"It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad. " --C.S. Lewis
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Life is about making choices. For example, when you fall asleep on the couch watching Sweeney Todd, and then awake at 3:30 am and have to wake up again at 6:45 am, the way I see it, you really have two options.
Say "Oh fudge it all" and go to bed in your warm, comfy, big, downy, soft, warm bed because it's the last time you can do so until Christmas break.
Pros: You get to sleep in your warm, comfy-cozy bed, with its lambs-wool soft sheets and big squishy comforter.
Cons: Your sister the infamous blanket-thief/duvet-hog is already there. Is your warm bed really worth a few measly hours of blanket-deprived, foot-freezing pseudo-sleep?
Cons: Wait, have you done laundry yet?
Final Con: Wait, have you finished packing yet?
Watch Pushing Daisies while doing laundry/finishing packing. (And I think it's sadly though abundantly clear that this is the option I'm going with.) At the moment, everything I have to take back to school is in a large, intimidating ring surrounding my suitcase. I'm taking this in baby steps, here. Just one foot in front of the other, here. Lee Pace is keeping me company; together we will get everything packed that needs to get packed.
We have two hours: ready. set. GO.
(P.S. Title cred to Rebecs)
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Just arrived back at the domicile from Mass with mi hermana. Now Mass is usually pretty legit, but this one was fantastic. Like many of the most bestest masses, it was one where the homily discoursed on absolutely *everything* I've been thinking about over the past weeks. My sister's review of the homily: "It was kind of all over the place," Maybe, but that's because Father literally hit up every single subject that has been on my mind. I kept poking my poor sister, because he kept stealing all my thoughts and putting them into words. Fantastic. Amazing.
He used the new translation of the Mass as kind of a jumping-off point to talk about beauty and reverence, which brought him to the importance of the liturgy as a sacrament, which then brought him to talk about the sacraments as the heart of our faith. I was internally jumping up and down in my seat.
Recently, I was in class, and the professor claimed that social justice was just as important and integral to the Catholic faith as the sacraments. While I see what he was trying to say, I just balk at the wording. Christ in the Eucharist is not just central to our faith, or important, or a somewhat-interesting feature of our faith. It is our faith. I should say, rather that He is our faith. The Eucharist is not just "a thing" or an "important thing" it is the Only Thing. Love in action is at the root of the Catholic Church, I'll give you that. But the Eucharist is Love. And unless our actions are united to that love, they will dry up, we'll run out of steam. Mother Teresa always had her sisters spend time in the Eucharist each day. Because they were out in the streets, gettin' down 'n' dirty, and showing love in action in the most radical way possible. And they were able to pour themselves out for others because of the Eucharist. The Eucharist is the source. Everything follows from that.
It was Father's little meditation on what it means to love Christ, through the liturgy, through the church, through our own personal encounters with Him. Although, he reminded us, we never enter into prayer alone. Prayer in its very essence is communion. It was beautiful.
And then, the new translation.
In the words of Kuzco, BOOM, BABY.
Oh it is good.
It is G-O-O-D.
It is so freaking beautiful.
The phrases are just pure music crystallized in prose.
The Eucharistic Prayer? It is bomb. It's the bomb.com.
"graciously accept this oblation of our service"
"precious chalice in his holy and venerable hands"
How can your very being not be moved by such poetry incarnated. The words inundate you, seep into your soul, and wash over you in a mesmerizing wave of grace.
It makes me feel like dancing. It's just that beautiful. Don't believe me? Come see for yourself. You'll leave with that happy feeling in your feet and that tappity feeling in your toes.
[/end Nerdy Catholic Rant]
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Home. Home home home home home home home.
Lovely, lovely, glorious, marvelous, perfect, wonderful, joyful, lovely, blessed, happy, fantastic, superb, lovely, beautiful, happiest feeling.
We walked in the door at 3am this morning. I had slept for about eight of the ten-ish hours we were driving (They didn't allow me to drive. Something about my driving skills leaving much to be desired...? IDK and IDC. I got to sleep. Fastest. Car ride. Evverrrr), so I bounced in the door fresh as a daisy.
The lovely thing about being home is that everything is right where you expect it to be. All the familiar foods are in the cabinet, all the familiar people are where they ought to be. And there are little new things that surprise you, like the pretty new couch, or the pretty new car. (My sister and I jumped in the car yesterday to go shopping. "Have you driven this before?" she asked anxiously. "Naw. Guess I'll just figure it out as I go along," I responded nonchalantly, and then sat back and enjoyed the mini-panic attack she had.
As soon as I woke up in the morning, I was pounced upon by the mini-kids and taken to the kitchen where we sat down for an intensely competitive round of their newest addition to the game cabinet: Ratuki (I'm just gonna throw it out there that I won. But who's counting?).
Highlight of my day: my little sister (the sassy one) gave me a big hug as I was walking out the door to go Christmas shopping with mom. And then she said: "You smell pretty."
Cue the Heart Melt.
I love being home.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Butterfly, fly home
Ascend to where you will find rest
Flitting from flower to flower
This world is too harsh to house such a creature,
Ethereal, you transcend.
Yet your wings-brightly colored-are woven in the fabric of the world.
Relentless, the end arrives for all things-
even you, fragile butterfly.
But death is not a butterfly's swan song.
On the other side of the dark is light
Fly to it, butterfly-
With your heart racing,
Your wings pounding,
Your soul yearning.
Your song blending, melting, merging
with the Light.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
"I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you-the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name. Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter.
The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them and what came through them was longing. These things-the beauty, the memory of our own past-are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself, they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited. DO you think I am trying to weave a spell? Perhaps I am; but remember your fairy tales. Spells are used for breaking enchantments as well as for inducing them."
"But we pine. The sense that in this universe we are treated as strangers, the longing to be acknowledged, to meet with some response, to bridge some chasm that yawns between us and reality, is part of our inconsolable secret. And surely, from this point of view, the promise of glory, in the sense described, becomes highly relevant to our deep desire. For glory means good report with God, acceptance by God, response, acknowledgement, and welcome into the heart of things. The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last."
--The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Adventures in Narcolepsy
There was one night (that'd be Sunday night, matter of fact) where I did not actually get any sleep. That was cool.
And bonus: it made Monday super exciting.
I went to my first class Monday morning. I was on time. I was awake. I was alert. It was fantastic.
And everything was downhill from there.
Seminar was mega struggs. I was awake for approximately 10.2 minutes of that class. The remaining 89.8 minutes were spent with my head bobbing up and down, wandering in and out of consciousness. When I woke up, I would cast a sheepish, apologetic smile at my professor, and attempt to listen to the conversation. See, when I say "class" I mean that there are nine of us sitting around a table talking about the books. Thus said, it's mucho difficil (aka impossible) to get away with nodding off and flying under the radar. Our prof. is, however, fresh out of school with a shiny new PhD, and he is extremely sympathetic to the student condition, and totally understands that sleep is hard to come by. I made a rousing last-ditch attempt at the end of class to end on a high note. So I pulled out a stock C.S. Lewis quote (Aside: you need at least 10 C.S. Lewis quotes at hand at all times-you'll be able to use them for anything. Literally anything. A prepared woman is a woman who has the sense to carry lip balm and safety pins in her purse, and a few Lewis quotations in her mind. A woman who lives according to these standards is invincible, unflappable, can overcome any obstacle, and nothing will ever phase her.) and made a point that related to the bits I had overheard of the conversation. Embarrassing.
That night, I was in the lobby of my dorm, flipping through my psychology book and watching Sunday in the Park with George on my computer. The next morning, I woke up in my bed, and I had absolutely no recollection of how I'd gotten there. So college, right?
The only thing I remembered was my friend talking to me in my room saying: "Do you wanna get lunch tomorrow? Okay...will you remember this in the morning?"
We were at lunch, and I casually brought up: "Wait. Were you in my room last night? And did you ask me to get lunch?"
Apparently, she heard music that "sounded like Mary Poppins" coming from the lobby, and found me fast asleep in front of my computer with the movie still playing. She woke me up, and I started babbling about the princess that was on my back, but it didn't matter, because I didn't have much homework. (I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine.) And she related to me a whole conversation that I have no recollection of. She left and then when she came back a few minutes later, I was asleep again. So, she helped me to my room, and that's how I found my way to bed. Apparently, if you get less than 5 hours of sleep for 5 consecutive nights, you start to act like you have a BAC of .08.
I may have just proved that theory.
It's been really, really windy recently. Like, you can lean into the wind and it will hold you up type windy. Like, I might get carried off to Oz by this wind type windy. So, I was carrying coffee and a poster that I didn't want to spill the coffee on. In the same hand. Because that's just how smart I am.
Naturally, to avoid being blown over by the wind, or, more importantly, having the coffee blown onto the poster, I started to so that my back was facing the wind. I walked like this for a while, and then I started noticing that people who passed me kept giving me weird looks. I couldn't figure out why, until I remembered that I was walking backwards. I guess that's not something real people do. Whoops.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
God's sense of humor is bitingly keen this morning.
Approximately 48 minutes ago, I turned in my study abroad application!
London, here I come! (hopefully)
Then, I put on my white blouse, cardigan and heels, and clip-clopped my way down to this conference. (Which was mistaken by my friend as a "party of smart people" and religious. Lots and lots of religious. Although no Missionaries of Charity have been sighted. Yet.)
Anyhow, I'm now sitting in a colloquium on University of Education. This very last presenter is the head of the Office of International Studies, and she is currently discussing internationalization and study abroad in the context of a Catholic university tradition.
The irony is so thick, I think it would take a machete to slice through it.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Cry like a baby every time.
To the sea, to the sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.
West, west away, the round sun is falling,
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,
The voices of my people that have gone before me?
I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
For our days are ending and our years failing.
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,
Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,
In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,
Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever--J.R.R. Tolkein
How can your soul not be pierced with gladness when Gandalf says "white shores, and beyond" and the violins start playing the most mournfully glad tune you've ever heard.
The awe-ful thing about that song is that it makes you want to be a part of its music. It calls to you, and you want to completely soak it in, absorb it, become one with it. It's so beautiful, and all your soul longs for- needs- need is to join in it's beauty.
It fills your heart with longing for the white shores you've never seen.
But one day you will. And that's the promise that the music sings to you.
One day, we'll be there.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Not to get side-tracked, but I just examined the cast list for The Hobbit movies and had approximately eleventy-one fangirl moments. Stephen Fry? Playing the Master of Laketown? perfect! Richard Armitage?! Playing Thorin Oakenshield!?!? Richard. Freaking. Armitage. Let the countdowns begin!
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I was outside Lyons having a typical Tuesday night meltdown.
As I sat on the steps with my head in my hands, and I heard a voice ask:
"Are you okay?"
I looked up, and there was a person wearing a puffy North Face and basketball shorts with earbuds in one ear. Typical Notre Dame.
"Oh yeah, I'm fine."
Human beings are ridiculous. There I was, looking like an idiot, with rainy, frizzed-out hair and tears running down my cheeks, and I tried to pretend that I had my life together. How utterly comical. What bizarre reflex exists in us that makes us act like we know what we're doing even when we're as lost as anteaters in a mirror maze? It's the armor we wrap ourselves in, and can't bring ourselves to let go of.
"Are you sure?"
"Oh yeah, I'm good."
He walked away, and I continued to sit and stare at the lights reflecting on the lake. He turned around and came back.
"You look like you could use a hug," he said, and then he wrapped his arms around me in a giant bear hug.
I was so touched. So moved. So gladdened. I was just so completely overwhelmed by kindness. How beautifully wonderful of him to just reach out to someone he didn't know, and bring a little bit of happiness into their life. He's a light bearer, that one.
People are just so amazingly lovely.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Over the past two nights, I've averaged 2.5 hours of sleep each night.
Today was actually not as bad as I expected. I overslept my first class (whoops), but that gave me time to shower (like a real person), put on a cute sweater and high heels, and actually prepare for my day. And I functioned fairly normally.
Until 3:00 pm seminar rolled around, and everything became really, really, really, hopelessly funny. We made a Land Before Time reference in relation to Augustine's Confessions. #totalPLSmove
Last year, my sleeplessness was almost a point of pride.
I could stay up until 2 am and then wake up at 8:30 am and function like a normal, happy healthy human being.
Theory A: I think I used to have super powers.
Theory B: I used to be younger. That was back long long ago when I was a teenager.
But I promise (scout's honor, Mom) that I've lost all sense of pride in the the fact that I don't sleep.
Screw pride. I want sleep.
Pride doesn't get you through the day without three cups of coffee.
Pride doesn't leave you feeling fresh as daisy and new as a baby bird right out of the shell.
Pride doesn't give you that delightful, delicious sensation that falling asleep brings.
And It's definitely not as soft and cozy as a pillow and a comforter.
Now the lack of sleep makes my heart cry out in protest.
My body begs for sleep. But my soul groans under the burden of homework.
The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. So weak.
And so sleepy (mostly sleepy).
Have you ever looked at a pile of books at 10:00 pm and realized you had to read them all before 9:30 the next morning?
It's not a happy experience.
Your heart sinks into your stomach, tears form in your eyes and you start to crave Nutella
(God bless you, Nutella. God bless you. I think my roommate and I have gone through two large Costoco 26.5 oz jars this semester and at least five 13 oz jars. And when I say "my roommate and I" I mean mostly me.
But it's so beautiful.
It is my one constant joy in a world full of insomniac pain.
So smooth, sensuous, and sweet.
It fills your mouth with pure euphoria.
And then you get a wicked stomach ache the next morning, which complements your caffeine-hangover headache and dark circles under your eyes perfectly.)
All that stands between me and sleep is a paper. One paper. One page of one paper. I can do this. And you know why? Because on the other side of this paper is sleep.
The best feeling in the whole wide world is when you're puttering around your room, straightening a bit, cleaning a bit, brushing your teeth, and getting ready for bed. Because you know that in just a few short, sweet minutes, you will be sleeping.
And absolutely nothing can stop you.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
What are your dreams?
And sometimes, the Dreams overwhelmed her. They filled her soul and bubbled over, tumbling and turning tumultuously, churning the fabric of her heart. They crested and broke like a thousand waves on the whitest sands. The Dreams ran ahead of her, darting through sun-streaked gardens of trees like elusive stags, always just out of reach, always just beyond her grasp. She followed until she was out of breath from running and laughing, until her song sucked all the air from her lungs. More would come, more would come, she knew. Inevitably, they did. Like violets, they sprung up at her feet without her noticing. They rushed into her arms when she least expected it. Dreams chased her down, and dogged her steps, and sewed themselves to the footprints of her shadow. Dreams followed her, as the twilight follows sunset; and as the stars follow them.
Like a butterfly, she hid. She hid in her soft, warm chrysalis, safe from harm, safe from fear, safe from the outside world. Nourished by nothing but her Dreams. Stay, she begged, let me stay here in my home. Outside there are winds and weather and wicked things. Inside I am safe. I am whole. But the Dreams whispered deep in her heart: You are alive. To be alive means to change, to be alive means to grow. It means to break apart and become whole again. No butterfly is born for a chrysalis. Each butterfly's wings are designed and known before the tiny caterpillar emerges from the egg. Your wings are coming, and they will not wait.
Which ones are mine? she asked.
There were hundreds. Maybe thousands. The Dreams sparkled and glittered and exploded with color. She laughed and she sang and as she skipped through them all, she looked at each one. The cloudy majestic Dream over there shouted her name in an echoing baritone; the small, shining one so close at hand whispered oh-so-softly: come see me, come see me; and the Dream that sparkled bright dazzling cerulean said nothing, but when she saw it, her breath caught in her throat. She reached out and touched a small golden Dream, and could feel its delicate fragility tremble under the featherweight pressure of her fingertips. Tears formed, she was left speechless in her Joy. The Dreams captured the light and molded the sunbeams into radiant prisms. The air was pulsing, vibrant with the love and life and the unending possibilities that emanated from the Dreams. The Dreams were calling her name, with promises that one day she would soar.
All of them were hers.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Dear Couple of the Entangled Limbs on the Quad:
Thank you for writing these words.
Just a Lil' Butterfly
Seriously? It's noon.
And Seriously? Get a room.
So happy you're in love.
Now get out of my line of vision.
P.S. I'm going to go eat my weight in chocolate while watching The Holiday. And I will have the most fun while doing it. The most fun. All of the fun.
Why can't I commit to you? And why can't I quit you? Why are you so intoxicatingly almost-perfect, but just bad enough that I don't want to be with you. You're intoxicating, exhausting, maddening, exhilarating, and utterly frustrating. And I love you for that.
It's Lafun. Not Lacuna. Say it with me: Lafun. L.A.F.U.N.
noun ( pl. -nae |-nī; -nē| or -nas )
Def.: an unfilled space or interval; a gap
Ex.: -There is a lacuna in your knowledge, Autocorrect, and that is the knowledge of the word "Lafun."
-When she didn't go to Lafun for a week, there was a lacuna in her heart that was empty of all joy.
noun (pl. n/a)
Def.: the student center at ND, which contains club offices, SAO meeting spaces, several restaurants and a food court, and thousands of sleep-deprived students.
Ex.: -Some traditions, like Lafun, should never be messed with.
-I pulled an all-nighter in Lafun.
Capiche? It's simps.
Procrastinating College Student
Dear Madeliene L'Engle:
None of us will escape the moment when we have to decide whether to withdraw, to play it safe, or to act upon what we prayerfully believe to be right.
Perhaps what we are called to do may not seem like much but....
Thank you for writing these words.
Just a Lil' Butterfly
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
"All we have to do is keep our wits about us and never forget our senses of humor."
"What better way is there to view the world than as a grand epic? We know how the story ends, and with that knowledge secure in our hearts, how can we but smile?"
"'I cannot love a lie,' said the Lady. 'I cannot love the thing which is not. I am in Love, and out of it I will not go.'"
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Why can't I quit PLS? I want to-or do I? -yes-no-yes-no yesnoyesno. GAH.
I think I love the ideal of PLS. But just because I love the ideal doesn't mean I should major in it, right? Right? A question I've put to myself: Would C.S. Lewis be PLS? And a voice inside me is whispering: no. Shoot. I thought I was pretty set in my major, having settled down into a happy rhythm. But a lunch discussion today has made me start reconsidering again. *ANGST*
Well, I for sure know I won't switch to psychology. Psychology is ridiculous. For example, in the lecture on love (which, for the record, our professor [a definite romantic] professed he did not believe could be quantified by psychological experiences and phenomenon only.), we studied what different things men and women look for in relationships. Apparently, according to our professor, women want a challenge (No, my mind objected reflexively, women want to be cherished.). The case he brought up to prove this point was that when a group of women, were exposed to a group of men, 59% of them responded that they would be interested in dating him. BUT, when they were exposed to a man and told he had a girlfriend, 90% responded that they were interested in dating him. So, apparently, that means women like a challenge?
I would suggest otherwise. I think that means that
A) People are vain. It's frustrating knowing that although you're *clearly* the most beautiful woman in existence, a guy has the utter nerve to find a girl he thinks is more beautiful. Oh, the effrontery. Our poor little egos are wounded. We'll show them. After they spend a few hours in our dazzlingly entrancing company, they'll be dying to date us.
B) People like to know that the good they desire is perceived by the social group to be desirable. Because we're such utterly social creatures, we like to like the same things our friends like. That's why lemmings jump off cliffs. I mean, all the other lemmings are doing it. So, if every woman in the United States thought Shia LaBeouf was the most unattractive man ever, fewer women would want to date him. But since he is generally thought to be attractive by the collective group, obviously, someone who wouldn't necessarily be inclined to date him would be more prone to date him because of the status that it would give her. It's not so much about the challenge of dating him, it's the idea that dating him would give her status. Which, I suppose, relates back to the vanity.
Okayyyy, you're thinking, throttle down there, Simba. I guess that whole rant sounds a wee bit cynical and slightly majorly pessimistic. Clarification: I don't think most women (or people in general) operate in this manner. I also don't think that most men look soley for: ovulation, sexual responsiveness, warm smiles, and passion when choosing a someone to share their life with. I could be wrong though.
Women look for a man to cherish them. And men look for a woman to cherish them. And I think that men have more than one thing on their minds, and if they only have one thing on their minds, then they can't excuse themselves by pulling the gender card. They're better than that. I get that men are biologically wired differently than we are, but I'm also wired to be producing adorable little babies. Although my heart starts a-pitter-pattering every time I see a precious little one, that doesn't mean I go around acting in a promiscuous manner, or treating others as a means to reach my end desires.
[/End Gender Relations Soapbox Rant]
All this to say, I think psychology lacks what it takes to explain a lot of human phenomenon that common wisdom does a much better job explaining. I believe in intuition; I'd rather depend on intuition than logic. I love the Miss Marple manner of solving mysteries rather than Hercule Poirot's style. Because Miss Marple's onto something: people always act in astonishingly similar manners-human beings are very much alike in many ways. In fact, it is often easy to predict how a certain person will act based on what other persons they resemble. That's Old Lady intuition. It's the best kind to have. You can't reason it out, you can't back it up with Aquinas-style logic. It's sort of "touch-and-go" as they say. You just work it, own it, live it and love it.
P.S. Happy All Saints day!