Ever Better

Today, as I was reflecting on what has become an extremely rough week, I was thinking about change. I think most of us are, to some extent, trying to change something about ourselves here or there, and trying to become better people. Ultimately, we have big dreams for ourselves; we want to become something better than what we are.

While I was sitting in my American Literary History class yesterday, I was kind of wishing that I could be a caterpillar. Not that I want to be a squishy, fuzzy, gross little bug, but because I crave the privacy of a cocoon (I suppose chrysalis is the more correct term, but I prefer cocoon). I doubt that any of us like to be in the middle of trying to change who we are under the harsh glare of other peoples' scrutiny and judgment. I mean it's hard, and people are going to point out your flaws as you're in the middle of trying to be a better person, and it hurts bad—believe me I know. So wouldn't it be nice, wouldn't it be delightfully easy, to be able to let go of everything you're doing right now, and just wrap up tight in a cocoon, and then, after a period of time, emerge a beautiful butterfly? Wouldn't it be great to be able to hole up in there, and then come out and say, "Yes! I'm there! I'm wonderful and beautiful and I'm better and I can fly! How cool is this?!"

But that's not the way the world works. Nope. Because we're not destined to be butterflies.

The way I see it, we're very different creatures. We're the kind of creatures who, in order to change, have to do so within the view of others. I say this not because we have to go about sharing the intimate details of our progress from one stage of (im)perfection to the next, but because often, our flaws are glaringly obvious to at least a small number of people. Even if we try to hide them away by being shy, and keeping to ourselves, we merely expose ourselves to further ridicule by being unable to conduct ourselves in public.

Granted, there are some flaws of character that only we ourselves can be aware of, and that we have the privilege to cloister and hone, or to take to the woodshed and beat soundly. And perhaps those are the hardest, because we are only then accountable to ourselves to fix them, and have no external stimulus to push us more fervently into action. These, however, I think are in the minority. (It's very possible that I'm wrong, but I feel that my thinking is correct.)

The thing is, our change is much more like that of a phoenix. We grow to a point where we can no longer remain as we are. We must change. Our selves have grown old, and it is time to put on a new. And so we begin to molt, and to try desperately to abandon our old selves, and it's terribly apparent.

And then we burst into flames. Bright, terrible, glorious flames.

I'm going to make the gross assumption that most of you have read Harry Potter, and that you recall Fawkes, the phoenix belonging to Albus Dumbledore. In the second book, The Chamber of Secrets, Dumbledore looks upon the pile of Fawkes' ashes as Harry tries to explain that it wasn't his fault, and says, "About time too. He's been looking dreadful for days; I've been telling him to get a move on."

I wonder if, perhaps, that's how God looks on us, though perhaps with a little more gentleness in His voice. He knows when it's time for us to let go of who we've been, though at one time, to become who we have been was a success. Does that make sense? Perhaps I can try to explain it better, just in case. What I mean to say is that we've made changes in the past, and there has been time when, after those changes have been made, that it's a wonderful thing to be that person. Then we grow, and mature, and truly make those changes a deep, and permanent part of ourselves. But then what once was enough is no longer enough, and the time to change is again upon us. We need to become ever better.

I can't decide which part is the worst. The molting, the ugly beginnings of abandoning the old; the burning, the violent destruction of a flaw, and of a piece of our own pride, and the accompanying pain; or the awkwardness of trying to emerge from a pile of ashes, a fledgling creature who hasn't quite got the hang of that change yet, and who is destined to fall short of fully embodying it for a while. I mean, it's really just an ugly process, and it is anything but comfortable. However, there are a few things worthwhile to be said of it, and those are these:

(1) We simply cannot refuse to change. We've seen the people who haven't changed since high school (which, granted, is varying lengths of time, depending on how old you are), and it's just sad to see someone who hasn't been able to progress. It's pathetic, and often a little gross. Let's just be honest.

(2) The way I see it, we're not your everyday, run of the mill phoenixes. I think we're something cooler than that. I think that with every Burning Day (think of day in the Creation "day" sort of way), we rise from the ashes even grander, more glorified. Like, with extra gold feathers or sparkles or something.

I think I had a few more things, but since I started this yesterday, I can't quite remember the specifics of what they exactly were. I suppose I'll just continue. Let's take a little look at why we're phoenixes, and not mere butterflies.

Firstly, while both processes allow an external change, I can't help but notice that there's still a caterpillar inside that butterfly. It might be that the caterpillar was just melted down (for lack of better/more accessible terminology) and rearranged to form the body of a butterfly ... it's the same stuff in there. A phoenix (granted, these things don't actually exist) burns down to nothing but ashes, and then rises out of them. (Since they're mythical creatures anyways, we're just going to assume that, since they're on fire, there's nothing left in the end but ashes. Then poof, a phoenix comes out of the middle of it, ok?) When we're changing, we may be able to change the way we appear to others, but unless we change the inside too, I don't think it counts for anything.

Now, who really wants to be a butterfly instead of a phoenix? You can argue all you want, but I will never believe that you'd rather be one of these, pretty though they might be, ...

... than a magnificent, mythical firebird. (And just in case you were wondering, all the phoenix pictures were tacky, so I didn't include one.)

Have you ever seen a butterfly flying? They're kind of pathetic. They wobble and tremble about in the air. And maybe they have a lot of strength considering their size ... but if the wind is greater than they are, what does it matter? Try not to think I'm being pessimistic here, I'm just making a point. Phoenixes are strong in the face of even the mightiest of winds. Why? Because they're cool, and huge, and powerful, and magic. Also, their tears are magic. Just saying.

Okay, so I realize I'm kind of going crazy here and that this post has gotten way out of hand. I had even more to say about this stuff, but I just don't have the time or energy to get it all sorted out. maybe someday in the future ... but I doubt it. Anyways, what I'm saying is: The easy way out may be the easy way out, but it's not always the best way out. And for myself, I want thebest because I want to be ever better. :)

Dreams Gone Awry

Sometimes, we have dreams that go awry. For example, a few nights ago I dreamed that I was kissing Alan Rickman. And no, not this kind of Alan Rickman ...

... who is, ya know, kind of a little bit attractive. He's got a little somethin' somethin' going on. But no. It was not that kind of Alan Rickman. It was definitely more like this:

and maybe a little of this too ... but with clothes ...

Oh. And add some Snape robes in there too. Because that's what he was wearing.

Now, I need to explain something here. It was one of those dreams where you have extremely heightened senses. For about half the dream, I had something stabbing me in the ribs, and when I woke up it took me a minute or so to convince my brain that there was nothing that was actually causing pain, and that I was okay. It had just hurt so bad in my dream that my head couldn't let go of it. So with this dream, as I was kissing this old dude, I was very aware that he had very crusty lips. (And he was a really bad kisser. Just saying. Even in my dream, I wanted it to be over ASAP.)

Alas, I now have this trouble: I am haunted by this dream, and his nasty old crusty-crusts. Just looking at those pictures of him gives me the willies because I got creeped on by him in my dream. I mean he is OLD. So inappropriate and weird. Also, every time I think about it, I have this resurrection of the sensation of those crusty-crusts on my lips, ... which is followed by a swift desire to sanitize and moisturize them. Mine, I mean. As I write this, I am fighting it because my brain keeps saying, "Hey! Remember this?!" And I'm like, "NO FOR THE LOVE OF PETE STOP!!!!! I DON'T WANT TO REMEMBER THAT!!!!!"

Because really, yuck, who would? Unless you're one of those creepy people who thinks Snape is hot, or you're married to him, or you're an old fart who knew who he was before he became one of the most hated (though eventually loved and/or appreciated) characters of the most successful fantasy series of all time. Then maybe you would want to...

But I doubt it. Woof.

You know, I really hate when this happens. When you wake up and say, "That would have been a good dream if ..." for example, instead of kissing Alan Rickman, I was kissing Zac Efron or Ben Barnes or even Taylor Lautner.

But no. It had to be Alan Rickman. And why? I have no freaking idea why. Where does this come from? Do I have a secret crush on Alan Rickman that even I don't know about? Pardon me Alan, but heaven forbid. That would be super creepy and uncomfortable. I mean, there are a thousand other people that I think about on a day to day basis ... Him, not so much. What bizarre recesses of my brain are in control of this?

Does this ever happen to anyone else? I feel like I always have these really intense, memorable, and frequently very strange dreams, but I rarely hear other people talk about theirs. I mean, when I wake up and have a weird dream, rest assured my entire apartment will hear about it within about 12 hours. Probably within 12 minutes, if everyone's awake and at home. That's just the way I roll.

Why do dreams sometimes go awry? Why do we have nightmares and creepy dreams and other things? Why can't all dreams be good? I mean, what purpose are they even serving? Particularly the bad/weird ones? I just don't get it. And I wish they wouldn't. Or that I could forget it when they do ... ughhhhhhhh.

Overwhelming

How do you like the blog-pimpage? Because I am LOVING it. It'll be nice when the "I'm a Mormon" button finally works, but unfortunately my page is still in a state of 'Review Pending.' I suppose I'm grateful that they DO review each page, so no one says anything ridiculous on there. But at the same time I just want to say, "I swear mine's okay! Just let it go!" Haha.

This has been an overwhelming week, both in the sense of good and in the sense of stress. I think it's mostly been good though.

One of the good things was going to hear Condoleeza Rice on Thursday. What an inspiring woman! I was so impressed with how intelligent she is (not that I expected any less), with how funny she is, how down to earth she is, and how positive she is. Of all the great things she said, however, this is one of my favorites:

Whenever you're lacking in optimism, remember your special responsibility because of where you are and what you've been granted, to hold up those who don't fall to cynicism, and to hold up those who can see a world not as it is but a world as it should be.

I think that's an interesting way to look at it. She didn't say, "Try to see the world as it could be" or "Don't fall to cynicism." Rather, she said we should hold up those who don't fall to cynicism, and who can see the world as it should be. Over time, I suppose, we should try to be those kinds of people, but I think sometimes it's enough just to say, "I cannot be like you right now, but I can support you and your cause."

Another great thing she said was, "It doesn't matter where you're coming from; it matters where you're going." Sometimes, I admit, I wish it was the other way around, because sometimes I feel like where I'm coming from is a little better, a little higher. But I guess it's just like what my bishop told me a few years ago, that life is a roller coaster. In fact, most things in life are like roller coasters. It's like being on five roller coasters all at once (only then each of those roller coasters breaks into five more, and each of those into five more, and on and on forever! Eek). You're not always going to be going up. Sometimes you're going to be dropping hard and making your stomach sick, and sometimes you're going to be spinning so fast that you can't see anything and you feel like your brain is going to be crushed against the seat back. That's just how life is.

School is definitely one of those roller coasters that I'm on right now. And then we have the individual roller coasters of each of my classes. Most of them right now feel like I'm on the first huge incline, and I'm looking at all the loops and thinking of how fast it's going to be going, and feeling like I just ate a massive chili-cheese foot-long hot dog. (I've never had one before because they make me sick when I'm just on the ground.) I am hardly doing anything, but just looking forward to the future is overwhelming. Especially when I do the homework and feel good, and then go to class and feel like a massive failure (this is most pertinent to my French class). As I see it, there are two potential lessons here: (1) Put more work into it, and (2) Hang on as tight as you can and just try not to fall off or barf on someone. I think that's all you can really do in some situations.

To get back to my French class, you know ... I'm not so sure about it anymore. I mean, I love French literature. And I love going to class and being able to understand my teacher. I love helping people do French homework and talking to myself in French (which hey, happens all the time). But I feel like I am barely keeping my head above water in that class right now, at least as far as speaking goes. I can spell and write and memorize vocab and read and listen and understand, as long as the vocab doesn't go too far off the path. For the life of me though, I can't speak to save my life. Well, that's not true. I just feel so far behind. I wish there was a section for returned missionaries, and a section for people who have just learned French in class. Also, I feel massively intimidated by my teacher. I guess I just have to deal with it at this point. It'll either be grand, or a total nightmare. I think I can hack it. I hope I can anyways. Time will tell.

First Day of School

... first day of school! Prove to Dad I'm not a fool! :)

So first day of classes is over and done with, and I don't think I've ever been so nervous in my life. Maybe I just forgot that I got nervous the past couple of semesters, but I always have this fright that I'm going to go to the wrong class. Or, like today, that (1) there are so many RMs in my French class that I feel like an idiot, and (2) I don't want people to judge me like I'm a marriage-obsessed freak for taking Marriage & Family when I'm not even seriously dating anyone. There are other reasons to take it! Hmph.

However, I am looking forward to tomorrow and getting introduced to my other classes. I've got two English classes, which are, of course, wonderful. One's going to be kind of small and awkward, but that's okay. (Just to explain, it's so small and awkward that they are advertising it on the English bulletin board in the JFSB. I blame the professor for sending out an email like, before Thanksgiving I swear, explaining that we were going to focus on "poetry, love, and the cosmos." Literally half the class dropped it after he sent that. Including me, but then I had to sign up for it again. Boo.) The other is American literature, and I hope that somehow I will learn to appreciate it, because, as is, I kind of hate it. But I am open to it, so that's a good thing, right? :) Then there's the Kennedy Center Lecture Series, with Heather and Natalie, and finally, Music 202. I am actually weirdly excited for Music 202, except for the fact that it's an evening class. The only other section of it is taught at 8 a.m., and I don't think I can handle that. Haha. But maybe I will switch if I can't take the 2.5 hour insanity that is an evening class? Who knows. Idk if I can make it all the way to the JKB by 8 a.m. ... probably not.

Since writing the above I have had a sad experience. It occurred to me that, although I do not yet have my book (it is still being shipped), the library does have it. So I looked it up, and it showed that there was a copy checked out, but it didn't indicate how many copies of the book they had, and since there are often multiple copies, I thought, "Hey, why not?" So I go up to the library, fully expecting to find this book on the shelf, and therefore expecting to be able to do my homework.

Not the case. The book wasn't there, my feet were aching really badly (I had on my new boots. Squee.), and I couldn't do my homework. Actually, a more accurate statement is that I still can't do my homework, because I still don't have my book. Is it too much to ask for the miracle of it showing up tomorrow? I kind of think so, but we shall see. Perhaps I will just get one from the Bookstore and return it asap? I don't even know if I can do that. I wish I could find someone with a copy of the book, and then I would borrow it from them for like an hour and it would be lovely. Who knows though. Gosh books, just get here.

I'm sick of waiting. Plus, it makes me nervous to not have it. :( Boo.

Snakes

I just saw that one of my friends changed their profile picture to one of them with a big, yellow python around their neck. It made my toes literally tingle with fright.

I hate snakes.

Passion

When I flew back to Provo, I had (at least) nine books in my carry-on and "personal item." This is not a joke or an exaggeration. I carried Les Miserables, Little Dorrit, Who Stole the Wizard of Oz?, The Book Thief, Made for Heaven, The Big Bento Box of Unuseless Japanese Inventions, Le Livre de Mormon ;), Little Bee, and The Day the Falls Stood Still. Let me tell you a little story about that last one...

On my last day in Jeff City, I wanted to go buy a movie. I was going to order it online, but then I saw it on the Barnes & Noble website for the same amount of money that it would cost for me to purchase and ship it from Amazon. Since we have a Barnes & Noble in town, and I kinda had a few books in mind that I thought I'd like to get a peek at, maybe even buy, so I drove over there. Much to my dismay, the movie was $10 more in the store than online, for reasons which still boggle my mind. To add to my misery, the book I most wanted to buy wasn't even in the store. How's that for cruel? But I really like looking at books, so I kinda hung around to see if there was anything else I'd be interested in purchasing.

As I'm browsing (extensively, mind you) this old man who works there comes up to me and asks me if he can help me. Now, I tend to shy away from these types of people (read: employees) because I really don't like being helped. Not while I'm shopping anyways. I'm pretty good at deciding for myself what I want, and plus if I can't find what I want, I figure it's not worth having because I'm pretty good at finding things, if they're put away properly. Anyways, I have digressed from my story. I change my mind about him helping me, and ask if he can help me find the book The Girl in the Blue Dress by Gaynor Arnold. It's about the wife of Charles Dickens, and it sounds like it's a really good read. To my surprise, he didn't baby me over to where it was supposed to be on the shelf, which is what I half expected him to do, but immediately went to the computer to see if it was in stock, and where it would be if it was. It didn't happen to be there, but he gave me a print out with the ISBN on it and stuff.

Then he says to me, "You're not from around here, are you?" And I was just kind of shocked, because I don't feel like I frequently give off that vibe, and certainly not in a bookstore, because I'm always comfortable in a bookstore. Surprised, I said no. As my surprise was absolutely evident in my face, he said, "A reader in here that I don't recognize? You have to be from somewhere else." After that, I kept browsing, he suggested The Day the Falls Stood Still to me, and I ended up purchasing it.

Now, the book is not the point of the story. The point is how good it felt to have someone see me, recognize what I'm passionate about, and then verbally acknowledge it. You wouldn't think that would feel good, but having this total stranger nab me as a big reader felt wonderful. It was like, "Yes! This is what I like to do! This is what matters to me! And you can tell just by looking at me that that's what's important to me!"

Of course, there are many other things that are important to me, Church, family, friends, etc. But I feel like those belong in a different sort of category. They're kind of apples-and-oranges with language and literature, you know? It's just been over the past few months that I've come to realize exactly how much I love words and language and the way that they can be used, and it's so gratifying to know that that love is apparent to other people, because I think when you have that kind of love, that kind of passion for something, it radiates. Maybe not to everyone, but there are other people who can see it.

I think back to how I felt my first semester of freshman year. It wasn't exactly a good semester, and I questioned a lot of things about myself and what I wanted to do. As a senior in high school, I had known that I was interested in English, but I also knew that that didn't necessarily translate well into a career. In fact, I still know this. It doesn't exactly scream practicality or promise for the future. But I had this moment, after I had accidentally declared myself a pre-communications major (based on my application to BYU), as I was sitting in my communications class, that I realized I absolutely hated comms. I hated everything about it ... except for the days that we talked about books as a form of media and communication. For some reason, that just warmed my heart and soul to think about how powerful the written word is, and how enduring books are, and how much happiness they've brought to me in my life. I mean, I was always the kid who got the maximum number of library books, who was in the advanced reading class in elementary school, who racked up AR points like nobody's business, and who was always writing stories or composing sentences in her head. That's just who I was. It's always been a part of me.

That doesn't apply to everyone of course. Tons of people don't figure out what their passions are until they're in college. Lots of peoples' passions don't translate well into majors. Many people have multiple passions, and have to decide how their passions are going to be a part of their futures.

But some people don't recognize their passions.

Doesn't that make you sad? It sure does me. I know how it feels to feel like you're working towards something you couldn't care less about, even if it has a more clear path to careerdom than the things you actually do care about. I just happened to be lucky enough, and maybe even crazy enough, to run away from the things I didn't care about, and towards the things that made a difference in my life--books, and French. (Aw. <3.)

I feel like the following quote is outlandishly applicable here:

Don't ask yourself what the world needs; ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

-- Harold Whitman

Isn't it so true though? I mean, you can tell when people don't like their jobs, or even their majors. It's painfully obvious.

You can also tell when people love what they're doing, when they have a passion for it. Furthermore, it doesn't just make them happier. It makes them better at what they're doing, because they care more about the results, and not for anyone's sake more than their own! When you love what you're doing, you want to increase your knowledge and improve your work. It's a natural consequence.

I can't help but think of Bob from The Incredibles, right at the very beginning. Remember? He looked like this:

Ohhhh. Poor Bob. Look how miserable. But when he decided to do those things that he cared about most, he made himself, and everyone else, happier.

Am I trying to justify the fact that I'm majoring in two things that aren't exactly Career-In-A-Jar Majors? Is it because my dad and grandpa and other people have been asking me a lot lately, "So what are you going to do with that, exactly? What are your plans for the future?" Maybe. Maybe I'm really just that dumb. But I don't think so. I mean, we've all had the teachers who love to teach, and the teachers who hate their lived because they're teaching and they hate teaching. You can tell the difference in everything that they do and say. They're worlds apart. They might get the same (crappy) pay, but what does that matter when there's happiness involved? You know what they all say, "I'd rather be poor and doing something I love, than rich doing something I hate." Okay, yeah, it's cheesy ... but isn't cheesy usually also paired with "true"? I dunno. Just a thought.

I guess what I'm saying is that, even when I don't love my classes, I love English, and I love French, and I love the fact that I get to study more about them and increase my understanding and progress towards my goals in each of these disciplines. I'm so glad that I have the opportunity to follow my passions, and to improve upon the world through something that makes me feel so alive. :)

Oh, and can you tell that I'm so stoked to start a new semester in a couple of days? ;)