Woo-hoo!

I just looked at my grades for the semester, and I'm astounded at how well it all turned out. I was fairly convinced I would be beginning my graduate career with a black spot (or two or three) on my transcript, which I would have blamed on taking eight classes for thirteen credit hours (where full-time for a graduate student is 9-12 hours). Miraculously, though, it all worked out . . . and I just like to look at the list of grades, because it's so pretty . . .

I feel like UNT in general likes me much more than BYU ever did. Maybe it has to do with the fact that my dad's a professor here (in fact, I'm sure that's a big part of it), but I definitely feel that whereas BYU largely ignored me in every way for four years of my life, UNT is paying attention, and that alone makes me want to do better.

Tonight I went to see some belly dancers--this girl from orchestra takes belly dancing lessons, and her group was performing. I found it fascinating. There was one group there who called themselves "Just Fabulous" that I found particularly intriguing. The were three ladies who were larger, but made no apologies for it. Rather, they capitalized on their bodies, celebrating them in all their glory. As I watched these three women, so brimming with life, I became so envious of their complete self-confidence. It would take a lot to get me EITHER wearing a midriff-baring costume (really little more than a bra) OR dancing in front of people, so I am astonished that they were able to do both, and to do so with complete lack of inhibition. It's as if they were saying: "Yeah, we're fat. But we're also sexy. Take that." Someday, maybe I'll reach that level of self-acceptance.

I generally shy away from discussing matters of body image, because they happen to be a sensitive issue for me, but in the name of ownership, I'm putting it out there: I've had body image issues ever since elementary school. I remember feeling self-conscious when we'd balance on the seesaw and the scale would tip to my side. The funny thing about it is that when I was that age, I wasn't at all fat. In middle school, I also thought I was grossly overweight, which was probably due mostly to the fact that most of my closest friends were tiny. I've never been predisposed to slenderness per se, so being around people who were made me feel like a cow. The point is that for me, being uncomfortable in my own skin is as normal to me as breathing. I'm certain I could name fifty things I don't like about my body without flinching.

The problem has always been my tendency to compare myself with others. In my case, the commandment "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's ass" could be taken literally. Why am I buying into the idea that there is one standard of beauty to be upheld? I may not look like a Victoria's Secret model, but that's just one interpretation of what "beautiful" looks like. I sincerely hope for a day when I look at myself without immediately honing in on what's wrong and give myself permission to accept the beauty that is there.

Welcome to Christmas Break.

Now that I have all the time in the world to make my squeaky little blog-voice heard, I find myself struggling to come up with anything worth saying.

So, I'll pleasure you with my vacation to-do list (more of a list of my personal goals, I suppose):

*Read! I want to reread 1984, The Four Agreements, and maybe The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and read The Forest People and (as per Andy's encouragement) the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

*Put my room together once and for all. It's currently in a state of complete disarray and I HATE it. (I switched bedrooms over Thanksgiving Break, and haven't had time or energy to devote to making my new room make sense until now.)

*Exercise more--like, at least a couple 2-3 times a week. Yeah, I've been slacking, and I feel somewhat pallid as a result. Plus, you know, supermodel.

*Write in my journal. Once a week at least. Again, I've been slacking, although not for lack of effort. I just seem to fall asleep before I can complete an entry.

*Ahh, SLEEP! I'm going to sleep during the break.

*Choose my rep for next semester.

*Study for the Music History Grad Placement Exam. For Fall, I missed passing the first half by one lousy question, and I don't want to land myself in remedial music history.

Uhh, that's all I can think of right now. But hooray for the break!

The End is Near!

In this case, that's a good thing. This hasn't been the most difficult semester of my life, but it did get pretty hairy not too long ago. All in all, I've been really blessed to have such a wonderful support system. My family is great. My boyfriend (ha! I can say it now) is amazing. Even my dog has responded to my stress level! I've learned to appreciate love in so many different forms: a cup of hot cocoa, a hug, a doggy head in my lap, a shoulder to cry on, simple time, sacrifice of sleep, etc. I could be here for the rest of the day listing off all the examples I've seen of people (and animals) showing their love to me. It's so appreciated.

One of the sweetest things was today on one of my jury comments:

"What I would like to see you improve is: get rid of your physical and mental tension. Start believing that you are a good cellist and play with more confidence."

This came from someone who had witnessed one of my stress-related eyeball leaks a few weeks prior. That comment, coupled with the fact that he asked me if I was doing alright last week, leads me to believe that he's thought about me, and he really wants me to be better. It means a lot. He's not even my teacher!

I suppose if I were going to identify a theme for this semester, it would be something like "Love conquers all." In the hard times, I've been so reliant upon the love of those close to me, and I know it would have been so much harder if I had to go it alone. Sometimes, I feel like I've been relying on the love others have for me in place of the often nonexistent love I should (but don't) feel for myself. I know it's not healthy, and it's something I'm constantly battling with, but it helps so much to feel like I'm worthy of love when I see it so generously poured upon me.

Sappy, sappy, sappy. The point is, I'm going to make it through this semester, and I owe it to you. That's right, to Cari Lynn Vincent ('cause you know, she comments on my blog). And the rest of you? Uhhh, maybe.

Just a Quick Note

I've been really stressed lately.

But I've also been really well-loved lately.

Yesterday was a pretty crappy day until . . . oh, about 8pm. You know those people in your life who always make you feel better, no matter how hard you've been beating up on yourself or how little you enjoy your own company? I don't understand how he can do it, but it was very much needed. I'm probably the luckiest girl in the world.

To add to it, when I got home, my bedroom and bathroom had been cleaned up a little bit, and I had clean, folded laundry on my bed. My mommy warmed me up a plate for dinner. It's nice to be loved.

After that, I had a rehearsal with my Dad. It was semi-crappy. And (as seems to be the default action for me these days) I started crying. He talked with me for a good while, almost until 1am.

It's things like this that show me it's really not the big things that demonstrate love, but instead the sum total of all the little things. I'm so fortunate to have such wonderful people in my life.

Happy Thanksgiving

Things for which I am thankful:

*My family. My Mom and Dad are the best. They are never-ending sources of love and support for me, and I appreciate so much being able to see them more often now that I'm back home. I have the best big brother a girl could ask for, who has always been there for me--and now I have a beautiful sister-in-law, too. Add to that my grandparents, aunts & uncles, and a handful of cousins (and, of course, my cute doggie), and I have a lot to be grateful for.

*My friends. I have so many wonderful friends, both near and far. I think that is perhaps the greatest blessing of my having been at BYU for four years: being able to make so many great and lifelong friends. It's been harder than I thought to build up a social circle again here at home, so I'm even more grateful for the friendships I've been able to build and rebuild while here. I am so fortunate to have all these people that I know will be there for me through joys and sorrows, even when time and distance make it difficult to do so.

*The fact that my basic needs are met (something we all take for granted at times). I have a roof over my head and a bed beneath the rest of me. I have food to eat every day of my life. I have clean water to drink. I can take a shower as often as I like. I wear clean clothes every day. I don't live in fear that someone will hurt me or kill me. Basically, I live a carefree life. I never have to think about what I need to do to survive today.

*My faith. This (like all of the above) is a big topic, spanning a lot of others. So much of my existence, and how I hope to be when I "grow up" is based upon things that I have learned and that have been confirmed to me through spiritual experiences. Without these experiences, I would be without direction or hope. I'm grateful that my Creator has enough interest in me to see to it that I learn and grow as I should.

*The luxury of music. If I were spending all my energy on survival, I would have none left for music. I don't know how music can be all that it is, but I am grateful for the opportunity to be a part of it. It is life, love, happiness, anguish, heartbreak, humanity . . . it always gives me a lot to think about, and I'm glad that I get to experience it so regularly.

*The opportunity to get an education. There are so many people in the world who don't get this chance, and for some reason I'm one of the few who has been so blessed. This is very easy to forget, especially this close to the end of the term and all the stress that comes therewith, but I'm glad to get to go to school.

Those are the big things. However, there are all kinds of little things I'm very grateful for:

*hugs
*toilet paper
*deodorant
*ice cream
*toothpaste
*the internet
*the U.S. Postal system
*cellular telephones
*my car
*umbrellas
*sweaters
*cotton/spandex blends
*metronome
*mechanical pencils
*pens that write well
*lip balm
*spellcheck
*chocolate milk
*protein bars
*hand lotion
*socks
*Thai food
*cuddling
*open-mindedness
*unspoken agreements
*TV on DVD
*the sense of smell
*(okay, ALL the senses)
*hot cocoa on a cold day
*roommates, even though I don't really have any right now
*Morningstar Farms
*facebook birthday notifications
*beautiful sunsets
*good books
*Disney-Pixar films
*dictionaries
*Wikipedia / imDb / urbandictionary
*shampoo AND conditioner
*memories

I could go on for a while. I've got a lot to be thankful for . . . and thank YOU for being a part of it. I love you. :-)

Thanksgiving Break, Here I Come!

Yay! I survived today! Now all I have to do is get through tomorrow--two more lessons (to stack on the four I had today), and then it'll be THANKSGIVING BREAK! Which means--barring practicing for the two juries, preparing two 20-minute presentations, and solidifying my part for the recital that will all ensue shortly after the break, and moving into my new room (i.e., my brother's old room)--I have four and a half days to do absolutely nothing. In other words, now that I don't have school, I'll have time to do everything I should have been doing all semester long.

Is it bad that I don't even really know when classes end? Or when my finals will be? Or that I'm not really concerned about either of those?

I'm one of those people who never really knows what's going on. You know how some people can tell you exactly when daylight savings ends or when school is off for Presidents' Day or all of that stuff? That is not me. Somehow, I just keep going to class until the teacher says something like, "Well, it's been a pleasure having you in class this semester, good luck on the final . . ." and it all works out okay. Maybe someday I'll be on top of things.

I can't believe it's already so close to the end of the semester. Wild. And what a semester it has been. I kind of can't wait for Christmas already.

I'm lying down now . . .

. . . because I've been sitting ALL DAY, and my butt hurts. I guess that's what I get for being in a major for which my principal activity requires sitting.

Nevertheless . . .

It's been a pretty good day. The first exciting thing that happened was that I had a lesson. I truly enjoy my lessons now, which is a huge contrast from before. I used to dread my lessons, hoping that there would be a note on the door saying, "JB (my old teacher) is out today due to illness" (and, incidentally, that happened quite often). Here, though, with my new teacher, I never dread lessons. What is more, I always leave them feeling more inspired and hopeful about my abilities--again a contrast from when I'd leave former lessons feeling depressed, worthless, and guilty. EO (my new teacher) never uses guilt as a means to motivate. It's not that effective, anyway.

Most of the rest of the day was spent in various rehearsals. I had an endearing moment in orchestra when the soloist looked at me, winked, and then proceeded to confirm an appointment for tomorrow via sign language. It was delightful.

Another endearing moment took place after another rehearsal. One of the girls in the ensemble and I were chatting in the hallway, and she asked me if I'd found lots of friends in the time I'd been here. I gave some roundabout answer, and she proceeded to tell me that she'd been abandoned by her fellow graduate students who'd finished and graduated the previous year. It was then I realized that she was basically asking if she could be my friend, which I thought was pretty ridiculously adorable. I can definitely sympathize with a need to socialize, and I'm quite flattered that she feels both comfortable enough with me to request such a thing as well as that apparently she thinks I'm someone she'd like to hang out with. Pretty funny, but I dig it.

As for our concert tonight, let it be said that I almost missed it. There was a basketball game, which rendered parking almost impossible. I parked so far away by the time I found a spot (5 minutes to curtain) that I had to all but sprint, cello in tow, alllllllllll the way to the hall. Thankfully, there were still people in the hallway when I got there, so I knew the concert hadn't started. I suppose that's why you always plan for the worst-case scenario . . . because you never know when it might actually be the truth. It took me three times as long to walk BACK to my car after the concert, true to the fact that "Jogging gets you there in 1/4 the time." (I'm figuring in some extra time for the cello, by the way).

And so, I continue to take it one day at a time, hoping every day that I don't die along the way.

Engage!

Do you ever feel like you're not really participating in the events of your life? The past couple of days--yesterday in particular--I've been experiencing that. My brain felt pretty turned off. I couldn't focus on anything, and when people would talk to me, I would be completely zoned out. Even when I was playing cello, I felt totally uninvolved, which isn't a good thing by any stretch of the imagination. I wonder why I've been so disengaged.

Something I've been pondering lately (as a possible cause of my divorcement from my life) is the concept of energy. We all know the First Law of Thermodynamics: Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only converted from one form to another. I believe we think too little about the real concept of energy, though.

What brought me to this idea is the same thing that brings me most of my semi-deep thoughts: music. I watch a lot of performances, and very few of them are what I would classify as "great." I see plenty of technically impressive performances (correct notes, clear delivery, flawless), but that alone is not enough to merit greatness. I even see lots of performances that are "musical" and "expressive," and still I find myself desiring something more. What is it, then? This "je ne sais quois" that makes a particular performance truly great?

I've decided it's a matter of energy. When there is a truly great performer onstage, he or she commands every bit of attention the audience can muster. It stirs something in everyone.

Cesar Millan (the Dog Whisperer) always talks about projecting energy, and that dogs respond to that. I've seen that to be true in dogs (ask me about my story), and I wonder if maybe they have it figured out a little better than we do. Maybe in our attempts to clarify everything using the tools of language, of "communication," we lose a very base and essential method of transmitting information: ENERGY.

I think of Christ and the woman with the issue of blood from Luke 8. When she touched the hem of His garment, He felt virtue had gone out of Him. He was aware of energy.

I wonder if we paid more attention--not to what people said, but instead what they projected--we would be much better in touch with one another. My guess is we would be. We all have the ability to be so much more in tune with one another, with the energies all around us. I mean, in extreme cases we do pretty well: when a friend walks into the room and you know immediately that he or she is stressed out or heartbroken or elated . . . what if we tried to apply that same sensitivity every second of every day, even with strangers?

There's a lot more I've thought about on this subject, but that hasn't been fleshed out in a way that I can articulate just yet. I guess the moral of the story is this: Energy is a big deal.

Time Travel

I hope you've all gotten at least the recommended dose of Riboflavin today, lest you be sucked into a whirling time travel vortex. Today is the one day a year (barring travel situations) where we get to live the same hour twice. What are you going to do during your extra hour?

Confused? Learn more here.

What a Wonderful World . . .

As I was driving home from school today, I found myself in a RIDICULOUSLY good mood. It was perfectly beautiful outside, there was a gorgeous Texas sunset, I'd just had some good hugs, and I was headed home before 7pm! What's more, I had a Good Cello Day, and my performance for Early Music Hour went pretty well! I was thinking about mi novio (it's less weird in Spanish), and that always puts a smile on my face. And then, as if to underscore the wonderful mood, my iPod decides to play "What a Wonderful World." I feel that, Pops.

To add to it all, my dad called on my way home, saying we were going out to dinner: Thai food! My favorite. And especially inviting, since all I'd eaten since 8am was a half of a PB&J left over from yesterday.

I feel so blessed lately. There are so many good and exciting things happening in my life right now. Things are working out pretty well right now, and I know it's because of the hand of the Lord. I'm happy. Except I just got a cramp in my foot--yowza!

Still, life is good, foot cramp notwithstanding.

Motivation = Zero.

There is so much I need to do today, and so far, I've done none of it. I practiced for a few minutes. That's about it.

On my to-do list are things like laundry, cleaning of my room, reading 70 pages of stuff about Indian music, studying for Theory, practicing (orchestra music, Popper #1 and #6, Brahms Trios, baroque cello, and stuff for orchestral excerpts class), listening to the Brahms Clarinet Trio, cleaning the bathroom, getting on the treadmill . . .

So, I update my blog. Good use of time, Harlos.

I was thinking the other day about giving compliments. It's something I'm pretty bad at. The interesting thing is that it's not because I can't think of nice things to say, I just have trouble saying them. You know what makes it worse? Let's say you're talking to your friend, and then all of the sudden your friend compliments you on your hair or something. This catches you off guard. You stumble a while and come up with something like, "Thanks, your hair looks good too," which will ALWAYS sound like an insincere cop-out even if you WERE thinking it beforehand. So I generally avoid saying anything at all in these instances, for fear of sounding insincere.

I wonder why I censor myself so much. Shouldn't I be eager to share with others all the nice things I think about them? The other factor that scares me is that people will read too much into the compliments. Like, if I tell a boy that I think he has a nice smile, he'll probably think I'm hitting on him. Or if I tell a girl her hair looks nice, she'll think, "Well, how does it USUALLY look?!" I guess that's a stupid reason to hold back. I wonder what would happen if I followed every impulse I had to say something nice to someone.

I think I also hold back to keep people from getting too overinflated (as if it's my place to monitor other people's egos). Even though I've semi-recently decided that even arrogance is a function of self-consciousness, I still have reservations about letting people get too cocky. Also silly.

I guess the fact of the matter is that everyone needs building up. And while I'm not the type who tries to tear people down, I guess in my cautiousness to let people know all the good things I think about them, I am missing out on lots of opportunities to allow them to believe what I say. Because you know . . . if I say it, I MEAN it.

I wish I could just teleport.

Today, I tried (albeit unsuccessfully) to be in three different places at once. It might have worked, if all had gone according to plan . . .

As was, I got to rush around from one place to the next, trying not to lose any of my contacts on the way. This was made more exciting by the fact that I was temporarily without a phone, and couldn't alert one of the parties involved of my impending tardiness. It all worked out in the end.

It was a long day, though. You know, one of those days when you get home and you have a list of about five hundred things you want to do IMMEDIATELY: go to the bathroom, drink a glass of water, eat some food, take out your contacts, change into your comfy clothes, etc. The problem is you can never decide what order to do them in. (Tonight, I think I did bathroom, contacts, water, food, change.)

I even had a semi-awkward conversation with an old flame today. I think the moral of the story was "we were so young and stupid." I'm not sure, though. I think he may feel like I'm more hung up on him than I am (which, at this point, is not at all). It's all just water under the bridge for me. We've both moved on, so who even cares?

The point is, as my roommate wisely put it, "nothing gets you over the last one like the next one." None of my past romantic disappointments matter at all to me now that I get to spend time with someone who is (interestingly enough) a much better fit for me than any of them would have been anyway. I keep waiting to wake up.

It's a beautiful dream, anyway . . .

An update.

I don't really have anything specific to blog about, but I guess I just wanted to check in with my loyal readership.

Life is going pretty well. It's hard to believe that October is half gone, and the semester is also half gone. In a month it'll be Thanksgiving time, and it flies after that . . .

Generally, I would say that I don't have too very much to complain about these days. I like my classes and my professors, I get to do cool stuff like play Baroque cello, I have a social life, and the Cute Boy . . . and the list goes on. See? Life is good.

It's times like these that I start to feel like it's not fair that I get to be so blessed. At the same time, I almost feel like saying, "Well, it's about damn time!" After all, I'm realizing that my experience at BYU, while key in getting me to where I am now, was not everything it could have been. The difference is that while I was there, I felt like every opportunity was passing me by. Here, I feel as though I'm being welcomed into life with open arms. It's a good feeling.

Whether cause or effect (probably it's both), I'm also noticing that these days I'm liking myself more (for the most part). In any case, I'm enjoying the benefits of a healthier self-image. I guess it's true what they say about how great an effect we can have on one another. I want to be the person that everyone all of the sudden thinks that I am.

It does seem sudden, too. Adjectives that I've never really thought of as applying to me are now being used regularly: spunky, dynamic, delightful, etc. I suppose that's all helping me redefine myself (I myself would use words like unintrusive, awkward, or something along those lines). Now that these other adjectives have come into use, though, I can find evidence to support them.

So, I'm on the upswing.

The light at the end . . .

So this week has been rough. Midterms and assignments and classes that just don't quit, plus concerts and extra rehearsals and all kinds of gobbletygook . . .

Nevertheless, it's Thursday, and the end is in sight. I was excited yesterday to be home by 6pm for the first time in I don't remember how long. I still managed to stay up till midnight, though, even despite the fact that I vaguely promised myself to be in bed early. Ah, well.

I feel a little strange that my mom had an appointment with the eye doctor, who said I was a "delightful" person. I guess he then asked her if I'd be interested in playing at the office party on Saturday, for a years' worth of contacts. Curious. I don't know how to feel about that--it seems a little shady. I wonder if I should decline, on account of the fact that I think he's unusually attracted to me and may try to seduce me. On the other hand, maybe I'm just being paranoid, and he really DOES just think I'm delightful, and wants to help me out? Eeep. I'll have to consider this carefully. I welcome any input . . .

In Other News, I'm realizing that my body doesn't like me very much when I abstain from things like food, sleep, water, and exercise. It's been interesting to me that when I was at BYU, I was a big stress-eater (hence I gained weight); however, since coming to UNT it seems I've become a stress-NON-eater (and hence am losing weight). While such a side effect (i.e., weight loss) is not at all undesirable to a woman of my Rubenesque proportions, the accompanying constant threat of illness and lack of any energy and vigor certainly are. Maybe I should revise my plan to become a supermodel. Or go with the Mario Heffers plan: Nutty Bars and Diet Coke.

I suppose that is all, my loyal readership. I hope I don't die before I see you next . . .

I don't know karate, but I know ca-razy!

Yep. My life is ca-razy, but in the very best way possible . . .

Okay, we'll pick up where we left off:

Thursday was a pretty normal day, except that I was distracted all day by thoughts of a certain Cute Boy. That evening, I went to the Dallas Symphony with the 'rents to hear Ralph Kirshbaum play the Elgar Concerto. I found his performance decidedly uninspiring, especially when juxtaposed so directly with Edgar Meyer's brilliant work the night before. Kirshbaum had one speed and width of the vibrato--slow and wide--which only worked for parts of the slow movement. The rest of the time it sounded like the silver-haired lady in every church choir . . .

Friday I had no classes all day, so I did some laundry and so forth and then went to Friday Forum, where I got to see Cute Boy. After hanging out for a while, I had to head out to my eye appointment. They'd moved offices, and I had so wisely written down the address and phone number, in case I got lost--and foolishly left that sheet of paper at home. So, I finally found it, 20 minutes late.

It was the strangest eye appointment of my life. First of all, my optometrist started out the visit by just chatting with me about Einstein and brain development and literature for classical guitar and so forth for what seemed like at least 20 minutes. He finally got around to checking my eyes, and after I looked through the machine and all of that, he just started staring at me for another good minute or so (which felt like 15). "You have beautiful eyes," he said. "Very beautiful. And your eyebrows, too. It's a nice design."

What the ?! "It's a nice design?!" Thanks, I'll tell God that when I see Him. He then proceeded to recount what, specifically, about my eye structure was so appealing--using technical terms I can't even remember. Then he said, "Let's just for fun try on some colored contacts."

So I did. While I was trying on some different eye colors, he came in and stared at me some more. His assistant, a girl in about her early 30s, had been in there gushing to me about this color and that when he entered. "What do you think of the blue?" she asked. "I don't know," he said, staring squarely into my eyes. "I'm just . . . mesmerized. She's so beautiful!" Awww, shucks, Doc. Yet another example of a man 50+ who thinks I'm hot.

I'll spare you the play-by-play of the rest of the weekend to this point, and help you out by saying that much of it was spent in the company of The Cute Boy. (I say "The Cute Boy" because it's a less weird phrase for me than "my boyfriend." I've never thought about needing to say that phrase, and I think he'll understand that it'll take some getting used to on my part before I can say that particular phrase without making some weird face or giggling uncontrollably or anything else I might do. Of course, it's no fault of his--just weird is all.) Anyway, he's great and I liiiiiiiike him . . . oh man, what a week.

Like I said, CA-RAZY.

My 95-year-old boyfriend, Lloyd.

BACKGROUND:
Those of you who are not members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints may not know that twice annually, the entire body of the church gathers together to hear the words of our leaders, who speak in Salt Lake City at the Conference Center, a building which holds some 20,000-plus persons. People often travel great distances to be there, although it can also be viewed at virtually any LDS church building in the country, as well as many abroad (or even in your home, if you have the BYU channel). In order to actually attend the meeting live in the Conference Center, one needs a ticket. It's a pretty crazy scene at Temple Square during General Conference--LOTS of people, including Mormons and anti-Mormons. There are five sessions total: Saturday morning, afternoon, and evening (Sat. evening is just for the men), and Sunday morning and afternoon. And here begins my tale--April, 2005:

While I was at school at BYU, about an hour's drive from Salt Lake City, I had been given tickets to the Saturday morning session, by a friend without a car who didn't want to bother with finding a way there and back, and was feeling more like staying home and watching it on TV anyway. I eventually hooked up with a friend who was going to SLC already, though he was going to watch it with his family and was going to stay for all three sessions . . . nonetheless, it was the best I could do. So, he dropped me off at Temple Square, and we said we'd be in touch later about getting home. I skipped along my merry way.

The morning session was wonderful. My seat was great, and it's always amazing to sit there in that huge conference center and to feel such a sense of community. I wanted to go to the second session. Without a ticket, though, I was reduced to waiting in the Standby line.

In the line, I was standing next to an old man who began to talk to me. He was the oldest working man in the state of Wyoming, I discovered, and he told me about his wonderful experiences at the convention he'd just been to for the older workers of America. He showed me a pamphlet, with all the pictures of the oldest workers from all fifty states, and told me which of the ladies were good dancers, and so forth. I was so amused, and I kept formulating in my head the story I would tell to my roommates about my General Conference Boyfriend.

"We started talking in the Standby line and we just hit it off really well."

He offered me his chicken nuggets, and (being vegetarian) I respectfully declined. He did, however, manage to give me a peanut M&M.

By the time we reached the front of the line where they turned us away, he and I (his name was Lloyd) were buddies, so we went along to try and find an alternate venue to watch Conference. Our first try was the Assembly Hall, but they were only showing it in Spanish there. We eventually found our way to the Visitors' Center.

The meeting had already begun, and it was dark in the theatre, so I helped Lloyd into his seat. He squeezed my arm in thanks, and I giggled to myself about the story I would tell my roommates. As the speakers began, Lloyd put his arm around me, and I thought the fictional boyfriend story was just getting too good. He was being so affectionate and grandfatherly . . . great-grandfatherly . . .

The speakers continued, and I felt a hand in my hair. Lloyd was stroking my locks. I was taken aback. I continued to allow it, though for three reasons: (1) stroking one's hair is still a pretty benign act--something I would do to my girl friends, (2) it was General Conference, and there were lots of people around, so I felt assured that he wouldn't try anything REALLY funny, (3) even if he DID try something funny, he was ninety-five and I felt pretty sure I could take him out. I leaned as far away from him as I could in my chair and tried to take notes, which came out mostly as scribbles. It's kind of hard to concentrate on Conference when you're being stroked by a man seventy-five years your senior.

Some people came and sat next to us, and he withdrew his arm. I thought that meant he was going to behave, so I relaxed back into the center of my seat. Before I knew it, frisky old Lloyd had taken my hand, and was lovingly stroking that. At that point, I was pretty certain he had crossed the line. I felt very uncomfortable, and couldn't hear a word of what anyone was saying--with the exception of one line from Elder Scott's talk.

"Love is the foundation of all effective missionary work," he said, in his gentle way.

At that point, Lloyd took my arm, squeezed it a little bit, and with a wicked glint in his eye said, "It's the foundation of A LOT of things!" It was then that I knew I had to flee. As soon as that talk ended, and we all stood for the intermediate hymn, I grabbed my things, muttered, "I've got to go to the bathroom!" and scurried out of the theatre, with an expression of befuddlement, terror, horror, hilarity, and shock plastered on my face. I did go to the bathroom. After I regained my composure, I went to the Assembly Hall and listened to the rest of the session in Spanish. Even though I do understand Spanish, I didn't really get much out of that session, either. I was pretty shaken.

I was terrified that I would have to hang out alone in SLC until my ride was done with the Priesthood session, until the clouds opened up and the light of heaven shone down upon me, as my phone rang. Earlier, I had run into Sam from the ward (who was also up in Salt Lake for conference), and he and his friend had been planning on staying through all three sessions, but changed their minds at the last minute. He was wondering if I wanted a ride home. And of course I did.

The moral of the story? Just because it's General Conference doesn't mean it's safe for you to be alone. And just because he's ninety-five doesn't mean he's harmless.

Best. Day. Ever.

. . . and even THAT is an understatement.

I could not have asked for a better today.

Actually, the day started out kind of crappy. I slept in this morning, waking up ten minutes before I had to leave for my 8am class, in which we had a quiz. Suckity suck suck suck. On top of that, it was raining.

After the quiz (which didn't go horribly, but could have gone better--not that I'm concerned, since Dr. Cho told us he'd probably drop our first three grades anyway), I practiced for my 11am lesson, which went well. I did kind of have a cry, but Mr. O is so kind and so tender (a welcome change from certain cello teachers of yore), and I can tell he sincerely just wants me to be the best that I can be. We talked about things, and I realized (yet again) that I for some reason censor out the positive voices in my head and amplify the negative ones. So even when I am practicing, I don't take time to enjoy what went well, or to applaud myself for it. I am constantly in search of what's wrong. I suppose self-criticism is part of the package when you're a musician, although I think self-congratulation is also a necessary component (not that such an idea had ever occurred to me before today).

After that, I came home for lunch and the shower that I missed from sleeping in, which was good, and then headed off to the dress rehearsal for the concert tonight. I got Edgar Meyer to sign my favorite album of his. It made me happy. After that was Chamber Music departmental, which was made better by the fact that I was actually sitting next to people instead of by myself, which is typically what happens.

This is where the day turns from "good" to "indescribably fantastic." I came home for dinner--my first nutritious meal all week--and to change for the concert.

Mr. Meyer was A.MAZ.ING. I've been a HUGE fan for a long time, and it was beyond amazing to be on the same stage as him. I'm sure (and have had these suspicions confirmed) that I was beaming any time I was watching him (missing entrances left and right)--he is an utterly captivating performer, and all I could do was grin and stare in awe. He's great. Wow. And so I ran out of words. I could have died right then, and been perfectly content, but the night got even BETTER.

I feel awkward blogging about this, so I'm going to be scant with details, but the Readers' Digest version of it is this:

We're official. He's adorable. I'm . . . elated.

Yes, this has truly been a day for the books.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear . . . "

" . . . but of power, love, and of a sound mind."

I realized something (again) today: I am afraid. I'm afraid of lots of things, and that's what keeps me from progressing much of the time.

In rehearsal today, with one of my very favorite musicians of all time, I was TERRIFIED of playing something wrong, so I held back a lot of my enthusiasm and gusto from my performance. That's what always happens when I get scared: I withdraw, I try to shrink into the background. The thing is, though, my fear was 100% responsible for the fact that it wasn't as special an experience as it could have been. After the rehearsal, I went up to shake Mr. Meyer's hand. I had a million things in my head that I wanted to say, "I saw you at Bass Hall when I was probably 14, and it was one of the most influential performances I've ever been a part of" or "I love everything I've ever heard of yours" (etc.), but I got really scared when I was standing in front of him, so instead of saying any of that, I thrust my hand forward and muttered, "Thank you," as I walked away. Again, fear kept me from making a special experience.

Fear is a protective measure, so acting cautiously is a pretty good guard against personal injury, be it physical, emotional, or otherwise. However, it also significantly reduces the return of any given action. Sure, I can play a piece of music really cautiously, and not miss a note--but at the same time, I think it means that I didn't really PLAY a note either. Life is all or nothing; either you're in it all the way or you're not really in it at all.

Of course, I'm not just talking about music here. It seems, both generally and specifically, that I am in a period of my life ruled by the unknown. I am standing outside a door and I have no idea what will happen if or when I cross its threshold. It's kind of terrifying, yes, but I get the feeling that if I stick with caution and stay out on the stoop, I'll be missing out on a lot. I guess it's like skydiving or something: the scariest part is trying to convince yourself to take the jump, but after that--well, it's a hell of a ride.

Even if the your chute doesn't open and you end up plummeting to your oblivion, I bet you go out saying, "At least I was really LIVING."

So here's to giving up my spectator seat and jumping into the arena. I'm ready to be an active participant in my life, and perhaps get a few bumps and bruises along the way.

Bring it on, October.

October is one one of my favorite months. I like the brisk weather (although it's still pushing the 90s this week, bleh), I like the bright colors, I like wearing jackets and sweaters . . .

This week I get to play with Edgar Meyer, the world's foremost double bass virtuoso and one of my favorite musicians of all time.



I'm pretty excited about that. Tuesday evening my teacher is playing a recital. Thursday night I'll be going to hear Ralph Kirshbaum play the Elgar Cello Concerto with the Dallas Symphony, which will be tasty. I'm getting to be so musically spoiled!

Meanwhile, life just keeps on keepin' on. These days I don't really know where it's headed, but I'm enjoying the ride. I was thinking of my experience at BYU, and what it has meant in my life now that I've been out of it for five months(!). I'm really grateful for the experiences I had, both good and bad, and for what I've gained from them. It wasn't necessarily an easy journey, but I learned a lot about myself and dealing with different types of people. I made some priceless friendships and some arch nemeses (well, one at least) and had some experiences that couldn't be duplicated under any circumstances.

Now, being here, I see how some of those less-happy chains of events have helped make me more capable and ready for things that lie ahead. It's a mixed bag, I guess. I think I'm seeing now that maybe some of those trials were not things that I was supposed to learn from at the time I was experiencing them, but instead that I would be able to look back on and say, "Oh, so THAT'S what I did wrong."

By the way, I think it's really cool that God knows me well enough to know exactly how to teach me best. And not just me: you, your best friend, the kid who hears the voice of the Lord in Obi-Wan Kenobi . . . and I'm being sincere. I remember one of my friends wrote me while on his mission about how he realized the Atonement meant not only that our Savior understands our pains and sorrows, but also our joys and passions. I know that's true, because I see how He fits my life lessons around those passions.

I'm so blessed . . .

All is well . . . !

Ah, life is treating me kindly these days. I was stressed out about this morning, with an 8am quiz and a 9am sightreading in an Instrumentation class (how the prof tracked me down to ask me to play for it is a mystery to me--I've barely been at the school a month, and it seems already I've been branded as a music slut), and an 11am lesson . . . but everything went surprisingly well. Especially the lesson--I feel encouraged again! Hooray.

And now, this week that has already been so long and scary should definitely be much easier from here on out. Hallelujah!

I get to hang out with my favorite four year-old on Friday morning (actually, come to think of it, she may have had a birthday this month . . . five?), and I'm excited about that. I tell ya, getting paid to play with little kids is where it's at! And this will be a piece of cake, too--usually, I watch her AND her two brothers (ages 7 and 9 or something), and together, the three of them can be quite a handful. Having just the little girl will be a cinch.

I am happy about other things, too, but at the risk of sounding cryptic I venture that this is not the venue to share. Suffice it to say that I am looking forward to the weekend. :-)

So, I am happy. I'm getting used to being back in Texas, I'm making friends, I'm figuring out (again and again) how to better manage my time (by the way, blogging doesn't help), and I'm just smiling. 'Cause, you know, life is good.

Life is good. :-)

An Instrument in the Hands . . .

Last night, I had the opportunity to go to a recital and hear Bion Tsang (currently teaching cello at the UT Austin) and UNT's own Gustavo Romero playing the two Brahms cello sonatas. Now, aside from the fact that I love Brahms so much that I continue to swear that he and I are soulmates, and if we'd lived at the same time he would have given up on Clara altogether, I enjoyed the recital quite a lot.

The thing that struck me about Mr. Tsang's playing was how deliberate everything was. Each note was played with a specific part of the bow, on a specific part of the string, with a certain stroke . . . every detail was thought out.

In my church, we often talk about becoming an instrument in the hands of God (in fact, it's the theme of the visiting teaching messages this year), but I wonder if we really consider what that entails. Yes, we know about the power of the Master's touch, but do we really understand what that means?

There are a few things that struck me:

1. The instrument is completely incapable of creating anything by itself; it is the Master who creates beauty and meaning and breathes life into the instrument.

2. When I play my cello, it has its own ideas sometimes about who is in charge. The challenge is learning to get it to submit to my will rather than have it tell me what I can and cannot do.

3. GREATNESS TAKES PLANNING. This idea admittedly caused me problems, because I am not much of a planner. I like to fly by the seat of my pants. Especially where major life junctions are before me, I am not one to know where I am headed. My realization, though, was that it is not my duty to know. If I am the instrument, it is the duty of the Master to have planned everything out--and He has.

While I'm on the topic of music metaphors (a favorite of mine; I could go on all day), there is something else I've been thinking a lot about lately. I'm a pretty tough critic when it comes to expressivity in musicians. Rarely do I find players who can truly move me, who can conjure up emotions from the depths of my soul. I'm a very emotionally sensitive person, which is a blessing and a curse, but it means that I can sense when people are holding back, and I don't find it convincing at all. I've heard it said before that it's not what you give that gets you to heaven, but what you hold back that condemns you. I think the same is true for music.

At its best, music is a completely personal, vulnerable art. However, I think people don't often invest enough of themselves to make it so. I'm not talking about hours of practice or anything like that--I'm talking about people's SELVES. When you watch a person perform who strips themselves of the pomp and to-do about performance and presents him or herself for you to accept or reject, THAT is moving.

I've recently come to terms with my complete avoidance of vulnerability. I do think, however, that the only times in my life that I have allowed myself to be absolutely vulnerable have been in performance situations. I may not be able to tell you my feelings if you ask me, but if you ask me to play my feelings, I can certainly do that. Somehow it's less scary that way, maybe because fewer people try to understand you and just want to hear pretty music.

Well, none of you asked for my dissertation on musical expression, but if you ever want to talk about it, it's something I'm very passionate about. Ask anytime, and I'll talk for hours about it.

The Dorky Party Revolution of 07

That's right, I have deemed it my duty to bring dorky parties to North Texas. They abounded at BYU, but around here, people seem to prefer "real" parties, wherein the main form of entertainment is substance. The result of this is that (many, not all) people don't seem to know how to have fun without chemical alteration.

That is about to change.

I've composed a list of dorky party ideas, and I'll be gosh-darned if I don't start throwing them!

There are the ever popular food-themed parties, wherein all you need to do is choose some type of food and ask people to bring their favorite example of that food (ones I've heard of in the past include macaroni and cheese, bread, potatoes, pie, etc.)! There are the film-themed parties (favorite movies to screen include Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho Libre, or Pirates of the Caribbean) where people dress like their favorite characters, and we eat what they eat in the movie! There is, of course, game night (pretty self-explanatory). Bad movie night (not morally bad, but stupid or poorly made). Pizza making night. Ohh, the good times that are about to be had!

If you have any other ideas or suggestions, or would like to secure a spot on the guest list, please let me or another one of our associates know. Time is money, thank you for your time.

Friday Night Live.

So here it is, a Friday night. I'm young, I'm spry, and I'm sitting alone at home watching the Ray Charles movie and updating my blog. Talk about glamour.

Not that it's for lack of options, for once. I don't know, I'm still fighting this sickness, and I just didn't really feel like going out tonight. This afternoon, I came into the kitchen for a glass of water, ended up feeling weird and laid down on the couch. An hour later, I woke up, but I haven't really felt normal since.

This illness has been weird, though. I've had this horrible hacking cough for the past week or so, but haven't really felt bad other than that. Yesterday, I felt really weird, though. I think it was lack of oxygen to my brain or something due to all the phlegm gunking up my airway, but I couldn't decide if I wanted to faint or run around the block. Strange sensation, halfway dead and halfway jittery.

Hmmmm, I don't really have anything else to say.

Perfection.

I lived a perfect moment today.

I was in the car en route home from school this evening. It wasn't a particularly difficult day, but I've been feeling a little under the weather (I think it's a chest cold), and a little nostalgic (having watched the BYU devotional via internet), and a little introspective (just because that's how I am), and more than a little preoccupied with the hopes of friendship and romance (because I like to daydream).

All these came together to form a strange emotional cocktail, and I was pondering on this as I headed home. Then, the track on the CD changed, and my Perfect Moment began.

It was the Good Morning Maxfield (when they were still just Maxfield) cover of "Stars." Somehow, that song existed solely for that moment with me and my weird feelings in my Camry driving down Malone St.

I turned up the volume and soaked in all the goodness of the moment. It was full,
saturated, absolutely perfect. I can't describe why I felt so, but I certainly did. I wonder if there have been other perfect moments in my life that I have missed by being too preoccupied or just not paying attention.

Now that I think about it, I believe this wasn't the first perfect moment in my life:

The time when I cried with a friend in the vestibule of our high school band hall. The time I played stupid Christmas arrangements with a wind ensemble.
The time I rode with that one boy just because he wanted company.
Driving cross-country with my brother in a car loaded with all our stuff.

I guess it just gave me pause to reflect on what it is that makes life worth living. There are so many perfect moments yet to be had.

Here's to perfection!

Backrub, anyone?

I've always liked to give backrubs. For me, the power of the literal human touch is very strong, and there's something about knowing that I'm using my hands to make someone else feel good that I find very rewarding. I think, too, that years of training and development in the fine-motor schools (i.e., the fact that I'm a string player) has helped sensitize my hands, so I've been told I'm pretty good at it, too.

Back in P-town, I had a loyal clientele built up of roommates and close friends. If anyone had a knot in their back or something, they'd come to me to work it out. Here, though, there are very few with whom I've crossed the touch-barrier. I miss being able to touch people! I need that so badly.

I've always been a cuddly one, and I've said before that I'm addressing this from a completely nonsexual stance. For some reason, it's just important to me to physically feel the contact of other human beings--just in little ways, like touches on the arm, or hand-holding, or and arm around me.

I've taken to giving my dog backrubs. She has these two huge knots on either side of her torso that I've been working on for the past few days. She enjoys it--you should see her melt to the ground in a semi-comotose state. I'm glad she appreciates it, but it does kind of make me miss the same kind of appreciation from other humans.

So, if you ever want a backrub, or a backscratch, or a head massage or just someone to let you know that you've got nerve endings on your skin, you all know where to find me.

Who, me?

I guess if I ever want to feel attractive, I just have to hang out with men who are at least forty years old or older.

I belong to this environmentally-based networking website, and most of my "friends" fall into that category. And they tell me how pretty I am, how "intriguing," how they would like to photograph me (that one especially creeped me out), or how they would love to get to know me--could I email them sometime? Maybe it's something about being one step removed from the person they are trying to woo that causes them to lose all sense of propriety. They don't have to be shy or (what's the masculine equivalent to "coy?"), but they can just say right out: "I think you're beautiful, and I would like to be your boyfriend."

As far as those men who boast an even BIGGER age gap, I still haven't figured that out. I've learned from hard experience that even though a man is seventy-five years my senior, it doesn't necessarily mean he is harmless. Still, the increase in years seems to be inversely proportional to tact or subtlety.

Now, I'm not certain that this attraction from men old enough to be my father, grandfather, or great-grandfather is unusual. I just keep thinking of the Rick James song: "She makes an old man wish for younger days." The thing that is unusual about my ability to attract men is that it doesn't seem to have any effect whatsoever with those in my own demographic. Is it then simply the fact that I'm so much younger that makes me attractive, or is there some other quality that the more seasoned male appreciates that is lost on the ruddy-faced lads?

Maybe I should just aim to marry some filthy rich old guy who's about to kick the bucket.

The itch you just can't scratch.

So, I've realized what it is about UNT.

The fact of the matter is that there are actually many many more guys that I am attracted to here. Virtually every random male that crosses the street in front of me I find at least reasonably attractive. [AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am realizing as I write this that I had similar feelings upon arriving at BYU. "Why is everyone here so darned attractive?," I thought to myself. Perhaps, then, it is just the novelty of being in a new environment, with a different type of guy.]

Now, herein lies the problem. It's obviously not that I cannot find a guy that I find good-looking. It's that I don't really want to DATE any of these handsome men-folk. For one reason or another (sexual orientation, marital status, drug use, etc.) these guys are otherwise completely unappealing.

So, I remain lonely. And though no one likes to be lonely, I also don't really feel terribly drawn to any of the alternatives.

Open mouth, insert foot.

The most famed question on the list of questions not to be asked if there is any reasonable doubt is, of course, "So . . . when are you due?" Today I experienced another:

Me: "So, when are you getting married?"
The other person: We're not.
Me: (confused)
The other person: We broke up. We're not getting married.

Uhhh, and then where do you go with the conversation? I don't know. I feel bad for the awkwardness and for having put this person in such an uncomfortable situation, but at the same time, it was an innocent question--and I had no reason to suspect anything had changed since the last time I saw the two of them together (which couldn't have been very long). Nevertheless, it really kind of killed the chitchat.

So, beware. My new rule will be that I will not ask that unless the individual has referenced such him or herself in the same sitting.

What I Want

Over the weekend, I was watching the movie Hitch. There's a line that says something like, "No woman knows what she wants until she finds it." I think in my case, that's true. Or at least the first part.

There is no secret to my lamentations about living the single life. Although, it's not really that I dislike being single so much. It's more that I dislike the IDEA of it, and the IDEA of myself never having experienced the Other Side. That's right. At the ripe old age of 22 (very almost 23), I have never had a boyfriend. Unless you count those that I had from the 7th-9th grade, when for some reason boys liked me (although, since then, one or more of them has decided he likes boys). Ironically, that all ceased almost immediately after I reached the age of 16--when I actually COULD date.

So, I *think* that I would like a boyfriend--but how would that actually be? I can think only of the benefits: someone to talk to to cuddle with, to go to things with. I'm sure there is a downside, too, and maybe it's really NOT what I want.

And *who* would I want my potential boyfriend to be? I've never been one to have in my mind a "type," and as a result of this, I don't really know what I "should" be looking for. For instance, yesterday at church there was this pretty-boy type teaching my Sunday School class. Usually I'm pretty turned-off by that kind of boy--they are too impenetrable and fake--but later on in the lesson he let down his guard a little bit and turned into this shy, awkward little kid. I found it really endearing. I guess it humanized him for me. You always hear about people looking past the outside to see the beauty within. Usually, people use that kind of phraseology when they're talking about "ugly" people, but I think it applies just as readily to "attractive" people. I think pretty people use their prettiness to protect their tender hearts from being so visible and vulnerable.

I don't know where I'm going with all this. I guess I just have a lot to figure out about who I am and what I want.

So far, this semester ROCKS.

Maybe I'm just in my honeymoon phase with UNT, but I'm loving it so far. A lot.

I won the spot in the UNT Baroque Orchestra, which I am really kind of giddy to begin. I get to take Baroque cello lessons! They have a ton of period instruments, and I'm just thrilled to be a part of it. It's kind of hard to believe. I didn't think they'd audition me at all, so I hadn't prepared anything to play. I found out last night that there were too many cellists vying for the same one spot, so I'd be auditioning the next day (i.e., today). So, I dusted off the first two movements of the ol' Bach Gamba Sonata (I haven't touched it since March 24) this morning and played the audish this afternoon. And now . . . I get to learn how to play the Baroque cello! I'm excited. And amused. Our rehearsals start at 4:15--I think that's really funny. Get it? Baroque Orchestra? 415?

Another amazing thing is that Edgar Meyer is coming to play with the UNT Symphony Orchestra in October. I have long idolized Edgar Meyer--I think he's one of the most talented people in music today. We're playing with him the Bottesini Concerto No. 2 and his own bass concerto. Let's just say that the very thought of being in the same room as him gets me really excited. Add to that we are playing WITH him, and playing HIS work. I just hope I can watch him from wherever it is that I'm sitting (which, by the way, I will find out tomorrow).

Seriously, I'm really excited about this year.

BYU vs. UNT

Now that I'm officially oriented in the UNT College of Music, I'd like to note a few differences between my two schools.

1. Practice Rooms
BYU: 25? on one floor of the music building. scheduled, but flexibly so. free. unlocked during building hours (6am-11pm).
UNT: 300. in two buildings containing only practice rooms. keyed doors. rented for $80 for the year. unlocked during building hours (till 11:30 on weeknights, 2:30am on weekends).

2. Personnel
BYU: Mostly Caucasian. A peppering of minorities and international students. Clean-cut, modest, sparkly.
UNT: Maybe 50% Caucasians from the States, the rest minority and / or international students. Smelly, hairy, and smokers.

3. Organization
BYU: a fairly well-oiled machine: Mormons are used to managing large groups of people.
UNT: surprisingly disorganized: one would think that they would have figured out the most efficient way to do some of these things.

Well, that's all I've got so far. It's interesting. I miss my Provo-friends.

"My loneliness is killing me . . . "

I never thought I'd miss Provo so much. Of course, it's not Provo that I miss at all, really. I miss the people in Provo who love me. I feel completely alone here in Texas.

The thought has recently occurred to me that I really don't feel like anyone knows me. I know for a fact that it happens to be my fault that this is the case. I'm an incredibly guarded person. People terrify me. I can't imagine laying my whole person on a table and allowing someone else to see everything there is to see inside of me. I know that's why I really DON'T have anyone every close to me. I just don't know how to change.

I guess this isn't the first time I've thought about how closed I am. It's just hitting me again, now that I don't even have anyone remotely close to me. I can't think of a person here that I would feel comfortable telling even stupid stuff--about my crushes, or being scared about UNT or whatever. At least at the Y I had roommates to talk to. While I love my parents, I get the feeling that they don't really want to listen to me a lot of the time. I mean, they're real grown-ups, and they're in a completely different stage of life than I am, so I think it's just hard for them to relate to me.

Thinking about it now, I'm wondering if perhaps that is why I am holding onto my extra pounds. Being overweight is my buffer--it ensures that no one tries to get too close to me. I can hide behind my weight, so when anyone talks to me, they're not really seeing ME. Likewise, if I get rejected, I can blame it on the weight. And I do, often! I always say things to myself like, "Maybe he'd like me if I were thin!" Maybe it's not the fact that I'm fat that steers people away from me--maybe it's the Fat Mentality. I wonder, if I could somehow stop making excuses for myself and own up to what I am, if that would change my relationships with people.

I want to be done. I want to stop thinking about my body so much. I want to go try on clothes without ending up completely depressed. I want to have no excuses to make for myself--I want to love myself so that others can love me. I want to stop being scared and I want to give everyone permission to get inside of me. I want to be a normal, functioning human being for once in my life.

Trepidation . . .

So, I'm starting to get really scared about UNT. I know exactly what's going to happen: I'm going to get there and get played into the floor by EVERYONE. I, as a graduate student, will be the weakest player there, and everyone will say, "How the hell did she get into this school?!" And then they will say it's because I studied with Osadchy before, or because my dad works at the school, or for some other reason . . .

Do I have what it takes to be great, or even good? I've never really learned to work hard. All that I've done to this point in my life I have coasted through. I wonder what would happen if I gave something--anything--110% effort. Usually I feel pretty good about myself if I do about 80%. I guess I need to experience a mighty change of heart.

I know that I'll be behind lots of people. I guess this is my opportunity to catch up. To learn what I haven't yet learned. To perfect my technique and to be a great cellist. I think I could be great. I certainly don't have the chops right now, but what I do have is the heart. That's what makes me special as a musician. If only I had the pristine technique to support that heart, then I could really play with the big boys.

My constant fear in life is that, in whatever aspect, I will not be good enough. I am foolishly in constant search of evidence to support my fear, and right now it's pretty well emphasized. I have few friends, and none of them terribly close. I am preparing to begin the adventure of graduate school, where I'm certain I will land in every remedial class they offer. I haven't been on one date all summer. I want to lose weight and--for once in my life--get to a place where I feel good about my body, but I can't seem to do it.

Maybe all of these things are related. Maybe it's not the fact that all these things are happening that make me fear that I'm not good enough--perhaps instead it is the fact that I'm doubtful of my own self-worth that creates these situations. In any case, I want to like myself. I can hardly remember a time when I have.

To allot time for S&H . . .

Since my birthday falls in a month, I thought I would post my birthday wish list now so that the mass orders to Amazon.com and other major retailers doesn't crash their system. Thoughtful of me, I know. I'm a giver.

I'm including generals and specifics, so if you're like me and you have no clue what to get people, you can do that. If, on the other hand, you're one of those who prefers just general guidelines and gets pleasure out of choosing the perfect gift, then go to it!

DVDs:
Season 1 of the Adventures of Pete & Pete, any season but the first of King of the Hill, Stranger than Fiction, March of the Penguins, the Lizzie McGuire movie, Pay it Forward, Nacho Libre, or anything else that makes me laugh, cry, and / or fall in love.

Music:
Anything by Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Wynton Marsalis, the Turtle Island String Quartet, Django Reinhardt, Diana Krall, Mischa Maisky, Bjork, Bela Fleck (and the Flecktones) . . .
choral music based on liturgical texts . . .
OR your favorite music, whatever that may be.

Books:
Things that make you think about your life.

Stationary:
Anything cute that makes me want to write lots of letters. This includes stickers, and stamps.

Jewelry:
Earrings. For sensitive ears.

Love letters:
Handwritten & (somewhat) sincere.

Hugs:
Any variety, except the dreaded side-hug.

A boyfriend:
Tall and handsome.

"So . . . are you dating anyone?"

After having graduated from BYU withOUT my MRS. degree, that seems to be a fairly common question. I know people are well-meaning, and they just want to know what's going on in my life, but for myself (and many others like me), questions like that cause great discomfort and other such bad feelings.

Truth be known, I can probably count on two hands the number of dates that I was pleasured to go on in my BYU career. Now, as Provo seems to be the marriage capitol of the world, one might wonder how that could be. I have often lost sleep over the matter myself (a fact that I am not proud of, but it's the truth nonetheless).

Now, I am trying to avoid writing from the bitter perspective one might expect of a woman in my situation. Rather, I am going to attempt as much objectivity as possible, exploring things from all points of view.

Considering the unusual homogeneity of the BYU population, it seems natural that one would, of necessity, create delineations to distinguish segments of the populace one from another. Now, as far as the BYU populace compares to those of other universities, I would argue that BYU's student body is largely quite "eligible." It is composed mostly of intelligent, hard-working, spiritual, kind, service-oriented, and unusually good-looking students. For most BYU students, the above listed qualities are necessities in a potential partner, not simply bonus points. And so, whereas at any other university those criteria might severely limit one's dating pool, at BYU they hardly weed anyone out.

So, how do you decide who to like? It seems that most BYU students place everyone around them on a continuum. At one end of the spectrum you have those people who are "more" the qualities listed than others, and at the opposite end are those who are "less" so. Being that most everyone has much of the same background and so forth (I say that carefully, knowing that it will offend some who proclaim that they are different from everyone else. I realize that everyone is still different, but I am saying that BYU students are much more like one another than most other student populations), many people are attracted to the same types of people. Because of that fact, there is usually a rather small population that is fairly universally recognized as "above average" (keeping in mind, of course, that BYU's average is very highly skewed from the general average).

So, in every ward (or class or major or club or whatever), there are a handful of individuals who are the top picks from that organization. These are the individuals who are exceptional in one aspect or another: either they are incredibly sweet, or incredibly good-looking, or incredibly charismatic. Now, the other 95% of the population of the group will fall in love with those few. So, 5% of the population experiences great interest from the opposite sex. The rest of us are left to compete with the rest of the world, and will inevitably lose out to the top 5 percentile.

Of course, this only stands to explain why so many people don't date. In the girls' cases, the guys are too busy clamoring for the attention of a Top 5% Girl to pay any mind to the rest of us. In the guys' cases, I've often heard of their being rejected simply because the Top 5% Girl is simply "not interested" in him, since she has so many offers for dates that it becomes necessary for her to prescreen her candidates. Thus, they get hurt and are less likely to go out on a limb for the next girl. It's a vicious cycle.

As to long-term relationships, I must admit to being completely clueless as to how these things develop. From observation, I suppose it generally comes from a series of dates which eventually lead to exclusivity, but I always get stuck at the "series of dates" part. It perplexes me the way that people decide they want to be in a relationship. I suppose, never having been put in such a position, that a great deal of the mystery I sense in these matters would be relieved if I were ever to experience them first hand. Still, though, I find myself scratching my head on these things. Never mind proposals and marriages and all of that nonsense!

All in all, I feel like most people's romantic frustrations are rooted in the fact that we are crossing too many wires. We are interested in those who are not interested in us, just as we are not interested in those who are interested in us. I suppose the magic happens when two people are mutually interested in one another, and can then proceed to develop a beautiful relationship from the simple fact that each enjoys the other's company.

I have no idea why we must make it so complicated.

Crazy Hours

So, my last paycheck was pretty pathetic. In fact, it was the smallest paycheck I've received yet, even including my paid training, when my pay was 60% what it is now. I worked ONE day during the last pay period, which definitely reflected itself on my measley little check. I do believe that I wanted a job so that I could get paid to work. Isn't that usually what goes on?

However, in the most recent pay period, I have worked every day but one, usually for a pretty sizeable day. Next check should be better.

I'm just glad I'm not depending on this income to feed a family like many of my colleagues. Basically, I'm just working for gas money and extra money, not for groceries or rent or the electric bill . . .

I appreciate that this work is such that it is unpredictable, and that one can never really be sure of getting work. Still, it seems to me that the disparity between my lowest paycheck and my highest (which amounts to a little over $200) is QUITE A RANGE. I mean, really.

The other problem is that because this work is so sporadic, and because I never know even 24 hours in advance if I'm working the following day, it doesn't allow for me to, say, get another job, in order to guarantee that I can at least have a decent source of income. No, I am at the whim of this company, who can apparently use or not use my services as they please. For although I certainly have had enough time not working to hold down another job, there is no way I could plan on that. Boohoo.

Still, I guess I'm just lucky that I'm not depending on this to put food on my table. Any money is good money, right?

The Way to a (wo)Man's Heart . . .

. . . is through her stomach. And watching "Ratatouille" has made me think about my favorite foods. So, here is a list of my all-time favorite fare, in no particular order:

* hummus--I love hummus.
* mango sticky rice
* a good, ripe, juicy peach
* crisp-tender steamed broccoli
* chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream--I have several favorite flavors of ice cream, but this is the king of them all
* Fuji apples
* bananas
* Honey-Nut Cheerios--with 2% milk
* miso soup
* edamame--steamed, salted soybeans in their pods
* agedashi tofu
* Masaman curry (with tofu)
* tomato-basil soup
* grilled cheese sandwich
* pb&j--especially on an English muffin
* Reese's Peanut Butter Cup
* watermelon--but it has to be REALLY good
* biscuits
* baby carrots
* yogurt-granola parfait
* cheesecake

mmmmm . . .

This is what happens when you watch a movie about food after you've started fasting . . .

The Contents of My Purse

Why? Because I'm bored.

* sunglasses (Esprit brand, inherited from Roommate Shelly)
* ticket stub from Kimbell Art Museum's "The Mirror and the Mask: Portraiture in the Age of Picasso"
* iPod
* iPod earbuds (listed separately because they're not connected to the iPod itself)
* ticket stub from the Simpsons Movie
* schedule for Institute, Fall 07-08
* the novel Wuthering Heights
* tic-tacs (spearmint)
* a bottle of Aleve
* one cake of Liebenzeller Metall-Kolophonium Rosin, Gold IV
* one Tourte cello mute (one-hole)
* checkbook
* tampons (6!)
* wallet
* lotion (Bath & Body Works Pleasures: Sparkling Peach)
* two half-empty packages Eclipse Winterfrost gum
* one tube Chapstick (medicated)
* Mead Fat Lil' Notebook
* hair elastic
* house and car keys
* one pot Savex lip balm (peppermint)
* ticket stub from Aztec Theatre in San Antonio
* fortune from cookie ("Set the right example. It will inspire others.")
* card from Logan's Shoe Shop, where my wedding shoes are being dyed
* one tube Banana Boat lip balm (Aloe Vera with Vitamin E, SPF 30)
* one tube Softlips lip balm (French Vanilla)
* three black Bic pens
* two mechanical pencils
* one pen from Ryan High School ("Excellence in Action")

My Lackluster Love Life Lacks Lust . . . errrrr . . .

I'm romantically BORED. There just aren't enough men in my life right now. There is ONE male at work, who smokes and uses "sentence enhancers" liberally, and can't read or write very well. Plus, he's married and has kids . . . not exactly what I'm looking for in a man.

At church, there are a few who have piqued my interest, but I feel like all the guys in the Singles' Ward are socially awkward. At least all the ones that AREN'T engaged. Or maybe they're just completely uninterested. In me. In girls. In humankind. And they just talk about WoW all day. Or nothing at all.

Boy #1:
He's pretty much adorable. I've noticed several girls share a special interest in him, and he seems completely unaware of it. Maybe he's just playing dumb, because it's easier than rejecting the girls. Or perhaps he's gay. For the first few weeks I was here, he would talk to me, and I was always so astounded by his beauty that I couldn't think of a thing to say and just muttered stupid stuff. It's been a while since he's said anything to me. Sigh . . .

Boy #2:
Another adorable one, but in this boyish, innocent, pure way. His eyes (blue) just sparkle, and I love his smile. I NEVER see him talking to girls. Only to nerdy boys, and about nerdy boy things. We've exchanged a few words, but only when necessary. I've tried to place myself in convenient places for him to strike up a conversation, but he's never really taken the bait. It is my assessment that he's one of those nerdy boys who doesn't know that he's actually really quite attractive, and thus is really shy. I try to build guys like that up, but I don't know how to do it when I have such little contact with the boy!

Boy #3:
Much more outgoing than the first two cases, this boy is sweet, friendly, and handsome. He's got me utterly confused, though. We're friends, and we talk, and we have a good time, but is it just because he's a Nice Guy? Gah.

Essentially, I just want someone who will hold my hand, let me scratch his back, cuddle with me, and talk to me. Shouldn't be so hard, eh?

On Bra Shopping

I am currently quite depressed. In other words, I just went bra shopping.

Okay. So welcome to reality, Self. I seem somehow unable to realize that the only women I've seen in just their skivvies just happen to be lingerie models, and take it as an opportunity to beat up on myself. Let's be honest, though: I'm not one of those girls who just has body image issues because of the media, and is actually healthy and perfect the way she is. The truth is, I'm carrying quite a bit of extra weight. I'm not blaming the media for that. I'm just making the statement that it's unfair to compare myself to the lingerie models when I know that there are plenty of women who look more like me that feel pretty comfortable in their own skin. I wish I were those women.

Instead, I make myself sick with horror upon looking in the mirror. Every part of my body represents some sort of flaw, and that's hardly an exaggeration (I've just done a mental scan of my body from head to toe, and my lips came out unscathed, but everything else is subject to rejection--EVERYTHING). That's not to say that I'm unhappy with every part of my body every second of my life: sometimes, I think to myself, "My hair looks really good today," or even, "Man, I'm sexy," but mostly it ends up being stuff like, "Your cuticles are gross," or "You have ugly kneecaps," and stuff like that. I've only just realized in typing that out that usually, when I feel good about myself, I'll speak in first person. When I'm talking down to myself, I use the second person. I'm sure there is some deep psychological reason for that--something like I'm trying to distance myself from what I disapprove about myself.

I keep trying to talk myself into being friends with myself again, but I am losing the battle with myself. I keep forgetting to tell myself that I'm beautiful, etc. I wish I believed that more. Maybe if I really believed that I were beautiful, I'd convince others of the same.

Dear Yous

Dear You:

You are one of three people in the world in whom I hold complete confidence. I'm so glad we've been friends for so long, even if it started out with you throwing things at me. You're such a strong human being and I love that about you. I know it's been a rough couple of years for you (made harder by the fact that you're away from home and family), but I love seeing you grow from those experiences and become an even greater person than you already are. You can always make me smile and laugh, and you're always there for me when I cry (even if you make fun of me for it) . . . and I couldn't ask for a better friend than you. I love you, and I hope I can be there for you like you've been there for me.

Love,
Me



Dear You:

Come on, you HAVE to know that I like you. I mean, I'm sure a guy like you has plenty of experience with interested young ladies, and figuring out who exactly those may be. I think you may be vaguely interested in me, too, but I can't really tell if it's interest or just your general niceness--I always have that problem with really nice guys. Anyway, I think you're really handsome (I know you at least know that, since I told you point-blank), and basically an all-around good guy. Maybe you're out of my league, but I've always been an optimist.

Love,
Me



Dear You:

I can't believe you're getting married!! They grow up so quick. I'm glad to have had the chance to get to know you--it has always been fun to have someone who understands the way I think! It's been fun to have you in the room down the hall, across the breezeway, or halfway around the block, and randomly popping in unannounced. I love your randomness, I love your smile, I love your brain, I love your sock and sneaker collections, I love Sven, and I LOVE YOU. I wish you and your Canadian a lovely life together, and I look forward to hearing all about it!

Miss you,
Me



Dear You:

I don't think you read this, but oh well . . .
I'm so glad we were thrown together our freshman year. I've learned a lot from you and I've loved our late-night talks and 20th century compositions and all the good times. Thanks for always being on my side. Thanks for your patience with me. Thanks for letting me borrow your car, even if I almost break the door with my negligence. Thanks for being my friend and ally, thanks for listening to me, thanks for being all the wonderful and beautiful things you are. I love you.

Love,
Me



Dear You and You and You:

You did like me, right? At least for a minute? For that time we talked in the hallway for 45 minutes, or the drive to Mt. Pleasant, or playing in the snow, respectively? If I did something to screw it up, I'd like to know, because obviously I haven't figured it out in at least three tries. I don't want you to think I'm still hung up on You(s), because I'm not. I wonder a little bit what might have been if I'd done something differently, but I'm happy for You(s) and for the way things have worked out for You(s) and Her(s), even if I had to learn about it in a way other than straight from You. I think You are all pretty neat guys, so thanks anyway for being You(s).

With complacency,
Me



Dear You:

You make me just about as uncomfortable as I have ever been in my life. It's more than just awkwardness (heaven knows I've dealt with enough awkwardness to make myself immune to it): it's Extreme Awkwardness intricately interwoven with hormones, teen angst, and foul language (and, when occasion permits, alcohol). The thing is, I actually think you're a pretty sweet guy underneath it all, I just wish that the gentleman inside of you would come closer to the surface and beat up the creep that seems to be running you right now. You'll grow out of it, I think.

Love,
Me

p.s. I'm too old for you anyway.



Dear You:

I'll probably never see you again, but I think you're the sweetest guy I've ever met. My crush on you surprised even myself, and it drove me crazy because I knew I couldn't ever act on it. I know it sounds corny, but on the rare occasions that our hands would touch, or sometimes when you would just look at me with those adorable eyes, my heart would be fluttering all over the place. I feel like there isn't a mean, dirty, or impure bone in your body--you just exude goodness. I hope things work out for you, and that you find some amazing, bright, beautiful woman to marry (when you get back). And hey, if it takes a while longer, look me up. I'd jump on that.

Love,
Me



More "Dear Yous" to come? We'll see.

On "Sentence Enhancers"

Has anyone ever seen that episode of Spongebob Squarepants where Spongebob and Patrick learn about the Thirteen Words You're Never Supposed To Say? Before they learn that those are bad words, they identify them as "sentence enhancers," and employ them liberally in their daily conversation. I think my co-workers feel the same about that.

When we are in the car going from place to place, most of my co-workers enjoy using sentence enhancers for every sentence. Some are even so skilled as to use two or three in the same sentence, or to use the same sentence enhancer in two or three different parts of speech in the same sentence. I am not so adept.

It reminds me a bit of high school, and it's causing me to realize that certain of my co-workers, though much older than myself, have some tendencies which are quite immature. I would say putting the F-bomb at least once in every sentence falls into that category. It's funny. Well, not so much funny-"haha." Okay, maybe it's not funny at all.

Anyway, after having worked a full eight-hour day cleaning three houses (one of which had formerly housed 7 dogs, one of which was pretty well thrashed due to remodeling and so forth), I'm exhausted.

It was, however, delightful to have dinner with the Hartfields, whom I have not seen since . . . well, before they were "the Hartfields." Oh, such good times we used to have back at ol' Billy C.

Back to the Grindstone

Well, my two-week affair with Brahms is now over, and it's back to the mop and bucket for the rest of the summer. It was fun while it lasted.

I realized in my time at Mimir that I have spent my four years at BYU pretty uninspired, at least musically speaking. Not that I was the best player there--I wasn't--but the majority of those that were better than me (this is going to sound overly critical, so forgive me) still left me wanting more. There were very very few (in fact, I can only think of one) whose playing I found utterly convincing and inspiring. Again, it's not that I didn't look up to other musicians at BYU, because there were lots of people who did lots and lots of things better than me--it's just that there wasn't really anyone that I wanted to model myself after. Incidentally, even the soloists who came through I found to be largely uninspiring. Sure, they had chops, but I didn't feel like they were connecting with the music, or that they were making any attempt at all to connect to me.

In listening to the Mimir faculty in their concerts, I found the inspiration I'd been missing. It was glorifying to hear music played so beautifully--with impeccable technique and heartfelt expression. I want to be THAT. There's a whole other plane of musicianship that I can tap into. I feel as though my progress at BYU was only within a limited plane, but there's so much more that I (or anyone) can achieve. I think I'd forgotten that.

I have come to believe that we all have this desire to be great. Call it ambition, call it aspiration, call it what you will, but each of us wants to be something meaningful to the world. Somehow music has the ability to bring out the greatness in otherwise very ordinary people. We become a part of something bigger than just ourselves--something as big as the human experience. And it means something! It matters.

We become uncomfortable with ourselves when we are not living up to the greatness that we desire. I think that deep down inside, we all truly believe that we ARE already great, which is why it bothers us so much when we feel we are falling short of the mark. The greater we think we are, the more it irks us to be anything less than A+. Some of us have managed to build a career around fraudulent mediocrity, but we are left wondering what might have been IF we'd lived up to our potential. We could have been great. It eats us up.

It's like that quote (that I just found is not by Nelson Mandela, but instead Marianne Williamson, an American spiritual activist):

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination. It is our light more than our darkness which scares us. We ask ourselves – who are we to be brilliant, beautiful, talented, and fabulous. But honestly, who are you to not be so?

"You are a child of God, small games do not work in this world. For those around us to feel peace, it is not example to make ourselves small. We were born to express the glory of god that lives in us. It is not in some of us, it is in all of us. While we allow our light to shine, we unconsciously give permission for others to do the same. When we liberate ourselves from our own fears, simply our presence may liberate others."

I want to give you permission to live out the greatness that you and I both know is inside of you.

"One time, at Band Camp . . . "

Yep, here I am, like a nerd, at Music Camp. Chamber music camp, to be precise. The Mimir Chamber Music Festival at TCU to be completely precise. It's interesting. I forget how to be away from home. I get bored at the dorms. It's been nice to be around people my own age for a change.

Another interesting thing is that I keep forgetting where I am. For the past few years, being "away from home" meant being 1200 miles away--here, it's shrunk to about 45 miles. When I see someone who looks like someone I know, I have to think: "Is that a Texas person or a Utah person? And where am I right now?"

We saw Transformers last night. It was about a B- film. I do have a crush on Shia LeBeouf, though. He's adorable.

This is so stream of consciousness. Let's see.

Eating out for lunch and dinner every day is making me gain back the weight that I've lost since coming home. Boo.

I wish that I were in a group of players much much much much much better than myself, rather than the group now where everyone is kind of on equal footing. I play better the better my colleagues play.

I actually kind of miss the 5th Wardians. And specifically, one or two (or three) cute boys there. IT's been hard to nurse any kind of relationship with my being all over the place and my attendance being as spotty as it is. Plus I can't figure out if the boys in question are interested or just nice (I suspect the latter, though I hope for the former).

In Other News, I miss my Utah friends. Especially the fact that . . . well, that I actually HAD FRIENDS in Utah. Sigh.

All the Lonely People

I have been entirely fascinated by people in the past week or so. I've really kind of started to get settled into this maid job, and it gives me lots of contact with people. It's very interesting how people interact with us. There are basically three tiers:

(I.) Are friendly and kind to us--engage us in intelligent conversation and speak to us like normal human beings.
(II.) Let us in their homes and then promptly begin to pretend as though we aren't there, or they don't see us.
(III.) Speak disrespectfully to us (and ABOUT us when we are in earshot) and hover over our shoulders to ensure that we do our job.

You learn to really appreciate those who treat you like you're an actual person with thoughts and feelings and interests and aspirations. An interesting side note is that children, no matter what tier their parents are in, will most often fall into the first tier. They haven't yet learned the caste system.

Still, this situation has allowed for some interesting insights in the past week. One day, for example, there was a lady who was just being plain nasty. She kept breathing down our necks and telling us how we should be doing our jobs and how everyone messed up the last time they'd been there. She'd jump into the room and bark some command and then leave rolling her eyes. It was apparent that she thought we were idiots who were incapable of understanding any instruction at all. Incidentally, it made us all feel like crap, and made us mad. My two co-workers had been to her home before, and apparently she hadn't been much better then, so while my first inclination was to give her the benefit of the doubt and tell myself that she'd just been having a bad day, the fact that they attested to her habitual rudeness had me quickly assimilate to their belief that she was, in fact, just an evil woman.

As it turns out, though, she WAS having a pretty rough day. She later confided in us that she'd found out earlier (just before she came home and started wailing on us, actually) of a pretty serious--possibly terminal--medical condition in her life. I realized then that she wasn't really just a mean person. She was just feeling like crap herself, and it was easy to pass that along to us, since she didn't really see us as regular human beings anyway.

My fascination doesn't end there, though. I've just escaped from Happy Valley, where everyone is cut from kind of the same cloth (argue if you will, Provonians, that you are the exception to the rule, but let's face it: there's a pretty predictable demographic). The large majority of the population is upper-middle class, mostly Caucasian, Mormon, young, and attractive. Here in Texas, though, you find all different types. Many of my co-workers are involved in a few things that I had kind of forgotten people do outside of the Happy Valley: like smoking, partying, cohabitation, and employment of liberal use of words that earn "R" ratings by the MPAA, etc. In my current state of BYU narrow-mindedness, it seems natural that I should simply shun any persons involved in such activities. Obviously, they are terrible people.

As I've talked with some of these people, though, I find that they're actually pretty outstanding people. They're trying to do what's right. Lots of them have hit a snag or two along the way, but they want what's best for their families and loved ones.

One woman in particular got me thinking. She was talking about how she wanted to raise her sons to know better than she did--to teach them what her mother failed to teach her, to use herself as an example of what not to be. She had made lots of really hard, really positive changes in her life, and so she knows the consequences of the things against which she counsels her boys. I thought of the Biblical parable of the talents, but somewhat differently: she had perhaps not been given the blessings that many of us take for granted. She'd grown up in a home where certain values were not taught. Still, she's taken what she was given and improved upon it so greatly. I, on the other hand, have been given so many gifts and blessings, and what have I done to show for it? Am I a better person that I was yesterday? Will my children grow up to be better than I am?

It's not what you've been given that counts, but what you make of it.

Expect the Unexpected.

Last night at this time, I had no idea that I'd be spending the first two weeks of July with my beloved Brahms at the Mimir Chamber Music Festival at TCU. Things change.

I was on the alternate list, and someone actually backed out! So now I get to take two weeks off from work (despite having been hired only two weeks ago) and play cello all day instead of mopping floors. Wild.

I'm growing accustomed to life in Denton once again. Barring constant gnawings of boredom and loneliness, I really kinda like this place simply because it's home. I'm enjoying the time with my family. My dad, for example, is hilarious. The other day, he sang a song about 5/4 time signature (to the title theme of the Incredibles): I think the lyrics were "I'm cool, I'm 5/4!" or something like that. He also enjoys playing DJ and putting on weird, cool stuff. It's funny. He gets really excited about whatever he puts on, and turns it way up. My mom then walks through the living room, shouts, "What is this?! Can you turn it down?" and I laugh. The same scene repeated countless times in my life. SOME things never change.

WARNING: MORMON-SPEAK TO FOLLOW.
So, another funny thing that happened was that my home teacher called to make an appointment. I think he may suspect that I'm inactive, because he identified himself thusly:

"Hi, this is Tyler . . . I'm your home teacher . . . from church . . . "

It might also be that he's just awkward on the phone like I am, but I think it's funnier the first way. I can't even blame him, either. I mean, after all, my attendance in 5th ward has been spotty due to family in town, certain missionary farewells, and the like--and besides that, I'm not one to jump up and introduce myself to people, either. So, due to the fact that I've been in the ward for a month now and have only met a handful of people, it's no wonder he should think that. Poor kid.