When writing on this blog for a grade, it is extremely difficult to be motivated when you're past your word count. The ideas stop flowing, the will to write dissipates -- but I need just one more post. This is a bad habit run rampant in society. Only do as much as needed, then stop. Passion -- the need to do whatever it is -- has hidden itself behind the mundane life. However, it is this lack of passion that tells us just as definitely what we should do as its presence.
In the seventh grade, I wanted to be a writer. I could dream of no greater feat than to have words -- my words -- published. I liked to write, but I didn't need to, not to survive. Now, I know this neutrality about the whole thing is a sign of it not being what I want to do. I can draw reasonably well and I enjoy it immensely, but I dabble, not finding it necessary to continue to express myself through colors on a paper. Again, a failed attempt at a life plan.
As a college nears, it become necessary, even urgent, to decide what "you want to do with your life." In my house, that phrase should be synonymous with "being employable." As a junior in high school, I know without a doubt that my future lies in microbiology. This is to me an example of the presence of passion guiding the purpose in life. Never have I been able to step away from the microscope. The worlds in the specimen fascinated me and continue to do that to this day, when work should be eroding that love. I think of maintaining my passion for microbiology as a marriage -- sometimes you need to simply focus on the love of your life. When we do ecology in biology, I take breaks by revisiting the cell section, focusing on only the cell, no plants, animals, or soil to interfere.
Whatever the course of my life, I know for certain that I could never become a professional blogger.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Billboards
Billboards tell the true personality of a place. The ones that are in the city are flashy, depicting new technology, an urban lifestyle, or hotels. In smaller towns, there is real diversity in these enormous signs. For two days, my mother, my sister and I went down to the Missouri side of Kansas City to see the Princess Diana exhibit. (Her clothes were magnificent -- but I'm not sure how she wore them without constantly worrying that she would ruin them.) For miles in between Cedar Rapids and Kansas City, there was nothing but blissful farmland. But as we got closer to Kansas City, I began to notice a distinct trend in the billboards. I noted at least three that were religious, trying to bring the Good News to the public on I-35 south.
Now, in Christianity, this is a good thing. The final command from Jesus was, "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:19-20 NIV) There is a church in Cedar Rapids that puts a message onto a speaker, which is mounted onto the outside of the building, so the lost sheep driving down Center Point Road will be able to repent and hopefully attend the church. Now, I don't have a particularily unbiased opinion on this, but if it were me driving down Center Point Road or I-35 south, I would be about as interested in these religious assaults as if my gas tank was half full. I might recognize that they want something of me, but since it really doesn't affect my life now, well, I would just turn up the radio or wonder where I'm going to stop for lunch.
Many people would argue that this attempt at mass evangelizing will bring some people to church. Maybe it will. I don't have near enough experience to say that it wouldn't, but it seems that these attempts to publicize are misdirected in the very least. Christian people already have a reputation of being prideful, arrogant, fake, narrow-minded, pushy, intolerable, and self-righteous. Unfortunately, I'd sometimes be tempted to agree. Although the billboards and speakers are technically trying to fulfill the Great Commission (Matthew 28:19-20), I have never heard of a person's salvation story related to these things. If you're a Christian, the best way to work for God is to simply love -- not judge, not accuse, not throw their actions in their face -- love. If you're a non-Christian, remember that these people are just that -- human. The faith's legitamacy is not tainted by human inadequacy. God's love isn't reserved for the people sitting int the front row of the church sanctuary.
In Missouri, I got to thinking what kind of people it was that made those billboards, decided they were a good idea. I don't know them or their story, but I do know that I don't want to be seen like that. I don't want to be the person whose actions can't speak for themselves, who has to scream, "REPENT AND THOU SHALT BE SAVED!" just to fulfill the Great Commission. I also realized that other people look at us like I look at the billboards and judge accordingly. It was humbling and utterly uncomfortable.
Now, in Christianity, this is a good thing. The final command from Jesus was, "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age." (Matthew 28:19-20 NIV) There is a church in Cedar Rapids that puts a message onto a speaker, which is mounted onto the outside of the building, so the lost sheep driving down Center Point Road will be able to repent and hopefully attend the church. Now, I don't have a particularily unbiased opinion on this, but if it were me driving down Center Point Road or I-35 south, I would be about as interested in these religious assaults as if my gas tank was half full. I might recognize that they want something of me, but since it really doesn't affect my life now, well, I would just turn up the radio or wonder where I'm going to stop for lunch.
Many people would argue that this attempt at mass evangelizing will bring some people to church. Maybe it will. I don't have near enough experience to say that it wouldn't, but it seems that these attempts to publicize are misdirected in the very least. Christian people already have a reputation of being prideful, arrogant, fake, narrow-minded, pushy, intolerable, and self-righteous. Unfortunately, I'd sometimes be tempted to agree. Although the billboards and speakers are technically trying to fulfill the Great Commission (Matthew 28:19-20), I have never heard of a person's salvation story related to these things. If you're a Christian, the best way to work for God is to simply love -- not judge, not accuse, not throw their actions in their face -- love. If you're a non-Christian, remember that these people are just that -- human. The faith's legitamacy is not tainted by human inadequacy. God's love isn't reserved for the people sitting int the front row of the church sanctuary.
In Missouri, I got to thinking what kind of people it was that made those billboards, decided they were a good idea. I don't know them or their story, but I do know that I don't want to be seen like that. I don't want to be the person whose actions can't speak for themselves, who has to scream, "REPENT AND THOU SHALT BE SAVED!" just to fulfill the Great Commission. I also realized that other people look at us like I look at the billboards and judge accordingly. It was humbling and utterly uncomfortable.
Flying
I have the single most pleasure of having a father who can fly an airplane, and because of this, he was able to fly me to the University of Wisconsin at Madison's campus this past week for a college visit. Although I liked Iowa State University better, the flight to Wisconsin was magnificent. It was one of those days nestled between rain and clouds, wind and cold that was almost perfect. Once we got up off the ground, it was only a matter of breaking through the thing layer of clouds that were hanging at about 2500 feet. The flight was an hour and a half long, and because I didn't bring any homework, I had plenty of time to look out the window.
Usually, flying in this area of the country is boring for me. When my family and I used to live in the Northeast, the splendor of an autumn's mountain could take my breath away, but here, the ground is flat and covered in fields. I watched our shadow race along the ground, curving along hills you wouldn't notice from above. Weaving in and through the fields, creeks -- full of spring snow -- were swollen. From above, I could easily see the bends and the crevices of the creeks and rivers, making an entirely new perspective than when I was on the ground.
Thirty minutes into the flight I realized that the lawns of houses were green, unnaturally so, and the riverbanks and forests brown. Already in March, the lawns were neatly clipped and obviously fertilized. The wealthier neighborhoods we flew over were blatantly doctored in some strange attempt to mollify and beautify the little piece of nature the homeowner could call his own. In a few weeks, all the residents in our neighborhood will begin to cut, to seed, to fertilize, and to do various other things to their lawns because nobody wants to stare at an ugly lawn. There's always the one person in the neighborhood that doesn't put out any effort -- it's amazing if they even get out to mow their grass -- and everyone else complains about their lack of maintenance. And rightly so! But there is a difference between maintenance and plastic surgery on the lawn. In my father's airplane, the places that were the most beautiful were the brown, barren, and wild forests and riverbeds, the hills that curved underneath the topsoil, and the water itself. There was no leaves, no wildflowers, and no green, but these places had an appeal beyond the green buzz cut of my neighbor's lawn. On his land, nothing unplanned is allowed to grow, his grass is never thin or off-color. Yes, his back yard is pretty, but something is missing.
When I was younger, my sister and I used to play make-believe in our backyard. Our favorite game was to pretend that we lived in a jungle tree house and had to make our own food. After the extremely dramatic shipwreck scene, we used the little white flowers that grew in our yard as food -- not actually eating them. One of us would gather them, and the other would put them carefully in a little hole underneath the treehouse, covering them with leaves and grass for the long winter ahead. I suppose that if you were to go looking, you might find a little store of dried white flowers under the treehouse in New Hampshire. These flowers were only weeds of course, but these weeds were beautiful and essential in the eyes of two young girls. Sometimes, the idea of a little less rigidity and a little more nature in our lives is better than a perfectly manicured, wonderfully spotless life.
Flying over Wisconsin and Iowa, a new kind of beauty, a subtle one hidden in the bend of a creek or in the rich browness of tilled earth, revealed itself. It did not need fertilizing or pruning, cutting or weeding. The minute human effort became obvious, the beauty evaporated. Nature has a store of treasures for us, but our eyes and hearts have to be open to see them. Look around you, see the tree limbs dancing in the wind, the young shoots of green grass among the older brown lengths, the way bark peels from the trunk of a birch tree. They will continue whether noticed or not, but they will make your life more vibrant, more real if noticed.
Usually, flying in this area of the country is boring for me. When my family and I used to live in the Northeast, the splendor of an autumn's mountain could take my breath away, but here, the ground is flat and covered in fields. I watched our shadow race along the ground, curving along hills you wouldn't notice from above. Weaving in and through the fields, creeks -- full of spring snow -- were swollen. From above, I could easily see the bends and the crevices of the creeks and rivers, making an entirely new perspective than when I was on the ground.
Thirty minutes into the flight I realized that the lawns of houses were green, unnaturally so, and the riverbanks and forests brown. Already in March, the lawns were neatly clipped and obviously fertilized. The wealthier neighborhoods we flew over were blatantly doctored in some strange attempt to mollify and beautify the little piece of nature the homeowner could call his own. In a few weeks, all the residents in our neighborhood will begin to cut, to seed, to fertilize, and to do various other things to their lawns because nobody wants to stare at an ugly lawn. There's always the one person in the neighborhood that doesn't put out any effort -- it's amazing if they even get out to mow their grass -- and everyone else complains about their lack of maintenance. And rightly so! But there is a difference between maintenance and plastic surgery on the lawn. In my father's airplane, the places that were the most beautiful were the brown, barren, and wild forests and riverbeds, the hills that curved underneath the topsoil, and the water itself. There was no leaves, no wildflowers, and no green, but these places had an appeal beyond the green buzz cut of my neighbor's lawn. On his land, nothing unplanned is allowed to grow, his grass is never thin or off-color. Yes, his back yard is pretty, but something is missing.
When I was younger, my sister and I used to play make-believe in our backyard. Our favorite game was to pretend that we lived in a jungle tree house and had to make our own food. After the extremely dramatic shipwreck scene, we used the little white flowers that grew in our yard as food -- not actually eating them. One of us would gather them, and the other would put them carefully in a little hole underneath the treehouse, covering them with leaves and grass for the long winter ahead. I suppose that if you were to go looking, you might find a little store of dried white flowers under the treehouse in New Hampshire. These flowers were only weeds of course, but these weeds were beautiful and essential in the eyes of two young girls. Sometimes, the idea of a little less rigidity and a little more nature in our lives is better than a perfectly manicured, wonderfully spotless life.
Flying over Wisconsin and Iowa, a new kind of beauty, a subtle one hidden in the bend of a creek or in the rich browness of tilled earth, revealed itself. It did not need fertilizing or pruning, cutting or weeding. The minute human effort became obvious, the beauty evaporated. Nature has a store of treasures for us, but our eyes and hearts have to be open to see them. Look around you, see the tree limbs dancing in the wind, the young shoots of green grass among the older brown lengths, the way bark peels from the trunk of a birch tree. They will continue whether noticed or not, but they will make your life more vibrant, more real if noticed.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Musical Hall of Failures
Today, I went to orchestra practice and had to play a tiny, three bar solo. It just about killed me.
Although this seems extremely irrelevant, I have decided that my fear of performing in front of others in my church is communicable to a feeling of inadequacy that every human being experiences from time to time, if not on a regular basis.
Every year, I play at a flute recital, where I perform a long piece. This year, I will be performing with Mozart, Bach, and Handel, and yet the complex phrasings, the difficult rhythyms, and the odd key signatures riddled with accidentals don't phase me as much as playing a simple little tune in front of CHURCH. The only reason I can come up with is the people in the audience. At a recital, my parents are in the small audience, but even if I mess up the entire piece, they still have to love me. In church, all those old ladies seem like they're just waiting for me to mess up so they can snicker and point. So, this afternoon, I spent five bars prior saying to myself, "Okay, alright, okay, you'll be fine. Just count. And don't worry about everybody else. But play loud, and keep your tone sweet, lips forward, jaw down... okay.... One and Two and THIS DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT! Oh man! Missed the entrance. Maybe I can just fall in later... no, missed that note... NOW EVERYBODY'S LOOKING!" Needless to say, my face turned red and my ombusure turned up. It was bad for everyone.
I'm sure everyone wants to hole up and die after the spotlight falls on them. There's just something that amplifies the insecurities about my own playing that a solo brings. It's different for everyone, but it's important that both you and I work through this. Between now and next Sunday, I will work on that little solo, no matter how stupid, because I WILL PLAY IT RIGHT. The only way to make yourself better is to focus, to roll up your sleeves, and dig in. Fifteen little notes may be insignificant to anyone else, but if I can't try and dominate, I might as well relegate myself to the musical Hall of Failures. But hey, if I do fail, I might meet Justin Bieber.
Although this seems extremely irrelevant, I have decided that my fear of performing in front of others in my church is communicable to a feeling of inadequacy that every human being experiences from time to time, if not on a regular basis.
Every year, I play at a flute recital, where I perform a long piece. This year, I will be performing with Mozart, Bach, and Handel, and yet the complex phrasings, the difficult rhythyms, and the odd key signatures riddled with accidentals don't phase me as much as playing a simple little tune in front of CHURCH. The only reason I can come up with is the people in the audience. At a recital, my parents are in the small audience, but even if I mess up the entire piece, they still have to love me. In church, all those old ladies seem like they're just waiting for me to mess up so they can snicker and point. So, this afternoon, I spent five bars prior saying to myself, "Okay, alright, okay, you'll be fine. Just count. And don't worry about everybody else. But play loud, and keep your tone sweet, lips forward, jaw down... okay.... One and Two and THIS DOESN'T FEEL RIGHT! Oh man! Missed the entrance. Maybe I can just fall in later... no, missed that note... NOW EVERYBODY'S LOOKING!" Needless to say, my face turned red and my ombusure turned up. It was bad for everyone.
I'm sure everyone wants to hole up and die after the spotlight falls on them. There's just something that amplifies the insecurities about my own playing that a solo brings. It's different for everyone, but it's important that both you and I work through this. Between now and next Sunday, I will work on that little solo, no matter how stupid, because I WILL PLAY IT RIGHT. The only way to make yourself better is to focus, to roll up your sleeves, and dig in. Fifteen little notes may be insignificant to anyone else, but if I can't try and dominate, I might as well relegate myself to the musical Hall of Failures. But hey, if I do fail, I might meet Justin Bieber.
The Merits of a Clean Room
Ever since I was old enough to remember I have not had a clean room. I would like to say it has been a genuine struggle to change my disorganized, messy nature, but it's been more of a disinterested thumb wrestle on my part. Both of my parents are focused, exactly, and organized people, making living with what I had long considered my natural state of being difficult for them.
Lately, I have begun to suspect that this urge to pile, to lose, and to absentmindedly step over large mountains of toys/clothes/books is more a vice than an inherent quality in my nature, neutral beyond the annoyance of all who surround me. I have tried especially in the last year to overcome this with some degree of success, leading me to believe that this is an obstacle stuck in my path for me to try and scale, to conquer. Everyone has one -- math, basketball, an overinflated ego -- but it's not so fun when it's YOU diligently removing book after book from your floor, not even remembering how they got there.
Right now, all I have to do is look to my left and see five piles of books, binder, and papers sitting unobstrusively on my desk. And to think, it was only yesterday that I cleaned my computer desk. And yet it is with complete confidence that I can say that if I try, I can be super organized. A case in point is my precalculus notebook, where I scratch down every problem, every formula each day in class. The notes are labelled by color-coded sticky notes by chapter, one for each day, so that I can find whatever I need come final review time. In addition, each worksheet is folded and stuffed into the appropriate area.
I believe that all our problems, all our little vices, are set in our way to make us better people. The glutton who learns self-control, the liar who learns the power of honesty, the fool who learns to think -- all these people can be improved by the not-so-simple mind over matter. I don't believe that you have to do it alone. How can we aspire to be something more than what we are without the help of faith? All, in the end, would prove meaningless.
I don't say these things as a person who has lived a long and fruitful life after overcoming something horrible like an addiction or an abusive environment. I say these things as human to human, one girl to all the people in the world, or all the people who read my work. When I was a young child, up until about when I was eleven or twelve, I had a real problem with lying. Every little domestic issue would result in a lie.
Dad: "Did you brush your teeth?"
Me: "Yes."
Dad: "Then why is your toothbrush dry?"
Mom: "Did you eat some Halloween candy?"
Me: "No."
Mom: "Then why are there candy wrappers under your pillow?"
And so on and so forth. I finally began to care that I was doing something wrong, that I was doing something against the rest of my character, and I stopped. Not so easily as that, but still. Instead of just accepting that this was a part of who I was, I tried to become someone else. As humans, we are called to become something more than who we are, to try and strive above and beyond our nature. It is right, it is good, and it is true.
Now I have to go clean my room.
Lately, I have begun to suspect that this urge to pile, to lose, and to absentmindedly step over large mountains of toys/clothes/books is more a vice than an inherent quality in my nature, neutral beyond the annoyance of all who surround me. I have tried especially in the last year to overcome this with some degree of success, leading me to believe that this is an obstacle stuck in my path for me to try and scale, to conquer. Everyone has one -- math, basketball, an overinflated ego -- but it's not so fun when it's YOU diligently removing book after book from your floor, not even remembering how they got there.
Right now, all I have to do is look to my left and see five piles of books, binder, and papers sitting unobstrusively on my desk. And to think, it was only yesterday that I cleaned my computer desk. And yet it is with complete confidence that I can say that if I try, I can be super organized. A case in point is my precalculus notebook, where I scratch down every problem, every formula each day in class. The notes are labelled by color-coded sticky notes by chapter, one for each day, so that I can find whatever I need come final review time. In addition, each worksheet is folded and stuffed into the appropriate area.
I believe that all our problems, all our little vices, are set in our way to make us better people. The glutton who learns self-control, the liar who learns the power of honesty, the fool who learns to think -- all these people can be improved by the not-so-simple mind over matter. I don't believe that you have to do it alone. How can we aspire to be something more than what we are without the help of faith? All, in the end, would prove meaningless.
I don't say these things as a person who has lived a long and fruitful life after overcoming something horrible like an addiction or an abusive environment. I say these things as human to human, one girl to all the people in the world, or all the people who read my work. When I was a young child, up until about when I was eleven or twelve, I had a real problem with lying. Every little domestic issue would result in a lie.
Dad: "Did you brush your teeth?"
Me: "Yes."
Dad: "Then why is your toothbrush dry?"
Mom: "Did you eat some Halloween candy?"
Me: "No."
Mom: "Then why are there candy wrappers under your pillow?"
And so on and so forth. I finally began to care that I was doing something wrong, that I was doing something against the rest of my character, and I stopped. Not so easily as that, but still. Instead of just accepting that this was a part of who I was, I tried to become someone else. As humans, we are called to become something more than who we are, to try and strive above and beyond our nature. It is right, it is good, and it is true.
Now I have to go clean my room.
The Price of Survival
In about a year and a half, I will suddenly be thrown into the world of laundary, of cooking, and of scheduling for myself. This frightens me simply because I have had my mother to cater to my needs for seventeen and a half years, and soon she will be gone, three hours down a long stretch of Highway 30. Until I figure out a better way to hem pants, I will more than likely duct tape the ends up. Microwave cuisine will dominate my nutrition, and I will have to face the horrible coin-operated washing machine all alone, armed only with a desperate need for a clean pair of jeans.
This is a part of the American educational system that some get to experience. While learning calculus, a student must also learn to live. This phase of existence is for most an unconscious right of passage, beyond the driver's license or the legal drinking age. To conquer to complexities of adult humdrumity is both exciting and overlooked.
America's ideal teenager is an overworked, overactive ball of stress. School from as early as seven in the morning to as late as 4 in the afternoon. Music lessons, volunteering, clubs, jobs, sports, speech teams, theater productions, concerts, weekend plans, showcoir competitions, and family time. In between chemistry homework and showcoir practice, there isn't much time to learn to sew on a button or learn to cook a nutritious, cheap meal -- much beyond a Smart Ones concoction. These are the kids who pull decent grades, who don't get caught doing all the awful stuff they could devote their lives to, and who are destined for a prosperous middle-class life.
But when survival invades -- and I mean the idea of no food in the refrigerator, the dirty toilet, the piles of laundary -- America's teenager has been thrown into a ring to fight a bull, blindfolded. The insane obsession with preparing for a well-to-do lifestyle sometime in the distant future, the crazed race for advantages that will translate into college acceptance, into higher-level degrees, into a comfortable job, into a home with all the fixings, has managed to silence the selfish survival instinct that children used to learn before heading off into life. Americans are characteristically selfish. We have been known to be ridiculed by natives of countries we visit (in their language, of course) for being loud, pushy, sloppy, and kind of rude. Humans known deep down inside themselves that selfish behavior is wrong -- well, most of us do. But if we expect each generation to try and find a way to rise above the self-centered template we have been given, it doesn't follow that at a time when a truly selfless personality should develop, when young adults are learning just how big and wonderful the world is, especially outside of their life, these same people must constantly think about THEIR own survival, THEIR own well-being.
There really isn't much of a solution to this problem. It isn't a cut and dry case of diet and exercise will lead to a healthy lifestyle. This is an instance where individual people can choose to try and change the world just by changing the way they think. Selfish, arrogant, disinterested teenagers could morph into some of the most caring people on the planet if they learned to survive. That out of the way, a whole lot of time is free for other things. If you aren't so absorbed in the urgency of your own life, it may just be possible to hold the door for the lady with a stroller or smile at random passerby.
This is a part of the American educational system that some get to experience. While learning calculus, a student must also learn to live. This phase of existence is for most an unconscious right of passage, beyond the driver's license or the legal drinking age. To conquer to complexities of adult humdrumity is both exciting and overlooked.
America's ideal teenager is an overworked, overactive ball of stress. School from as early as seven in the morning to as late as 4 in the afternoon. Music lessons, volunteering, clubs, jobs, sports, speech teams, theater productions, concerts, weekend plans, showcoir competitions, and family time. In between chemistry homework and showcoir practice, there isn't much time to learn to sew on a button or learn to cook a nutritious, cheap meal -- much beyond a Smart Ones concoction. These are the kids who pull decent grades, who don't get caught doing all the awful stuff they could devote their lives to, and who are destined for a prosperous middle-class life.
But when survival invades -- and I mean the idea of no food in the refrigerator, the dirty toilet, the piles of laundary -- America's teenager has been thrown into a ring to fight a bull, blindfolded. The insane obsession with preparing for a well-to-do lifestyle sometime in the distant future, the crazed race for advantages that will translate into college acceptance, into higher-level degrees, into a comfortable job, into a home with all the fixings, has managed to silence the selfish survival instinct that children used to learn before heading off into life. Americans are characteristically selfish. We have been known to be ridiculed by natives of countries we visit (in their language, of course) for being loud, pushy, sloppy, and kind of rude. Humans known deep down inside themselves that selfish behavior is wrong -- well, most of us do. But if we expect each generation to try and find a way to rise above the self-centered template we have been given, it doesn't follow that at a time when a truly selfless personality should develop, when young adults are learning just how big and wonderful the world is, especially outside of their life, these same people must constantly think about THEIR own survival, THEIR own well-being.
There really isn't much of a solution to this problem. It isn't a cut and dry case of diet and exercise will lead to a healthy lifestyle. This is an instance where individual people can choose to try and change the world just by changing the way they think. Selfish, arrogant, disinterested teenagers could morph into some of the most caring people on the planet if they learned to survive. That out of the way, a whole lot of time is free for other things. If you aren't so absorbed in the urgency of your own life, it may just be possible to hold the door for the lady with a stroller or smile at random passerby.
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