How grateful am I for the sadness and the hurt that have led me to this point?
This trip was SUCH a good idea.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
I blog when I'm procrastinating.
Harold Frederic and his religious theory are getting obnoxious right now (which is nothing compared to say, law school and civil procedure, but it's my blog and I'll complain if I want to), so reading about the stupidity of Mormon men makes so much more sense. Thanks to a perfect friend for the tip, you should all head here, increase their stats (ugh, who cares anymore), and see if you can figure out which comment is mine. Shouldn't be too tough.
I'm not sure how I feel about this place, yet. Is it real? I'm not sure. It sounds an awful lot like a woman impersonating a man. Or maybe it's just an English major dude who's sick of writing about, well...things like Harold Frederic's religious theory, in which case, I can't exactly indict him because sometimes we all need a creative outlet. However, the ridiculous notions rampant throughout the entire blog are so whack (to steal perfect friend's term), I can't help but laugh.
Besides, it brings up a good point. I've not spoken much about what I did back at the end of May (in fact, I've only made reference to it 11 times in 5 months of blogging and essay writing--props if you catch the references, most of them are really subtle. Besides, I deleted the really angry ones after my dad called and said, "That's not very classy"), but obviously I did SOMETHING. And I was the one that did it. I cut the cord because I didn't want to hurt for longer than necessary. I'd like to think that made the healing process go more quickly for the both of us (not that it was quick, mind you).
Sometimes you just have to let them down really hard initially, no matter the stage of the relationship (casual dating or close to engaged).
The truth hurts, but peeling the band-aid, hair for hair, hurts far more.
I'm not sure how I feel about this place, yet. Is it real? I'm not sure. It sounds an awful lot like a woman impersonating a man. Or maybe it's just an English major dude who's sick of writing about, well...things like Harold Frederic's religious theory, in which case, I can't exactly indict him because sometimes we all need a creative outlet. However, the ridiculous notions rampant throughout the entire blog are so whack (to steal perfect friend's term), I can't help but laugh.
Besides, it brings up a good point. I've not spoken much about what I did back at the end of May (in fact, I've only made reference to it 11 times in 5 months of blogging and essay writing--props if you catch the references, most of them are really subtle. Besides, I deleted the really angry ones after my dad called and said, "That's not very classy"), but obviously I did SOMETHING. And I was the one that did it. I cut the cord because I didn't want to hurt for longer than necessary. I'd like to think that made the healing process go more quickly for the both of us (not that it was quick, mind you).
Sometimes you just have to let them down really hard initially, no matter the stage of the relationship (casual dating or close to engaged).
The truth hurts, but peeling the band-aid, hair for hair, hurts far more.
another deadline is upon me
and yet again, I have procrastinated until the very last second. Well, okay, technically I still have 29 more hours available for this particular paper.
How do I choose from proposed topics?
Well, I could go with artwork. Or the awesome discussion we had on technology, women, and sex. Religious thought at the end of the 19th century?
Wait a second.
"Discuss the use of Chopin in the novel"
ZING!
My own predictability is thoroughly nauseating.
{now I just have to read said novel. whoops. hopefully Dr. S never comes across my blog.}
How do I choose from proposed topics?
Well, I could go with artwork. Or the awesome discussion we had on technology, women, and sex. Religious thought at the end of the 19th century?
Wait a second.
"Discuss the use of Chopin in the novel"
ZING!
My own predictability is thoroughly nauseating.
{now I just have to read said novel. whoops. hopefully Dr. S never comes across my blog.}
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
My own cliched nostalgia makes me cringe
True to Utah's bi-polar weather patterns, we're having a bit of a natural identity crisis. It's mid-October and yet I went to school in a skirt and t-shirt with sandals. Dare I say it's balmy? If it weren't for the leaves finally starting to turn (although, this weekend's 72+ degree weather should stunt their progress), it wouldn't feel like fall at all.
Wow, surprising. A blogger is commenting on how fall is her favorite time of year, how much she loves the smell of new notebooks and clean backpacks, how the return to structure is so comforting, how blah blah blah blah blah.
The above is true. But because I have this irrational need to feel as though I'm enlightened and different, that my love for something far surpasses your own reasoning and evidence (which, by deductive definition, makes me just like the rest of you nostalgic suckers), naturally I have a unique experience with mid-September through mid-December. Instead of citing all the comfortable experiences that are associated with the changing weather patterns and the excitement from new classes, I've felt...bored. Uninspired. Annoyed. Listless. Frustrated by my own lack of intellectual initiative. It wasn't until Friday morning, around 9:46, after offering my insight into TS Eliot that I had a glimmer of motivation. And then I walked outside into the sunshine and the brisk, nuanced smell of fall reinvigorated my soul.
My parents separated when I was 13. It was September, maybe October. Mom and I moved, remarkably, across the street into a different house while Dad and Scott stayed in our old one. I was in 8th grade, my first year in an actual school setting (oh, I was home schooled up till that point. That's why I'm so awkward), and I don't think I realized the magnitude of this decision. From that point, I knew things were going to be okay because I would make them okay. I wasn't going to need any sort of psycho-babble-nonsense to help me sort out my feelings and I wasn't going to actually need any sort of self-examination of said feelings. After all, I'm a strong girl. I'm a big girl. I can take it.
I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls that year. Sprawled out on our soft black and red Oriental Rug (I miss that rug) in front of the TV, I'd watch Lorelai and Rory interact as the mom and daughter against the world, and I was hungry. Hungry for their friendship and relationship. Hungry for Rory's work ethic. Hungry for Yale or Harvard or Columbia. Hungry for politics and social commentary and pop culture references. Hungry for their life. After all, if they could make it, just the two of them, then we definitely could. Obviously the fictional town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut didn't hurt. The changing that occurred outside was mirrored in my TV in this fictional world. I felt even more connected to how gorgeous this life was. Fall is at its finest in New England. Try and challenge the point, but you WILL fail. The idyllic colors, scents, and existential "its" of fall kept me alive that year.
A year later, Mom and I found ourselves in Irvine, California. School began and it was still 90 degrees outside. I'd walk outside at 9 pm and I'd start sweating. Osama decided to pull a fast one and I was too far from home to feel any comfort. Yoshie, Ms. McLean, Ballet Stamford, Dad, Scott, the AP World History class I was so excited for, my friends, and pretty trees that held real leaves that weren't all spiky and tropical were on the other side of the country. The adjustment to high school is rough enough on a 14 year old girl who looks like she's 11. But still. Fall didn't feel like fall, but at least it brought Rory and Lorelai back. I would fight. I would be okay. It doesn't take a psychological genius to figure out that I wasn't okay.
Then one blessed day in early October I traveled home to visit.
Even now I can tell you exactly what the chill felt like as it hit my skin. I can describe the sunlight, a little softer, more serene, and lower in the sky. I can literally smell the earth and the natural elements, affected by the lower temperature and shorter days. I can even tell you the exact articles of clothing I bought during that trip and what it felt like to wear them outside in the perfect New England air of that first weekend in October. I loved being with Dad and with Scott in that weather. It was perfect.
I don't love fall because it brings exciting possibilities. I don't love fall because it smells like pumpkins and corn and fake Pilgrim stories. I don't love fall because it's colorful.
In fact, I'm not even sure I love fall at all.
It's depressing. It's the 11th hour. It's the last time the earth will give you anything beautiful to appreciate until the first snowfall (and even that phenomenon wears thin after a week or two, and you're left wanting sunshine for 5 months). It's even sinister. It gives you all this hope for something pretty and exciting but then, suddenly, it all falls down, dries up, cracks, and gets swept away into an orange sack with a black pumpkin face.
But when I stepped out into the sunshine Friday morning, I smelled a hint of that feeling I'd had 8 years ago on that stunning New Canaan morning. This was before I was a disaster zone for 6 years. This was before I became the middle man. This was before I lost faith in relationships.
This smell gives me hope. This smell invigorates my faith. This smell emboldens my heart and lengthens my motivational stride.
It's home.
Wow, surprising. A blogger is commenting on how fall is her favorite time of year, how much she loves the smell of new notebooks and clean backpacks, how the return to structure is so comforting, how blah blah blah blah blah.
The above is true. But because I have this irrational need to feel as though I'm enlightened and different, that my love for something far surpasses your own reasoning and evidence (which, by deductive definition, makes me just like the rest of you nostalgic suckers), naturally I have a unique experience with mid-September through mid-December. Instead of citing all the comfortable experiences that are associated with the changing weather patterns and the excitement from new classes, I've felt...bored. Uninspired. Annoyed. Listless. Frustrated by my own lack of intellectual initiative. It wasn't until Friday morning, around 9:46, after offering my insight into TS Eliot that I had a glimmer of motivation. And then I walked outside into the sunshine and the brisk, nuanced smell of fall reinvigorated my soul.
My parents separated when I was 13. It was September, maybe October. Mom and I moved, remarkably, across the street into a different house while Dad and Scott stayed in our old one. I was in 8th grade, my first year in an actual school setting (oh, I was home schooled up till that point. That's why I'm so awkward), and I don't think I realized the magnitude of this decision. From that point, I knew things were going to be okay because I would make them okay. I wasn't going to need any sort of psycho-babble-nonsense to help me sort out my feelings and I wasn't going to actually need any sort of self-examination of said feelings. After all, I'm a strong girl. I'm a big girl. I can take it.
I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls that year. Sprawled out on our soft black and red Oriental Rug (I miss that rug) in front of the TV, I'd watch Lorelai and Rory interact as the mom and daughter against the world, and I was hungry. Hungry for their friendship and relationship. Hungry for Rory's work ethic. Hungry for Yale or Harvard or Columbia. Hungry for politics and social commentary and pop culture references. Hungry for their life. After all, if they could make it, just the two of them, then we definitely could. Obviously the fictional town of Stars Hollow, Connecticut didn't hurt. The changing that occurred outside was mirrored in my TV in this fictional world. I felt even more connected to how gorgeous this life was. Fall is at its finest in New England. Try and challenge the point, but you WILL fail. The idyllic colors, scents, and existential "its" of fall kept me alive that year.
A year later, Mom and I found ourselves in Irvine, California. School began and it was still 90 degrees outside. I'd walk outside at 9 pm and I'd start sweating. Osama decided to pull a fast one and I was too far from home to feel any comfort. Yoshie, Ms. McLean, Ballet Stamford, Dad, Scott, the AP World History class I was so excited for, my friends, and pretty trees that held real leaves that weren't all spiky and tropical were on the other side of the country. The adjustment to high school is rough enough on a 14 year old girl who looks like she's 11. But still. Fall didn't feel like fall, but at least it brought Rory and Lorelai back. I would fight. I would be okay. It doesn't take a psychological genius to figure out that I wasn't okay.
Then one blessed day in early October I traveled home to visit.
Even now I can tell you exactly what the chill felt like as it hit my skin. I can describe the sunlight, a little softer, more serene, and lower in the sky. I can literally smell the earth and the natural elements, affected by the lower temperature and shorter days. I can even tell you the exact articles of clothing I bought during that trip and what it felt like to wear them outside in the perfect New England air of that first weekend in October. I loved being with Dad and with Scott in that weather. It was perfect.
I don't love fall because it brings exciting possibilities. I don't love fall because it smells like pumpkins and corn and fake Pilgrim stories. I don't love fall because it's colorful.
In fact, I'm not even sure I love fall at all.
It's depressing. It's the 11th hour. It's the last time the earth will give you anything beautiful to appreciate until the first snowfall (and even that phenomenon wears thin after a week or two, and you're left wanting sunshine for 5 months). It's even sinister. It gives you all this hope for something pretty and exciting but then, suddenly, it all falls down, dries up, cracks, and gets swept away into an orange sack with a black pumpkin face.
But when I stepped out into the sunshine Friday morning, I smelled a hint of that feeling I'd had 8 years ago on that stunning New Canaan morning. This was before I was a disaster zone for 6 years. This was before I became the middle man. This was before I lost faith in relationships.
This smell gives me hope. This smell invigorates my faith. This smell emboldens my heart and lengthens my motivational stride.
It's home.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
PS
I take great pleasure in having posted TS Eliot, followed by Sue Sylvester quotes from Glee.
I think that sums up my personality quite effectively.
I think that sums up my personality quite effectively.
your resentment is delicious.
Reason #2 Samantha Hunter is Good for the Soul: She introduced me to the brilliance that is Sue Sylvester. Some of you may mock my appreciation for the show Glee. That is fine. I can take it. However, I'd just like to point out that this singing and dancing extravaganza contains one of the most brilliant characters in television.
SUE.
Don't believe me? Read on, friends, read on (naturally her delivery makes these lines so brilliant...but just youtube a clip of her performance and it'll never leave you).
"You think this is hard? I'm living with hepatitis, THAT'S hard."
"I empower my Cheerios to be champions. Do they go to college? I don't know. I don't care. Should they learn Spanish? Sure, if they wanna become dishwashers and gardeners."
"You're right, Will. I have been trying to destroy your club with a conviction I can only call "religious.""
"I like minorities so much, I'm thinking of moving to California to become one."
"I don't trust a man with curly hair. I can't help but picture little birds laying sulfurous eggs in there, and it disgusts me."
"When I heard Sandy wanted to write himself into a scene as Queen Cleopatra, I was aroused. And then furious."
"I'll often yell at homeless people: 'Hey, how is that homelessness working out for you? Try not being homeless for once.'"
SUE.
Don't believe me? Read on, friends, read on (naturally her delivery makes these lines so brilliant...but just youtube a clip of her performance and it'll never leave you).
"You think this is hard? I'm living with hepatitis, THAT'S hard."
"I empower my Cheerios to be champions. Do they go to college? I don't know. I don't care. Should they learn Spanish? Sure, if they wanna become dishwashers and gardeners."
"You're right, Will. I have been trying to destroy your club with a conviction I can only call "religious.""
"I like minorities so much, I'm thinking of moving to California to become one."
"I don't trust a man with curly hair. I can't help but picture little birds laying sulfurous eggs in there, and it disgusts me."
"When I heard Sandy wanted to write himself into a scene as Queen Cleopatra, I was aroused. And then furious."
"I'll often yell at homeless people: 'Hey, how is that homelessness working out for you? Try not being homeless for once.'"
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
J. Alfred
TS Eliot captures my death march to a test (okay, not really...but still, it's a brilliant quote)
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Snaps for Class
Once upon a time, my parents taught me to stay above the gossip and the rumor mill and the petty activities that humans often participate in. Sometimes it can be hard--you want to be part of something, you want to think that you have news worth sharing, that your information will pave your path to acceptance.
But time and experience have proven that participation in those negative and immature activities, in addition to involving yourself with individuals who have such personality traits, only hurts. It's just not worth it.
Here's what I have to say to you.
I'm not a bitter person. I'm busy. I'm dating girl. I'm a humanities major. I'm a dancer. I'm a loyal friend. I'm a nerd. I'm a kind person. I'm trying to be like Jesus. I'm a writer. I am SO much more than this little hobby of mine. I really could not care less about these silly things, because in five years I'll be in such a different place and state of mind, all of this will be ridiculously juvenile to the point of embarrassment.
Besides.
My parents raised me with class. I'm not going to be rude. I'm not going to behave as a child who didn't get the lead in the school production of The Wizard of Oz. Trying to deface my character in front of those who know me well doesn't reflect poorly on my character.
It reflects poorly upon yours.
Thanks Mom and Dad.
Snaps.
But time and experience have proven that participation in those negative and immature activities, in addition to involving yourself with individuals who have such personality traits, only hurts. It's just not worth it.
Here's what I have to say to you.
I'm not a bitter person. I'm busy. I'm dating girl. I'm a humanities major. I'm a dancer. I'm a loyal friend. I'm a nerd. I'm a kind person. I'm trying to be like Jesus. I'm a writer. I am SO much more than this little hobby of mine. I really could not care less about these silly things, because in five years I'll be in such a different place and state of mind, all of this will be ridiculously juvenile to the point of embarrassment.
Besides.
My parents raised me with class. I'm not going to be rude. I'm not going to behave as a child who didn't get the lead in the school production of The Wizard of Oz. Trying to deface my character in front of those who know me well doesn't reflect poorly on my character.
It reflects poorly upon yours.
Thanks Mom and Dad.
Snaps.
a new series is coming to life in technicolor.
The title is still a work in progress. For now it will simply be: Why Samantha Hunter is Good for the Soul.
Entry #1: She introduced me to the term "Sweet Bro". With the exception of 1 guy who turned out to be pretty quality, this term accurately represents the kind of company I kept this summer.
When I don't have 400 pages to read, I'll elaborate on the Sweet Bros I've come into contact with. Although, I should probably be careful. I think one or two of them might read this...
Entry #1: She introduced me to the term "Sweet Bro". With the exception of 1 guy who turned out to be pretty quality, this term accurately represents the kind of company I kept this summer.
When I don't have 400 pages to read, I'll elaborate on the Sweet Bros I've come into contact with. Although, I should probably be careful. I think one or two of them might read this...
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
my stats always spike when this sort of thing happens.
glad to know you all care so much about what I will say after I lose.
hop hop hop hop hop.
that is all.
{you nosy weirdos}
hop hop hop hop hop.
that is all.
{you nosy weirdos}
Friday, October 9, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Playing a Partita.
This semester has been truly enriching, particularly in my religious education. I won't deny that I really dislike a lot of religion courses at BYU. If you get the wrong professor, you learn the gospel according to their perspective, and you don't spend a whole lot of time in the scriptures. Due to some grand, blind luck, I have found myself in a brilliant class with a teacher who just wants to help us understand who Jesus is. The Gospels have always been my favorite set of scripture and this course is expanding my perspective and furthering my understanding. Each lecture is actually really exciting (I may or may not be a total nerd) and I walk away with some serious gratitude for the New Testament, for this opportunity we get to look right into who Jesus was and how He lived each principle we are instructed to live.
That's why it makes me so sad that there's this bias against the New Testament and The Old Testament as books of scripture. Elder Holland's grand and powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon was deeply moving. But a good friend (along with his insight that never fails to humble me ever so slightly...) and I were discussing the frustratingly prevalent attitude toward the New Testament, that as scripture it is apparently not up to par and standard with The Book of Mormon. Clearly translation issues will breed a little uncertainty. One has been through hundreds, another, one. But the Lord wouldn't endorse The Bible if it were unsuitable for scholarship and study.
But the beauty of The New Testament is in the personal relationship we can develop with Jesus, the individual who lived, walked, ate, slept, taught, and spoke in Israel.
Might I be so bold as to argue that if we really have a desire to know Jesus, and therefore actually get a lot of the doctrine, we must develop a really good relationship with the Gospels (I can hear all of you, "thank you, Captian Obvious")? I'm not proposing that The Book of Mormon isn't wonderful to study, or that living Prophets do not aid us in our journey to be more perfect, more Christlike. Only that our Gospel Doctrine classes could sometimes regard this scripture with a little more credence.
Think of a skill you've developed through the years. I use piano, because it's an easy example. You play through certain masterful composers because of the different technique you'll develop during each practicing period. Chopin, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Liszt, etc. Your teacher helps to foster your growth and development, guiding you to more correct finger placement, dynamic interval, and interpretation, all with the hopes that you'll be a better pianist and have the skill that is more sensitive to that particular genre or composer.
But because everything in Jen-land is magical and wonderful (despite what my bloodshot eyes are telling me), you have a lesson with Chopin or with Bach or with Mozart and you play one of their actual pieces for them. You hear them play it with their particular nuance and sensitivity.
It's a bit of a crude metaphor but I hope it illustrates, perhaps only slightly, what I feel is a bit of an obvious and yet often disregarded approach to understanding the Savior.
That's why it makes me so sad that there's this bias against the New Testament and The Old Testament as books of scripture. Elder Holland's grand and powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon was deeply moving. But a good friend (along with his insight that never fails to humble me ever so slightly...) and I were discussing the frustratingly prevalent attitude toward the New Testament, that as scripture it is apparently not up to par and standard with The Book of Mormon. Clearly translation issues will breed a little uncertainty. One has been through hundreds, another, one. But the Lord wouldn't endorse The Bible if it were unsuitable for scholarship and study.
But the beauty of The New Testament is in the personal relationship we can develop with Jesus, the individual who lived, walked, ate, slept, taught, and spoke in Israel.
Might I be so bold as to argue that if we really have a desire to know Jesus, and therefore actually get a lot of the doctrine, we must develop a really good relationship with the Gospels (I can hear all of you, "thank you, Captian Obvious")? I'm not proposing that The Book of Mormon isn't wonderful to study, or that living Prophets do not aid us in our journey to be more perfect, more Christlike. Only that our Gospel Doctrine classes could sometimes regard this scripture with a little more credence.
Think of a skill you've developed through the years. I use piano, because it's an easy example. You play through certain masterful composers because of the different technique you'll develop during each practicing period. Chopin, Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Liszt, etc. Your teacher helps to foster your growth and development, guiding you to more correct finger placement, dynamic interval, and interpretation, all with the hopes that you'll be a better pianist and have the skill that is more sensitive to that particular genre or composer.
But because everything in Jen-land is magical and wonderful (despite what my bloodshot eyes are telling me), you have a lesson with Chopin or with Bach or with Mozart and you play one of their actual pieces for them. You hear them play it with their particular nuance and sensitivity.
It's a bit of a crude metaphor but I hope it illustrates, perhaps only slightly, what I feel is a bit of an obvious and yet often disregarded approach to understanding the Savior.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
My numbers have dramatically increased.
Not because I pimped myself out (shamelessly, might I add) on facebook again, but because of a little teensy email that went out to some-thousand people. I was pretty much a character reference for my mom's campaign as they were hoping to reach a fund-raising goal and it looks like a few (read: A LOT) individuals caught wise and looked up my blog.
A few things should be noted.
1. I am not Cherilyn.
2. I love my mom.
3. I voted for Obama.
4. I do not speak for her politics.
5. If you want to know what she stands for, go to her website.
6. I'm still a college student. My writing is in its beginning stages.
7. If you want to read the real (and in my opinion, the BEST) version of what I originally wrote, pre-editing stage, click here.
8. If you're just ridiculously late (4 months late, in fact) to the party and are wondering why there's no marriage announcement--I'm not dating someone anymore and I'm competing in pageants again. You nosy freaks.
9. Like most kids my age, I'm wrestling with the justification of my ultra-conservative upbringing and my moderate education. So don't judge my mom's qualifications as your conservative candidate off of my socially liberal rantings. Really.
10. Mazel tov.
A few things should be noted.
1. I am not Cherilyn.
2. I love my mom.
3. I voted for Obama.
4. I do not speak for her politics.
5. If you want to know what she stands for, go to her website.
6. I'm still a college student. My writing is in its beginning stages.
7. If you want to read the real (and in my opinion, the BEST) version of what I originally wrote, pre-editing stage, click here.
8. If you're just ridiculously late (4 months late, in fact) to the party and are wondering why there's no marriage announcement--I'm not dating someone anymore and I'm competing in pageants again. You nosy freaks.
9. Like most kids my age, I'm wrestling with the justification of my ultra-conservative upbringing and my moderate education. So don't judge my mom's qualifications as your conservative candidate off of my socially liberal rantings. Really.
10. Mazel tov.
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