Turn Signals and Boxes

This is a rambler, folks.

My life is like a TV show.

There are 2 kinds of tv shows out there: the kind that have arch stories that take place over many episodes (like Gossip Girl, Once Upon a Time, or Grimm), and those that have stories that are completely contained in one episode (like Gilligan's Island, Hey Arnold, or Green Acres).

My life is like the latter.

No matter how hard I try, I feel like nothing really changes in my life. There are things I would really like to change, too, like: living in an apartment, not having and children, or eating cereal for dinner. I get to critical points where I get excited and think: "yeah, now things are going to really get shaken up around here!" but alas, I lie to myself every time. By the end of the episode, I am always back to square one: living in a box, alone, and eating LIFE even though I'm not living it.

At least, that's how I feel sometimes. But in another light, my life is ALWAYS changing.

Of the people who I see on a daily basis, I met none of them before August, 2012. I have a dog now. I don't share my bedroom with another lady, and! I have a REAL job!

I don't know if it's good or bad, but there it is. When changes DOES happen, it rarely happens with warning. I feel like almost every change that I anticipate in life goes a different way than I thought it would, and changes that I think I'm making happen just don't happen at all. There is no point in using your turn signal if you're already in the next lane, nor if you're not actually going to make any turns.

It all feels so pointless and dolor.

Do you remember The Truman Show? There's this one part where he tries to get out of town, and every road out is blocked by something. At the end of the day, he has to go back home. Do you ever feel like Truman? Like everything is fake?

Sometimes, when I'm in a room with florescent lights, I feel like I am not in reality, but rather in a painting or a dream. It just doesn't seem real. Then I wonder, what is reality, anyhow? How can I be sure that I'm in it? Have you ever asked yourself that question?

Sometimes I think, "I just need a new hobby," or, "it's this weather!" but then, at other times, I realize: I live inside a box. That just isn't natural.

Then I go outside for a little bit. I might even take a drive out into the mountains or to the river. I sit outside for a little bit, and things start to fall back into place.

We just weren't meant to live in boxes.

Songs of War

I have a confession to make: I have seen every episode of Star Trek: the Next Generation. Yes, I am a closet Trekker. Not only that, but on some unfortunately uncontrollable level, it has shaped my world view. That's what the media does to children, okay?

I think I would hate this show if I watched it for the first time today. But I didn't; I watched it for the first time when I was a toddler. We watched it as a family. It was fascinating. I didn't choose the Trekkie life, the Trekkie life chose me!

Star Trek does this thing where it makes cultural references, be they pop or other, as if they were so impactful that they would still be germane 400 years from now.

Confession #2: I love Celtic music and culture almost as much as I love my own culture.

When I was a little girl (again with the youth!) I decided to get a tiny, little bit obsessed about a few things: Prince William, Thundercats, ancient Egypt, and Celtic music/culture.

In fact, I recently went to a Flogging Molly concert, but that's another post altogether.

As an English teacher, of course I love listening for and watching the Shakespeare references in Star Trek, but I really got excited when they sang "The Minstrel Boy" in this episode, because it is a slightly more obscure reference. I love this song. It is so sad, so noble, and so beautiful.

Gotta love those text-to-text connections!

Heidi Has a Happy Hippo

Just in case you're wondering, this post has a lot to do with religion.

When I was in fourth grade, I was invited to participate in the program, Oddyssey of the Mind. In our radically eclectic skit, my character was a puzzle peice named "Happy." I thought it was fitting, seeing as my first name is Heidi, and like Stan Lee, I'm a sucker for a good alliteration, especially when it comes to names. "Happy Heidi."

A little while after that, Stephanie drew these little illustrations of animals for each of us. They had adjectives, too. We each had a different animal. Well, mine was a hippo. A happy hippo. I didn't like being associated with a hippo, but I really liked being named "Happy" once again.

I don't have anything especially exciting to report. My life is pretty routine. I go to work, I go home. I go to church, I go get groceries. I look forward to the weekend, and I don't love Mondays.

But, I am happy.

Sometimes, when I kneel beside my bed to pray before I fall asleep, reflecting on my day and my life, I am overcome with a sense of happiness. I am surprised by it. It is not fleeting. It is constant. I am truly, deeply, actually happy. (No matter how much I wish it were different, the only thing I really feel in the morning when I pray is sleepy. Oh well).

I'm not really sure how long I had been deeply unhappy, but I can tell you: I was. I was so busy with college, and dating (I figured it out. Since I was 21, I have had only 10 months of "singleness," 6 of which have been the last half year. That's exhausting, and admittedly, a little unhealthy), that I really wasn't keeping my self in check. And I wasn't happy. To be honest, I wonder if I was ever really happy at college.

The summer was a little strange for me. I felt sad, but I enjoyed it. After all, I have a right to be sad, . Being sad is a part of the human experience, and a blessing. I am thankful for ALL of the blessings that my Heavenly Father allows me to have.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't wallowing: I've done that before, and it isn't productive. No, this was a productive kind of sad, and sad might be the wrong word for it (maybe contrite? But nobody uses that word anymore). Anyhow, being sad helped me think about my SELF and who I am, and most importantly, what makes me happy. (Leave a comment if you can think of a better word for this. I just can't think of one).

I started reading more again. I used to read quite a lot for pleasure, but at school, I couldn't really choose what I read, because I was reading, reading, reading what the professors assigned me to read. I love the way I grew as a reader and a scholar during school, but there was something missing, too. So, here I was at home, and wanting to read, so I went to the library and brought home a stack of books, all picked by ME. Then I read them. Then I took them back. Then I got a new stack of books. Which I read. It was awesome.

I started painting with watercolors, too. I'm not very good, because I'm a beginner, but I enjoy watercolors. I like to play with the colors, and mixing, and trying to get the shapes and textures on the page the way I imagine. I think of myself as an artist these days. My work with markers and color pencils is, in my opinion, inspired. When I paint or draw, I feel a sense of peace and trainquility.

I re-evaluated my relgion. This, to me, means I re-evaluated my relationship with God and His Son, Jesus Christ. I'm not saying that I re-decided whether or not to have this relationship, but that I decided to change the way I related to Them. I prayed more. I studied the scriptures, my patriarchal blessing, and my journal to re-discover the many tender mercies I am showered with constantly. I changed my journal writing to focus on them, and describe them, so that in the future, when I come to a similar place in life, I will have more material to study.

I worked in the garden. I hope I helped my Mom, working in the house. I made new friends and I made new plans for myself.

Being happy is fantastic. I don't have to be at a party or playing a game to feel it; that's not the same kind of happiness I'm talking about. I don't even need to be dating someone. It's a feeling of deep satisfaction with who I am, and knowing that God is also satisfied with who I am, too.

I have this theory about cycles: everything is a cycle. Life is a cycle. Each day cycles in and out, each week, each year -- and so, too, do our lives, in a way, through a cycle of self examination and self acceptance:

1. First, we lose ourselves, and become a stranger with the person we are.
2. Then, we re-discover ourselves, or discover our new selves for the first time, again.
3. Then we learn to accept and adjust to who we now are.
4. Finally, we change again, becoming a stranger to our selves once more, starting the cycle over again.

I don't think that's deep or profound, but it's beautiful, and I don't have anything deep or profound to say, except that I am happy. I may not be the same little girl with a painted, plywood puzzle peice costume dancing on a stage singing "Happy, happy ha-PPY!" but I still am (or rather, am again finally) "Happy Heidi."

English Teaching: I Want to Go to There!

I had an epiphany: there are no fundamental differences between The Neverending Story and Harry Potter.

Both of the protagonists follow very closely the "Hero Arch" as outlined by Joseph Campbell. There are several major points that I thought of right away:

1. The call to adventure.
Harry gets a letter from Hogwarts, introducing him to the whole wonderful world of witches and wizards, as well as inviting him to become a part of it.
Bastian, as I recall, finds a book that seems to call to him. Did it even whisper his name? I can't remember. There was definitely a call, for sure.

2. The refusal of the call.
Harry doesn't get the opportunity to refuse the call, because his aunt and uncle do it for him.
Bastian also doesn't get the opportunity to refuse the call, because the bookstore keeper does it for him.

3. The crossing of the threshold.
Harry has to buy his books in this weird ally-within-a-brick-wall. Also, he has to run into the wall at King's station to get to platform 9 3/4, which is where the train leaving for Hogwarts picks all of the students up.
Bastian enters the actualized metaphysical world of the imagination when he reads the book, "The Neverending Story." He actually enters the book at one point, too (an inanimate object not normally seen as a threshold, just like platform 9 3/4), and then his Dad is reading it, but I haven't seen it for years, and I can't remember how that works. Something to do with the necklace...whatever. Threshold crossed.

4. The magic of flight.
Harry gets to fly on broomsticks... that's pretty cool.
Bastian gets to fly on Falkor, the dragon-that-has-a-dog's-face. That's also pretty cool, if you're into flying albino dog-dragons.

5. Supernatural aid.
Harry gets a wand. His protective figure is Dumbledore (an old and eccentric man). And Ron and Hemrione (his friends, peers). And Falkor (a non-human with a heart of gold).
Bastian gets an amulet. His protective figure is the bookstore keeper (also an old and eccentric man). And Atrayu (his friend, a peer). And Hagrid (a half-non human with a heart of gold).

6. Apotheosis: the hero somehow becomes divine.
Harry achieved this by being "the boy who lived."
Bastian achieved this by being "the boy who lives," because he's the only real person in Fantastica.

7. The ultimate boon: he can fulfill his mission, which will somehow benefit those he left behind in the other world.
Harry kills Voldemort (Oops! Hope you read it!), which benefits all mankind (the wizarding world and "muggle" world together).
Bastian, kills  through his amazing imagination, saves Fantastica (the world which represents the cumulative imagination of mankind, vaguely analogous to the "wizarding world" in that it is both real and unreal, interacts with all real mankind and also does not interact directly with anyone in the "real" world). He saved everyone from not being able to imagine things anymore.

There are a lot of other points, and these two fit almost all of them in some way, probably. But these are the ones I can remember.

There are other things that link the two together, that aren't necessarily part of Joseph Campbell's doctrine.

A. They both are in a world that is contemporary, yet secret to everyday people.

B. They both form a little possey of people: Harry with Ron, Hermione, and other students at Hogwarts, and Sebastian with Atrayu, Falcor, and other magical creatures in the world of imagination.

C. They both were unacceptable as regular people: they did not excell in their regular social circles.

D. They both are adolecents.

And so, you can see that Harry Potter and The Neverending Story are, essentially, the same story.

Shoes =/= Men

I wrote this essay for my English 150 class.

Ladies: let's get real.

Have you ever bought shoes, even though they didn't exactly fit you, or maybe they weren't made well? They're so adorable, you know you can't live without them. Did they then give you blisters? It hurts, and walking becomes a chore of infinite pain. However, if the wounds have time to heal, the pain will be replaced with calluses that prevent the chasm of hurt from swallowing you yet again. Love is not like that. Dating should not be approached like a shoe shopping spree: for one thing, a wardrobe of men is appalling. Shoes, unlike men, always wear out. Unlike men, shoes are, in fact, inanimate objects, and in love, "calluses" don't help but hinder.

It's fun and fulfilling to have a whole wardrobe of various shoes to go with various outfits, meant for various occasions. This is neither socially acceptable nor emotionally beneficial in romantic relationships: commitment is a core value in romance. The commitment a woman feels for a shoe may be intense, but it never will meet the level needed for marriage; at best the bond may reach that of serious dating, but no more.

You may say, "but, I'm not looking to get married. I just want to date a lot of boys: there's nothing wrong with that!" However, there is something wrong with that philosophy: it does not serve the end goal of dating, which is marriage. Yes, it is uncomfortable to acknowledge that dating leads to a relationship, which leads to marriage. Avoiding the discomfort, however, also entails avoiding the happiness of a successful marriage. Marriage without commitment is not a real marriage at all, but a parody of a much more beautiful institution

You can't afford to become too attached to a pair of shoes, because they never last. I expect every single pair of shoes I ever buy to either wear out or become a faux pas. However, I expect the man of my life to stay in my life forever, and never wear out or become a thing of the past. Of course, there seems to be a growing trend of marriages not lasting. It's hard to take a look around, see the number of failed marriages, and still believe: "I can trust this person. I can stop shopping now."

It is easy to let this mental complex bleed into our dating lives.

It's easy to say to ourselves, "What's wrong with shopping for shoes? Why settle for one man? Don't I want to have fun?" The answer to these questions is a resounding "no." In life, we sometimes need to do the hard thing, because it yields what we actually want. In this case, the easy thing is, in the end, empty.

Shoes have no brains; they have no hearts. Men, however, are a different story: they are people, too. As a woman who grew up with mostly sisters, it was a day of revelation when the thought crossed my mind, "Men have feelings, too." Embarrassed? Yes I am. True? Yes it is.

With the influence of romantic comedies in the perspective of Jennifer Lopez, or Meg Ryan, we gain the false notion that the emotions and uncertainty of a relationship are only experienced from the woman's side. Men know everything, and never worry nor doubt their abilities to, in the end, get the girl.

Of course, if you're Patrick Dempsey or Matthew McConaughey, that makes a lot of sense. Real men, on the other hand, are real people. They have doubts, and are probably just as emotional as we are. Without doubt, that means the companionship is better: where shoes don't care if they go or stay, work or fail, are loved or hated --- well, men care. There is an emotional investment, because they are emotional beings, too. Although a much more difficult, less linear relationship, it is, by far, better than shoes.

A love "callus" will not help you wear the "shoe" more comfortably. An emotional callus is detrimental. In this analogy, it's like never even trying on a new pair of shoes, no matter how cute they are. Even when the callused individual puts on a new pair, instead of enjoying them, all that is focused on is the previous formation of a callus, and the presence of it still.

It doesn't matter how long ago the callus was made, the effect will always be the same.  In love, it's best to have fresh feet. Letting previous relationship woes affect how the present relationship is viewed will invite all the reasons for the previous failures to fail the present one, even though the reasons don't have pertinence (per se).

Dating leads to marriage. For this reason, men are not shoes. Men are not collectible, because if you try to collect many, you don't really have even one. If you commit to each other, your relationship doesn't have to wear out, because real people last. However, relationships don't work with calluses. Dating and marriage follow a different set of rules than shopping for shoes, and following the rules for shoe shopping is detrimental in a romantic relationship.

It's simple, but so hard to practice: love is not like shopping for shoes.

It's Label Time!

I am not white.

Neither am I "Caucasian."

I am an American of (mostly) European heritage.  There are lots of reasons why I "should" feel short changed in the PC department: I am a woman; I am a "Mormon;" (and here we get a little far fetched but it's true), I am an exile of Scotland, and my native American ancestors' culture is completely deleted from me.  If it weren't for "white" men, my life would, hypothetically, be a lot happier (at least, different, and somehow different is always happier, right?)

Part of the problem is that it's all chalked up to the "white people."  I hate it when people say that I'm white.  It's not true.  I'm as white as any African American is black, or an Asian American is yellow, or a native American is red. That sounds rude, doesn't it? It is rude, and calling me "white" is just as rude as calling anyone else any other color.

I'm not Caucasian, either.  That's one of the most ridiculous terms ever to be applied to me: it refers to a people of northern India.  They were slightly less dark than the south Indian peoples, so they were "white," ---but they were less white than I am, and I don't have any recollection of being told that my family history traced there....ever.

If "blacks" get to be called "African American," then I get to be a "European American."  It's only parallel.  And if they want to be called "people of color," then I'm a "person of color," too, because there is definitely pigment in my skin (which is peachy), my eyes(which are brown), and my hair(which is also brown).  And if they want me to stop "being racist," then they need to stop being racist, too.

My family is not racist. We celebrate diversity, and part of the proof is the apple of our eyes: my youngest sibling is adopted, and he is not of the same racial makeup as I am. I love him just as much as my biological siblings, and I hope for him all the things that I hope for my biological siblings. I think I might love him better than I did some of the older ones when they were his age, just because I know better now how to value a sibling. I feel comfortable saying that my whole family feels this way.

It is unfair to us for anyone to judge our thoughts according to what our demographic predecessors thought and did (which does not include my ancestors, incidentally. I've done quite a bit of family history, and it seems they were all very poor, never owned slaves, were servants themselves, and fought for the north in the civil war), just like how it's unfair  for the African Americans to be judged by their racial background, or for the Scottish to judge me by the dishonorable actions of an obscure, Campbell ancestor, or anyone to be judged by the race they are a part of.

Isn't it about time we all moved on?

. . .And it's "European American," please.

Shame.

"You must be the change you want to see in the world."
-Mahatma Gandhi

Today when I was walking to work, I heard a woman sobbing.

I turned and saw here, crying passionately on the phone, and I wanted to do something to help her. I hesitated, and then went inside the building, deciding that she would be embarrassed to know that I knew that she was crying. At least, that's how I would feel, so I assumed that's how she would feel, too.

I stopped once inside, and stood there, struggling stupidly with my decision to ignore her. I changed my mind, and went out to help her, but found she was already gone. I felt ashamed.

I pray every day for opportunities to help other people, and I feel happiest when I can do just that. Is that not the essence of the gospel of Jesus Christ: finding joy in service to others? I don't always miss the call to action, but so often I miss my chances, and deeply regret my hesitance.

We all have our walls. Once I was boarding a plane in the JFK airport (or rather, the we-are-bugs-in-a-bottle airport), and I saw a man trying to communicate with two flight attendants. He was deaf, and neither of the attendants knew sign language, so the communication was laborious and frustrating for all three. I know sign language. Once again my desire to help struggled against my aversion to embarrassment, and I did not help.

The deepest regret I have of all is when one of my girls at efy was sick, and the health counselors, busy and inexperienced, didn't think that it was serious. Like Miss Clavel, I kept on saying, and feeling, that "something was not right," and I asked them to come visit her multiple times. I did not, however, insist upon further action. I wanted to, but I didn't want to make a "big deal" about it if I was wrong. So I didn't push. On the morning of the last day, she collapsed in the hall, and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with type I diabetes, a condition I have myself suffered more than ten years. Why did I not insist?

There are many things to regret in a life; these are mine. Of course, they all are excusable, none of the woe or frustration in these situations were ever my fault. The woman this afternoon was a stranger, so was the deaf man, and my efy camper insisted she was fine along with the health counselor, and after all, I did make sure she was seen every day that she felt sick by the health counselor.

I just think I could do better.

Are We Ennui? A Post of Three Parts (Just Like a Nucleotide!)

Part: The First: My English Nerd Self = On


"Do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of." 
-Benjamin Franklin
-Twelve Oaks Plantation Entrance (the Wilkes' plantation in Gone With the Wind)

squan·der/ˈskwändər/Verb

1. Waste (something, esp. money or time) in a reckless and foolish manner: "entrepreneurs squander their profits on expensive cars".

2. Allow (an opportunity) to pass or be lost

I squander time frequently. In other words, I allow material essence of life to pass or be lost. How can that not be depressing? And, what is to be done?

Read?

I have a short reading list this summer, because frankly, books are not people.  These are the books I have read:

1. An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

2. Austenland by Shannon Hale

3. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

4. The Fellowship of the Ring by J. R. R. Tolkien

5. The Crucible by Arthur Miller

6. Silent Spring by Rachel Carson

Here is my to-read list:

1. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austin
2. Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier 

3. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

4. The Abolition of Man by C. S. Lewis

5. The Help by Kathryn Stockett

6. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain

7. Bread Givers by Anzia Yezierska

It's a very female summer, frankly.

Part: The Second: My Intrinsic Humanity = On

I want to make something. Something of my own choosing and design, something that will be finish-able in the time that I have until school starts again, but will challenge me within that time frame. i don't know what it is yet, and I have been desperately trying to think of it for some time. 

I am open to suggestions. And by suggestions, I mean useful-yet-ambiguous guidance. Otherwise, it would cease to be my own, correct?

I've been thinking of writing something, or doing an art project, or a science project like making batteries out of potatoes, but I don't know.

Part: The Third: Basic Frustration = On

I hate formatting on blogger, and formatting on blogger hates me.

10 Things I Will Not Miss When I Am No Longer a Student

1. Phenomenal academic power . . . itty, bitty living space.
2. 80 hour weeks, split 17 different ways.
3. Reading thousands of pages per week.  At gunpoint.
4. Oh, you want to go somewhere? Forget about it. You can't afford a car, fool!
5. Feeling guilty for not doing homework after 11pm.
6. Forgetting to eat.
7. Ten different teachers with ten slightly different policies about class.
8. "You must write an academic paper about something to do with this class. You also must feel passionately about it. If you do not feel passionately about your thesis, which must be completely unique and your own (despite the fact that yes, Shakespeare has been studied for centuries, and no, there is no possible way you can look at Shakespeare in a unique, passionate way, but I do require that, so if you can't, you fail, and yes, you absolutely can't, because like I said, it has literally (HA!) all been done before), then you must allow yourself to be publicly ridiculed at least eight times, preferably at the beginning of class, so we can make it last all two hours."
9. Your body is not your own. You have surrendered it to academia. You may think you can eat well and exercise all semester long, but the truth is, there is no freaking way you can manage that. So get used to the fluff, peach. And the gross feeling of being habitually sedentary, because that is not changing. No, ma'am.
10. WHAT DOES "MLA" EVEN STAND FOR?!

Candy

Candy is evil.

It's addictive, and it kills. It is legal crack. If candy weren't in existence, how might the world be different? How many lives would extend, athletes emerge, and diabetics cease their sobs in the night, depressed by the denial of access to the pervasive stuff that binds us to its memory, a binding fashioned as Gollum was bound to the ring? The world needs a candy Frodo to expel the ubiquitous power of this Earth's one ring: candy.

Of course, that's not how I really feel, but it's fun to read, right?