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.