Trust

So here's the thing- I know I over-analyze most things. I know that not every conversation, not every situation, is worth the time and effort I spend on it. I know that everybody except me has long forgotten that time I said the wrong thing, or embarrassed myself. I know I need to quiet the inner voice that is constantly picking up on signals and reactions, because yes, people like me just fine and they aren't going to care if I say the wrong thing once in a while. I know I need to let go and just live a little.

It's all about finding a balance. The fact that I analyze makes me the person that I am. I wouldn't be writing blog posts if I didn't think it was important to spend time analyzing things and trying to find order in the chaos. I pick up on signals and reactions because I care about people, and that's a good thing. It's a good thing to be conscientious, caring, and considerate of other people's feelings.

But it's okay to have a conversation and let it just be that- a conversation. Words spoken but not analyzed to the point where there's nothing left. It's okay to dance and laugh and not worry about taking a wrong turn or two. Nobody else cares as much as I do. So I need to let go a little, and that's what I'm going to try to do.
Okay, before I go any further let's get this straight, this might never be something I'm good at. I'm never going to be spontaneous or easy going. I'm a little intense. I'm a little bit of a perfectionist. I analyze and I care. A lot.

However, I am going to try and go with the flow a little more easily. It's not about changing any of the things that make me the person I am. It's about trust. I'm want to trust that God is going to bring me through this. I don't need to hold on so tightly, grasping at control, when really, there's not a whole lot I can control. I can't control the people I love. They're going to make their own mistakes and that's okay. If they get hurt on the way I can be there to comfort and hold them tight, but I'm not going to protect them by trying to solve everything. I can't control the people that drive me crazy. I can't change the way they perceive things, I can't change their actions. I can only change the way I react, and the question I need to ask myself is do I really want to let this bother me to the point where it's taking all my joy? No. It's not something I can control, so I need to let go.

At the beginning of the summer there was a lot of school drama that was bothering me. I was over-analyzing small details and grumbling about all the things that were driving me crazy. I was worried about a future I couldn't control and I was scared as I looked towards a new school year looming in the future. That's when I found out about Ethan. Now, I've been wanting to write a blog post devoted to him for a while now, but I've been struggling to find the words. For a while I only told two people about my baby brother, as if I were protecting him by not talking about it. But I need to talk about it. I need people to know about him. I need people to pray for him, and for us. We have him right now, and he's beautiful.

I was so happy when I found out that my mom was expecting another baby. The day she told me I was sitting in one of the computer labs at school, there was a class going on in the lab next to me but I completely forgot and started squealing I was so happy. One of the boys sitting in the class pulled up the blind and made a face at me, which made me laugh harder. I knew right away that I was hoping for another brother- and he was. Ethan.

Ethan was diagnosed with hypo plastic left heart syndrome shortly before I came home from school for the summer. My parents waited to tell me till I was through finals and they could tell me in person. This means two to three heart surgeries. How can I leave when I know that my Mom will be in the hospital for a month with my baby brother? How can I leave him when I know that my brother will be lying in one of those little hospital beds, everyone carefully monitoring his little heart? I want to be there. I want to be in the waiting room if I can't get any closer.

Suddenly all those things I was trying to control and worrying about at school didn't seem to matter so much. They weren't something worth my worry, but they were an occasion of trust. I let go of a lot of those worries. I stopped thinking about it, and what do you know? God took care of it. It's almost humorous. I had a conversation with Ally at the beginning of the summer, and there were some problems that I rambled about, the topic of those same problems has cropped up a couple times now that we're reaching the end of the summer and in a sudden and dramatic change of events- PLOT TWIST. I'm not going to even use specifics, but lets just say it's ironic and humorous the way things work out. I think that's with a reason. Like, hint hint what is this saying about trust Emily? Let go of your control issues. It's going to work out. God is looking out for you, and He is looking out for Ethan.

So even though it's hard leaving now, I know it's something I have to do. It's a sacrifice that I can offer up for Ethan. My prayers are going to be just as important from school, where I can go to daily Mass and frequent adoration and in that place offer up my prayers for my brother. This is going to be even more of a sacrifice because I'm going to have to let go of that attempt at control. I couldn't control it even if I were here, in the waiting room, but it would feel like I was in more control than at school. But I'm going to let go of that. I can't control this but I can pray and I can trust. Even if I only have Ethan for a short while he has been such a blessing in my life and I'm so thankful for him. I love him and I'm praying we have many more days together, but I'm going to be thankful for every moment we've had.

Please keep this in your prayers.

Rereads and Read-alouds

I am a firm believer in the re-reading of old favorites. I am also a firm believer in read-alouds. This combination has been the beginning of a summer time read-aloud of Swallows and Amazons to my siblings. Yesterday we spread out a quilt and then sat (some of us on the quilt and some of us on the lawn) and read for hours.

First of all, on reading books again that you have already read. You gain something new every time. It doesn't matter if you've read that particular book a dozen times already, there will always be something new to take away from it. Sometimes they surprise you with how good they are, and sometimes they aren't quite as good as you remember them being, but it's still worth a reread. I think the book I've changed my opinion most about over the years is Rose in Bloom. I was so upset the first time I read that book I gave away the brand new copy I had just bought. Then I read it again and my opinion of the characters and their actions had completely changed. Instead of demanding the happy ending for a certain character, like I had done the first time, I was left feeling disappointed in him. Disappointed and disillusioned. I suppose that's why I love that book now. It's that one character. He's real and he breaks my heart. The first time I read that book there was a girlish desire to help him, to try and get him to live up to the potential I knew he was capable of. Of course you can't do that, and it's dangerous to try. You should never approach someone hoping to "fix them." (Even if the word "fix" is used with the context of a loving, caring figure trying to bring about good.) You can be represent good. You can teach in your choices and actions in your own life. You can be there to show love and support for the other person, but that's it. I didn't understand that idea the first time I read Rose in Bloom so I missed the whole point of the story.

On the other end, a book that I've read at least as many times (and probably more) but still haven't changed my opinion about is Jane Eyre. I keep rereading it hoping that it was my childish immaturity that made me hate it before, but no, I still hate it. More rightly I still hate Mr. Rochester, and I probably always will. It's too ingrained in my being now. Every time his name is mentioned I start mumbling and grumbling and things like "that manipulative, no good, lying..." come out of my mouth. Don't get me started. It's not pretty. I can appreciate Jane Eyre for other things, but my hatred of Mr. Rochester burns strong.

Swallows and Amazons as the current reread deserves to be mentioned again in this post. Now that is a book that brings back memories. We're currently still wading our way through the first six chapters (which to be honest are a bit excruciating. I mentioned it to my brother and he said "Oh my gosh. There was that one point where the boy is pretending to be a boat and he keeps tacking back and forth up and down the field. He just keeps going back and forth, back and forth. That field must have gone on for miles. I thought it would never end." and that's exactly how it is. Those excruciating paragraphs as Roger goes left, and then right, left and then right.) The thing is, after those chapters are over it gets good. It gets good because Nancy Blackett shows up and she's one of my favorite fictional characters ever. I loved her to death as a child and I still love her now. She brought all the humor to that series. She brought all the life. I can't wait to get to her because I know she's going to make my brothers laugh, and it will be so much fun. I love listening to them laugh when it gets to a funny bit. You can just see how much they enjoy it.

Which brings me to read-alouds. Read-alouds are wonderful. Not only do you get to enjoy the book yourself, but you get to share that enjoyment with those listening to you. You know that moment when you've lent someone one of your favorite books and you want to ask a hundred questions? WHERE ARE YOU AT? HAS THIS HAPPENED? DID THIS SENTENCE MAKE YOU LAUGH. DID YOU CRY. WHAT WERE YOUR EMOTIONS. TELL ME. It's never quite satisfying enough. You want to hear everything. It's not enough that you shared the book and they read it, you want to make sure that they understood. That's the great thing about reading books aloud. You have your listenings trapped in your greedy clutches, and you get to glory in every laugh, every word, every smile.

It's also awesome because you get to be the voice of all the characters. All I know is if there was ever a character I liked especially well I needed to read their dialogue out loud. It was so much more enjoyable hearing the words spoken. Getting to savor them. So I would read aloud. Even if I were alone. Yes, that's just another of the crazy things I did. I would be sitting alone in my room reading and suddenly I'd be pacing around the room, book in hand, reading the dialogue animatedly. The wonderful thing is, when you read aloud books to your siblings you can do that with the dialogue, but get this! Nobody thinks you're crazy. Novel, am I right? (I just inwardly died at my own sad pun. I think I might hate myself a tiny bit.)

Anyway, enough from me. So get to it! Hunt up an old favorite. Find someone to read aloud to. You won't regret it. In fact, you'll probably thank me. So in advance, you're welcome.

Cap-guns and bruises

Isn't it funny hearing stories about yourself as a child? Correction. Isn't it funny hearing stories which feature another person's perspective about you? End of sentence, period. It always varies so much from the way you perceived it.

The other day my Aunt was visiting. My favorite Great-Aunt. Mother of my favorite cousin. My first flight on my own was to visit this Aunt. That was about five years ago. (Isn't it funny/slightly ironic to think I'm flying across country at least six times a year now? Emily the homebody.) Anyway, that flight was my first. Fourteen years old. It was a big step. Especially for me. Like I said, I was a homebody. I didn't leave home for anybody. I didn't spend the night at my friends' houses. But I flew across country for this Aunt. That's just to give an idea how special she is.

So of course seeing my Aunt meant lots of reminiscing, which was interesting for me because I'm not ten years old anymore. Of course I remember being ten, I remember when my Aunt and cousins lived here like it was yesterday. It's just- I was ten, so of course I've grown up slightly since then. It's weird though because I insert my nineteen year old mentality into my recollections of being ten. Does that make sense? Granted, my thought process has remained the same even though my manner of expressing it has matured. For example, apparently I used to tell my cousins (when they wanted to play rowdy boy games) that we were "peaceable Indians." Have to say, that sounds exactly like me. (Probably because I said it) I was all for homemade bows and arrows, but I didn't want anybody getting hurt. Convert that to a situation and context fitting for the present year and my response would probably remain the same. Though, hopefully I shall never use the sentence "peaceable Indians" again.

Memories are funny things, they make you filled with joy at the thought of a plastic cap-gun bought at the dollar store. My Aunt mentioned the day that she took William and I shopping and then bought us cap-guns, and seriously, it made me want to steal one of my brothers' just so I could hold it again. Of course, I can never be ten again, crouching down in the back of a car shooting imaginary bullets, but I remember how happy I was while I was doing it. William pried off the orange plastic bit from the end of the barrel with his pocket knife, which made us feel much more validated. They looked far more like authentic cowboy pistols without that ugly plastic marring our perfect sight. Apparently too much so, because a lady at the gas station started scolding my Aunt Nora for letting her children have guns. I think our responding emotion was half glee and half condescension towards the stupidity of people at gas stations. What makes it weird is that while I know it would no longer be appropriate for me to play with cap-guns, it still feels like yesterday that I did so. I suppose that's the thing about growing up, it's like layering years upon years, so you still know what it feels like to be ten, eleven, twelve. I think it's important to keep that memory close. That's how you're going to understand, to relate to your children, to the children around you. Don't insist on remaining a child, don't keep firing those imaginary pistols after the time for them is over, that would be wrong. Keep the memory though. Keep what it felt like, and what made you happy. Share that memory.

Of course, memories are also a bit mortifying. Aunt Nora was saying that the boys still talk about how we used to catch frogs, and go climbing across these huge logs. Of course the descriptor of me was something like "she used to fall and get really hurt, Mom, but she would always get up and keep climbing as if nothing had happened." It went exactly like that too, you know. I don't think I stopped having bruises on my shins till I was sixteen. They were constantly black and blue. I was not graceful. (There's a reason I'm not holding my breath and waiting to get good at dancing. Not gonna happen. Not for me. I'm always going to be apologizing for running into my partner's elbow and taking a wrong turn. At least I can laugh at myself. I even laugh at myself while I'm doing it, I don't know if that's the best reaction but that's the one I have. I end dances out of breath, partly because I've laughed at myself so much, and partly because there's been so much spinning. I love the spinning.) I never stopped putting myself in situations where I was going to bruise up my shins some more though. I have a contrary urge to prove myself in situations like that, which is weird considering I am not competitive. At all. Zero. However, we would be looking up a tree and somebody would be like "Nah. Too High." and I would insist that I was just fine and I could scramble my way up. Then I did it.

I remember this one time especially, where I had climbed up really high and I knew the only way to get down was to jump and I knew it was going to hurt. I was scared, because I knew that in exactly thirty seconds I was going to be bleeding at the elbows and there were going to be new bruises, but I also knew that they were waiting for me to hop down and so I had to do it. Of course it was ridiculous because they could see me getting hurt. They saw that my elbows were bleeding. It wasn't like I just did everything causally as if it were no big deal. No, I did the climbing and the running, the tree fort building and the digging, and nothing stopped me and I always picked myself up and smiled and laughed at myself, but I was not quick and deft at these things like I was hoping to be. Instead, it was Emily. Just a little bit clumsy and a little bit too slow, tripping as I tried to jump over fallen trees and falling as I tried to swing from a branch. I wasn't going to cry though. Not over the bleeding elbows or bruised shins. It was a matter of pride. It was also a matter of pride that I never said it was too much. I would just keep going. It probably was too much considering how inept I was at it, but I would insist that I was fine and I was having a wonderful time. I was too. I suppose that's what made it worth it. Even though I was constantly getting hurt, I was still having the best time. I also didn't want them to think that I wasn't capable of keeping up. That's where the matter of pride kicks in. It's different than being competitive in say sports, see, that's where I'm not competitive at all. I was constantly proving myself to myself though. I could keep going, I could climb higher, I could do it. Sometimes that still kicks in. Especially in regard to things outside. Skiing or swimming. Hiking. It's the adventure of it. We all need a little bit of adventure in our lives. Something just a little bit dangerous. Where we can push ourselves to our limit, and see how fast we can go.

It's just funny seeing that continuity. You don't really change. You grow and mature, yes, but I compare my younger self and my older self and it's still just me. Just look my story of going skiing last February. I needed to cut off by myself and go as fast as I knew I could. There's that, and then there's the way I fell over at the chairlift and knocked down three people. Yeah, some things just don't change.

First Post of Summer

To be honest, I don't know how to begin this post. I finished my first year of college (almost a month ago.) I arrived home safely (almost three weeks ago.) I started work at my home library again (a little over two weeks ago.) Here is the first blog post of summer- served with a side of procrastination.

I wasn't really procrastinating though, I was adjusting. Actually, I'm still adjusting. I will probably keep adjusting till sometime in the middle of August. Then the new school year will begin and I'll have to start the adjustment process over again as a Sophomore. This is all new to me, okay? First Summer home after being a college student, and I'm still savoring the words college student as if they're brand new. It feels like I just opened up that big white envelope that told me I had been accepted yesterday. I know that a year has passed. I know that I have successfully completed Freshman Year. It's done, over, finis. It's just weird to say the words.

Of course, everybody asks the big question, and when I say the big question, I mean the BIG all inclusive, "so how was your first year of college?" question. Couldn't we start out a little smaller? How about a nice bite size question? Something a little less broad. I mean, how do you summarize a full year down into a socially acceptable and time conscious response? Obviously the answer is going to vary depending on how well I know the person. Some people get a short response, other people get a longer one, the problem I'm having is I'm still answering that question to myself. So how was your first year, Emily?

In the end, my best response is that it changed my life. It changed the way I think about things, respond to situations, and comprehend subjects. It changed me. I'm a different person than the girl who cried her eyes out in a pizza shop the night before I said goodbye to my parents. Not entirely different. I still cried my eyes out when my Mom said goodbye in April after our weekend in New York. I will probably still cry when I leave next August. It's okay to cry though. The tears mean that it matters.

Of course, you can't just throw around sentences like "it was life changing." I mean, that is the truth, but it just doesn't work as a response when somebody asks the question. Instead you say something like "It was good, yeah good. I really like my school, professors are wonderful, classes are great." Something like that.

Anyway, enough about school. This was supposed to be a welcoming summer post. A post about all the lovely sunny days yet to come. A blog post detailing the many blog posts I have planned. It wasn't much of a blog post, but it's a start. 

Diameters

In this post I shall demonstrate the highly intellectual study of the Em-Diameter. That is what it is called now. Normally I refer to it as "my diameter," however, in an intellectual post it ought to have an intellectual name, and that is the best I can do on short notice. This is a theory developed by yours truly. It involves the diameter of space in which people feel comfortable moving their arms.

Let me clarify.

Some people of big diameters:

Note the outstretched arms, the full circle of width, the joyous expression. Some people have large diameters and that's wonderful. 

Other people have small diameters:

These people's expressions of excitement will look something more like this. Please note, the still joyous facial expression. This is also perfectly acceptable. 

And then there are people like her: 

No comment.

You may ask how the knowledge of said diameter is of use for any practical application. Let me explain. Knowledge of your diameter can be both enlightening and edifying. You will feel exuberant as you breach your diameter in a moment of pure confidence. Try it sometime. Spread open your arms and burst through a set of doors with one true blow. However, I recommend starting slow. Pushing yourself too far can have a disastrous affect on your mental stability. It will lead to questioning your very identity. Therapy will be necessary. Let me refer you to our local therapy expert: stop by and ask for Ally sometime.  (Disclaimer: she will probably only tell you that you need therapy, so if you're looking for more than that please see an actual therapist. Which Ally is not.) 

In other words, your diameter can be the object of much self discovery. It is at least as valuable, and probably more so, than many personality quizzes to be found on the Internet. Let me remind you that the theory of diameters is still under much research, and subject to change. If you are interested in furthering this science please contact me. I will be very interested in hearing your thoughts on the matter. (Please do not contact however if you intend to express undo bias towards diameters that have a tendency to either extreme. All diameters are beautiful. Do not discriminate against people of the opposite size diameter than yourself. Such attitudes are unwanted. Thank you very much.)

Finals.

So Finals. The last six days are upon us. We are eagerly anticipating Summer. We are scrambling to memorize notes and learn syllogisms. We are writing in blue-books and trying not to hyperventilate thinking about tests. Why am I taking the time to write a blog post then, when I clearly haven't had time for the past couple weeks? Why now, during the ominous week of finals? Balance, my young friend, balance. That's what finals week is all about. Study, take a test, relax and recover, and repeat. I'm in the recovering from a test stage so I need to spend some time regaining focus and re-motivating myself. The end is in sight.
This is the first finals week where I've been able to get into a more balanced schedule (granted, I've only had two in college) however, the last one was awful. I didn't realize till the Friday of finals week that I was fourteen hours behind on work, so in addition to my regular nine a week, I was catching up on those fourteen. Finals week was a blur to me. I honestly don't remember much about it, except the day in the middle where I was getting lunch and Dr. Cuddeback came and said hi to me. I might have told this story before, but it is worth retelling with the context of finals. The way the conversation went was "Hi Emily, how are finals going for you?" A very flustered and nervous wreck of an Emily answered (now, I want you to picture a sleep deprived, shaking, wide eyed girl who was splitting her time between working fourteen hours and three days and trying to study, okay, got that phantasm firmly cemented in your little noggin?) "Oh dear, well good, that is, I JUST CAN'T WAIT FOR IT TO BE OVER AND I'M JUST PRETENDING IT ISN'T HAPPENING." Dr. Cuddeback "...well don't ignore finals." At which I felt very embarrassed and promptly dropped my soup and he cleaned it up for me.
I can thankfully say that I am not a nervous wreck this time round. At least, relatively so. It's nice being able to relax and breathe and then study hard because I have taken that good break and feel refreshed. Yesterday we went swimming in the river and it was such a good way to break up the afternoon between studying theology and studying more theology (I had a theology exam this morning.)
So yeah. Finals. That's happening.

Beg-gulls in New York

It's been a while since I've written anything. I don't know whether I should put this under the umbrella-excuse of being a busy college student, or to a lack of inspiration (my other umbrella-excuse), or simply to pure laziness. Perhaps it is a mixture of the three. Maybe some day I will have gained the level of dedication necessary to produce a steady amount of blog posts per month, or maybe (and I rather think this more likely) ten years from now I'll still be posting ten blog posts one month and none the next. I know I'll still be writing- but that's a given.

First, a quick update. Mom, Kelli, Marcus, and Jordyn will be flying in tomorrow to come visit me. I can't wait. Also, I will be experiencing New York for the first time. I still think of New York as being across the country, and it's strange to think that really, I'm just a few hours away from it. Maybe driving there will make it seem closer. It's funny because I'm honestly just really looking forward to getting a cup of coffee and a bagel with my Mom. (Have I mentioned breakfast is my favorite?) As a random side note I apparently pronounce bagel funny, because every time I say it people mimic the way I said it. Monica tried to tell me how I said it by putting it this way "You say bag like beg and then at the gull to it so it sounds like beg-gull" but honestly, there is a difference between the way I say bag and the way I say beg. They are entirely different. Ah well. Apparently I make my check-marks backwards as well. Let's just put it down under quirks of Emily and be done with it.

Have I ever said I love surprises? That is, I love to put together surprises. I found the dearest little finger-bowls today and they're going to make the perfect surprise. I'm ever so pleased with them. They are just right, just right indeed.

I don't have very many other interesting things to put down, especially considering I ought to be studying Theology this very minute and every minute more that I spend typing is a minute less that I have to study. The guilt I impose on myself is a terrible thing. I guess I just want to add that I'm so thankful that I go to school here. I really am. I'm thankful that I have such good friends. Friends who drink coffee with me and with whom I can discuss ideas, hopes, dreams, imaginings and realities. It's very rare that you find people like that. I'm very blessed.

Emily's Random Stories

At the Library:

Carrot top boy: "Emilia, how art thou?"

External Emily: "verily well, I do indeed have the Latin book you seek."

Inward Emily: I have long dreamed of this day when I will be spoken to in a manner befitting a young woman belonging to a novel. Only at this school. I love my life.

-------------

Note to self: avoid sitting next to Jason of the golden locks. (Okay, fine, that was a bad reference to Jason and the golden fleece, I don't know why I thought that would work. It was funny in my head.) The fact of the matter is he cannot sit still. Seriously, he's as bad as sitting next to Eli. You would think he would have learned to control the wiggles by this point, but no. Shift, shift, wiggle, wiggle. Sit still Jason. First he was leaning over to my side of the table (and when I say my side, I'm not being selfish, this is a crowded class, there's only so much room at the table. You have to claim your writing space, and that was my writing space) and here's Jason leaning in on that, and suddenly he's rocking back in his chair, then he's chewing on his pen cap, then it's shift, shift, wiggle, wiggle. Inward Emily: No, you cannot elbow Jason and hiss at him like he was your brother. 

----------------

12:33 AM. Emily walking Monica back to her dorm (unrelated note, no she is not wearing a jacket or shoes, but IT'S LIKE TEN FEET, OKAY?)

Emily: "Goodnight, Monica."

Monica: "Goodnight, Emily."

Emily walks back.

Male voice "Sweetheart, you're going to catch your death of cold."

Exterior Emily: "Er, okay. What are you doing still out and about?"

Male voice transforms from creepy to goofy: "The night is still young, the night is still young."

Interior Emily: ARE YOU TRYING TO GIVE ME A HEART ATTACK? I THOUGHT YOU WERE A REGENCY VILLAIN LURKING IN THE SHADOWS CALLING ME SWEETHEART. SWEETHEART YOURSELF. I JUST ABOUT SWOONED OR STARTED SHRIEKING. NEVER AGAIN. I DON'T CARE THAT IT'S ONLY TEN FEET TO THE OTHER GIRLS DORM. NEVER. AGAIN.

-------------------

There I am sitting at my nice little corner desk in the computer lab, typing away, like the good little student that I am, and in walks Jason.

Jason sees Ruby sitting at a computer.

Jason opens his mouth.

Jason proclaims loudly "RUBY. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? THAT IS MY DESK. I SIT THERE EVERY NIGHT. YOU KNOW I DO. WHY WOULD YOU TAKE MY DESK?"

Emily hums happily to herself: happy little Emily typing away, good little Emily minding her own business, nice little Emily doing lots of work.

Jason turns, sees Emily. "EMILY. YOU SAW ME SITTING THERE LAST NIGHT. TELL HER."

Emily:

Emily:

Interior Emily: Don't you go involving me. I got nuthin' to do with this. Nuthin' at all.

Exterior Emily: "No comment."

----------------

Emily walks into a room and hears uproarious laughter.

Interior Emily: *sniff* Oh the unrestrained vulgarity of the modern age, with it's unrestrained laughter and boisterous common folk. Peasants. 

Emily walks out of the room.

----------------

Emily walking down the dip (the downward path) in the dark:

Upperclassman: "hi Emily."

Exterior Emily: *nods* "Hey."

Interior Emily: WHO ARE YOU? DO I KNOW YOU? HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME? HOW CAN YOU SEE ME? I WALK IN THE DARK, HOW IS IT THAT YOU CAN YOU SEE MY FACE?

#over-analyzing

(I USE THE HASH-TAG IRONICALLY, OKAY?)

Basically, I think the answer is laser vision. Everybody has laser vision but me.
----------------
Emily, musing: "hey, so you know that guy? Of course you know that guy, everybody knows that guy. ANYWAY. I think he's a werewolf. That is, he's not right now, but he has the potential of being one. He looks just like the sort of character in a book that would become one. The solder like coat, the hair that sticks up, the overly large smile when he walks by you. WEREWOLF."
-----------------

Dickens Night With Ally

This semester I'm living by a new goal, a goal that corresponds perfectly with this quote:

“Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you're supposed to. Stay home on New Year's Eve if that's what makes you happy. Skip the committee meeting. Cross the street to avoid making aimless chitchat with random acquaintances. Read. Cook. Run. Write a story. Make a deal with yourself that you'll attend a set number of social events in exchange for not feeling guilty when you beg off.” 
― Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking

This is not to say I am not planning on pushing myself, I've simply made a resolution to stop pushing myself to the point where I'm unhappy about it. Perhaps that sounds strange, but that's what I did last semester. I was so caught up in the idea that I had to be social, I had to meet people, I had to push myself to be outgoing, extroverted and enjoy myself in doing so, but in the process I lost my sense of perspective. I pushed myself to a point where I came away feeling drained, unhappy, and insecure. 

That is not what your free time should feel like. It is important to set out time to socialize, but only to the extent that you come away feeling refreshed and invigorated. It's also important to set out introvert time. There is a time for visiting, a time for laughter with friends, but there is also a time for quiet, for tea, and for what Jane Austen would call tête–à–tête conversation (the private conversation between two persons), and thus was Dickens night born.

Dickens Night is the night of the week that Ally and I claim our necessary introvert time. We sip tea, we have nice conversations, and we enjoy the quiet. It is dubbed "Dickens Night" in honor of Little Dorrit, which was our excuse for our introvert time. Each night we would watch a couple episodes or so, until we finished the series (which we did a couple of days ago.) and come away feeling ready to dive back into our busy days of socialization with a renewed vigor. Sadly, Little Dorrit ran out of episodes, so Dickens Night is on hold until we proceed with Our Mutual Friend some time next week. It's a nice pattern to have, let me tell you. I get to spend time with Ally, we get our introvert time, and we go to breakfast the next day all ready to make conversation with our fellowman. You see, everyone's happy!

I suppose the thing I want to emphasize in making this post is the importance of carving out introvert time for yourself. It is important to find a time of quiet, a time to recharge. It is important to go with that natural inclination, you will know the right time for quiet and the right time to be social. Go with what makes you happiest. Now, I'm not saying don't push yourself. By all means, go outside your comfort zone, do something bold, bright, courageous, just make sure you're doing it for the right reasons. Don't do it because you think you have to. Don't do it because you're trying to make yourself be like everyone else and enjoying their pleasures and pastimes rather than your own. Do it because you want to.

To finish as a began, with some very nice, very true quotes (in fact you really should read this book. It's very good.)

“The secret to life is to put yourself in the right lighting. For some, it's a Broadway spotlight; for others, a lamplit desk. Use your natural powers -- of persistence, concentration, and insight -- to do work you love and work that matters. Solve problems. make art, think deeply.” 
― Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking

“Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you're supposed to.” 
― Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking

Just Another Day in the Life of Emily

It's that time again!

What time?

Story time with Emily! (As you probably know by now that often takes to form of me regaling you with embarrassing stories. Perhaps I find further mortification edifying, perhaps I want to read upon my misfortunes in my old age and weep, perhaps I simply have a strange sense of humor and find myself humorous. There is humor in the ridiculous. Methinks the last explanation comes closest to the truth, but I will leave you to come to your own conclusions.)

As you know, I recently went on a ski trip. The following is a take away story from that trip and I wish you joy in it. Most people when they go skiing tend to have the normal accident stories that go hand and hand with snow sports. "Whoopsy-daisy, I fell down!" That sort of thing. Not Emily. For a good hour and a half I was accident free (surprised? I thought you had more confidence in me than that! Ehem, who am I kidding?) Honestly, I might have been getting a little bit over confident. I hadn't been skiing in three years and I was speeding down the slope with the greatest of ease. I started composing poetry in my head, I started gazing off in the distance dreamily, I started telling myself I was quite the little skier. I should have known it wouldn't last for long. Now, if we are going to take preferences into account, I'd like to state here and now that I would have preferred to have my comeuppance out of the site of man and beast, but then, our preferences in such cases often don't count for much. My story was not a little fall, it was not a little bump, it was not something that people say "Whoopsy-daisy" about. Oh no, when I fall I take out three people in the process. That's just how Emily's roll. (That was a pun, hardy har har, as you will soon see.) That's right I barrel-rolled. And took out three people. Don't forget that fact. I was just minding my own business, skiing along like the little skier I was, and then I came to the chair lift. Now, let it be known, I don't like getting on chair lifts. Anyways, there was a guy from school waiting at the bottom and I went to say hello because I'm polite, or try to be. So after I finished talking to this guy I said in a chipper tone (because I'm a chipper sort of being) "Well, I'll be seeing you, I'm going to go down again!" Little did I know, that he was the one that would be seeing me: barrel-roll under a chair lift. That's right. I misjudged the time. What can I say? I never had a good sense of timing. There were three innocent looking fellows about to get on a chair, I thought I'd get on the next one, I misjudged the time and skied in too fast and knocked them down like bowling pins. (What's ironic about this is that I'm not good at bowling and I get gutter balls more often than not. That is unless I am the bowling ball. My new mantra in life is don't be the bowling ball. Be anything but the bowling ball. Just don't be the bowling ball.) So the chaps went down, I rolled, I apologized profusely (probably a bit too much, in fact), and now I'm wondering how I can avoid the group of people from school who witnessed the incident for the rest of my college career.

But really, skiing was amazing. I want to go again. Nobody can say I'm not resilient.

My other random story for today is to comment on the young man who walked past the library desk while I was working last night. I don't think you understand, Sir, the complete in-decorum of singing that particular Seven Brides for Seven Brothers song in public. I realize it's a catchy tune, but you might want to remember that there are young ladies present and it might come as quite a shock to one of them to suddenly hear "Bless your beautiful hide wherever you may be..." (you know the rest) sung in a deep voice as you wander your way through the library. Just a suggestion, don't take Adam as a role model. Things turned out for him, but he was very lucky. Very lucky indeed. 

Sunday Morning at College

Sunday mornings at college are lovely. Of course, they still make me a bit homesick, because I miss the Sunday routine at home: going to Mass with my family and then donuts and coffee on the way home. (Yes, I know, Mom, you're shaking your head at me while reading this and reminding me that I romanticize it and that Jack and Riley are in the backseat poking each other with chocolatey fingers, but I'm going to insist that I miss that too. Call me crazy.) Anyway, there's something lovely about the Sunday morning routine here too. I love being able to walk to Mass in the morning. It's one of my favorite things about this campus. I can get up, get ready, put on my coat (and hat and mittens and don't forget the scarf! It's cold here.) and walk down the winding little path, over the little bridge and into our beautiful chapel. (you see? I romanticize everything. I could have described it as an ice cold walk where my fingers turn purple and I start panting like a little puppy- but I won't. I'm going to describe the cold as invigorating.)

Our chapel is beautiful here, and Sunday Mass is the best because the choir sings. Their voices are like angles from above. (That includes Monica. I have such talented friends.)

Another thing I like about Sundays here is brunch. (Not for the food, never for the food) but for the company. I love the atmosphere of Sunday brunch, visiting with people over coffee (Did I mention I always bring my French Press down to the commons for Sunday? I refuse to drink commons coffee because I am a coffee snob and so I bring my own coffee. Aren't I a hipster?) and talking about Aristotle's definition of friendship. Yes, that's the thing I like most about brunch here, it's perfectly normal to jump into a conversation where everyone's arguing wholeheartedly about different interpretations that could be taken from Aristotle. See, that's the thing about Christendom. Everyday life is an education. Education is not restricted to the classroom, or to studying, it stealthily steeps into every conversation. We're growing in our ability not only to think, but to really truly converse. It's so sad looking at people today and seeing how very few truly know what it is to have a good conversation. Conversation tends to be restricted to people, to gossip, and it should be filled with ideas. (I am so sorry for the amount of parenthesis and italics I'm using tonight. I don't know what's happening, other than I feel like I'm whispering when I use parenthesis and sometimes things need extra emphasis.) It's good to have friendships and acquaintanceships  (I don't think that's a word, but I'm using it) with people who want to discuss ideas. It's good to sit down and find yourself in a heated argument about the definition of friendship, which suddenly turns into a sidetracked conversation about Disney music, and then goes back to friendship.

Sunday mornings at college are lovely.

Adventure is Out There

In about an hour I'm leaving on a trip to go skiing. Perhaps I should spend this hour doing something productive (in other words, studying) but the sudden impulse has filled me to write a quick blog post. I've been meaning to sit down and write one ever since last Sunday (I actually do have a more formal one planned, something on the topic of Springtime and new life, but that would involve sitting down and concentrating, and transferring the picture I took from my camera- anyway, you know how it goes.)

I'm really excited to be going skiing though. Not only is skiing something I love, but I feel like I'm going on an adventure, and that's a pleasant feeling, indeed. In Padre's class he often goes on mini rants about what students spend their free time doing. I actually love when Padre goes on one of his rants about that, because there's so much truth to it. There was a Latin phrase that he had us write down in our notebooks (and I would replicate it here but I'm not a Latin scholar and I don't have my notebook with me) but it essentially meant 'work and play hard.' Something along those lines. It's just so true. So much of our time we spend passively doing things, part studying, part procrastinating, part socializing, but never giving our all to any of it, and that's not the way it should be. We should be on fire. When we study we should give our whole mind and heart to what we're working on, when we play it should be to do something memorable and lasting, unlike passively watching movies that you don't even really care about.

That's what I feel like I'm doing today. This is a memorable adventure, it's going out and doing something lasting and worthwhile, with people of my community at college. It's doing something active, exciting and meaningful. Tomorrow I'll be devoting my morning to studying hard, and today I'm going to do something fun.

Emily out.

Longer post later.

Change

Hello blog dear, I've been away. I suppose that's part of being at college though, you will have to bear with me as I neglect but never forget you. So, before I get too caught up in mindless babbling, let us begin with the actual topic of this post. (Yes, half of it will probably be babbling, because that is what I do best.)

The other night I was noticing all the quotes that people had put up in the hallway of my dorm. It's interesting what you can learn about people from the quotes they select and display. To put it into a mildly sentimental sentence- you could say quotes are like windows into the soul. (See, I warned you it was a sentimental sounding sentence!) Anyway, the night I was walking past the one that caught my eye was one by Scott Fitzgerald: "It’s a funny thing about coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You realize what has changed is you." 

It's one of those quotes that gets you to musing. I've been thinking about how true it is, but not just from home. (Actually, I don't really find it relevant with home at all. At least, not to the point where it is worth mentioning, because home is a different story altogether.) Particularly I find this quote relevant in my relations with college dorms. I guess it stands out to me because with college there are all these funny transitions with breaks and what-not, where you are separated from what becomes your daily life, and then you are thrown back into it, and everything is the same, but so different. The things that are the same are the laundry hamper, the blankets on your bed, the pictures on the wall, but most especially the daily routine you fall into of trudging down the hall at exactly the same time every morning. Everything looks, smells, and feels the same, it's the same routine that became so habitual last semester, but even though there is all that sameness there is so much different.

It's just a very fascinating thing to think about because it's very rare that you get to have such a close observation of your own change. I feel like that is put badly, but I don't know how else to word it. See, we're constantly in a state of change, a state of growth, and whether we're growing in good habits or bad ones there is still always that sense of change. Normally we can't pick out that change in ourselves, because it happens so gradually, but with going away to school and coming back it's easier to pick out little things that you feel differently about even from break to break.

Even in our relations with other people there is that sense of change in yourself. I'm going to school with exactly the same people that I started out the first semester with back in August, and yet my knowledge of all of them is so different. This is something I've thought a lot about, because you can look back at all those first impressions you had and realize how different people are from what you first thought them at introduction. Maybe that change is in you, maybe it is them, maybe (and this is most likely) both. Oddly enough, this topic goes quite well with what we're talking about in my Philosophy of Human Nature course. We've just started to delve into talking about what constitutes nature, but one of the first things we've talked about is how something that distinguishes things that are constituted by nature from those that are not is the impulse towards change and growth.

Long story short, isn't it funny, that feeling of sameness and difference? To look at something and remember exactly how you felt when you beheld it for the first time, and at the same time be looking at it through different eyes and with different understanding.

Philosophy and Jane Austen

Beware, the following post may get a bit involved and lengthy, but it's a post I've been meaning to write up since mid-semester last year. Dedicated to my darling Dr. Cuddeback companion: the lovely Alexandra.

In Philosophy class Alex and I like to make connections to Jane Austen. That's just what Austenites do. If something is worth mentioning, it is worth mentioning with reference to our noble patroness. So naturally, when we got to the part of the class where we talked about Plato's Allegory of the Cave, we looked at it in the eyes of dedicated Austenites and drew a most brilliant connection. For the purpose of this post I must first make some explanation of what the Allegory of the Cave is all about, however, and as I don't feel up to the task myself I have found a brief (yes, this is the briefest one I could find) explanation of it. (You'll thank me later, if I put this into my own words you would find yourself in the greatest muddle.)

The Allegory of the Cave

1. Plato realizes that the general run of humankind can think, and speak, etc., without (so far as they acknowledge) any awareness of his realm of Forms.
2. The allegory of the cave is supposed to explain this.
3. In the allegory, Plato likens people untutored in the Theory of Forms to prisoners chained in a cave, unable to turn their heads. All they can see is the wall of the cave. Behind them burns a fire.  Between the fire and the prisoners there is a parapet, along which puppeteers can walk. The puppeteers, who are behind the prisoners, hold up puppets that cast shadows on the wall of the cave. The prisoners are unable to see these puppets, the real objects, that pass behind them. What the prisoners see and hear are shadows and echoes cast by objects that they do not see. Here is an illustration of Plato’s Cave:
4. Such prisoners would mistake appearance for reality. They would think the things they see on the wall (the shadows) were real; they would know nothing of the real causes of the shadows.
5. So when the prisoners talk, what are they talking about? If an object (a book, let us say) is carried past behind them, and it casts a shadow on the wall, and a prisoner says “I see a book,” what is he talking about?He thinks he is talking about a book, but he is really talking about a shadow. But he uses the word “book.” What does that refer to?
   
6. Plato gives his answer at line (515b2). The text here has puzzled many editors, and it has been frequently emended. The translation in Grube/Reeve gets the point correctly:

   “And if they could talk to one another, don’t you think they’d suppose that the names they used applied to the things they see passing before them?”

7. Plato’s point is that the prisoners would be mistaken. For they would be taking the terms in their language to refer to the shadows that pass before their eyes, rather than (as is correct, in Plato’s view) to the real things that cast the shadows.If a prisoner says “That’s a book” he thinks that the word “book” refers to the very thing he is looking at. But he would be wrong. He’s only looking at a shadow. The real referent of the word “book” he cannot see. To see it, he would have to turn his head around. (http://faculty.washington.edu/smcohen/320/cave.htm)

So basically, there are several levels of knowledge. There is the looking at shadows and believing them to be reality, there is the turning your head and seeing the shadows for what they are, there is the emerging from the cave and seeing reality (but after being in the cave so long your eyes are going to be blinded by the light and you aren't going to grasp it all) and then there is the moment where your eyes have adjusted and you finally take it all in. 

Now comes the moment where I get to explain our Jane Austen comparison. 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that there are many different kinds of Jane Austen fans, and there are many different levels of comprehension for her work. These levels of comprehension correspond with the levels of knowledge. So first we have, what I will call the

LOST IN AUSTEN FANGIRL

She professes to be Jane Austen's biggest fan. She proclaims she has read Jane Austen's books so many times she has lost track (please note, she only ever mentions Pride and Prejudice.) She talks about how she dreams of living in the regency era (and yet, she has practically speaking no knowledge of how to survive in that time period) The fact of the matter is that the Lost in Austen fangirl talks about being obsessed with Jane Austen but what she's really obsessed with is Colin Firth in a wet shirt. Example A.

If you've seen Lost in Austen you will know what I'm talking about..

By this time you can probably guess what level of knowledge I'm drawing this comparison to. The Lost in Austen fangirl is like the person absorbed with the shadows on the wall. They see, but they do not see. They cannot get past Mr. Darcy in the wet shirt, and they cannot get past the shadows of what is there to be seen. It is a superficial knowledge, a knowledge that does not get past the very cover of things.

We then proceed to the second level.

THE BBC PRIDE AND PREJUDICE FANGIRL

This fangirl watches the BBC adaption of Pride and Prejudice on repeat. She adores everything about it. Now, don't get me wrong, the BBC adaption is the best of all adaptions. It is the one that comes closest to capturing the essence of the story, but in this fangirl there's still a lot of obsession with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy.

Then we have:

THE FIRST TIME READER

Now, I don't know about you, but the first time I read Pride and Prejudice I just thought of it as a ripping good story. I wasn't looking for deeper meanings, themes, or motifs, I was just enjoying it for the storyline. It amused me and I laughed with the characters but it didn't lead me to deep arduous contemplation on humanity or human nature. You see the reality, but it's too bright to take everything in.

last but not least we have:

THE DEVOTED AUSTENITE

The one who read Jane Austen and see all that is there. They who look beyond the portrayal of the characters from movie adaptions, beyond the story itself, and look for the world as seen through Jane Austen's eyes. This is the reader who is trying to learn from what is written, finding depth and finding meaning. 

In short, this has been a comparison between the different levels of comprehension in the Jane Austen reader, and Plato's Allegory of the cave.

Death Comes to Pemberley

Okay so let it be known that I was more than a little skeptical when I heard about Death Comes to Pemberley. First of all, because I had seen various copies of this book in bookstores and had scoffed scornfully and had marched off without a second glance at the cover. This is because for the majority of the time Pride and Prejudice spin-offs (especially the more fantastical ones) are a crime against literature, and most certainly not Emily approved. However, I have a soft spot in my heart for Jenna-Louise Coleman and after hearing that she played Lydia Bennet my interest was caught.

I mean, look at that hat! Look at that ruffled collar! Look at the lovely red color of that gown! To be quite honest I was sold by screenshots and gifsets. A+ for marketing, oh great interwebz. So first off let me just say that Jenna Louise Coleman was fantastic. I was very interested by the portrayal of Lydia Bennet in Death Comes to Pemberley. I felt like she was really well fleshed out, and the continuation of her character from what we are given in Pride and Prejudice was both well done and fascinating. Also, can I have a round of applause for the casting of Mr. George Wickham?

Matthew Goode was excellent. In fact, he might very well be my favorite actor to play Wickham in a period adaption. See, the problem usually is that movies make Wickham so obviously despicable. Part of the allure of Wickham is that he IS alluring. He's handsome, he's eloquent, he draws you in and makes you overlook his flaws. Even once his real character is revealed there's still something appealing to him. Give us some credit Hollywood, we are rational beings (mostly) and we can sort out a good fellow from a bad one without you casting him as ugly and repulsive. 

So basically, let's hear it for the Wickhams. They make this movie.

Overall this production is gorgeous. The costumes are lovely, the cinematography is beautiful, the casting is for the most part well-done. As a continuation to the story of Pemberley it is delightful. However, as a mystery it's a bit of a flop. I feel like most of the scenes that were meant to connect the plot together were a bit awkward and also predictable. This might be because I have read A LOT of Agatha Christie's, so I have a high standard for mystery plots. This one was a dud. Pemberley and mystery is a bit of an awkward mix. Though this combination lead to a furthering of the Wickham storyline, which as I have said, was thoroughly well done, it remains I wasn't fond of the mystery element.

I have two other complaints. First COLONEL FITZWILLIAM. Badly done. Badly done, indeed. I shook my fist heartily. He was the only character who stood out like a sore thumb as completely out-of-character. I love Colonel Fitzwilliam of the book, where did this moody brooding creature come from? Seriously, the guy brooded for the entire three hours. There's nothing attractive about a furrowed brow, my good sir. Kindly uncrease your forehead and start acting like a proper Colonel Fitzwilliam. My other complaint is similar, but not as emphatic. I felt like Elizabeth Bennet was a bit bland and stale and even a bit *gulp* dull. She didn't stand out, but that's the problem, Elizabeth Bennet was meant to stand out. She was meant to sparkle. This Elizabeth had no sparkle to her. She might have passed as one of Jane Austen's other female characters, but she was not the Elizabeth Bennet we all know and love.

(Sidenote: I always get ridiculous amounts of pleasure whenever children appear in regency films, and the Darcy children were adorable. With their little cravats, oh my good heavens. They deserve a cupcake.)

All and all it was quite enjoyable and I do recommend, if purely for the Wickhams' sake, which is a sentence I never thought I would be saying.

Did I mention Georgiana was adorable? I want her bonnet. 

Also, someone uploaded it to youtube, so it's available to watch there. Thank you kind sir or madam, whoever you are.

To be a Librarian

If you know me, you probably know that my dream job is to be a Children's Librarian. I have frequent rants about it. Well, rants implies being irritated and launching into a lengthy monologue because of it, what I mean instead would be launching into a lengthy monologue simply because I'm passionate about the subject and enjoy talking about it. I know being a Librarian isn't the best paid job, I know that it might be hard to find a job, I know that there's a lot of school involved, but I also know that it's the thing that I get most excited about, the thing that I want to work towards. I've always loved books and because of that I've always loved libraries. I have been a frequent visitor to my hometown library since before I can remember, and I have been working at libraries since my sixteenth birthday when I was finally old enough to apply for my first job. I'm eighteen now and working part time at the library at my college, as I have mentioned before. I think I officially decided I wanted to be a Librarian the second year of working at my Library. (When I say my library that would be this one: http://www.jclibrary.info/)

I specifically want to be a Children's Librarian because I love kids. That sounds a bit obvious, I know, but I want to be there for them. Education is such a beautiful wonderful thing, and I feel like part of the problem with our education system as it is, is that the love of it is sadly not emphasized. The emphasis is on grades, it's on getting through, and there's something so sad about that. The child who loves to read, who loves to learn, is far more likely to succeed with their education, because they are the ones who are going to go above and beyond. They are the ones who are going to want to pick up books that they read about in other books because they are interested. Instead of just filling the requirements they are going to want to do more, find out more, discover more. Part of the beauty of being a Children's Librarian is that it's part of their job to work out introducing this love of learning. As a Librarian you are outside of the school system, and yet you are someone that students come to for help and advice. Whether it is for school or for free-time, you get to introduce books, all the books that you have loved and that have changed your life.

Also, crafts. Arts and crafts are the best, and guess what a Children's Librarian gets to do? Design fun programs! Summer programs, and programs for drawing, reading, etc, etc. Does that sound like fun or what?

The other reason I want to be a Children's Librarian is something I learned while working at the library over the years. There are so many kids who come to the library who need someone. You see so many kids who so obviously don't have anyone, their home lives are less that ideal. There are kids who come to the library after school because there isn't anyone at home. Or come to the library with their parents and behave terribly, but really what they're doing is seeking attention. Their parent is sitting at the computers and the kid is doing anything that they can think of just to get their parent to pay attention to them, and it's heartbreaking. There are kids who are dressed in mismatch clothes, who haven't had their hair brushed, and there's nothing sadder than that. Those kids need someone. They need someone who's going to care, who wants to listen to them, who wants to hear what they have to say. Everyone needs someone like that in there life, and that person can be all the difference in a child's life. Over the course of working at the library I had kids who would just follow me around while I was shelving books because I was someone to talk to, someone who didn't tell them to go away and be quiet. I want to be that person in those children's lives.

That's why I want to be a Children's Librarian. Why I think working at the library is wonderful. Why I think more people should visit the library. Why I think the library's so very important.

So...That Happened.

1.) On the first day of school I thought I would be well-rested, well-prepared, and punctual. With these good intentions I started out for class well ahead of time. In fact, I was doing brilliantly. I surprised even myself! I arrived a good ten minutes early, found a desk and started laying out my pens and books. I was quite proud of myself (because, to be honest, I'm not known for my time management skills.) Only then did I start to look around my classroom. My thought process went something like well, this is a nice classroom. Not bad, Emily, not bad. You're doing all right here. Ten minutes early, your pens are all nice and symmetrical on your desk, you're doing all right. Hey, that's funny, you know, there's a lot of upperclassmen in my English 101 class, that's not real promising. Actually, I don't see any faces I recognize. That's weird. Where are all the freshmen? So by that time I'm beginning to realize there's something fishy going on. I turned around in my seat and asked resignedly of the girl behind me "this isn't my English 101 class, is it?"

 

2.) On my first Saturday at school I spilled a glass of milk. I spilled a glass of milk all over the table. I spilled a glass of milk into a boy's lap. It was all quite by accident. They asked me to pass a napkin box. I was paying attention to the conversation! They should have known better than to ask me to pass a napkin box! They would learn to know better. Whoops, went the napkin box! Whoops, went the glass of milk! I spent the rest of the meal alternately apologizing and turning beet red.

 

So then I almost got run over by a car. I decided it was a good idea to start a conversation with the boy I had spilt milk on. Play it cool, try and show I wasn't a nincompoop, I could hold a conversation without spilling milk! We're walking out into the parking-lot, I'm not looking where I'm going, next thing I know he's saying "Look out! There's a car right behind you!" I twirl around and realized I just about died. So that story adds a new meaning to "no use crying over spilt milk."

 

3.) I forgot someone's name. That's a natural enough thing to do, we met a lot of people in those first couple weeks of school. The only thing was, instead of doing the normal thing and simply asking for a reintroduction I just pretended I knew it...for a couple of weeks...

 

Until finally someone said it and I had an Aha! moment. Not doing that again.

 

4.) On my last day of the Semester my favorite teacher came up to me and started a conversation. It made my day. I dropped my soup. That did not. I think I just got really interested in what he was saying, or maybe I was just excited, or maybe I was flustered. WHO KNOWS. All I know is one minute I had a cup of steaming soup in one hand and a spoon in another, next thing I knew both were splattered on the floor!

 

5.) So in math class one day the professor was talking about ancient mathematicians, and we came across the quote about the "Moving Finger" and he asked what book that reference was from and I must have been daydreaming because I got really excited and shot my hand up and was like "SHAKESPEARE." No, Emily, this was before Shakespeare. Long before. This was THE BIBLE. I'm sorry, I was just thinking about how Agatha Christie's book was named The Moving Finger and she got that out of Shakespeare and he must have got that out of THE BIBLE. Duh.

 

6.) Italian night I was swing dancing with a boy and my shoe came right off my foot and went flying across the room. "Just a second" I said, trying to muster what grace I had left as I trotted off to find my shoe and return to my partner to finish our dance. He just looked at me with his eyes round, as if to say how did that just happen.

 

7.) One night when I was on the phone with my Mom I dropped a cement block on my foot. Don't ask me how. Again, it was one of those situations, where I just don't have a clue. Anyhow, my foot was quite bruised, and then I was shelving books at the library and I found the biggest book possible (it was one of Michelangelo, and you know how big those get!) and proceeded to promptly drop it on the same foot. Why, Michelangelo, why? Why would you do that to poor little Emily?

 

8.) Did I mention that at the end of last summer I smashed my thumb in the car door? I nearly fainted. Literally. So during school my thumb nail fell off, I decided my thumb without it's nail looked like the Phantom of the Opera's face, and proceeded to sing Phantom of the Opera songs to my roommate. I hope she appreciated that. It took effort.

 

 

 

Five Lovely First Semester Memories

1.) The Night of The Writers. I call it that because that is what it was, a night where the writers among us gathered together in a writerly pow-wow, and it was the most wonderful night because of it. It started out with Alex and I sitting on a quilt in my bedroom, we both had our laptops out and were pounding feverishly away (as I have said, opportunities for writing during school are few and far between and as such are infinitely precious). Before long Monica joined us with her laptop and Jen with her notebook, and we simply continued sitting on the floor and writing. Later that evening we drank tea and started reading excerpts from our various stories out loud. It will always be one of my favorite memories from First Semester because it signifies so much of what I love about Christendom. I love that I have friends who love to write as much as I do. I love that we had an evening dedicated to writing. When I picture that night I think of us all giggling over Monica's fairytale, each in our own spot on the floor. I can't believe how blessed I am to have found myself in such a wonderful place, amongst such wonderful people. That night was story-book worthy, it deserves to be in a book, four girls, their writing and their tea.


2.) The Snow Day. I love snow. Perhaps this is partially due to growing up in a place where snow is considered either a rare treat by one set of people or a rare curse by another. Whatever the case, the day of the first snow I was extremely excited. I woke up bleary eyed and looking very much like your morning zombie, trudged out the door and down the hall to wash the sleepiness out of my eyes, when I walked past the window I saw a winter wonderland. As you can imagine I ran back into our room like:

 

Poor Jen would have gotten excited, only she had a migraine, so she couldn't. Kiersten doesn't like snow (she gets a lot at home). So my enthusiasm was entirely unwanted. I instantly hushed myself up but silently made this face to myself. 

If nobody else is going to be excited I am going to be excited all by myself.

It really was a wonderful day. Abby and I continuously rolled down hills. It was dizzying and exhilarating. We also got ourselves stuck in a ditch. I don't know how we ended up getting ourselves out of it- but we did.

 

 

3.) Number three is the night Jen and I laughed ourselves into hysterics. I don't think I have ever laughed so hard. I don't even know what we found so terribly amusing, but I do know that it started out as some rather morbid puns and it just went downhill from there. We nearly fell out of the bunk-bed...twice.

 

4.) Then there was the night of the Book Healer gathering. I was working late, so I gathered my book mending supplies and laid my claim on one of the upstairs study rooms of the library. Alex and Monica came to visit me and so we all sat around the table and talked and I glued together the spines of books falling apart. Alex took pictures of me mending and as this is a blog dedicated to the art of book healing I shall include one.

 

There is something physiologically healing in mending books.

 

5.) Avonlea Night. Avonlea Night was THE BEST. Road to Avonlea was my childhood TV show. I watched that show every morning wrapped up in my favorite blanket. So watching it with my dear friends one night at college was the most soothing, lovely thing. Honestly, one of my favorite memories of the whole semester.



The Book Healer

There once was a girl named Emily who had a bad habit of making too many blogs. I'm sure people grew very tired of it, and none of them could keep track of her because of it. However, Emily felt, there are times when you realize that you're not at all the same person that you were, and because of it, you need a different sort of blog.

I can never bear to delete my previous blog designs however, because I put so much work into them. There were hours upon hours that I spent fiddling with layouts and templates and headers, and the thought of throwing all that away is a bit unbearable. It's like throwing out an old journal, a journal that you feel too old to write in, it's true, but a journal that you spent time with, a journal that was part of yourself. Things like that are too precious to throw out. That's one of the things I love best in writing a blog, as the years pass you have your old writing to read, to remember, and most of it's terrible, but it was you. I guess that's part of the reason why I've periodically felt the need to start a new blog, because I know I can't stay in that place that I was before, I have to move on. I can't stay twelve, writing in pencil with lots of exclamation marks. I can't stay fifteen, blogging about the things one writes about at fifteen. The reason I'm writing this is because I often have to remind myself of it. Nostalgia is something that hits me with a powerful potency. I get to reminiscing and then I moan about how I want to go back and be a little girl again (I know, Mom, I'm a pain. Sorry.)

So this is me. New blog, new place in life. I'm in college now, so I'll probably be writing quite a lot about that. I'm working at the college library, which is where the new name for this blog comes from. One of my great blessings during my first semester was that I was offered a position in the book bindery, so I get to mend books! Which is just about the best thing, let me tell you. Alexandra and Monica dubbed it being a Book Healer, which sounds magical and fairytale worthy (they are also magical and fairytale worthy, but more on that later.)

I'm just about to start my second semester of college, Christmas break is almost over, and that's why I feel now is a good time to be starting this. I don't know how much I'll be able to write during school, because if there's anything I learned during first semester it is there's never enough time for ANYTHING. I do know though, that I will always need a place to write. There will always be times where I need to write myself out, because the words are crying to be written. Writing has always been such a large part of my life, and I know it always will be. Even if I spend most of my blogging time during breaks and summer vacation, I know that I will be jumping at the opportunity to do so. It's nice to know that this will be here waiting for me.

I think that's where I shall end this. It has the feeling of a very good beginning, a very good beginning indeed.