Stubborn

So I don't think stubborn is quite the word I was looking for, but that's the best I could think of.

A couple of days ago I was thinking about the way I make decisions. I don't. Well at least I don't usually remember making them (I'm talking about the big ones). The summer I was eight when I was digging in the back yard (we did that a lot) I found a series of old broken and/or burnt items in the ground. Some of the most exciting artifacts were a pocket watch, a tube of toothpaste and what appear to be clay marbles. My parents compared it to Archaeology which I subsequently became interested in. When I registered for college I selected Anthropology (which Archaeology is a subset of) even though I wasn't sure if that's what I really wanted. I liked so many subjects I didn't know which one to choose, but I still registered for one Anthropology. I'm halfway through my Junior year and my major is still the same.

My mission is even simpler. I've always wanted to go on an LDS mission. And when I say "always" I mean I can't remember a time when I didn't want to go. When I was 21 (the minimum age requirement for girls) I went, a month after my birthday.

Another example: When I was little my mom wanted me to learn how to play the piano. I never did, I took lessons but it never went well. I had decided I didn't want to and so I didn't. This is why I say I'm stubborn. Once I make a decision I usually follow through. Which might not always be the best thing. Hence, my next point.

Recently people have been asking me about whether I want to go to Graduate School. I have nothing against going, but I haven't really thought about it either. Does that mean I won't? I can't? or just that perhaps it will be a different kind of decision process.

Sadness and Beauty

I read Bridge to Terabithia this week. My first post on this blog I said that I might ramble about books, but I haven't actually done it yet. So here goes.

I had never planned on reading it. I'd heard it was depressing and someone died at the end, and yeah. Why would I want to read a depressing book like that. But the thing is, I think sometimes I shy away from pain or sadness because of some innate idea that it is horrible and scarring. But its not. Sometimes I think accepting or even inviting pain or sadness into life is a good thing, to a degree of course, moderation and all that. It can be beautiful. In 101 Dalmations (my comfort book) it says in some ways the inverse of what I was just talking about. "Now, carols are always beautiful, but if you are sad they can make you feel sadder. (There are some people who always find beauty makes them sadder, which is a very mysterious thing.)" Basically I think that sometimes beauty and sadness are the same thing, or at least very intertwined. Just like the pine forest in Terabithia is meant to be visited only during times of the greatest joy or the greatest sorrow. I think I need to learn that; learn that hiding from pain, or sadness, or just emotion can mean missing out on the best experiences. So yeah, I liked Bridge to Terabithia.

The Phoenix

When I was little I remember looking at a poster we had in our house, it was never hung up, but it was old and worn in the folded edges when I looked at it... My siblings must have liked it too. On the front was a beautiful painting of a stream running through a glade. A unicorn stood in the shallows, looking at me. Beyond the trees was a castle on a hill. A castle that matched the white of the unicorn. To complete this romanitc picture there was a perfect rainbow arching through the sky.

The best part though was the back of the poster. That was the side we all looked at the most. Mythical beasts were scattered across it with their names printed besides them and paragraphs of information. I had two favorites. The griffin, a fierce looking half eagle, half lion, and the fiery phoenix in the upper right corner. It was an eagle like bird diving through a flaming sky.

Several months ago one of my brothers asked me if I would paint him a picture of a Phoenix. I agreed. But then I had to decide what I wanted my phoenix to look like. I steered away from the bird flying out of flames, that was too common for a phoenix. If I was going to bother to paint one I might as well do one that was different. I also made my phoenix a little more swan like then the eagle of my childhood. In that regard, and the long tail feathers I was probably influenced by how J K Rowling wrote her phoenix. Also while researching a little about the phoenix I found something that said that it's name comes from the Greek word for Purple. I wanted some purple in my painting . Anyway here is my painting, it's done for good or ill.

And if you want a little extra information about the legends of the Phoenix check out this website. http://monsters.monstrous.com/phoenix.htm.

Happy New Years. When we can all burst from the ashes and begin again.

Christmas

It's Christmas. I have better things to do today then post here. I hope you do too. Have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Angel

This is a picture I took a while ago (more then a year ago). It was taken in a car driving back from the Louisville Kentucky LDS Temple. Perhaps it is appropriate for this time of year. But I really love it.
This week I have been cataloging (I guess that's what you would call it) pictures from this time period so I thought I would share one with you.

A Walk

This is another scene from a memoir I wrote for school. This one is not in the final draft so I thought I would share it here. It probably would make a little more sense within the whole, but I hope it is understandable.

We stopped in New York state – the rural part of it, for a picnic and a long walk in a sun-drenched field. The hard dirt path was a canyon between the tall grasses, it reached above my head even higher than the marsh grasses behind our house.

“What's this?” My brother asked squinting down at me.

“This is Queen Anne's Lace.” I said fingering the delicate white array of flowers. “Look at the tiny black dot in the middle, that's how you tell.” I continued. He had just returned from his mission, and it was good to have him home.

He pointed farther down the path to another tall stand of flowers. “So this is it, right?”

“Yep.” I answered smugly, showing off for my brother, the one who's tall dark looks made everyone call him handsome. He had a quirky smile that took in the world, saw its weaknesses but still turned upwards, a little.

“How about this one?”

“Uh. I don't know” I hesitated, bending over another plant with trumpeting yellow flowers. “What's this Mom?” I called.

She walked back down the path toward us, my father trailing behind her.

“Oh, I've been wondering about that one too,” she followed my finger “I think it's called 'Butter an' Eggs'.”

“Butter an' Eggs” My brother and I echoed in unison “cool.” We listened as she continued to describe the little flower to us.

Like a butterfly I flitted along the path and among my family.

“Look at this snail.”

“Did you see the Tulip tree, the leaves look like a cup and saucer. It's super cool.”

“This is a beautiful walk.” My mom agreed.

My mind and words flitted from plant to plant and away from any impending future. Just because I ignored the future sometimes, it didn't mean it went away. That summer I saw my sister married. My brother went back to college in Utah in the fall, leaving only my youngest brother and I at home. All of his senior friends were my friends too. At the end of the year they graduated and went their separate paths. I was finally an only child. Like the last leaf on the tree I wondered when it would be my turn to fall, my turn to fly on the wind.

Rehashed Conversations

The other day I was sitting in the hallway of a building on campus. A professor I had two years ago walked by, noticed me and stopped to talk to me. He remembered me. At least a little bit. It was not a particularly important conversation but later that day, sitting in another class, it came back unbidden. I rehashed the entire conversation in my head, head-nods and gestures included.
This happens to me fairly often, where I find myself nodding or giving an inaudible answer to a past conversation. I don't think I'm crazy but it does make me wonder why. What do I find so compelling about certain conversations that I relive them over and over again?
One thought is that it is the people. These conversations tend to be with individuals I admire or respect, and I want their good opinion. Professor's for example.
Another thought is that they are conversations that make me feel good. As in the Professor remembered me (kind of) after two years.
Perhaps I am just rambling but I found it interesting to think about.