Final-ly (blog for 407T)

Well, I’m done! For the summer, for the semester. Until August, I’m done with school!

Not really, but the thought’s a nice one.

I don’t have to go to school for grades, now, though. And that’s where I get giddy. I can be self-motivated and study and learn because now I have the materials and the tools. I can learn things because I want to learn them and because they make me happy.

I guess I won’t comment in depth about how much I’ve changed. I’m really glad I made a new blog, a new chapter, for this part of my life, because you can see from the very, very beginning of my summer (last summer) how different things have gotten. I feel like my mind’s been stretched and warped in so many new and interesting ways– not all of them good, but then again, whose mind is all good? I figure those parts will iron themselves out as things continue to shift and change.

I did a lot of thinking last night as I laid in my bed in 407T for the very last time. It’s strange to think that I’ll never spend another night in this room. I remember thinking that about my room at home last summer (but of course I’m headed back there and have been there since last August). Still, the nostalgia is kind of the same. And it makes me a little melancholy to dwell on how many hours I’ve spent in here, thinking and ranting to Lucy, doing work, tapping out aural skillz rhythm patterns… good times. And bad times: the vicious homesickness, angsting over problems with people I thought were my friends, learning who was really going to be there for me– like the invaluable support system Professor Cowdrick spoke of– and who I’d be there for.

So much that has contributed to my personal growth and change has happened here. While I was sitting in this uncomfortable, ugly chair at this cluttered little desk.

I know it’s just a room, and I won’t linger sentimentally over it once I’m out of it. But for this moment, I’m going to sit here thinking about the year I’ve spent here, in 407T.

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Quick note to self

Whether a man would have died tomorrow or the day after or eventually… it doesn’t matter. Because… this life… every second of it… is all we have (Rice 238, Interview with the Vampire).”

It’s not worth being angry over mistakes that were made  a long time ago.

It’s not worth not going all out to accomplish something.

It’s not worth it to hold back.

It’s not worth your energy to hold grudges.

It’s not worth your time to wonder what might have been.

It’s not worth your heart or compassion to forgive and laugh. Not this time, or back then. Summertime may make you think of those “special” boys, but really? They used you, and they didn’t respect you. So now, you keep your backbone, and you keep your head up. You deserve better than all of them.

They’re not worth giving up any small speck of happiness you’ve gathered.

Just an eighth note of a moment

I’m sitting at my desk right now in my chaotically organized yet still zen-providing pretty space of a room. My hair’s outrageous and I still haven’t taken my scarf off from outside. My left contact is itching and my neck’s regained probably about half of its normal tension already.

But I’m so, so happy.

Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know if I could tell you without gushing about twelve hundred different probable causes. Nothing spectacular has happened (except I have a GREAT second semester schedule, minus the fact that I don’t have any River Campus classes… which is a bummer). I haven’t lost a ton of weight or anything. My sock has a hole in it (I’ve just discovered).

But I am so happy.

Maybe it’s the sunshine. Maybe it’s the sparkling white curtain of snow I walk out in at 830 every morning. Maybe it’s the morning time I currently enjoy; maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s that I’m finally reconnecting with the self I lost in the shuffle of a new time.

I don’t know. But I’m happy.

Maybe it's because I've been fingerpainting... or maybe the fingerpainting is a result of the happy.

Underneath the abject willow

This is the song that is stuck in my head. It’s really great. And it’s also why I can’t get to sleep.

I want to sing in all of these different, intriguing languages but it’s funny how out of nowhere a song in my own native English can pop up on the radar. And be really meaningful.

“Underneath the abject willow” is a Britten tune that speaks of love and rejection and coming back from all of it. Life’s too short to wait and wonder, and although it’s beautiful to pause and enjoy the scenery, without action, without loving someone, it’s all pointless.

It’s just the song to inspire a few pretty thoughts of what a puzzled girl could do if she wanted to. Could do with life, if she focused. “Underneath the abject willow, lover sulk no more; act from thought should quickly follow: what is thinking for?” (Britten 1). So gorgeous. ♥

All that lives may love; why longer bow to loss, with arms across? Strike, and you shall conquer.

Weak thesis post

Ten minutes to go. I thought I’d get through this class– I was really trying to behave. No matter how much I attempt to distract myself or focus in here, though, it’s impossible.

Since class started, I have:
– been on facebook
– (twice)
– tweeted about how much I don’t want to be here
– read a nifty blog
– kind of paid attention
– typed out a half-page of half-developed notes
– saw that David was also on facebook and mentally applauded him
– learned that my professor really does hold true to the belief that musicians can’t write coherent essays
– pretended that me, blogging, is actually me, taking notes
– checked wordpress stats
– learned that Lalime is signed with the Sabres for one more year (courtesy of Sabres.com)
– talked to Julie about taking a nap in the piano
– wished fervently for caffeine.

It’s ironic that we’re (she’s) discussing brevity right now. “If it’s not concise, it can be distracting.” What an outlandish concept.

Uhg. I honestly don’t even have the energy anymore to bitch about this class. It’s just tiring/not worth it.

And so instead of ranting angrily about the review of the my essay that was just returned, I have this to say.

I’m grateful for brutal feedback. I’m grateful for three hours a week I spend wasting in that dull room surfing the web and pretending to pay attention. I’m grateful for the fact I can relax and sit and take a little time away from the constant motion.

I’m most grateful for the happiness I’ll feel once this semester wraps up.

What did Brendan tell me? Oh yeah: “Kim, I feel like you’re searching”

*Just a quick note: I wrote this from my cell phone late at night (or, early in the morning) before this past Wednesday. I spent the day with this awesome German I know all day yesterday, so I did not get a chance to type it and post it. But, here it is, unedited and in honesty.  

Brendan texted me tonight, from Waynesburg. Told me about a book he feels I should read. He said, “Kim, I feel like you’re searching.”

  
I feel like I am, too. 

So here is how it is. Here is how I come to be typing– texting, really– forming a blog entry from my phone because I was dumb enough to leave my macbook upstairs, and it’s past midnight: my entire family’s sleeping.

Here is how it is: how I am sitting here sniffling and experiencing mild heartburn, feeling like a complete fool with a temperature.

Here is how it is. How I have come to abruptly halting my reading process and doing this, setting down (temporarily) Don Miller’s Searching for God Knows What.

Miller writes: “…I felt something missing inside myself, some bit of something that made me feel special or important or valued. This thing missing inside me… is something God would go to great length to explain in His Bible. …By trying to find an identity…

Don Miller also wrote Blue Like Jazz, also a good read

I was displaying some of the very ideas God would speak of in Scripture, some of the ideas about being separated from a relationship that gave me meaning, and now looking for a kind of endorsement from a jury of my peers” (Miller 42).

Isn’t that exactly what I have been doing since June, scrabbling frantically around to improve myself, to impress others or receive their attention, simply to feel accepted? To find an identity.

Here I was so worried about making the right impression at Eastman or at work or even on my adventure/excursion that I was completely and totally blind to the fact that I’m obsessed with my image or what people think. Haven’t I trusted God before and never had to worry about it at all? Hadn’t I felt a sense of peace, finally, and an invasive, infectious happiness, a sunshine?

I’ve been trying to find God again, and I think my dip into Spiritualist Central helped concrete my own beliefs and outlooks. It didn’t shake them as much as it could have.

It served to remind me that, without God once again as a fully recognized presence and driving force in my life, my worst and most horrifying fears will be realized and I will fail. God has been with me every step of the way thus far. I know He won’t “leave” me, but I am scared of the consequences. Scared of the thought of evangelism, of losing sight of things, and dumbly, of knowing God’s love as it was meant to be felt. But mostly I’m just ashamed.

I know as a Christian (is that what I am?) I would feel the need to reach others– and to be honest I feel as though that impulse has been with me my whole life. But I’m not good enough to do it, I’ve tried before, when my faith was really strong. Or I thought it was. Now I fall back under the excuse, I’m too flawed, even though I know that’s stupid. But time and again I’ve kind of tried and definitely failed to serve God because I didn’t want to give it everything and fall short, again.

I think I’d want to share news of God’s love. Of an nonjudgmental, unconditional, unrelenting love. I just doubt I’d be a decent spokesperson. Plus it doesn’t help that it feels like, as soon as you tag “Christianity,” all anyone ever seems to see is piety, when (at least in my case) they couldn’t be farther from the truth.

So… how do I go from being “in control” of my own actions to handing myself over to God?

The search is far from over, but I’ve found something at least. Here is how it is.

Pathetic, brimming with shame, and flawed, I figure it’s about time I stop moping around scared and wimpy and be an instrument for God to use. Or, I guess it’s more fitting… a voice for his love.