Usually when I post a blog, it is because I am inspired or energized by something in my life, even if it is very small. But this post is about reality. It is about accepting the way things are going to be. I am content with life's seasons because there are opportunities to uncover joy. I mean uncover joy instead of discovering joy because it takes more effort to uncover. It seems in life's monotony-when we realize that in all things, working hard is the price we pay-we are reduced to the simplest pleasures. It is beautiful and hard and weary and rewarding.
Today was normal, it wasn't too busy or too stressful but it was not unusual. That is what I am trying to find.
I woke up at 7:30, one hour later than usual. I didn't go to work at 9:00 because...
I presented my senior project proposal at my high school at 9:15. I was scheduled to present in September, but one month ago I didn't know how I was going to change the world. I met with my principal on two occasions to discuss my project. When I came in this morning she introduced me to the other member of the review committee with the kindest words I have ever received. She said that I think differently than most people, that I am a person who has the potential to change the world, and that she is excited to watch what I do. The difference was that it was genuine. I couldn't even speak in response. I want to believe that.
I didn't go to my World Literature class at 10:00 because I had already missed half of it. I hate to miss class, especially that one because I enjoy it.
I went home and worked on a college application essay for two hours. I didn't finish it.
I went to French class at 1:00. There is a boy in my class named Peter and he makes me laugh. I told him I would burn him a copy of a CD by the French rapper Yelle. I haven't given it to him yet and I jokingly told him that I barely have enough time to do everything for myself; how could he possibly expect me to do anything for anyone else? I said this jokingly, but I think it could be true. I do not feel like this is anyway to live.
I left from Clark College and drove across the river to Portland to the Portland Art Museum to complete an assignment for my art class. I got there at 3:00 and spent three hours in the museum. An art museum feels like a different world because you are surrounded by art that has a history and a life of its own.
My friend Tomera and I had plans for this evening but she canceled because she has to work early tomorrow morning. I got home at 7:30 and I realized that I could accomplish many things. I could clean my room, finish my essay, and go for a run. Instead, I took a shower and did nothing. Until 10:00 when I decided to go for a run. Then I finished my essay, which means my application will be ready to mail tomorrow.
Tomorrow I will clean my room because I went to church on Wednesday instead of endeavoring to organize the piles on my floor. My friend Tyler told me that was a good choice. I am not sure what I am choosing anymore.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Geeze, Louise.
I was talked to my friend Kelsey today and I said to her, "Sometimes, when I want to laugh, I think about the past and hope that the future is just as funny."
I reminded her, on this Election Day 2008, that we sang the Star-Spangled Banner, the national anthem of the United States of America, on a rooftop in Kathmandu, Nepal on July 4th.
In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama addresed the dark corners of the world where people are seemingly forgotten by the greater world and stated that, "Our story is singular but our destiny is shared."
I reminded her, on this Election Day 2008, that we sang the Star-Spangled Banner, the national anthem of the United States of America, on a rooftop in Kathmandu, Nepal on July 4th.
In his acceptance speech, Barack Obama addresed the dark corners of the world where people are seemingly forgotten by the greater world and stated that, "Our story is singular but our destiny is shared."
She walks in beauty; her name is truth.
I am not the sum of my interests or my accomplishments. I am not defined by my physical location, my family, or tradition. I am not my friends, nor am I the people that I associate with. But these people and things, tangible and abstract, are all me; they are juxtaposed together to govern a living being. Together we are discovering what we were made to be. I am what I am willing to become. I am what I am willing to discover. I am what I have already learned and what I have yet to learn. I am the sum of my brief experiences. They have formed me and with time they have become the mold that I fit into perfectly. Sometimes these experiences were like a gentle sculptor’s hands: soft, refining and patient. These hands held that, “I will wait for you to change. My presence around you is consistent. I will guide you into a different shape with more beauty and understanding of what is around you.” Sometimes these experiences are the cumbersome, unsteady hands that take a beautiful, articulate vase and shatter it into many pieces. I become undistinguishable. These hands that take hold of me are not careful; they are not mindful of me.
For me, to write is to be alive. It is essential. Words, more than anything else, tell my story. In times of trouble, I have little to say. The brief notes, the reflections that I ponder about and the questions that I muse over, while they usually scatter my room, my binder, and the receipts in my purse, are scarce. I stop writing when I cease to thrive. In my moments of utmost clarity and sincerity, I am brimming with new ideas that boil in my chest. They originate in my beating heart and they spill onto paper. I am excited to brush them around on the surface, to paint in missing details and finally, like an artist, create a masterpiece. My World Literature teacher, Jill Darley, says that we should write to discover something. If we have a question, we should approach it through writing. Carlos Fuentes says that, “Writing is a struggle against silence,” and Thomas Mann says, “A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” I believe both of these statements are true. When I have something to say, I write. To not write means, for me, to be defeated in a struggle. This art is necessary for my well-being, and so it is a challenge.
For me, to write is to be alive. It is essential. Words, more than anything else, tell my story. In times of trouble, I have little to say. The brief notes, the reflections that I ponder about and the questions that I muse over, while they usually scatter my room, my binder, and the receipts in my purse, are scarce. I stop writing when I cease to thrive. In my moments of utmost clarity and sincerity, I am brimming with new ideas that boil in my chest. They originate in my beating heart and they spill onto paper. I am excited to brush them around on the surface, to paint in missing details and finally, like an artist, create a masterpiece. My World Literature teacher, Jill Darley, says that we should write to discover something. If we have a question, we should approach it through writing. Carlos Fuentes says that, “Writing is a struggle against silence,” and Thomas Mann says, “A writer is somebody for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” I believe both of these statements are true. When I have something to say, I write. To not write means, for me, to be defeated in a struggle. This art is necessary for my well-being, and so it is a challenge.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Holla, ween!
Photos courtesy of Robert Perez
When I am in the same room with people like the ones above- we laugh and dance and take pictures and talk and we share our time with each other- we breathe together and I feel a sense of order in this choatic universe where chaos is our enemy and our restoration project is peace.
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