I Tip My Hat

He wears a suit coat, a trilby hat, and shiny black shoes. It gives him a rather matured air. He's been here a long while, rarely changing with the times. He walks with the powerful stride of a man who holds many uneasy answers. Sometimes he stays for longer than you'd like, but only because you, his charge, are having a difficult time understanding his presence.
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People are afraid of the word failure. The idea of it scares them so they avoid even using the phrase. But it's not a word to be feared, it just... Is.

I've failed many times. I've failed a class and I've failed to get positions I dearly hoped for. I've failed at making veggie stir fry that even remotely tastes like any kind of vegetable I've ever heard of. Worst of all I continually fail to love as we are called to love. The failure, however, does not define me. Importance, I think, should be placed not on the failure but on the acknowledgment of it's happening. Acknowledging failure, claiming it as your own, and gleaning knowledge helpful for the future conquers our fear. Most of all it conquers bitterness. Forgive others, forgive your failures, and forgive yourself.  

I no longer fear failure, but I do try to respect it. I don't wish for it, but when it does appear I welcome it home.
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He knocks, but it's just a formality. He needs to be there, and he'll stay on the stoop until I answer. Patience is one of his finer virtues. When I open the door I sigh from the exhaustion of trying to keep him out for so long. I smile, mostly because just by opening the door I have managed to give him my weight. I ask Failure inside for dinner and talk with him like an old friend. I ask him questions- why did you come and how did you get here?- and listen quietly as he responds. Sometimes he answers and sometimes he doesn't, but every time I ask his eyes squint softly with a sad kind of smile. He touches me softly on the arm, knowing, I suppose, the emotional effect his presence carries. Before too long, I thank him for the knowledge he has brought to my table and bid him on his way. With a frivolous air but serious tone I say, "I hope I won't be seeing you again soon." He laughs, tips his hat, and replies, "I hope for the same thing." He walks out the door. I move back to the table and sit for a moment. Allowing myself some emotional breathing room, I stare at his chair. I mourn his presence as well as celebrate his parting. Then, finally, I cry from the joy of new found understanding. When my breathing moment ends, I clean up my answers and yet-to-be-answereds. Carrying them in my arms, I store them away for another day and always.

Bedazzled Port-a-Potties and Coffee for the Soul

Life continues to surprise me. Is it possible for coffee to taste better because it came from someone who cared?

Pay it forward.

The woman in line behind me paid for my mocha today.

She did it for no reason other than that I looked a little tired.

Please, pay it forward.

I walked the Susan G Komen Race for the Cure this morning. Four of my friends, three of my family members, and countless others showed up to support the cause. Men decked out in pink, sleepy children running to keep up, dogs in pink sweaters. Ladies who lost a sister making the trek in shirts that read “Hope”.  Warriors in pink. These people didn’t directly gain anything from attending this event; they did it to make an end to something terrible. They decorated port-a-potties (which, by the way, made peeing way more fun). They made something beautiful out of something ugly.

Pay it forward. At the very least, do it for the poor dogs stuffed into sweaters. If they don't need some love, I don't know who does.

I am so grateful to the woman in line behind me and to all my friends who supported me this morning. I am in incredible awe of every single person who walked or ran to find a cure. I hope that I recognize every opportunity afforded to me to change someone else’s day for the better. I hope that in recognizing that opportunity I have the courage to follow through on the idea. I hope I have the guts to try.

I’m almost done with my mocha now, so I’m signin’ off. It tasted better than any coffee I’ve ever had, by the way. Before I go  finish my homework I want to ask you to try something. Tomorrow, (or the next day or the next day or the next) if you’re standing in line behind someone who looks a little tired, just remember, their coffee will taste so much better if it comes from someone who cares.

Irregular Sleep Patterns- Nothing a Shot of Bourbon Can't Fix

Lists. And things I've learned this year. Do with them what you will.
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Words of wisdom from Great Aunt June:

"A shot of bourbon."

"You gave me really good advice before I got married, Aunt June-"
"Don't get married?"

"We're family, if we thought the cake was bad we'd say 'this cake stinks!' It's perfect." 

"I was married to a man who in the end couldn't remember that he was wearing a hat, but we stayed married, and that's the way it should be."

Laugh together. Love forever.
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Places I have slept this year:

Kletz booth
Kletz floor
Floor of my dorm
Mini-futon in my dorm
Love seat in the basement of Phelps
Floor of the main theatre
Studio theatre
The Boat
3rd and 4th floors of the library
Booth in JP's
Table at LJ's
Floor of the admissions office (WINNER)
A pew in Dimnent
A desk in the back of Professor Everts classroom (only once, I swear)
On my friends shoulders and once on someone's lap.

Lend a shoulder, stay up late. Even if it means occasionally enabling irregular sleep schedules.
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Random stuff I've learned from experience and from some pretty amazing people:

Never leave a pumpkin sitting on your desk for more than two weeks.
Sometimes learning is more important than grades.
Spiders can lurk in the most unlikely places. i.e. fluorescent ceiling lights. When you find these spiders, scream your lungs out. It won't fix the problem, but it will make for a really good story later.
Let yourself cry, let yourself be angry, let yourself forgive. Let yourself realize that this process can take awhile. 
There's this short Asian man in boxers and an apron who makes the best doughnuts and conversation.
Eat your body weight in doughnuts with friends, even if it means gaining a couple of pounds. 
Go to the DeGraaf Nature Center and touch the wall of live bees. It won't explode, I promise.
Listen to that random tug that tells you to walk through Lubbers at midnight, you might get lucky and meet someone who knows more than you.
God exists. 

Be thankful. Say "I am thankful" out loud, even if right at that moment it doesn't feel like it. Especially if it doesn't feel like it.
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Onward and Upward.

The Structure of Creativity

Write the paper so that each sentence flows seamlessly with the next but is at once individually beautiful.

But.

Or.

Structure each paragraph with sound, specific arguments, all the time making sure that each sentence, comma and period follows the rules of the game.

Structure and art. Artistic structure? The structure of creativity.

What makes a paper, poem or paragraph “good”? Is it structure or is it beauty? Are the two mutually exclusive in a world where perfection and achievement are defined by a grade? We live in a world where a successful paper is defined by the number of words the paper holds and the number of pages on which it is written. What has become of the idea?

I have read papers that combine words and structure with apparent ease. These papers are gorgeous, their stories stretch across the page, dancing from main point to main point in graceful balletic fashion. I envy these papers, for they seem to have accomplished the impossible- they follow the rules.

MLA

APA

Page Number

Citations

Structure

Structure

STRUCTURE

Structure is necessary to life, right? It is. Without structure, the world would have exploded by now. I mean that life would cease to exist without some form of foundation or rule of law. Thomas Hobbes would agree that any society lacking in structure and stability will eventually crumble. Government and a system of justice are what keep any semblance of “civilized” society in place. We need structure.

But what of art?

What of our

Ridiculous

Obvious

Undeniable

Insatiable

Need to create?

How do we describe Picasso, Galileo, The Feminine Mystique, the kindergarten boy who deems it prudent to draw with the pink crayon and the girl who draws with the blue? How do we describe these men and women who have decided to cut through the middle instead of along the dotted line? I am afraid that we are falling into a rigid pattern, one that focuses so heavily on the old that it forgets to leave room for the new. It is of course possible to fall completely astray, to rely so greatly on rebellion that a sense of right and wrong is no longer apparent. Maybe we can find a medium;  a happy medium where our papers, poems and paragraphs are pleasing in all respects, pleasing to the eyes, ears, mind, heart and soul.

In the end this story is a battle of wills. It is a battle between the heart and the mind, the need to create and the necessity of structure. This story does not follow the rules. It jumps from one idea to the next, desperately grasping for a handhold. It presents a thought, though. It presents a worry. So even though this story does not cite or toe the line, isn’t it worth it?

Bring All of Your Troubles, Come Lay 'Em Down

In my mind, I am a dancer. I watch myself glide in graceful balletic fashion across a floor of varnished wood occupying an empty room. Mirrors line the walls. They reflect not only the movement of the dancer but the will of the journey. The meaning of the passage. Every movement is timed to the beat of the music. Soul train. Sometimes the music plays outwardly, moving in through my ears and claiming my imagination. Occasionally the music is silent, but that doesn't make it any less real.

I don't claim to be a connoisseur of dance. Quite the contrary, picking up a dance routine has never been one of my theatrical strong suits. I'm sure most of the directors I've worked with would be shocked to find that their rhythmically challenged performer draws on dance as a means of escape. But "bring all of your troubles, come lay 'em down," sings the band and, with the help of my imagination, my troubles fly with the movement; pushing, spinning, climbing into something beautiful.

There is something incredibly spiritual (and entirely scary) about giving away our troubles- allowing them to fly away to something that is much more equipped to handle such trials. Giving the frustrations, disappointments and confusion to someone who knows how to turn them into something beautiful. (That's a fragment, consider revising. Suck it, Word Processing).

Bring all your troubles, come lay 'em down. My troubles are heavy, Lord, they weigh upon me like a house, and I cannot shake them without You.