These cookies made me smile when my mom brought them home today. They are actually called "Nice". Seriously. That's what it says on the box and what it says on the cookies. I think that is great. At first I thought they were special Christmas cookies. You know, "Nice" and "Naughty". But alas there are no "Naughty" cookies. Only "Nice" ones. They amuse me though. Plus, they are actually quite tasty.
The other day, after I had finished my exams, Bean pointed out that it was odd to see me looking so relaxed. I laughed because I knew how true that statement was. But a part of me was saddened by this statement. Do I really want to be known as the person who is always stressed? The one who walks around with a facial expression that indicates that the sky is falling?
Later, I told her that I'm really not sure how to function when I'm not panicking. I start to panic about the fact that I'm not panicking. My thoughts run something like this: "I'm not freaking out. Why am I not freaking out. I should be freaking out. I must be forgetting something that I should be freaking out about. What did I forget? WHAT did I forget? I must be forgetting something. I can't not be freaking out about anything..." And before I know it I have worked myself into a commendable panic over the fact that I am not panicking. The whole thing is rather ridiculous.
Yesterday it snowed. And I mean SNOWED. And it quite literally forced me to just stop and do nothing. I braved the weather in the morning to get to an optometrist appointment, but once I made it home there was no way I was going back out unless someone near and dear to me had an absolute emergency. I bailed on a Christmas get-together. I stayed home. And I was forced to do nothing. I started reading a book for my directed study course and taking notes on it when suddenly this voice in my head said "You're that girl again. The one who is always working. Take a breath." Let me tell you, I struggled. I tried to watch TV and nothing was on. Instead I put up the little Christmas tree in the basement. I caught up on some blog reading. I watched a show this evening with my parents (Sing Off, which you should check out if you haven't). I shovelled the sidewalk. It's weird, this emptiness. It's like there is a giant void in my head. Outside the world is buried in white blankets and I feel like that is what the inside of my brain looks like too. Just blank. I can't decide how I feel about this.
The Word
Tony Hoagland
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli" you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning - to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,
that also needs accomplishing
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue
but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
- to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.
I ran across this poem on The Wondering Minstrels, a blog that hasn't been active for a few years now but that is worth checking out just to get lost in the archives. I first read this post about a month ago and then promptly forgot about it. It got lost somewhere in the mess of my brain during paper-writing season. I read it again today though and was struck by the beauty of the poem. The image is so simple, and yet so powerful. This is a lesson I seem to be learning this year: that pleasure is just as important as anything else on my to-do list and that love is practical and necessary. I forget this often. It takes the simplest things to remind me though: a smile, a shiny penny on the office floor, a beautiful quote, a strain of music, a kind word, a certain quality of light. It is as if these things break through the chaotic mess of my brain and remind me that all is not lost and it is worth it to seek joy and love.
I wrote this last night while I was working on a take-home final.
It is 12:25 a.m. and I am staring at yet another blank page on my computer screen.
It's the curse of the English major. Over and over again you are confronted with blank pages. Over and over again you are asked to fill these blank pages with your knowledge, your opinions, your heart, your soul, your very self.
Sometimes I joke about how if you forget a pen in an exam you have to write the essay in blood. But this is said only half jokingly. Sometimes it feels like you are writing in blood. Blood and tears. As if the pen you hold is connected to your veins, connected to your tear ducts, and pours the things that keep you alive and make you human out onto the page.
After three and a half years of being asked to submit paper after paper - eight pages, ten pages, fifteen pages, twenty pages, MLA formatting, double-spaced, size twelve Times New Roman font, one with a title page, one without - it starts to wear on a person. There is only so much blood you can give up before you start to feel the consequences.
And then the blank page becomes terrifying. At one point I loved the promise of a blank page. I loved the process of shaping a paper, of orgainzing my thoughts. I loved crafting the perfect phrase, the brilliant sentence that conveyed my point perfectly. I enjoyed the thrill of finding a secondary source that backed me up. I felt satisfied when I finished a paper, knowing that my carefully chosen words conveyed my argument in a strong and clear way. But now I stare at a new word document or a sheet of looseleaf and feel nothing but panic. The language eludes me. Ideas float around in my head completely formless. They refuse to be confined in sentences. They refuse to connect to one another and create a coherent argument.
The joy is gone. Now I sit and tear out my hair, scream obsenities, throw things. I used to have a love affair with language. Now I fight with it. Out loud. Waving my hands. Looking like a crazy person.
He strolls past the office door looking like he's on a mission. But he catches my eye as I'm coming out and takes a couple steps back.
"ENCOURAGEMENT," he says, waving his hands in the air between us as if they are the conduit for positive thoughts and reassurance.
"I haven't even started," I say, gesturing with my head towards the stack of textbooks in my arms. My voice is tinged with half-crazed laughter. Laughter that teeters on the edge of tears and is born out of stress.
"That's okay," he replies. "ENCOURAGEMENT." Once again, waving his hands.
He looks a bit foolish, but he makes me smile, and it's the first genuine smile I've given in days. And I actually do feel encouraged.
[Thank you.]
Because it matters.
Because I believe that words are powerful.
Because I believe that art can change the world.
[Just a reminder to myself that this is where I am supposed to be and this is what I'm supposed to be doing.]
