Is it the sunshine? The tantalizingly opened doors of the library?

I don't think I realize how heavy winter is until it lifts. Now that the sun is really warm for the first time in months, there's something singing inside of me that can't quite escape... All of my words cracked open like eggshells and their contents are oozing all over everything, golden and raw and ineffable.

AHHHH.

It's 65 degrees in Minnesota and I want to run far far away, out past the windmill. I would run and run until I couldn't run anymore, and then I would collapse into the open arms of early spring, laughing.

Five more pages.
Then Oregon.
Then contemplation of adventures to come.
Then crocuses.
Then Spring.

Extreme Distraction

Giving birth to a paper is hard.
Sometimes I think I would rather eat lard.
Oh silly words!
You seem so absurd...
All of my neurons are charred.

Uprising

Tomorrow is the 50th anniversary of the famous 1959 Tibetan Uprising. The Chinese government is afraid--they're sending troops to the plateau.

Today I learned that I received a $4000 grant to go to rural Tibet to teach English in an orphanage this upcoming summer. I am in awe of my blessings, and am nervous to carry the weight of this responsibility.

I don't pretend to understand the symmetry of the universe, but it's there, and it shakes me sometimes.

And, on top of everything, I'm in the throes of finals... 7 page paper, 12 page paper, lab report, philosophy exam, neuroscience exam... I know somewhere deep inside of me that I can finish these things, but it means shutting myself up in the bowels of the library for hours on end, listening to Rhythms for Learning, making note cards, and wondering why I don't leave school and start a hot air ballooning business.

Weather.com is predicting a "wintry mix" for Northfield. I hope that means snow.

Sometimes, when it's snowing, it doesn't seem like flakes are falling down--
Sometimes, when it's snowing, I feel as though the world is

upward
slowly
drifting

Lincoln and the Chicken

I had two moments today, enumerated below.

1) While I was reading a book for my religion class about lived religion in Puritan America, I decided to stumble across the internet for a spell as a study break (if you are not familiar with the wonders of StumbleUpon, I suggest you check it out at http://www.stumbleupon.com/).
Anyway, I came accross this image:


As I stared into Abe Lincolns blurred face, it hit me--history actually happened. Massachusetts and Virginia were colonies, and early Americans believed in magic and wrote phrases like "some seaven yeares Wonder..." These people were people.

Ok, maybe it's a little obvious, but I don't think I've ever given history the consideration it deserves. "History" is such a loaded word; it smacks of boring essay questions, wars, and musty books.

However, when I look at Abe's awkwardly puckered coat and stove-pipe hat, and when I peer into the faces of his henchmen with their hands thrust into their coats, my world is rocked a little bit. I can't quite articulate it.


2) Earlier this evening my roommate and I were hanging out in our room, catching up on some reading. It was a pretty typical Monday evening... or so we thought. Until the chicken walked in.

I'm not kidding. The chicken was as tall as you or I, and was extremely convincing--it had feathers and claws and clucked incessantly as it shuffled about our room. The only things that betrayed it as a non-avian being were two dark holes in its eye sockets... We never figured out who it was, though. After a few aimless, clucking circuits between our desks and chairs, the chicken left.

My roommate and I sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then we spoke:

"Did that actually happen?"
"...I think so."
"College is weird."

Unashamed

Here at Carleton we have a publication called "Unashamed"--it's supposed to contain an open discussion of faith. Although I do not approve of the title (to me it implies that there might be a reason for shame), I squeeked out a mini-essay last night a few minutes before the submission deadline. The prompt was "Labels of faith... are you Labeled?"

So here it is. Now I need to start a paper. That's due in twelve hours.

...

There's something very human about putting labels on things. Maybe our tendency to classify the universe is buried somewhere in our neural circuits, for it's apparent that we draw great comfort from our labels and sweeping generalizations: the poison arrow frog, like the common toad, is an amphibian. China is a country in Asia. The people there are Chinese. I am an American. My classmates are Juniors. Some of them are Christians, and some of them are Atheists. Every one has a label.

Now, my plan is not to tell you that these labels are unfair stereotypes that unduly strip individuals of their essence. Stereotypes, after all, are just permutations of language, and I love language. Language makes poetry.

I do, however, think that there's a disconnect. We create linguistic conventions and hasty judgments about people and objects and everything that might possibly matter. These words and generalizations may be helpful, or even beautiful, but they always fall short of what's real. Does "mountain" really fit into eight letters? "Joy" into three?

Therefore, in my search for truth, I often find that I'm grasping for the grayness between labels and the emptiness that shimmers between words. This makes things confusing. I resolved last fall to devise a concise statement to divulge regarding my religious inclinations, but now I'm beginning to wonder if it can ever be that simple. For now, I will tell you this:

I'm a religion major: I write essays about faith. I've spent countless bewildered hours trying to fathom diverse manifestations of beauty and that ephemeral force that mobilizes hearts en masse. I articulate with inevitable labels why Israel is soaked with blood, how the ocean makes me feel, and exactly what constitutes a prayer.

I'm a human being: I struggle to compress my identity into a flat monochrome of text, an introduction, or a simple "yes" or "no" response to the question "Do you believe in God?"

I recognize the irony; I realize that I'm chasing down fog banks with butterfly nets. Sometimes my failure--this beautiful failure, that, in my mind, defines the human condition--makes me feel like crying.

But more often I laugh.

Today

Hello there, everyone.
It's been a while, I know...

I drove back to school almost three weeks ago (Western Montana was my favorite), and now I'm in Minnesota. The temperatures have plunged to almost -50 (when it gets that cold, recently boiled water thrown from a teacup turns into a cloud before hitting the ground). I've read Locke, and James, and memorized 82 structures of a sheep's brain. There was a new year, and now there's a new President. I watched his speech on an internet live stream while I was at work, and it felt momentous even with the hiccups in the bandwidth. Someone just gave me a balloon for no reason.

I'm not quite sure why I've taken a break from this blog, but, for now, I feel like I might start writing again. There's something about the structure of words--a hefty, yet breezy artistry--that always keeps me coming back for more.

And now the end of a poem of Maya Angelou's of which I am particularly fond (this poem was written for President Clinton and read during his 1993 inauguration):

"Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning."