, how we had to rewrite one of the essays from our midterm exam. Since English class is not very high on the my list of things to worry about, I began to tune out the conversation as it turned toward writing in general, and, as all conversations with seniors in high school inevitably do, the future -- until I heard someone say something that rang inside me loud and clear.
"... I mean, I want to do something real with my life."
Ugh. I wasn't sure that anyone heard her say it besides me, or if anyone even noticed anything strange about it, but my blood practically began to boil. I looked around me to see if anybody near me had heard the same thing I had, but not one of them seemed to register exactly the weight of her words.
I want to do something real with my life. Real. You could even hear the italics in her voice! And when I looked around me and not one person seemed to be cut by those words the same way I was. How could they not realize how upsetting and annoying and hurtful that statement was?
I can't deny that I understood what she was trying to say. I understood that she meant that she didn't want to put so much of her fragile future into so uncertain a field; a field so cutthroat and judgmental and bitter. Writing as a career is uncertain; it's difficult. And so, in a way, I understood what she was saying, but that didn't upset me any less.
I couldn't help but take it personally. Even though I don't think I want to be a novelist or a journalist as a career either, her words cut through my soft skin like a knife. And I was angry. Who was she to decide what was real and what was not? How could she thrust a statement like that into existence so easily, so casually?
I guess the reason I felt so personally offended by her dismissal of writing as a career is that I honestly have not loved anything the same way that I love writing. Writing is not just learning or solving or memorizing. It is not juxtaposing facts without faces that carry no emotional significance. Perhaps it doesn't cure cancer; perhaps it doesn't build hospitals; perhaps it doesn't design jet engines. Perhaps it is little black marks on paper -- but it is so much more. It is ideas. It is the preservation of the person I am and the thoughts I am thinking here and now. And it can convey so much, it can mean so much.
How is the perfect documentation of a person, of a time period, of thoughts and ideas and truth, not significant? How is that not real?
What I am discovering through blogging is that I have something to say. And writing these intimate, personal thoughts and emotions and getting the reactions that I have been getting has made me feel real in a way that I have never felt in my entire life. More real than getting an A on a calculus test, more real than winning a state championship in swimming, more real than being accepted to a college. I finally can tangibly feel that my thoughts have consequence. I may not be making money or curing cancer or saving lives, but I am communicating. I am making people think.
And that, to me, is making me real in a way that I have never been in my life.
"... I mean, I want to do something real with my life."
Ugh. I wasn't sure that anyone heard her say it besides me, or if anyone even noticed anything strange about it, but my blood practically began to boil. I looked around me to see if anybody near me had heard the same thing I had, but not one of them seemed to register exactly the weight of her words.
I want to do something real with my life. Real. You could even hear the italics in her voice! And when I looked around me and not one person seemed to be cut by those words the same way I was. How could they not realize how upsetting and annoying and hurtful that statement was?
I can't deny that I understood what she was trying to say. I understood that she meant that she didn't want to put so much of her fragile future into so uncertain a field; a field so cutthroat and judgmental and bitter. Writing as a career is uncertain; it's difficult. And so, in a way, I understood what she was saying, but that didn't upset me any less.
I couldn't help but take it personally. Even though I don't think I want to be a novelist or a journalist as a career either, her words cut through my soft skin like a knife. And I was angry. Who was she to decide what was real and what was not? How could she thrust a statement like that into existence so easily, so casually?
I guess the reason I felt so personally offended by her dismissal of writing as a career is that I honestly have not loved anything the same way that I love writing. Writing is not just learning or solving or memorizing. It is not juxtaposing facts without faces that carry no emotional significance. Perhaps it doesn't cure cancer; perhaps it doesn't build hospitals; perhaps it doesn't design jet engines. Perhaps it is little black marks on paper -- but it is so much more. It is ideas. It is the preservation of the person I am and the thoughts I am thinking here and now. And it can convey so much, it can mean so much.
How is the perfect documentation of a person, of a time period, of thoughts and ideas and truth, not significant? How is that not real?
What I am discovering through blogging is that I have something to say. And writing these intimate, personal thoughts and emotions and getting the reactions that I have been getting has made me feel real in a way that I have never felt in my entire life. More real than getting an A on a calculus test, more real than winning a state championship in swimming, more real than being accepted to a college. I finally can tangibly feel that my thoughts have consequence. I may not be making money or curing cancer or saving lives, but I am communicating. I am making people think.
And that, to me, is making me real in a way that I have never been in my life.
Monday, January 10, 2011
tangled too tight and too long to fight
Last Thursday morning, I had a fight with my mom about fruit. We were having a team breakfast for swimming, and I had completely forgotten about the fact that I had told the host that I would ask my mom if we could contribute food to the breakfast, and so when I woke up, I got an earful about being irresponsible and a bad team captain and I, trying to defend myself, made excuses for myself. My phone wasn't working last night, I wasn't thinking about it. Nobody reminded me to ask, so I didn't know that food was still needed. I forgot!!!
Somehow it escalated into a screaming match -- I suppose 6:45am doesn't bring out the best in mothers or daughters. Regardless of how we got there, we were definitely there, and it was a pretty bad feeling when I left the house with a bag of fresh clementines that we, by some miracle, had hiding in the refrigerator. Feeling an odd combination of guilty and bitter, I drove away from the house in a bad mood. I was pretty shaken up (I have not screamed like that at a person in a long time), but I managed to put it in the back of my mind and go on with the morning.
Sometime during first bell I got an e-mail on my phone, presumably from some random college that for some reason (though I've never before indicated interest) thought I cared about its application deadline. But it wasn't from some random college -- it was from my mom. In it, she apologized for yelling at me, told me she hoped it didn't ruin my day, and reminded me to always be a good leader and to remember what others ask of me and follow through with it. I was touched, but because I was in class and I don't get good service in school and because I knew I would see her at home, I didn't reply to the e-mail.
On a typical day, my sister and I drive home from school, pack our swim bags, and go to swim practice without seeing my mom beforehand -- but I had a lot of homework, Daria had a meeting after school, and my mom had errands to run. I didn't go to practice because I was working on a paper I had due, and I only saw my mom very briefly in the time between getting home and driving to the Y for lifting. Because I was working on my paper, I didn't think about responding to her apology; we spoke a few words and eventually she left for her meetings.
It had been snowing for a while at that point, but the roads weren't anything to be really worried about. I talked to her on the phone before I left, and she told me to be careful -- but I drove to the Y without any problem whatsoever. However, I didn't realize how 45 minutes of snow and freezing rain could alter the state of the road, and when I got into my car on the slick parking lot of the YMCA with my sister and my friend, I knew something was wrong. The car slipped and slid on the ice of the asphalt in the parking lot, and, foolishly, I assumed that the roads would be better-treated, safer.
To make a long story short: they weren't safe, not in any sense of the word. As I drove down a large hill on my way home, I felt myself start to spin out of control. I don't know if I pressed on the brakes instinctively or if I just relinquished control of the vehicle, but I panicked when I felt the front end of the car behind me smash into the back of the passenger side of my car, right where my friend was sitting. The impact of this crash made me spin all the way around so that my car was perpendicular to the road, and the driver's seat directly in the line of the car that was heading right toward me down the hill. I knew it wouldn't be able to stop, and at this point I was frankly surprised that nobody besides me was screaming their head off from the shock of the spin, but I was certain that at that moment I was going to die. I was going to die.
What could I do? As we spun around, I saw the headlights of the car. But I couldn't look. I felt a sense of helplessness, as if I was chained to the ground, unable to avoid the car that would eventually kill me. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. All I could hear were my own ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygods, and as I gasped for air I turned my body away from the headlights and held onto the center console for dear life. If I was going to die, I just couldn't bring myself to allow the last image I saw to be the growing pair of headlights coming toward me.
How did I end up in a driveway, off the street? It is honestly a blur, but I know that I became hysterical when I couldn't open the drivers side door (which was completely smashed in by the second car that hit). Screaming and crying, I couldn't even think to call the police -- the first person I attempted to call was my mom. It felt surreal that I had emerged from the car, along with two other girls, completely unscathed, from this wreck that felt like it should have been the end of the world.
I am honestly lucky to be alive; lucky that I don't even have a bruise to show from this accident. Lucky that I didn't wreck another girl's swim season along with my car; lucky that my parents didn't have to take one or both of their daughters to the hospital that night. But what I realized later as I was marveling at my own vitality was that I was also lucky that things hadn't ended the way they did with my mom. I used to make it such a point to never leave things in a poor state, you know, in case anything happened. But as I grew up, I almost became immune to the idea that we are fragile. Nothing bad will happen to us, I somehow convinced myself. And I stopped feeling the intense urge to repair things before I saw people again -- because I assumed there would always be a next time, in which I could do the same.
I don't know. I just feel so much more fragile after this accident. So much more fleeting. I am a blip on the universe, and I can die (and it wouldn't even bat an eyelash). But mostly, I feel pretty stirred by the fact that things could have ended so poorly with my mom. It's not really a realization that can be succinctly and beautifully summarized using words, but I thought it was something definitely worth sharing.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
i walked home smiling, i finally had a story to tell
The first words of 2011 from my mother to me (not including the ones exchanged at 2:00am when I got home from celebrating) were: It is a new year, and you are SERIOUSLY grounded. I could all but form the words I heard next with my own lips, because I have heard them perhaps a million times before. Your room is a disaster, and you are not allowed out until you have cleaned it.
So, turning over a new leaf from the past twelve years, on Monday I actually decided to take her seriously. I will be the first to admit that although I am painstakingly neat about all things visual -- handwriting, my bulletin board, any art project that I have ever done -- I am regrettably a failure in three dimensions. I have never been able to keep my stuff organized, and it has stretched beyond the ground of laziness and simply into bad habit. It isn't just the clothes that I periodically scrape from the middle of the floor and put them where they belong, it is every single surface of my room (my desk, the shelves above my desk, the large shelves holding books and shoes and art projects, my bedside table) is covered in paper. Binders. Books. Art projects. CDs. Electronics. Dust (simply because I choose to pretend that these messes do not exist rather than take care of them).
Am I a slob? Perhaps. I don't think my thoughts are quite so haphazard and disorganized, but there is just something about me that has been entirely incapable of bringing myself to keep my living space tidy. It has gotten to the point where I spend literally no time at all in my own room because I can't stand to be around the disgusting mess that I have let accumulate. It's even more than a bad habit -- it is a deep loathing (for the mess and for myself for letting it get so bad) that I don't like to face because it just discourages me.
But on Monday I held my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and dove headfirst into a knee-high (maybe higher?) pile of junk sandwiched between my futon and the wall of my closet, hiding behind a bedside stand that failed to conceal its existence. Beneath a few useless bags and posters that I hadn't had the heart to throw out, I found a mountain of notebooks and binders (from back when I actually used binders to keep my stuff organized -- we're talking like freshman and sophomore year here).
Ultimately, I decided that the best decision would be to simply throw all of it away, regardless of how reluctant I was about trashing an entire year's worth of hard work. If I was going to find a gem of something in the midst of my old binders from freshman year, I would have already done it instead of letting them sit shoved in the corner and collect dust. But I did get the opportunity to go through some of the notebooks (just out of curiosity) and I was pretty surprised at what I discovered.
Here I was, thinking that I had found my voice in eighth grade during the Power of the Pen season, when I finally learned how to think outside the box and write about things that meant something to me. But the writing that I found from freshman and sophomore year was ridiculous. Of course, I could write a short story if I really sat down and tried to make it presentable -- but my tone was so undeveloped, my style so crude. Did I even think about words before I wrote them down?
The funny thing is, I definitely thought that I did do that. And I probably did, probably more than most of the people in my English classes. But I realized that I only remember the randomly good pieces of freshman-year writing of which I am still proud today -- I forget all of the stupid ones. I struggled to express my thoughts and feelings and reading what I once thought was eloquent and descriptive and emotional, I realized truly how far I have come as a writer -- and a person -- throughout high school.
Instead of writing nonsense about boys that I was confused about, instead of spewing out my most idiotic and repetitive thoughts over and over and over again on paper, I now write about things that matter to me. I write about things that will have significance (at least a little bit) in a few years. I have learned how to express myself and convey emotions in complex and far more eloquent ways. I don't think this is just development as a writer, though -- I can't help but believe that my improvement in expressing myself has stemmed also from the fact that I have learned how to understand myself. Reading my writing from freshman and sophomore year brought those days back vividly in my memory, and it is only in remembering them from my senior-year perspective that I realize how much I have learned -- and accepted -- about myself and the people around me. It happened so gradually, so subtly that I didn't realize it was even taking place. But today during swim practice when I was thinking about how happy I am to be emotionally stable for my senior year, I realized that I have learned how to stand on my own two feet.
As I came to the realization that I have learned how to be happy with who I am regardless of who feels the same, I felt at peace. I felt mature. I felt free.
So, turning over a new leaf from the past twelve years, on Monday I actually decided to take her seriously. I will be the first to admit that although I am painstakingly neat about all things visual -- handwriting, my bulletin board, any art project that I have ever done -- I am regrettably a failure in three dimensions. I have never been able to keep my stuff organized, and it has stretched beyond the ground of laziness and simply into bad habit. It isn't just the clothes that I periodically scrape from the middle of the floor and put them where they belong, it is every single surface of my room (my desk, the shelves above my desk, the large shelves holding books and shoes and art projects, my bedside table) is covered in paper. Binders. Books. Art projects. CDs. Electronics. Dust (simply because I choose to pretend that these messes do not exist rather than take care of them).
Am I a slob? Perhaps. I don't think my thoughts are quite so haphazard and disorganized, but there is just something about me that has been entirely incapable of bringing myself to keep my living space tidy. It has gotten to the point where I spend literally no time at all in my own room because I can't stand to be around the disgusting mess that I have let accumulate. It's even more than a bad habit -- it is a deep loathing (for the mess and for myself for letting it get so bad) that I don't like to face because it just discourages me.
But on Monday I held my nose, squeezed my eyes shut, and dove headfirst into a knee-high (maybe higher?) pile of junk sandwiched between my futon and the wall of my closet, hiding behind a bedside stand that failed to conceal its existence. Beneath a few useless bags and posters that I hadn't had the heart to throw out, I found a mountain of notebooks and binders (from back when I actually used binders to keep my stuff organized -- we're talking like freshman and sophomore year here).
Ultimately, I decided that the best decision would be to simply throw all of it away, regardless of how reluctant I was about trashing an entire year's worth of hard work. If I was going to find a gem of something in the midst of my old binders from freshman year, I would have already done it instead of letting them sit shoved in the corner and collect dust. But I did get the opportunity to go through some of the notebooks (just out of curiosity) and I was pretty surprised at what I discovered.
Here I was, thinking that I had found my voice in eighth grade during the Power of the Pen season, when I finally learned how to think outside the box and write about things that meant something to me. But the writing that I found from freshman and sophomore year was ridiculous. Of course, I could write a short story if I really sat down and tried to make it presentable -- but my tone was so undeveloped, my style so crude. Did I even think about words before I wrote them down?
The funny thing is, I definitely thought that I did do that. And I probably did, probably more than most of the people in my English classes. But I realized that I only remember the randomly good pieces of freshman-year writing of which I am still proud today -- I forget all of the stupid ones. I struggled to express my thoughts and feelings and reading what I once thought was eloquent and descriptive and emotional, I realized truly how far I have come as a writer -- and a person -- throughout high school.
Instead of writing nonsense about boys that I was confused about, instead of spewing out my most idiotic and repetitive thoughts over and over and over again on paper, I now write about things that matter to me. I write about things that will have significance (at least a little bit) in a few years. I have learned how to express myself and convey emotions in complex and far more eloquent ways. I don't think this is just development as a writer, though -- I can't help but believe that my improvement in expressing myself has stemmed also from the fact that I have learned how to understand myself. Reading my writing from freshman and sophomore year brought those days back vividly in my memory, and it is only in remembering them from my senior-year perspective that I realize how much I have learned -- and accepted -- about myself and the people around me. It happened so gradually, so subtly that I didn't realize it was even taking place. But today during swim practice when I was thinking about how happy I am to be emotionally stable for my senior year, I realized that I have learned how to stand on my own two feet.
As I came to the realization that I have learned how to be happy with who I am regardless of who feels the same, I felt at peace. I felt mature. I felt free.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
just nod if you can hear me
So this is the new year.
My new year's eve was interesting at best. Thank goodness I survived the dreaded Christmas training -- two weeks and eighteen (okay, sixteen for me) swim practices that I have no choice but to attend so that I can perform well at the end of the season. I had my last practice of training on Friday morning, stumbled out of the water, and felt immensely thankful that I wouldn't see a pool or smell chlorine for more than two days. I went to a party, and it was fun, but weird. That is all I will say because I don't really have too many reflections on it specifically at this time.
I keep seeing people posting these facebook statuses that express their relief or sadness that 2010 is finally or already over, so I suppose I will go over my year and think about what 2010 means to me.
I started off 2010 rough. I was reeling from some personal and emotional issues, struggling with apathy about schoolwork and my grades and starting the college search. This utter exhaustion about everything in my life translated into complete apathy also about my swimming career. I felt an immense pressure to perform well every single time I swam; an immense pressure to win sectionals, districts, and the state championship in the 100 backstroke as I had in 2009. I made myself miserable in the one place where I didn't have to feel miserable. The water didn't lead me on, or criticize me, or make me feel bad about myself. Still, I made myself hate it. My teammates felt uncomfortable around my negative attitude, and thank god I managed to pull myself together for the end of the season and enjoy myself, because I had nothing to worry about. I succeeded in the water and had a good time with my team, and even though by the summer I felt burnt out and emotionally exhausted by my tumultuous season, I learned a valuable lesson: swimming is as serious as I make it. Freaking out doesn't help me; it only makes me miserable for something that I would otherwise love.
Around spring break, the college search for me began, and I went into it knowing nothing about what I wanted. I have changed my mind a million times; I have visited many schools; I have struggled more than I ever thought imaginable with the fact that the economy sucks and my parents are architects and I might not be able to go to an expensive school without going into serious debt. I think I got my first taste of the real world -- the real, harsh, mean world, where life isn't necessarily fair. I watched my friends consider expensive schools and I felt entitled to do the same. And although my top three schools are still very expensive, there is still the thought of debt and the less expensive schools from which I am racking up acceptance letters that I needed to apply to, just in case, looming in the back of my mind.
On a more positive note about college searching, though, I realized through my college visits that I want to swim in college. I love swimming, and I love what a team can be for me, and although I am not the best practicer, I am excited for the new atmosphere that a college team will provide. I am excited for a group of people who love the same thing that I do, and I am excited to meet new people and have a life of my own in a new place. And I have loved writing college essays and seeing how much I have grown (shoutout to Elizabeth!).
Two thousand ten was also the year that I feel I learned how to branch out. I have felt myself discovering friends in new people, and the ability within myself to talk to new people and relate to them. I have become less introverted and more able to learn and have conversations with others, and I feel that this is the area in my life in which I have taken the biggest strides. I feel more comfortable around others and I feel like I have built a lot of meaningful relationships with people to whom I will unfortunately have to say goodbye relatively soon. Which makes leaving harder, but definitely more meaningful.
I ended 2010 more comfortable with my swimming, my schoolwork, and my social life. And, ultimately, I ended 2010 more comfortable with myself. Maybe the most important thing I have moved toward realizing this past year is the fact that I have something to say. It doesn't matter what I look like, it doesn't matter if I don't have a boyfriend, and it doesn't matter what other people think as long as I am happy with myself. And, for the most part, I think I have been taking steps toward learning how to be.
My new year's eve was interesting at best. Thank goodness I survived the dreaded Christmas training -- two weeks and eighteen (okay, sixteen for me) swim practices that I have no choice but to attend so that I can perform well at the end of the season. I had my last practice of training on Friday morning, stumbled out of the water, and felt immensely thankful that I wouldn't see a pool or smell chlorine for more than two days. I went to a party, and it was fun, but weird. That is all I will say because I don't really have too many reflections on it specifically at this time.
I keep seeing people posting these facebook statuses that express their relief or sadness that 2010 is finally or already over, so I suppose I will go over my year and think about what 2010 means to me.
I started off 2010 rough. I was reeling from some personal and emotional issues, struggling with apathy about schoolwork and my grades and starting the college search. This utter exhaustion about everything in my life translated into complete apathy also about my swimming career. I felt an immense pressure to perform well every single time I swam; an immense pressure to win sectionals, districts, and the state championship in the 100 backstroke as I had in 2009. I made myself miserable in the one place where I didn't have to feel miserable. The water didn't lead me on, or criticize me, or make me feel bad about myself. Still, I made myself hate it. My teammates felt uncomfortable around my negative attitude, and thank god I managed to pull myself together for the end of the season and enjoy myself, because I had nothing to worry about. I succeeded in the water and had a good time with my team, and even though by the summer I felt burnt out and emotionally exhausted by my tumultuous season, I learned a valuable lesson: swimming is as serious as I make it. Freaking out doesn't help me; it only makes me miserable for something that I would otherwise love.
Around spring break, the college search for me began, and I went into it knowing nothing about what I wanted. I have changed my mind a million times; I have visited many schools; I have struggled more than I ever thought imaginable with the fact that the economy sucks and my parents are architects and I might not be able to go to an expensive school without going into serious debt. I think I got my first taste of the real world -- the real, harsh, mean world, where life isn't necessarily fair. I watched my friends consider expensive schools and I felt entitled to do the same. And although my top three schools are still very expensive, there is still the thought of debt and the less expensive schools from which I am racking up acceptance letters that I needed to apply to, just in case, looming in the back of my mind.
On a more positive note about college searching, though, I realized through my college visits that I want to swim in college. I love swimming, and I love what a team can be for me, and although I am not the best practicer, I am excited for the new atmosphere that a college team will provide. I am excited for a group of people who love the same thing that I do, and I am excited to meet new people and have a life of my own in a new place. And I have loved writing college essays and seeing how much I have grown (shoutout to Elizabeth!).
Two thousand ten was also the year that I feel I learned how to branch out. I have felt myself discovering friends in new people, and the ability within myself to talk to new people and relate to them. I have become less introverted and more able to learn and have conversations with others, and I feel that this is the area in my life in which I have taken the biggest strides. I feel more comfortable around others and I feel like I have built a lot of meaningful relationships with people to whom I will unfortunately have to say goodbye relatively soon. Which makes leaving harder, but definitely more meaningful.
I ended 2010 more comfortable with my swimming, my schoolwork, and my social life. And, ultimately, I ended 2010 more comfortable with myself. Maybe the most important thing I have moved toward realizing this past year is the fact that I have something to say. It doesn't matter what I look like, it doesn't matter if I don't have a boyfriend, and it doesn't matter what other people think as long as I am happy with myself. And, for the most part, I think I have been taking steps toward learning how to be.
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| photo by tyler |
Monday, December 27, 2010
and when it lives, it gives it all it's got
I just returned to Wyoming today from a weekend of family holiday festivities, if you want to call them that. I guess I wouldn't necessarily say they were festive, but it was an altogether nice break from swimming and it's always nice to see my family.
It's weird because I usually only see my family about twice a year -- my mom's side more, because we go to Michigan a few times over the summer, but for my dad's side, we usually only see them on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It doesn't feel like an entire year has passed since I've seen my family last, and we pick up pretty naturally where we left off, but it's so bizarre to pick up so naturally when 12 whole months have passed since the last time I've seen them. It's like starting a conversation and then picking it back up as if it never ended, only to have had a change in perspective in the time between.
So much happens in a year -- it's been four years since my cousin Lindsay got married, and I remember so vividly the day in 8th grade when I played violin at her wedding, as if it were only a few weeks ago. And this year, my cousin Tim has a new baby, Carson. My other cousin, Erin, remarked that things were changing so much. And it was weird, because I was just thinking about how five minutes ago I was playing violin at a wedding without a single thought of college or even high school in my head.
And now my cousin has a baby, most of them have graduated and have jobs, I am going to college next year, and some of my grandparents can't remember the question they asked me ten minutes earlier. Am I even going to go out of town next year for Christmas and my birthday? Because if I only have a five day break where I can come home, I don't even know.
The mental state of my grandparents is startling. I come back each year and it is here where I notice the most has changed. My grandpa tells me stories over and over again; my other grandpa sometimes doesn't even remember my name because my sister and I are the only of his grandchildren that live far away. It's weird how our brains start to deteriorate; how we start to rely on others more and more simply to survive. It's ineloquent, but getting old scares the hell out of me.
I don't want to have kids who will grow up to think I am a technologically challenged embarrassment, who will push me away because they think they know better than me. But more than that, I don't want to lose my ability to think, to write, to recognize the people that I love. My dad's dad was an English teacher; he wrote so many poems that were cute and funny and beautiful. And now I look at him and see a fragile old man -- I mean, I see more than that, because he is my grandfather, the father of my dad and four other kids, the beginning of my family -- but I speak to him and I can tell that his mind is leaving him, when he asks me how old I am now two times in a row, and I have to smile and nod and tell him that I am seventeen, while inside my heart is breaking.
I guess I can't really think of a resolution to this post besides the fact that I shouldn't really be afraid of getting old, because I still have so much life to live ahead of me. And even if my brain starts to fail me, even if I start to forget the names of the people I love, I still have the chance to start something beautiful.
It's weird because I usually only see my family about twice a year -- my mom's side more, because we go to Michigan a few times over the summer, but for my dad's side, we usually only see them on Thanksgiving and Christmas. It doesn't feel like an entire year has passed since I've seen my family last, and we pick up pretty naturally where we left off, but it's so bizarre to pick up so naturally when 12 whole months have passed since the last time I've seen them. It's like starting a conversation and then picking it back up as if it never ended, only to have had a change in perspective in the time between.
So much happens in a year -- it's been four years since my cousin Lindsay got married, and I remember so vividly the day in 8th grade when I played violin at her wedding, as if it were only a few weeks ago. And this year, my cousin Tim has a new baby, Carson. My other cousin, Erin, remarked that things were changing so much. And it was weird, because I was just thinking about how five minutes ago I was playing violin at a wedding without a single thought of college or even high school in my head.
And now my cousin has a baby, most of them have graduated and have jobs, I am going to college next year, and some of my grandparents can't remember the question they asked me ten minutes earlier. Am I even going to go out of town next year for Christmas and my birthday? Because if I only have a five day break where I can come home, I don't even know.
The mental state of my grandparents is startling. I come back each year and it is here where I notice the most has changed. My grandpa tells me stories over and over again; my other grandpa sometimes doesn't even remember my name because my sister and I are the only of his grandchildren that live far away. It's weird how our brains start to deteriorate; how we start to rely on others more and more simply to survive. It's ineloquent, but getting old scares the hell out of me.
I don't want to have kids who will grow up to think I am a technologically challenged embarrassment, who will push me away because they think they know better than me. But more than that, I don't want to lose my ability to think, to write, to recognize the people that I love. My dad's dad was an English teacher; he wrote so many poems that were cute and funny and beautiful. And now I look at him and see a fragile old man -- I mean, I see more than that, because he is my grandfather, the father of my dad and four other kids, the beginning of my family -- but I speak to him and I can tell that his mind is leaving him, when he asks me how old I am now two times in a row, and I have to smile and nod and tell him that I am seventeen, while inside my heart is breaking.
I guess I can't really think of a resolution to this post besides the fact that I shouldn't really be afraid of getting old, because I still have so much life to live ahead of me. And even if my brain starts to fail me, even if I start to forget the names of the people I love, I still have the chance to start something beautiful.
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| via julia carleton |
Thursday, December 23, 2010
seams (and apologies)
Since it has been 100000000 years since I last posted a blog entry, and my birthday is tomorrow, and I seriously need to update before midnight because it is shameful that I have waited even eight days to write a blog entry after my last one -- I am posting this essay that I wrote for English class last year that I might write a little more about tomorrow after I experience this birthday phenomenon again. I wrote this a little less than a year ago, so quickly, before it loses relevance, I am posting it on my blog :) Hope all of you have not lost interest in the midst of my crazy busy life, swim practice, swim meets, and failure to do blog posts, and I am so sorry that I have been so bad at posting entries lately.
As I look back on my life as the sixteen-year-old that I now am, it strikes me how much I have changed. Not only have my arms and legs stretched like taffy, but somehow, I feel much bigger, in another way. It is as if with the passing of time, layers upon layers of paint have been applied to my surface, and eventually I begin to look different. But just like the stretching of my limbs, it is impossible for me to make note of these changes as they happen – never have I woke up feeling distinctivelynot-me, not even on a birthday like today.
The closest I have ever gotten to feeling different, older, on any Christmas Eve is simply feeling that I ought to feel such things. After all, a birthday is nothing but a landmark in the grand scheme of things, but it is not a landmark at which I can pause and take a breath. I will wake up tomorrow in the same way that I did today, and I will be sixteen-plus-one-day, and I will feel the same that I do right now.
When I look back at my life with from my sixteen-year-old perspective, it strikes me how many layers of paint have been applied since the days of my past – and as every reminiscence gets closer and closer to right now, to today, to December 24, 2009, I fit inside each Celia I regard better and better. I am not sure when the seams of myself start to pull and tear when I try to fit, but by the time I reach fourteen, I am already trying to force myself into something that is, simply put, far too small to contain me.
But when I imagine occurrences and events that happened when I was smaller, suddenly I can slip into each and every version of myself as if I have not grown one inch. In my memory, I fit. I fit. I shrink; I am not sixteen. I am fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve; I am six, I am four. I am any number, every number. I am transported back to the very moment that I remember; I am reliving it. And I fit.
I wake up the morning of December 24, 2009, the bright winter sunshine filtering through my translucent eyelids, awakening my consciousness and memory, and I realize that I am the very same Celia that was born sixteen Christmas Eves ago. I feel like that same Celia. And though my limbs have stretched; though layers upon layers of paint have been applied every single day for the past sixteen years; though I am a work in progress, I will always be Celia, the same Celia, and in my memory, each version of myself will forever fit me like a glove.
Seams
I wake up the morning of December 24, 2009, the pallid winter sun knocking on my eyelids, and I realize that I am sixteen years old. Sixteen. I try on the number for size. It is made of different letters, but the fit is exactly the same as fifteen – which, when I think about it, had the same fit as fourteen, and thirteen, and every other number before it. But now, when I try these old numbers on, they squeeze and constrict in all the wrong places. How did I not feel myself getting bigger?
As I look back on my life as the sixteen-year-old that I now am, it strikes me how much I have changed. Not only have my arms and legs stretched like taffy, but somehow, I feel much bigger, in another way. It is as if with the passing of time, layers upon layers of paint have been applied to my surface, and eventually I begin to look different. But just like the stretching of my limbs, it is impossible for me to make note of these changes as they happen – never have I woke up feeling distinctivelynot-me, not even on a birthday like today.
The closest I have ever gotten to feeling different, older, on any Christmas Eve is simply feeling that I ought to feel such things. After all, a birthday is nothing but a landmark in the grand scheme of things, but it is not a landmark at which I can pause and take a breath. I will wake up tomorrow in the same way that I did today, and I will be sixteen-plus-one-day, and I will feel the same that I do right now.
When I look back at my life with from my sixteen-year-old perspective, it strikes me how many layers of paint have been applied since the days of my past – and as every reminiscence gets closer and closer to right now, to today, to December 24, 2009, I fit inside each Celia I regard better and better. I am not sure when the seams of myself start to pull and tear when I try to fit, but by the time I reach fourteen, I am already trying to force myself into something that is, simply put, far too small to contain me.
But when I imagine occurrences and events that happened when I was smaller, suddenly I can slip into each and every version of myself as if I have not grown one inch. In my memory, I fit. I fit. I shrink; I am not sixteen. I am fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve; I am six, I am four. I am any number, every number. I am transported back to the very moment that I remember; I am reliving it. And I fit.
I wake up the morning of December 24, 2009, the bright winter sunshine filtering through my translucent eyelids, awakening my consciousness and memory, and I realize that I am the very same Celia that was born sixteen Christmas Eves ago. I feel like that same Celia. And though my limbs have stretched; though layers upon layers of paint have been applied every single day for the past sixteen years; though I am a work in progress, I will always be Celia, the same Celia, and in my memory, each version of myself will forever fit me like a glove.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
once the vessel cracks open
"...But we’re not different sprouts from the same plant. I can’t be you; you can’t be me. You can imagine another well, but never quite perfectly, you know?"
For a week in the middle of the summer I traipsed through the hallways of a Navajo boarding school, through the red dirt roads of the Arizona desert, through conversation after conversation with highschooler and adult alike. Each day I woke up early, drenched myself in icy water spitting from a faucet that scarcely came up to my shoulderblades, dressed myself in outdated jeans and a t-shirt, and walked into the cafeteria where dozens of little Navajo children ate breakfast each morning of the school year. Each day, a hundred large brown paper bags, the type you use to pack lunch for not just one person, but three, covered the entire wall to my left.
Each bore the name of one person on our trip, some decorated simply, elaborately, intricately, humorously. Some featured cacti with their arms outstretched, suns dancing across the brown canvas, rock formations sprouting happily from the earth. Some made mention of a silly nom de plume, others reminded me to whom they belonged with a simple handwritten first name.
I found myself observing this wall every time I entered the cafeteria. Each bag was so different; each told a story about the person who created it, just like the notes we would write to each other would. Our task was simple: write kind words that would make someone feel warm and fuzzy, the feelings after which these notes came to be called. We would write these warm and fuzzies throughout the week and deliver them to their respective paper bag homes. At the end of our trip, we would untape our bag from the wall, dump out the pile of notes that had accumulated, and learn about ourselves through the words that others had written about us.
Throughout the week, I contemplated my notes to others. More so than the two years before, I found myself realizing that writing these warm and fuzzies was truly the method of communication at which I could excel. I found thoughts about people pouring into my brain from all directions, nice things to say accumulating with incredible speed.
Although I did not have a momentous event in my life to reveal to the group during our nighttime devotions, although I did not have a secret that I didn't even realize I was itching to reveal, more than anything else on the trip, I found myself obsessing over these written notes. What I certainly could have thought of as a simple way to uplift someone's spirits by telling them that they had a lovely personality turned into this incredible project for me to undertake, propelled forth by this sudden desire, this sudden hunger to make people feel this warmth, this fuzziness using all the power that I had -- words.
I guess it's something that I always come back to, but it's true: the greatest power that I possessed was my ability to use words to dictate my thoughts. I imagined the feeling that would overcome me if I received a note detailing the ways in which I had affected somebody's life, the tiny things they admired about me that I didn't even notice in myself. From this imagination sprung my insatiable hunger to make people feel those same emotions.
I wrote and I wrote, about everything I loved and admired in people, about the ways in which they changed my life. I put so much painstaking effort into trying to ensure that each person I wrote to understood the value and importance of their life in my own and in others', and I guess I didn't realize that the entire time I did so, I was hoping, praying that someone would write the same kind of note for me. Selfish as it was, I suppose it was true -- I told people the things that I would appreciate hearing more than anything in the world, poured every one of my thoughts out in order to show each person exactly the things I would have liked to hear.
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photo via grace brown ;) |
Among my own warm and fuzzies, I received only a few that reached the level of personal depth that I attempted to put into the ones I wrote for others. I would certainly not call it disappointment that filled me -- hearing any nice thing about yourself is enough to warm your stomach -- but I don't know how else to describe it. I wasn't disappointed because of what people had said about me, I was disappointed because of what people hadn't said. I guess I just wanted to know that my existence made somebody, anybody, feel something. But then something else was happening, something that made me feel warmer and fuzzier than any of the notes to me did. A few people approached me after reading my notes, thanking me for putting so much thought into them -- and I wanted to leap for joy.
I have been thinking about it recently, and I have realized that I am not the type of person who would be able to approach someone to thank them for a handwritten note -- I am the person who would write this elaborate thank-you. I have realized that words are the realm in which I know I am comfortable, and that others use other means to show other people their thoughts, like their actions or their voices.
Mostly, though, I have had to realize and accept that not everybody is me. Not everybody communicates in the same way that I do, and not everybody will even be able to appreciate this method in the way that I hope they do. I suppose what all of this really means is that I need to do things the way I can, show people how I feel using the tools that I am given, and accept with open arms the different ways in which others communicate. We can never truly be one another, but we should try our best to understand in whichever way we know how.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
i'm feeling so much righter now
"A single event can awaken within us a stranger totally unknown to us.
To live is to be slowly born."
To live is to be slowly born."
-- Antoine de Saint-Exupery
Last night, instead of blogging, I sat with my parents on their bed and watched myself grow up. Two heavy photo albums sat at the foot of the bed as I hungrily turned the pages of whichever third one remained sitting in my lap. The first one chronicled my life from the womb to my first birthday, the second lasted until Daria was born, and the third the first few years of my life with a sister.
As I turned each page, experienced the first months of my existence, I watched my parents. In the beginning, when my dark-haired dad would wear UC baseball caps and t-shirts, I saw in him these flashes of unparalleled youth -- he was practically a college student, a baby. Perhaps it was just his youth juxtaposed next to seventeen years later, but I found myself realizing that I am closer to my parents' age when they had me than they are now.
I thought about the seamlessness with which I have grown. I turned the pages of each photo album, and I went from a squishy, nondescript newborn to a little bald infant with blue eyes that would soon turn green. My body slowly grew to match the size of my head, which had sprouted white-blond hair, and I lost some of the baby fat that padded the falls that I soon would learn to eliminate from my everyday toddling. But in none of the pictures did I see a dramatic leap from one stage of my life to the other. Only when I flipped backwards a few pages at a time did I even witness a noticeable change.
I guess it's the same with picking out the pictures from middle school that will go in our end-of-the-year senior video. I look at my seventh grade self, awkward and gangly, with dirty blond hair, long and limp, and an overbite that seemed only to exist to accentuate my awkwardness. I look at these pictures, and I can scarcely believe how immature, how lame I was. And yet I remember in vivid detail the first day I hung out with my best friend, our eighth grade trip to Chicago, my sixth grade overnight trip to Camp Kern. I remember being this person, and I remember doing things, and I remember thinking that I was as mature as I could possibly be. And yet every year, I would look back on the year before, thinking about how weird I was, about how I lacked the social graces that everyone seemed to possess.
Perhaps becoming mature isn't being all-knowing and understanding social situations and not embarrassing yourself. Perhaps being mature is simply accepting the fact that there is always, always somewhere to go. Even if things are bad, they will get better. And even if I am feeling like I could not be cooler, I will probably look back on myself in two years and realize that I am far from it. Maybe I should focus less on maturity now, and focus more on being the person that I am constantly becoming.
"Life has meaning only if one barters it day by day for something other than itself."
Friday, December 10, 2010
when the light pressed up against your shoulderblade
I didn't post yesterday again, but I almost had a reason for that -- after school, I had swimming until 5:30, then lifted until 6:30, then did calculus and made my mom a birthday card and wrapped her present while she and my dad were at my sister's concert, then hung out with my parents.
I found myself kicking myself when I remembered that I had forgotten to write again yesterday, but then I gave it some thought. Maybe my isearch isn't about forcing myself to do something -- maybe it is about learning to develop new habits. And I think that on certain days, if I can't get around to writing because I am spending time with my family, that is not necessarily a bad thing. I have been thinking a lot lately and I am going to be leaving the house soon -- I am going to be alone, on my own. Because I will be seventeen when I graduate, I don't have that extra year of life within the walls of my parents' home. I ought to spend time with my parents because honestly, this is the last December 9th I will ever probably be home for.
I am exhausted and I have dryland, swim practice, and a swim meet tomorrow. The amount of swimming in my life is nothing less than excessive, but I keep getting yelled at by my coach, who asks me if I am going to "complain about swimming when I'm in college". But I don't think it's really me being lazy -- it's more just me being burnt out and ready to move on. And I am -- I'm ready to move on. I want to succeed this season, but I'm ready for some new scenery (and not to mention never swimming in that god damn pool ever again).
This is an awful post completely void of insight so I am going to keep it short and go read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao for the second time. I think forgetting novels is a lovely thing -- if you wait long enough in between the times that you read them, you can almost forget the little details and nuances that made you fall in love with it. And then you can fall in love all over again.
Goodnight!
I found myself kicking myself when I remembered that I had forgotten to write again yesterday, but then I gave it some thought. Maybe my isearch isn't about forcing myself to do something -- maybe it is about learning to develop new habits. And I think that on certain days, if I can't get around to writing because I am spending time with my family, that is not necessarily a bad thing. I have been thinking a lot lately and I am going to be leaving the house soon -- I am going to be alone, on my own. Because I will be seventeen when I graduate, I don't have that extra year of life within the walls of my parents' home. I ought to spend time with my parents because honestly, this is the last December 9th I will ever probably be home for.
I am exhausted and I have dryland, swim practice, and a swim meet tomorrow. The amount of swimming in my life is nothing less than excessive, but I keep getting yelled at by my coach, who asks me if I am going to "complain about swimming when I'm in college". But I don't think it's really me being lazy -- it's more just me being burnt out and ready to move on. And I am -- I'm ready to move on. I want to succeed this season, but I'm ready for some new scenery (and not to mention never swimming in that god damn pool ever again).
This is an awful post completely void of insight so I am going to keep it short and go read The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao for the second time. I think forgetting novels is a lovely thing -- if you wait long enough in between the times that you read them, you can almost forget the little details and nuances that made you fall in love with it. And then you can fall in love all over again.
Goodnight!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
locomotion
I have been going to bed at not-so-obscene hours lately, yet I have still been struggling against the incredible urge to dismiss my alarm clock and go back to sleep every morning this week. It's weird, I have gotten so good at waking up on my own, but this week, I have regressed so much. Maybe it's because it's so cold outside and my bed is so warm, or because it is pitch black outside at 6:15 in the morning as if it were like, 2 AM or something, or maybe it's just because the wear and tear of school and swimming has started to really take hold on me.
I can only hope that I am not running out of steam exactly one week before exams... I know that I need a break, but I can't afford to take one yet! And even when winter break starts, it's not like I'm going to have an easy life by any means... Christmas training is looming overhead, and the thought of practicing in that minuscule pool where the air is thick and hard to breathe and there are waves like the ocean frankly makes me wish that school would continue over the holidays. That, my friends, is how difficult my winter break is.
But I digress. I can't be losing steam right now because I truly do need it to do well on my exams. The last high school exams I will ever take... And I need to get good grades because I can't let my first semester senior year unflatter me... mehhhh.
I guess I thought that this post was going to be somewhat better than my one this morning, but I have been doing a lot of conversing and thinking as opposed to writing today, and I am feeling particularly ineloquent (perhaps I have wasted my writing innovation on the remains of my college essays..?). So these are boring posts with no audience in mind, which believe me, I hate to do. Today I was writing down things that I have observed since starting my blog, like a little progress report for my isearch paper, and I actually thought of a lot of things to write down. Hopefully this kind of post doesn't turn people off from reading this, because I will need your help if you have ever at any point read my blog!
My calculus answers are submitted to blackboard, my gov vocab quiz is going to remain un-studied for, and I am managing to squeeze by in every class by turning in work slightly late. Holding on by the skin of my teeth, but what else is new...? It is time for me to sleep, so that overwhelming urge to dismiss my alarm as the boy who cried Wolf does not hit me so hard when I wake up.
P.S. Because I don't like to submit posts without images, more senior pictures by Julia ! Yay!
I can only hope that I am not running out of steam exactly one week before exams... I know that I need a break, but I can't afford to take one yet! And even when winter break starts, it's not like I'm going to have an easy life by any means... Christmas training is looming overhead, and the thought of practicing in that minuscule pool where the air is thick and hard to breathe and there are waves like the ocean frankly makes me wish that school would continue over the holidays. That, my friends, is how difficult my winter break is.
But I digress. I can't be losing steam right now because I truly do need it to do well on my exams. The last high school exams I will ever take... And I need to get good grades because I can't let my first semester senior year unflatter me... mehhhh.
I guess I thought that this post was going to be somewhat better than my one this morning, but I have been doing a lot of conversing and thinking as opposed to writing today, and I am feeling particularly ineloquent (perhaps I have wasted my writing innovation on the remains of my college essays..?). So these are boring posts with no audience in mind, which believe me, I hate to do. Today I was writing down things that I have observed since starting my blog, like a little progress report for my isearch paper, and I actually thought of a lot of things to write down. Hopefully this kind of post doesn't turn people off from reading this, because I will need your help if you have ever at any point read my blog!
My calculus answers are submitted to blackboard, my gov vocab quiz is going to remain un-studied for, and I am managing to squeeze by in every class by turning in work slightly late. Holding on by the skin of my teeth, but what else is new...? It is time for me to sleep, so that overwhelming urge to dismiss my alarm as the boy who cried Wolf does not hit me so hard when I wake up.
P.S. Because I don't like to submit posts without images, more senior pictures by Julia ! Yay!
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| photo by julia carleton |
a whole team
Forgot to post again last night... I am a terrible person. As punishment, I am making myself write twice today even though I have a busy day ahead of me -- but Wednesday nights always get me thinking, so who knows if that will even be difficult.
Yesterday was my first high school swim meet of the season. We were up against two very small teams, so it wasn't a great opportunity to see the big competition for the year, but I still had fun nonetheless. I found myself sitting on the bleachers next to a freshman and realizing that I knew everybody on the team because they were all younger than me. Well, that is not entirely true, seeing as I don't know personally every one of the class of 2014 (and I am still sixteen and therefore half of the junior class is older than me), but in theory, I know everybody. And in theory, everybody knows me.
It was weird. Because I remember the relationship I had with my senior class when I was a freshman, and it was certainly less than personal (with the exception of a few kids on my club team). It was more of an admiration from afar, but I was even a club swimmer, doing well in meets, so I shouldn't have even been flying so far under the radar. I stayed out of sight and out of mind, basically, save for maybe the few people who traveled to districts and state.
I know I keep saying stuff like this, but I don't want to be that. I want to know these people. I want to, for the first time in my life, feel a connection with my high school team that is not only there because there are people from my club team also on the team. I suppose I can't say that I have been doing anything to change this in years past; as a junior I probably should have stepped up and fostered inter-team bonding, but it's difficult. I want to feel like a team, a whole team, and judging by the first meet, I think we are on our way to doing that. I am excited about our agenda (the swimming seniors had a double lunch meeting last Tuesday to plan for the season!) and our leadership, and I am excited to use the fact that I know everybody to help this along.
I love being a senior!
See you tonight...
Yesterday was my first high school swim meet of the season. We were up against two very small teams, so it wasn't a great opportunity to see the big competition for the year, but I still had fun nonetheless. I found myself sitting on the bleachers next to a freshman and realizing that I knew everybody on the team because they were all younger than me. Well, that is not entirely true, seeing as I don't know personally every one of the class of 2014 (and I am still sixteen and therefore half of the junior class is older than me), but in theory, I know everybody. And in theory, everybody knows me.
It was weird. Because I remember the relationship I had with my senior class when I was a freshman, and it was certainly less than personal (with the exception of a few kids on my club team). It was more of an admiration from afar, but I was even a club swimmer, doing well in meets, so I shouldn't have even been flying so far under the radar. I stayed out of sight and out of mind, basically, save for maybe the few people who traveled to districts and state.
I know I keep saying stuff like this, but I don't want to be that. I want to know these people. I want to, for the first time in my life, feel a connection with my high school team that is not only there because there are people from my club team also on the team. I suppose I can't say that I have been doing anything to change this in years past; as a junior I probably should have stepped up and fostered inter-team bonding, but it's difficult. I want to feel like a team, a whole team, and judging by the first meet, I think we are on our way to doing that. I am excited about our agenda (the swimming seniors had a double lunch meeting last Tuesday to plan for the season!) and our leadership, and I am excited to use the fact that I know everybody to help this along.
I love being a senior!
See you tonight...
Monday, December 6, 2010
i go to seek a Great Perhaps
"It's so hard to leave -- until you leave. And then it's the easiest goddamn thing in the world."
- John Green, Paper Towns
It's weird to think about leaving. While a year ago the only leaving I contemplated was the leaving of a few friends who were going to college, now it is my own of which I so frequently think. Leaving. Like, going off on my own. It sounds funny to say; it feels weird to type. Doesn't taste right in my mouth. And yet the word is so full of promise, so full of excitement, that I can't help but welcome it even as I cower in fear.
Aside from the fact that I have no idea what I am going to be doing with my life one year from now, or where I will be, leaving is scary because for the first time in my life, I will be truly independent. I will make my own decisions. No more stupid 11pm curfews when I get in trouble, no more being grounded. No more lectures and no more nagging about my grades. Yes, these things keep me on my toes, and yes, I am scared of having to keep track of all of the things in my life on my own, but at the same time, I will be responsible for making good decisions and trusting myself. It's weird that I won't have a pair of parents constantly threatening to relinquish their trust in me.
"Here's to all the places we went. And all the places we'll go."
- An Abundance of Katherines
I don't know where I am going, but I am excited. I am excited for what I will do and who I will become. Though I tremble in fear at the thought of the future, I also welcome it with open arms and an open mind.
"Francois Rabelais. He was a poet. And his last words were 'I go to seek a Great Perhaps.' That's why I'm going. So I don't have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps."
- Looking for Alaska
in other news: i got a 91 percent on my bc calc test today, which makes me want to cry of happiness. and i clearly love john green, but what else is new....
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
mais surtout, vive la différence
PLEASE NOTE: I am going to Nashville this weekend for a swim meet, so I probably won't have access to the internet to post blog stuff. I am going to try to write out blog entries each day, but we will see if that actually happens (swimming is a busy life.) If I don't get to write anything, know that I am thinking of you!
I just got back from a Wednesday night discussion, for the first time at the Hills' house (I suppose if you aren't a part of my youth group, I suppose this won't mean that much to you), and I must say that I am profoundly impressed. The atmosphere was just so, so, good for fostering discussion and I felt like a lot of people who are not normally very engaged were making great, thought-provoking contributions. It is very refreshing to hear these new perspectives, and this is probably the first Wednesday night that I have really been pushed to think about what the discussion means to me and what my opinions are when pitted next to the opinions of others.
But I was really moved by the fact that a few freshmen that don't normally talk spoke up and made a contribution. As a freshman in youth group, I attended these Wednesday nights every single week, and I would always sit in awe, listening to the upperclassmen discuss profound matters, thoughts spinning through my head at a million miles per hour. I would leave these discussions deep in thought, and it was these discussions that really made my freshman year infinitely more fulfilling and a much greater learning experience than it ever could have been otherwise. The comments that the upperclassmen would make would put into words either ideas that I had never been able to dictate, or ideas that had never before crossed my mind. Either way, the effect was profound.
Gradually I gained the ability to form my own opinions on what was discussed, but these thoughts stayed sealed up inside my head. I have no shame in admitting that I got C's on every one of my speeches in my oral comm class, simply because I am so much more of a writer than I am a speaker. I am the kind of person that, while eloquent in text, inadvertently adds ums and uhs to her sentences when speaking candidly; the kind of person that stumbles over the words that sound so perfect in her head. I don't think I ever spoke up once during a Wednesday night discussion my freshman year, in part because I was intimidated by the profound older kids, but also because of my discomfort with my own opinions and with going about their verbalization.
I figured that by my junior year, I would be confident enough to share my thoughts with the group. And while that was not entirely true, because my Wednesday night attendance wavered during that year because of the amount of schoolwork I had, I suppose I spent my sophomore and junior year preparing for what would come my senior year. And, yes, more senior year sappiness, but I feel that we are doing a very good job within the youth group with encouraging underclass participation, not because we try to force it, but because we try to act more open and welcoming than the seniors my freshman year ever did.
That is why having freshman participation to me was so touching. I feel like I am really doing something right with the group of seniors that are in my youth group. I feel like we are making people more confident with their own opinions and with vocalizing them. I feel like we are inspiring them, like we are helping them realize who they are.
And maybe I am the only one who really was this affected by these Wednesday night discussions. Maybe I am the only one who was really that scared to make their opinions vulnerable by putting them out in the open where they could be picked apart in discussion. But even if I am, at least I know that I have overcome this, and that I have even the slightest chance of helping someone do the same.
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