Too often in life I forget to enjoy the things right in front of my face. It’s my habit to dream, plan about the next adventure in my life. When I do that, I fail to see that what I is everything I need at this moment.
On rare occasions, I stop. I breathe and I see that piece of assurance.
In typical Monday night fashion, I met a couple of friends at a local bar for the nightly special. We ordered a pitcher amongst the three of us, caring more about the beer’s cheapness than its flavor. We started to divulge the day’s happenings, but I realized that our normal banter wouldn’t satisfy this night. This was a life discussion night.
My friends are still students, trying to get of glimpse of life outside of the SDSU campus and wondering if they’ll even get to that point. They run through frustrations, doubts, limits and hesitations. As I sat listening to them, I saw myself two years earlier.
They wanted an escape, a plan to search for an identity. They wanted meaning and an environment that understood those yearnings. My goodness had I once been there.
In a light-hearted way, I explained to them that the search never ends, that it doesn’t take one particular job or location to solve all the unknowns. It’s a constant evolution.
It was a bit hypocritical for me to preach about life finding a way, because I struggle with that idea each and every day, just differently that they do. But, I left the bar that night realizing that it really does work out. And my friends will come to see that each day.
What I also realized is that life doesn’t get much sweeter than friends who are honest about their fears and can comfort each other with the help of a cold drink. That night, that conversation meant something to all of us. It was just a typical night, but it strengthened my belief that as long as I have good people by my side I’ll always be where I’m supposed to.
As the night finished, any life frustration subsided. Sure, no problems were solved, but it really didn’t matter. What mattered was that no problem can beat strong companionship. And I realized that wherever I am and whatever I am doing, I’ll have that. It could be five minutes down the road or across the ocean. It will be there.
Coming back to South Dakota has forced me to look at who I call friends in a completely different way than before. (I hope to post more about that later.) Both of those friendships have changed and taken on different meanings. I’ll never forget either of them and the part they played in my journey.
We parted ways, affirming the last few hours with thankful Twitter messages about good friends and cheap beer. As I drove on the barren streets to my apartment, I felt that assurance. What lies in store for me is unclear, but that night was right. I was meant to be in that bar with those people that night. For the moment, I had all that I needed to be happy. And I was.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
French Onions
Kieara and I decided to give the hummus making another go today (Thanks to Kate and a jar of tahini, this batch turned out much better.) As we were walking through the grocery store gathering ingredients, we came across the French onions. I stopped and said to her, “Someday, I am going to buy a can of those for no reason but to eat.”
After a second’s thought, I declared “And today is that day.”
Every holiday, my mother makes the green bean casserole with the French onions on top. My dad and I always try to sneak a few before she spreads them atop the green bean goo, which never makes us happy. As she yells at me to stay out of them, I promise myself that someday I will by a can for just me, no green beans included. When I was still living at home, I remember thinking that I when I go off to college I can buy whatever food I want – such as French onions – and no one will care.
I expected to buy a can my first week of school. Well, it didn’t happen. Reason would set in anytime the thought to purchase a can occurred. “Heather, that is kind of a ridiculous idea. You can always buy them another time.” The rebellious purchase never seemed worthy so I continued on with my shopping.
The day before our hummus making adventure, I saw the French onions. Again, my tamer side won and I passed them over. So, today, when logic started to make its point, I clearly said “No.”
It seems that I have so many big ideas and hopes for the future that I never actually pursue, let alone accomplish. Doubts, limits and sense always trump. I hate that about myself. Sometimes, I just to live life without caution, without pretense. So today, I was going to buy that can of French onions that I honestly didn’t need. It wasn’t about need, it was about want.
Once we rounded up the components for hummus, we went back to my apartment to attempt the recipe Kate sent a few days before. As we crushed garlic and pulsed chickpeas, I munched on the French onions. A part of me felt guilty, I couldn’t possibly eat that entire can. Another part of me said I could do whatever I wanted with the can of French onions that I purchased. I paid for it.
So I emptied the can. Taste-wise, eating the French onions wasn’t as glorious as I always imagined, but the idea of what I did is magnificent. I told reason to shut up and did something random and maybe a bit foolish.
OK, it’s just casserole toppings. But this can of French onions knocked a brick out of the wall. My purchase proved that they are other illogical things I can do, and I should. I’m consumed with plans, and that way of living isn’t producing the life I want. A friend once told me “If you not random, you are boring.” And I’ll be dammed to live a boring life.
Making whim decisions won’t always be easy and I hope some are grander than a $1.78 purchase, but this is a start. And every major change in life has a beginning point; mine just happens to involve French onions.
After a second’s thought, I declared “And today is that day.”
Every holiday, my mother makes the green bean casserole with the French onions on top. My dad and I always try to sneak a few before she spreads them atop the green bean goo, which never makes us happy. As she yells at me to stay out of them, I promise myself that someday I will by a can for just me, no green beans included. When I was still living at home, I remember thinking that I when I go off to college I can buy whatever food I want – such as French onions – and no one will care.
I expected to buy a can my first week of school. Well, it didn’t happen. Reason would set in anytime the thought to purchase a can occurred. “Heather, that is kind of a ridiculous idea. You can always buy them another time.” The rebellious purchase never seemed worthy so I continued on with my shopping.
The day before our hummus making adventure, I saw the French onions. Again, my tamer side won and I passed them over. So, today, when logic started to make its point, I clearly said “No.”
It seems that I have so many big ideas and hopes for the future that I never actually pursue, let alone accomplish. Doubts, limits and sense always trump. I hate that about myself. Sometimes, I just to live life without caution, without pretense. So today, I was going to buy that can of French onions that I honestly didn’t need. It wasn’t about need, it was about want.
Once we rounded up the components for hummus, we went back to my apartment to attempt the recipe Kate sent a few days before. As we crushed garlic and pulsed chickpeas, I munched on the French onions. A part of me felt guilty, I couldn’t possibly eat that entire can. Another part of me said I could do whatever I wanted with the can of French onions that I purchased. I paid for it.
So I emptied the can. Taste-wise, eating the French onions wasn’t as glorious as I always imagined, but the idea of what I did is magnificent. I told reason to shut up and did something random and maybe a bit foolish.
OK, it’s just casserole toppings. But this can of French onions knocked a brick out of the wall. My purchase proved that they are other illogical things I can do, and I should. I’m consumed with plans, and that way of living isn’t producing the life I want. A friend once told me “If you not random, you are boring.” And I’ll be dammed to live a boring life.
Making whim decisions won’t always be easy and I hope some are grander than a $1.78 purchase, but this is a start. And every major change in life has a beginning point; mine just happens to involve French onions.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
All you need is love
A good friend made these for me last Valentine's. I hope he gets his girlfriend real ones :)
Ah, Valentine’s Day – the day for lovers. As a young, single female I am supposed to hate this day, lovesick couples and the overpriced flowers, chocolate and teddy bears. Yet, I really like Valentine’s Day.
Truth is I’m a romantic at heart. I love love of all kinds. I give my love out to anyone I think deserves it and I have a lot of it. Some may think that’s reckless, but I think that is the only to truly way to live life. No matter gender, race, beliefs, opinions, religion and other restrictions we create, the most beautiful thing in life is love. And how can you hate a day that is dedicated to the most precious thing we have?
My only gripe with day of Cupid is its definition of love. Valentine’s Day doesn’t define love between a man and woman, we make that limitation. Just because I don’t have a boyfriend or a husband, doesn’t mean I don’t have a Valentine. I have love all around me.
This morning, a dear friend accompanied me to the gym, where we giggled and planned to take in excessive amounts of chocolate throughout the day. I love her.
I’ve talked to my mother three times on the phone today, seeking her cooking advice. I love her.
This evening, I plan to cook dinner with a good friend. We’ll drink wine and later attend a play. I love him.
Most of all, I’m spending the day with myself, writing and singing out loud. I love me.
Valentine’s Day is more of a blessing than a Hallmark burden. Today, I’m reminded of all the people that I love in my life. And my lack of a romantic relationship has yet to put a damper on this day. I’m happier on this February 14 than I have been on Valentine’s Day when I was actually in a relationship.
My great romantic love is unfound, but I have faith it will come. Till then, I will not go unloved.
The commercialization of this holiday tells me today is meant to be spent with the love of my life. Well, the love of my life is my friends and family. If all you need is love, than I have everything I need.
So, Happy Valentine’s Day to all of my blog readers. I love you.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The pink cupcake and adoring fans
** Often when I have a little down time, I write shorts stories about situations happening around me. It's mostly a writing exercise I give myself just to practice detail and word choice. Here is a little diddy I wrote before a recent high school basketball game. **
He sets his bag of popcorn down as she approaches him. She hands him a pink frosted cupcake. He gives her a smile that says “Aww, you shouldn’t have, but that looks tasty” to anyone not in hear shot of their conversation.
She sits down next to her coach, a man who created the last four years for her. He’s wearing a black pullover; featuring the logo of a team she calls family. She wears a white tee, proudly supporting high her school team, the one he found her on. They smile, talk graciously.
For four years, they’ve been a part of each other’s life. He probably knows everything about her life from her career plans to her boyfriend. She probably views him as a role model. They’ve probably disagreed a time or two, but it’s clear on this night that love exists.
Three younger girls approach her. To these 12-year-olds, they are both celebrities. The young woman talks with the girls like their relatives. She’s not too good for them. Nope, her coach wouldn’t stand for it. He taught her better.
He joins the conversation while munching on his cupcake. These girls could one day be on his team. In fact, the girls dream that dream daily.
In this high school gym, most recognize the man and woman. They’ve been the talk since November. In a few weeks, the man and the woman, along with her teammates, will take their team to a place it – or any other team at their university – has been: a Division-I conference tournament.
The town, the school and its entire fan base hope to up it one more – Division-I conference tournament championship followed by an appearance at the Big Dance. That’s a lot of pressure on one man and a group of mature, but young, females.
They’ll handle it, though, with grace, style and 4.0 GPAs. That’s just the way they do things.
As the man and woman continue chatting, the pressure of what is expected is not apparent. Tomorrow will be business as they continue on the road to that conference tournament.
But tonight is for pink-colored cupcakes and adoring fans. Both things, the season has already proved, are well deserved.
She returns to her seat and him to his bag of popcorn. To rest of the world, she is basketball player of the state’s most loved team and he is its legendary leader. But to each other, they are just normal people who happen to love basketball.
He sets his bag of popcorn down as she approaches him. She hands him a pink frosted cupcake. He gives her a smile that says “Aww, you shouldn’t have, but that looks tasty” to anyone not in hear shot of their conversation.
She sits down next to her coach, a man who created the last four years for her. He’s wearing a black pullover; featuring the logo of a team she calls family. She wears a white tee, proudly supporting high her school team, the one he found her on. They smile, talk graciously.
For four years, they’ve been a part of each other’s life. He probably knows everything about her life from her career plans to her boyfriend. She probably views him as a role model. They’ve probably disagreed a time or two, but it’s clear on this night that love exists.
Three younger girls approach her. To these 12-year-olds, they are both celebrities. The young woman talks with the girls like their relatives. She’s not too good for them. Nope, her coach wouldn’t stand for it. He taught her better.
He joins the conversation while munching on his cupcake. These girls could one day be on his team. In fact, the girls dream that dream daily.
In this high school gym, most recognize the man and woman. They’ve been the talk since November. In a few weeks, the man and the woman, along with her teammates, will take their team to a place it – or any other team at their university – has been: a Division-I conference tournament.
The town, the school and its entire fan base hope to up it one more – Division-I conference tournament championship followed by an appearance at the Big Dance. That’s a lot of pressure on one man and a group of mature, but young, females.
They’ll handle it, though, with grace, style and 4.0 GPAs. That’s just the way they do things.
As the man and woman continue chatting, the pressure of what is expected is not apparent. Tomorrow will be business as they continue on the road to that conference tournament.
But tonight is for pink-colored cupcakes and adoring fans. Both things, the season has already proved, are well deserved.
She returns to her seat and him to his bag of popcorn. To rest of the world, she is basketball player of the state’s most loved team and he is its legendary leader. But to each other, they are just normal people who happen to love basketball.
Monday, February 09, 2009
It's time
I don’t know if I’ll ever forget that feeling.
It was an usually cool spring day around 8 or 9 p.m. I was finally leaving the office after a deadline-driven day. I swung open the heavy metal door that revealed the outside and felt the breeze rush across my body. To the west, a sunset was partially visible between the trees and houses. And it hit me in that moment. Reassurance.
The decision I made haunted me for weeks before and couldn’t easily be resolved after that moment, but in that second my entire world was peaceful. I knew I was exactly on the right path, even though I couldn’t answer the why. Smaller epiphanies came and went, but nothing compared to that spring day
Until tonight.
After a charming meal with an faithful friend in a dim-lit bar, I walked through the misty climate to my car. Got in and backed out of my parking space on Main Street. Staring down the familiar road before putting my car into drive, I felt that reassurance.
This time, though, it wasn’t not in a decision. It was in an idea. “It’s time,” my thoughts said quietly.
As I drove back to my apartment the rain puddles, flashing red lights and solemn buildings agreed that it is indeed time.
After deep conversation with good people and a few light drinks, the proclamation resounded. Tonight, I go to bed reassured and convinced that it is time.
It was an usually cool spring day around 8 or 9 p.m. I was finally leaving the office after a deadline-driven day. I swung open the heavy metal door that revealed the outside and felt the breeze rush across my body. To the west, a sunset was partially visible between the trees and houses. And it hit me in that moment. Reassurance.
The decision I made haunted me for weeks before and couldn’t easily be resolved after that moment, but in that second my entire world was peaceful. I knew I was exactly on the right path, even though I couldn’t answer the why. Smaller epiphanies came and went, but nothing compared to that spring day
Until tonight.
After a charming meal with an faithful friend in a dim-lit bar, I walked through the misty climate to my car. Got in and backed out of my parking space on Main Street. Staring down the familiar road before putting my car into drive, I felt that reassurance.
This time, though, it wasn’t not in a decision. It was in an idea. “It’s time,” my thoughts said quietly.
As I drove back to my apartment the rain puddles, flashing red lights and solemn buildings agreed that it is indeed time.
After deep conversation with good people and a few light drinks, the proclamation resounded. Tonight, I go to bed reassured and convinced that it is time.
The one song I would share with the world
Today, I opened my Favtape and noticed a song that I don’t remember adding. It was entitled “You Could Be Lovely.” Great song, but I still don’t know how it got there.
I wondered if someone randomly saw my Favtape open on my work computer (I can’t design without music) or my laptop and had time to add just one song. They chose this particular song because it moved them in such a way they want everyone to experience.
Naturally, a list of songs started to run through my head as possible suggestions as to the one song I would share with the world. My all-time favorite song is “Stand By Me” but it’s a classic. My current favorite song is “Electric Feel” but I wanted something with more meaning.
As soon as the titled popped in my head I knew it would be the one song I would want all of my friends and family to hear just once. “Where I Stood” by Missy Higgins is one of my recent favorite songs. It’s been playing a lot on VH1 and local radio stations, but I’ve been in love with that song for months. When I first heard it on Pandora, I was immediately drawn to the haunting lyrics and smooth instrumental notes.
Sure, I can pair the song to situations in my life, but my fascination with the song is deeper. The emotion in Missy Higgins’ voice and the pain in her lyrics inspire me to reach down to the pit of my heart when I write. You can’t write a song like that off the cuff. It comes from the deepest feelings you can reach.
I don’t write songs, but my writing can contain that emotion. I can look at myself inside and out and reveal the passion present through my words. If I can’t, then I’m not allowed to call myself a writer.
That’s probably why this song is usually playing, sometimes on repeat, when I’m writing. It’s stimulates my thoughts and connects them with words. It encourages me to be brave and real in my writing.
I’m now a full-fledged Missy Higgins fan and hope to see her live someday. Last spring, she was in Pocatello, of all places. She’ll be in Omaha and Minneapolis in March, so I might have to road trip. I’d even go alone just to see her in person.
Anyway, this post is my attempt to share with the world my one song. Please check out Missy Higgins’ “Where I Stood.” It will probably spark something inside of you.
I wondered if someone randomly saw my Favtape open on my work computer (I can’t design without music) or my laptop and had time to add just one song. They chose this particular song because it moved them in such a way they want everyone to experience.
Naturally, a list of songs started to run through my head as possible suggestions as to the one song I would share with the world. My all-time favorite song is “Stand By Me” but it’s a classic. My current favorite song is “Electric Feel” but I wanted something with more meaning.
As soon as the titled popped in my head I knew it would be the one song I would want all of my friends and family to hear just once. “Where I Stood” by Missy Higgins is one of my recent favorite songs. It’s been playing a lot on VH1 and local radio stations, but I’ve been in love with that song for months. When I first heard it on Pandora, I was immediately drawn to the haunting lyrics and smooth instrumental notes.
Sure, I can pair the song to situations in my life, but my fascination with the song is deeper. The emotion in Missy Higgins’ voice and the pain in her lyrics inspire me to reach down to the pit of my heart when I write. You can’t write a song like that off the cuff. It comes from the deepest feelings you can reach.
I don’t write songs, but my writing can contain that emotion. I can look at myself inside and out and reveal the passion present through my words. If I can’t, then I’m not allowed to call myself a writer.
That’s probably why this song is usually playing, sometimes on repeat, when I’m writing. It’s stimulates my thoughts and connects them with words. It encourages me to be brave and real in my writing.
I’m now a full-fledged Missy Higgins fan and hope to see her live someday. Last spring, she was in Pocatello, of all places. She’ll be in Omaha and Minneapolis in March, so I might have to road trip. I’d even go alone just to see her in person.
Anyway, this post is my attempt to share with the world my one song. Please check out Missy Higgins’ “Where I Stood.” It will probably spark something inside of you.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Hummus
Every time I eat hummus, I’m redirected to the University Student Union (before the renovation). I’m a college freshman and am slopping the orange paste on to my plate. I eat it with wraps, popcorn chicken or crackers. It is a part of my every meal.
Hummus is much more than a food made out of chickpeas. It was the beginning of a new life for me. Like so many other things that year, it was something I never experienced in my life before college. Sure, it was just lunch, but it was an edible adventure. And, boy was I proud to tell my friends back home of this discovery, as if SDSU was the only campus to serve the condiment.
Once I moved off campus, hummus was too expensive for my ramen noodle diet. Once I got a real job and decent pay check, I could afford luxury foods such as hummus. Many times, I would venture to Albertson’s grocery store near the newspaper office in Idaho to purchase hummus and pita bread for dinner. One coworker was disgusted at the mere mention of hummus, yet I forced him to smell it as I gobbled my simple dinner while editing pages.
Most of my friends and family know that I am not a cook by any means. I actually have a talent for screwing up easy dishes and have several examples to prove it. But when a friend causally mentioned we should try to make our own hummus, I jumped at the idea. How interestingly cool it would be to say that I make my own hummus. I’m sure there is a cute chef in this world that I could impress with that line.
My friend, Amy, and I began our culinary adventure at Hy-Vee today. We roamed the aisles looking for the necessary ingredients: chickpeas, olive oil, cumin, garlic and tahini. Some of it I had or she already bought and other stuff we couldn’t find. Tahini was the trickiest; apparently there is not a Walmart in 100-mile range that sells, nor does the Brookings Hy-Vee. We decided to skip the ingredient on the whim that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. We purchased chips and pita bread to pull the appetizer together, and coupled the snack with pomegranate cranberry juice. We also rented a Josh Hartnett flick to make an afternoon out of the whole experience.
The cooking process started off just fine as I searched through my cupboards for the olive oil and cumin. I was cruisin’ through the dicing of the green pepper and Amy was opening the chickpeas when it started to rain spice containers.
My kitchen is very small, so I keep all of my spices in storage baskets above the cupboards. Thanks to the culinary intuition of my previous roommate, I have several spices and figured cumin would be included in that list. I found it in the largest basket and placed it back above the cupboard. I obliviously did not do a proper job, because the entire thing fell, leaving my kitchen floor to smell like an herbal garden.
Amy and I laughed, but continued on our merry way. We should’ve realized the spice spillage was the first indicator of disaster. I don’t have a garlic mincer, so I had to dice up the cloves the best I could. As I was handling that situation, Amy forgot to drain the chickpeas before putting them into the blender.
After all the ingredients were added, our hummus was more of a liquid than a spread, so we decided to improvise. I figured flour would thicken the hummus, and it did a bit, but it tasted more like cumin cake batter than hummus. So, we added more cumin and lemon juice, but the flour was still quite noticeable. As a last resort, I added extra salt. However, those salt dispensers can be tricky and out came an excessive amount of salt. Again, we used cumin and lemon to combat the salt, but the addition was undoable.
The hummus was still very runny, so we decided to let cool in the fridge for a while, hoping that would thicken. We put in the movie and waited. A half hour later, it was time to taste our hummus.
It was awful. Even with chips and pita bread, the salt was so pungent. We more or less soaked our dipping aids in the hummus instead of spreading it on. We each ate a bit and tossed the rest.
In addition to our fowl hummus, the movie we chose was terrible. As much as I love Josh Hartnett, he makes some crappy movies. I am still not sure if I can tell you what it was about.
So bad hummus and bad movie. Oh well. Amy and I were proud of ourselves for trying something new and tackling an odd dish. We could’ve just bought the hummus, and even though it would’ve tasted better, it would’ve been boring. And our failure hasn’t stopped us from trying another hummus recipe at another time.
We laughed for a long time about our hummus and awful movie. It’s moments like that that I realize how blessed I am. We could’ve been angry and grumpy, but now we have a great story to tell. We failed and it was fun.
And, hey, at least our pomegranate cranberry juice was good.
Hummus is much more than a food made out of chickpeas. It was the beginning of a new life for me. Like so many other things that year, it was something I never experienced in my life before college. Sure, it was just lunch, but it was an edible adventure. And, boy was I proud to tell my friends back home of this discovery, as if SDSU was the only campus to serve the condiment.
Once I moved off campus, hummus was too expensive for my ramen noodle diet. Once I got a real job and decent pay check, I could afford luxury foods such as hummus. Many times, I would venture to Albertson’s grocery store near the newspaper office in Idaho to purchase hummus and pita bread for dinner. One coworker was disgusted at the mere mention of hummus, yet I forced him to smell it as I gobbled my simple dinner while editing pages.
Most of my friends and family know that I am not a cook by any means. I actually have a talent for screwing up easy dishes and have several examples to prove it. But when a friend causally mentioned we should try to make our own hummus, I jumped at the idea. How interestingly cool it would be to say that I make my own hummus. I’m sure there is a cute chef in this world that I could impress with that line.
My friend, Amy, and I began our culinary adventure at Hy-Vee today. We roamed the aisles looking for the necessary ingredients: chickpeas, olive oil, cumin, garlic and tahini. Some of it I had or she already bought and other stuff we couldn’t find. Tahini was the trickiest; apparently there is not a Walmart in 100-mile range that sells, nor does the Brookings Hy-Vee. We decided to skip the ingredient on the whim that it wouldn’t make much of a difference. We purchased chips and pita bread to pull the appetizer together, and coupled the snack with pomegranate cranberry juice. We also rented a Josh Hartnett flick to make an afternoon out of the whole experience.
The cooking process started off just fine as I searched through my cupboards for the olive oil and cumin. I was cruisin’ through the dicing of the green pepper and Amy was opening the chickpeas when it started to rain spice containers.
My kitchen is very small, so I keep all of my spices in storage baskets above the cupboards. Thanks to the culinary intuition of my previous roommate, I have several spices and figured cumin would be included in that list. I found it in the largest basket and placed it back above the cupboard. I obliviously did not do a proper job, because the entire thing fell, leaving my kitchen floor to smell like an herbal garden.
Amy and I laughed, but continued on our merry way. We should’ve realized the spice spillage was the first indicator of disaster. I don’t have a garlic mincer, so I had to dice up the cloves the best I could. As I was handling that situation, Amy forgot to drain the chickpeas before putting them into the blender.
After all the ingredients were added, our hummus was more of a liquid than a spread, so we decided to improvise. I figured flour would thicken the hummus, and it did a bit, but it tasted more like cumin cake batter than hummus. So, we added more cumin and lemon juice, but the flour was still quite noticeable. As a last resort, I added extra salt. However, those salt dispensers can be tricky and out came an excessive amount of salt. Again, we used cumin and lemon to combat the salt, but the addition was undoable.
The hummus was still very runny, so we decided to let cool in the fridge for a while, hoping that would thicken. We put in the movie and waited. A half hour later, it was time to taste our hummus.
It was awful. Even with chips and pita bread, the salt was so pungent. We more or less soaked our dipping aids in the hummus instead of spreading it on. We each ate a bit and tossed the rest.
In addition to our fowl hummus, the movie we chose was terrible. As much as I love Josh Hartnett, he makes some crappy movies. I am still not sure if I can tell you what it was about.
So bad hummus and bad movie. Oh well. Amy and I were proud of ourselves for trying something new and tackling an odd dish. We could’ve just bought the hummus, and even though it would’ve tasted better, it would’ve been boring. And our failure hasn’t stopped us from trying another hummus recipe at another time.
We laughed for a long time about our hummus and awful movie. It’s moments like that that I realize how blessed I am. We could’ve been angry and grumpy, but now we have a great story to tell. We failed and it was fun.
And, hey, at least our pomegranate cranberry juice was good.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
"How does reading help people?"
Since the beginning of the school year, I’ve been teaching religious education to a group of seventh graders. One day after church, I half-heartedly put my name on the volunteer list and was assigned a class with a 21-year-old college student later that week. I’ve taught religious education before, so I thought it would be a piece of cake.
Instead, awkwardness has loomed. Sometimes, I feel extremely unqualified to preach to these kids, because I’m so unstable in my own faith and disagree with major parts of the Catholic church. My counter part is more confident with his faith and carries the catechism like it’s the only book he reads. The instruction is far from neat, but kids enjoy it that way. They get to ask questions about things that have been forbidden before. They can speak freely about their opinion, like that has never been an option.
Last evening, we were discussing purgatory and how it relates to heaven and hell. Hands continually popped up, hoping to relieve some of the world’s uncertainty. They wondered what heaven looked like, what keeps a person in hell and who will decide were they will go. Most of the questions, I could barely answer because I don’t know myself. But, I told them to look inside their hearts and listen to only what they believe. The thought process and creativity in the room astonished me. And for once, I think these kids could say they were having fun at CCD.
Before we went to the night’s planned activity, I passed out pieces of paper and markers. I asked the kids to write at least seven good qualities that they posses and how they can use those to help others. For some, that seven came very quickly. Others struggled. One particular kid, D, said there was nothing good about him. I told him that wasn’t true and that I could easily think of 10 qualities. He disagreed and I reminded him that he brought in a book.
“So? How does reading help other people?”
“You can always read to other people. Many people can’t read.”
After everyone was finished, I made each of them say out loud one quality they have and how they can use it to help people. Their faces lit up when they realized they can use their love of volleyball, music and speaking to help others.
Especially, D. He was quiet for most of the evening, but when he read his one quality, something flashed in his eyes. It was as if he always thought he would never be good at anything and that idea suddenly became false. Reading could be his and he could help others just with a book.
I may not know all the specific terms or Bible versus, but I taught those kids something real last night. After seeing the potential in D’s eyes, I don’t care if they learn another thing from me this year. I taught them that they all can be wonderful people just by using the gifts they have, and I don’t think there is a more important thing a seventh grader can learn. It’s a lesson I need to be reminded of every day.
Instead, awkwardness has loomed. Sometimes, I feel extremely unqualified to preach to these kids, because I’m so unstable in my own faith and disagree with major parts of the Catholic church. My counter part is more confident with his faith and carries the catechism like it’s the only book he reads. The instruction is far from neat, but kids enjoy it that way. They get to ask questions about things that have been forbidden before. They can speak freely about their opinion, like that has never been an option.
Last evening, we were discussing purgatory and how it relates to heaven and hell. Hands continually popped up, hoping to relieve some of the world’s uncertainty. They wondered what heaven looked like, what keeps a person in hell and who will decide were they will go. Most of the questions, I could barely answer because I don’t know myself. But, I told them to look inside their hearts and listen to only what they believe. The thought process and creativity in the room astonished me. And for once, I think these kids could say they were having fun at CCD.
Before we went to the night’s planned activity, I passed out pieces of paper and markers. I asked the kids to write at least seven good qualities that they posses and how they can use those to help others. For some, that seven came very quickly. Others struggled. One particular kid, D, said there was nothing good about him. I told him that wasn’t true and that I could easily think of 10 qualities. He disagreed and I reminded him that he brought in a book.
“So? How does reading help other people?”
“You can always read to other people. Many people can’t read.”
After everyone was finished, I made each of them say out loud one quality they have and how they can use it to help people. Their faces lit up when they realized they can use their love of volleyball, music and speaking to help others.
Especially, D. He was quiet for most of the evening, but when he read his one quality, something flashed in his eyes. It was as if he always thought he would never be good at anything and that idea suddenly became false. Reading could be his and he could help others just with a book.
I may not know all the specific terms or Bible versus, but I taught those kids something real last night. After seeing the potential in D’s eyes, I don’t care if they learn another thing from me this year. I taught them that they all can be wonderful people just by using the gifts they have, and I don’t think there is a more important thing a seventh grader can learn. It’s a lesson I need to be reminded of every day.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Anniversary
Today, I’ve been at my job for one year. Weird.
As a college student, you always assume you’ll be at a job for a few years and then move on to the next one. Once I got into my first real job, I hated the idea of being there 12 months; that is a long time. I wanted to switch jobs frequently so I can try all things I want to before I settle into a “career”. (By the way, I hate that word. It’s right up there with “growing up”.) And seven months after I started at that job, I moved on to another to try something else for a while.
Now, I can say that I’ve held at least one of my full-time gigs for a year. I feel so adultish and I hate it.
Nevertheless, it’s been a good year and I’ve still really enjoy my job. However, if I write a post in a year from now about my two-year anniversary, you have full permission to kick my butt.
As a college student, you always assume you’ll be at a job for a few years and then move on to the next one. Once I got into my first real job, I hated the idea of being there 12 months; that is a long time. I wanted to switch jobs frequently so I can try all things I want to before I settle into a “career”. (By the way, I hate that word. It’s right up there with “growing up”.) And seven months after I started at that job, I moved on to another to try something else for a while.
Now, I can say that I’ve held at least one of my full-time gigs for a year. I feel so adultish and I hate it.
Nevertheless, it’s been a good year and I’ve still really enjoy my job. However, if I write a post in a year from now about my two-year anniversary, you have full permission to kick my butt.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
My Ponty
I’ve technically had three actual pets in my life.
As a college senior, I bought a beta fish at Walmart for a couple of dollars. In honor of my favorite word, I named the fish Dunzi. The little fish swam in a small bowl with blue pebbles that sat near my window. Even though I would forget to clean his home sometimes, Dunzi was quite the faithful fish. He listened to my gripes about school and The Collegian and was compassionate as I cried about the future. Much to my dismay, Dunzi’s life fell at my hands one day as I was cleaning his bowl. Accidentally, I filled the bowl with scorching water. The poor fish didn’t have a chance. I’ve toyed with the idea of getting another, but I am still leery of my caretaking skills.
My first real pet was Candy, the dog my parents had when I was born. My mom claims Candy was my first and favorite toy. The only thing I remember about Candy, besides the stories my parents told me and the photos I’ve seen, is the day we gave him away. I remember being really sad, but it wasn’t till I was older that I understood why.
The animal that has been in my life longest is Kirby. We got Kirby when Jason was in kindergarten; he is now a college junior. We didn’t name Kirby, but people always assumed so because of our family’s devotion to the Minnesota Twins. Kirby is a funny dog, playing games such as run-out-of-the-house-and-catch-me. Even at his ripe old age, his energy level is quite high. His hearing and eyesight have suffered, but he is still as content as the day we got him.
Yet, there is another object in my life that is just as much of pet as Dunzi, Candy and Kirby are/were – my car.
I bought my 2003 Pontiac Grand AM while I was a junior in college. My then-boyfriend and I were back in Pierre for a few days right before Christmas. My mom wanted me to take a look at this car she had scoped out for me, so the morning before we headed back to Brookings we stopped at the dealer. The car suffered major hail damage and the price was reduced. However, the dealer had just fixed the damage and hadn’t raised the price when I got to it. Before I knew it, I was making an offer and buying the car all on my own. It was a whirlwind of emotions and I remember feeling like I made the biggest mistake of my life as people congratulated me.
At first, the Ponty was like any other car. I ate in it. I slept in it. I hauled my drunk friends around in it. I cried in it. And I traveled from one event to the other in it.
My car became something more to me when I moved to Idaho. Before I actually moved to Idaho, I drove out there for a few days to scope out apartments and my new life. The first time I made that 18-hour drive, I realized that only familiar place from now on will be the inside of my car. When my friend and I arrived in Pocatello for the first time, I told the Ponty that this would be our new home, as if my car had morphed into a pet or a child.
The second time I drove to Idaho it was for good. The whole idea of what I was doing finally began to sink in. I cried for almost an hour about leaving my family, friends and a boyfriend. Everything I knew would be gone and my car comforted me. It reminded me that it would be there for the entire journey.
And it was. When I moved back, the Ponty got to just ride along. Back in Brookings, the Ponty was familiar with the curves and the swerves. It knew these streets and wouldn’t take anytime to get readjusted.
My car has always been faithful. It starts in South Dakota’s fridged temperatures and moves carefully through Brookings unplowed roads. It can climb steep hills and maneuver around tight, inclined corners. It’s been in the ditch and recovered nicely. Ice can make it shake, but nothing can bring the Ponty down.
Today I found out that my car is sick. A few mechanics told me that I have a cracked gasket that is causing my coolant to leak. And one mechanic informed me today that I will have to replace my wheel bearing soon. These repairs are going to cost about $1,000.
I called my mom crying today when I heard the news. Like most people these days, I don’t have a $1,000 hanging out in the bank. It pains me that it is going to cost me much to fix a piece of metal.
But the Ponty is much more than a piece of metal, it’s part of who I am. If I had a sick pet, I would take it to the vet. Why shouldn’t I show the same respect to something that has never failed me?
OK, I know that it may seem crazy to talk about my vehicle like it’s an animal or a person, but we all get attached to nonliving things. When you spend so much time with something, you develop a personality for that object when it is incapable of possessing a personality.
After the initial price shock, I’ve decided to watch what I spend in other areas and make sure my car gets fixed. I plan to drive this car for at least another 100,000 miles and I want the most of it. Besides, I feel like I owe it the Ponty. It stood by me when I needed it the most.
As a college senior, I bought a beta fish at Walmart for a couple of dollars. In honor of my favorite word, I named the fish Dunzi. The little fish swam in a small bowl with blue pebbles that sat near my window. Even though I would forget to clean his home sometimes, Dunzi was quite the faithful fish. He listened to my gripes about school and The Collegian and was compassionate as I cried about the future. Much to my dismay, Dunzi’s life fell at my hands one day as I was cleaning his bowl. Accidentally, I filled the bowl with scorching water. The poor fish didn’t have a chance. I’ve toyed with the idea of getting another, but I am still leery of my caretaking skills.
My first real pet was Candy, the dog my parents had when I was born. My mom claims Candy was my first and favorite toy. The only thing I remember about Candy, besides the stories my parents told me and the photos I’ve seen, is the day we gave him away. I remember being really sad, but it wasn’t till I was older that I understood why.
The animal that has been in my life longest is Kirby. We got Kirby when Jason was in kindergarten; he is now a college junior. We didn’t name Kirby, but people always assumed so because of our family’s devotion to the Minnesota Twins. Kirby is a funny dog, playing games such as run-out-of-the-house-and-catch-me. Even at his ripe old age, his energy level is quite high. His hearing and eyesight have suffered, but he is still as content as the day we got him.
Yet, there is another object in my life that is just as much of pet as Dunzi, Candy and Kirby are/were – my car.
I bought my 2003 Pontiac Grand AM while I was a junior in college. My then-boyfriend and I were back in Pierre for a few days right before Christmas. My mom wanted me to take a look at this car she had scoped out for me, so the morning before we headed back to Brookings we stopped at the dealer. The car suffered major hail damage and the price was reduced. However, the dealer had just fixed the damage and hadn’t raised the price when I got to it. Before I knew it, I was making an offer and buying the car all on my own. It was a whirlwind of emotions and I remember feeling like I made the biggest mistake of my life as people congratulated me.
At first, the Ponty was like any other car. I ate in it. I slept in it. I hauled my drunk friends around in it. I cried in it. And I traveled from one event to the other in it.
My car became something more to me when I moved to Idaho. Before I actually moved to Idaho, I drove out there for a few days to scope out apartments and my new life. The first time I made that 18-hour drive, I realized that only familiar place from now on will be the inside of my car. When my friend and I arrived in Pocatello for the first time, I told the Ponty that this would be our new home, as if my car had morphed into a pet or a child.
The second time I drove to Idaho it was for good. The whole idea of what I was doing finally began to sink in. I cried for almost an hour about leaving my family, friends and a boyfriend. Everything I knew would be gone and my car comforted me. It reminded me that it would be there for the entire journey.
And it was. When I moved back, the Ponty got to just ride along. Back in Brookings, the Ponty was familiar with the curves and the swerves. It knew these streets and wouldn’t take anytime to get readjusted.
My car has always been faithful. It starts in South Dakota’s fridged temperatures and moves carefully through Brookings unplowed roads. It can climb steep hills and maneuver around tight, inclined corners. It’s been in the ditch and recovered nicely. Ice can make it shake, but nothing can bring the Ponty down.
Today I found out that my car is sick. A few mechanics told me that I have a cracked gasket that is causing my coolant to leak. And one mechanic informed me today that I will have to replace my wheel bearing soon. These repairs are going to cost about $1,000.
I called my mom crying today when I heard the news. Like most people these days, I don’t have a $1,000 hanging out in the bank. It pains me that it is going to cost me much to fix a piece of metal.
But the Ponty is much more than a piece of metal, it’s part of who I am. If I had a sick pet, I would take it to the vet. Why shouldn’t I show the same respect to something that has never failed me?
OK, I know that it may seem crazy to talk about my vehicle like it’s an animal or a person, but we all get attached to nonliving things. When you spend so much time with something, you develop a personality for that object when it is incapable of possessing a personality.
After the initial price shock, I’ve decided to watch what I spend in other areas and make sure my car gets fixed. I plan to drive this car for at least another 100,000 miles and I want the most of it. Besides, I feel like I owe it the Ponty. It stood by me when I needed it the most.
Monday, February 02, 2009
A year later ...
My insecurities usually attack without warning. But when they do, my life stops. My thoughts thrash around and no rational idea can calm them.
My good friends, Lonely and Failure, visited me one morning last week. They convinced me that I probably would never acquire those things I claim I would. They provided weak proof, which I believed, of why I was indeed lonely and a failure. I asked them to leave, but they said I wanted them around.
As much as I could, I blocked them out of mind as I headed off to work. I grudged through my mass amounts of email to find one from my boss. He had heard good things about my demeanor and attitude at the conference I attended earlier that week. He was proud of me, but not in the least bit surprised.
I bawled at my desk.
It’s been a year. One whole year. 12 months, 365 days, all of it spent living in the same place, working at the same job. I don’t know how to take that fact.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my life in Idaho and the move back to Brookings. Little things remind me of what I left behind and cause me to ask “What the hell am I doing back here?” Other things confirm my decision, knowing this is only a link to somewhere else and yet another life.
The pain of failure resides in my heart, still. I can’t let go, no matter how much I focus on the positive things that are in my life. And there are plenty – a wonderful job, the proximity to my family, great friends who support me and solid surroundings. To be frank, I have nothing to bitch about, but I still do.
It’s not easy to give up on dreams. Even in high school, the idea that I could help people as a reporter and live a life away from the one I’ve always known was the only motivation I ever needed. The promise I made to everyone, saying I was going to leave South Dakota and not look back, is broken. The idea that I would be the greatest reporter that I could be and work hard for my readers has vanished. And I’m stuck between my college life and the real life I’m supposed to have and I can’t find a way out.
I know my in heart I made the right decision on both accounts, yet I still don’t forgive myself. Some days, these failure ideas suffocate me to the point when crying is the only solution.
My true character has been forced to shine in the past year. I’ve begun to feel comfortable in my shoes and start expanding on my heartiest qualities. I’ve made changes and learned hard lessons. My priorities have refocused and my opinions have solidified. I feel more mthan ever before.
Still, I allow my insecurities and false impressions of failures bring me down. I can quiet them for a while, but never kill them.
Now, on the anniversary of pulling into Brookings city limits in a U-Haul, it’s time to let go.
My Idaho life and newspaper experience will forever be with me, but they are over. It’s time to focus on what it is present, not the past and not the future. My friends from Idaho and the stories I wrote will not cease to exist, yet Brookings is where I am supposed to be.
For the last year, this blog has been a residing place for all of my emotions about this life change. Most of you are probably sick of hearing about my ups and downs about coming back to Brookings and leaving Idaho, so I end this story here. The present is what I have and I’m deathly afraid I will miss it when it is gone. I can’t ignore it anymore.
That day, crying at my desk, made me realize something. I’ve been happy this whole time, but I refused to let myself be happy because I didn’t think I deserved it. That is completely unfair to myself.
Brookings is not my final landing place and I can’t predict where or what I will be doing six months from now. I do know that this past year was not a mistake. It was something that had to happen in my life and I may never fully understand why.
Every time I see an Idaho license plate, I will smile. Anytime I hear news related to Idaho or someone mention the potato state in a casual conversation, my heart will warm. Yet, it’s time for me to concentrate on this life and be proud to live where I do and have the job I do.
My life is here and now. It will change eventually, but I can’t miss the opportunities for happiness in front of me. I’m letting go and embracing the present. And honestly, I don't know what else there is to do.
My good friends, Lonely and Failure, visited me one morning last week. They convinced me that I probably would never acquire those things I claim I would. They provided weak proof, which I believed, of why I was indeed lonely and a failure. I asked them to leave, but they said I wanted them around.
As much as I could, I blocked them out of mind as I headed off to work. I grudged through my mass amounts of email to find one from my boss. He had heard good things about my demeanor and attitude at the conference I attended earlier that week. He was proud of me, but not in the least bit surprised.
I bawled at my desk.
It’s been a year. One whole year. 12 months, 365 days, all of it spent living in the same place, working at the same job. I don’t know how to take that fact.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about my life in Idaho and the move back to Brookings. Little things remind me of what I left behind and cause me to ask “What the hell am I doing back here?” Other things confirm my decision, knowing this is only a link to somewhere else and yet another life.
The pain of failure resides in my heart, still. I can’t let go, no matter how much I focus on the positive things that are in my life. And there are plenty – a wonderful job, the proximity to my family, great friends who support me and solid surroundings. To be frank, I have nothing to bitch about, but I still do.
It’s not easy to give up on dreams. Even in high school, the idea that I could help people as a reporter and live a life away from the one I’ve always known was the only motivation I ever needed. The promise I made to everyone, saying I was going to leave South Dakota and not look back, is broken. The idea that I would be the greatest reporter that I could be and work hard for my readers has vanished. And I’m stuck between my college life and the real life I’m supposed to have and I can’t find a way out.
I know my in heart I made the right decision on both accounts, yet I still don’t forgive myself. Some days, these failure ideas suffocate me to the point when crying is the only solution.
My true character has been forced to shine in the past year. I’ve begun to feel comfortable in my shoes and start expanding on my heartiest qualities. I’ve made changes and learned hard lessons. My priorities have refocused and my opinions have solidified. I feel more mthan ever before.
Still, I allow my insecurities and false impressions of failures bring me down. I can quiet them for a while, but never kill them.
Now, on the anniversary of pulling into Brookings city limits in a U-Haul, it’s time to let go.
My Idaho life and newspaper experience will forever be with me, but they are over. It’s time to focus on what it is present, not the past and not the future. My friends from Idaho and the stories I wrote will not cease to exist, yet Brookings is where I am supposed to be.
For the last year, this blog has been a residing place for all of my emotions about this life change. Most of you are probably sick of hearing about my ups and downs about coming back to Brookings and leaving Idaho, so I end this story here. The present is what I have and I’m deathly afraid I will miss it when it is gone. I can’t ignore it anymore.
That day, crying at my desk, made me realize something. I’ve been happy this whole time, but I refused to let myself be happy because I didn’t think I deserved it. That is completely unfair to myself.
Brookings is not my final landing place and I can’t predict where or what I will be doing six months from now. I do know that this past year was not a mistake. It was something that had to happen in my life and I may never fully understand why.
Every time I see an Idaho license plate, I will smile. Anytime I hear news related to Idaho or someone mention the potato state in a casual conversation, my heart will warm. Yet, it’s time for me to concentrate on this life and be proud to live where I do and have the job I do.
My life is here and now. It will change eventually, but I can’t miss the opportunities for happiness in front of me. I’m letting go and embracing the present. And honestly, I don't know what else there is to do.
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