In Honor of the First Snowfall of the Season

I sit here in an armchair, occasionally glancing to the window when I can’t think of anything else to write.  As the seasons change, so do I.  So do we all.

Spring represents rebirth, a beginning, new life.  The temperature begins to warm up, pink blossoms and green leaves pop out of completely empty branches.  The grass makes a reappearance.  People are more inclined to head outdoors.  Birds return, and their twittering fills the day.

Summer represents life to the fullest.  It’s the time to do things that are fun.  Be outside, go to the pool, eat ice cream, drink lemonade on a shady porch, fall in love.  It’s that time of the year when life is supposed to be felt in every fiber of your being.

Autumn represents an ending, as you’re packing up your bags and making sure everything’s in order.  The leaves change and relinquish their hold on the branches they’ve dearly loved.  The temperature begins to cool down, and everything starts to take on a more depressing tone.

Winter represents death and misery at its finest.  It’s cold and snowy and inconvenient.  It’s beautiful, that’s for sure, but completely useless.  Everything gets wet, nothing grows, everything dies.  The sun rarely shines, and if it does, it blinds you as it reflects off the snow.  It’s pretty, but cold.

Those are the generic representations of the seasons--the way they’re portrayed in poems or stories, and most people are inclined to agree.

I think every single one of those is wrong.

Spring to me is death and misery at its finest.  The weather is either perfect or crappy at either extreme.  Pollen is everywhere, and it wreaks havoc on my nose, throat, ears, and eyes.  To me, it symbolizes the end of all that’s good in this world and marks the beginning of terrible things.

Summer is just plain awful.  There is absolutely nothing good about it.  It’s hot, humid, sticky, gross, smelly, and uncomfortable.  I don’t know why winter symbolizes death because things still die in the summer, and they die in pain.  And I don’t know how anyone could possibly fall in love when they’re bitter.

Autumn is a glorious season.  It’s a sweet release from the terrible heat of the previous months.  It’s the ultimate time to be doing fun things because you can be outside without dying from heat or allergies.  Things feel like they’re slowing down, and going out is a pleasant experience.

Winter is the best season of all.  Snow is a blessing from heaven itself.  The color scheme and frozen water patterns are more than just “pretty.”  And if you’re looking for a “romantic” season, I think it should be winter because you actually have to seek for warmth.  People actually look out for each other.
Anyway...just in case you were curious.
"So count your blessings every day. It makes the monsters go away. And everything will be okay.
"You are not alone. You are right at home. Goodnight."

Halloween Movies

     All right, I think we're late enough into October that this post is now pretty relevant.
     I really like Halloween, but only up to a point.  I like fun Halloween, not disturbing Halloween.  Dancing skeleton decorations in the window?  Wonderful.  Skeletons with bloody teeth and horrifying grimaces?  Not wonderful.  Little kids dressed as characters from action movies?  Love it.  Little kids with fake gash wounds?  Not so much.
     That being said, that doesn't mean that I don't like scary things.  I just don't like murder being glamorized is all.
     By far, my favorite part of Halloween is watching scary movies.  Unfortunately, I also have a very low tolerance for scary movies.
     A year and a half ago, my parents, my sister, and I watched The Visit.  None of us had ever seen it before, but we're fans of M. Night Shyamalan movies, so we figured it was worth a shot.
     By the end, I think I would've liked to have been shot.
     If you're really into horror movies, you're probably thinking, "The Visit is nothing!  That's hardly scary at all!"
     Well, for me, it was the most traumatic experience of my life.  At one point in the climax, it pans over to a crazy woman looking straight into the camera.  It wasn't a jump scare or anything, but I screamed and then proceeded to cry for pretty much the rest of the movie.
     I don't know, I just could not handle watching it.
     I should probably tell you now that if you're absolutely in love with horror movies and are completely unfazed by the content in them, you should probably stop reading now because my repertoire of scary movies is significantly less than that, and I can already feel your judgment emanating through the computer screen.
     So, what scary movies do I like?
     Just a bit of backstory: In my family, there are certain Halloween movies that we watch every year, and you get introduced to one more each year.  At some point around age twelve (or earlier), it starts with Something Wicked This Way Comes.  I know, I know, it's not that scary of a movie.  But it's preparation.  There are creepy people who like to do creepy things, and there are often some disturbing circumstances.
     Then, it really starts at age thirteen, when we're shown The Sixth Sense.  And if you don't think that's a scary movie, there is something seriously wrong with you.  Yeah, it's not as scary as other movies, but it's definitely not a movie you can just laugh off.
     I remember the first time I watched it--little thirteen-year-old Odessa, sitting on the floor of my parents' room, watching this movie that was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.  And I liked it.  I really, really liked it.  I still do to this day.  When I was fourteen, we didn't watch it for some reason or another.  When I was fifteen, I ended up watching it three times (once with my parents and sister for her first time, once with the same sister and her friend, and then once at my friend's house).  And then last year, I watched it once with my sister.  Now, my brother is thirteen, so we'll probably be watching it with him either this weekend or next.
     So, yeah...The Sixth Sense.  I highly recommend it.  It doesn't scare me as much now, but there's still that suspense that I love.
     When I was fourteen, my parents showed me Signs.  Again, it's probably not considered that scary of a movie, but the first time I watched it, the suspense was almost overwhelming.
     Again, the first time I watched it, I was sitting on the floor of my parents' bedroom, and I was a little more freaked out (I really don't know why).  At one point, during a very quiet part of the film, the suspense was kind of building, but not too badly.  I looked down at my popcorn bowl for a moment, and as soon as I looked up, there was a jump scare.  It wasn't even that bad of one, but just the timing of it made me jump about a mile high.
     We didn't watch it when I was fifteen, and then last year, we watched it for my sister's first time (but we watched it in July for some weird reason).  In case you were worried, the jump scare didn't get me the second time around.  I love Signs even more than The Sixth Sense.
     Like I said, we watched it in July last year, which I was kind of confused about, but I ended up not minding too much when I realized that the date on the plaque of Merrill's baseball bat was the date we were watching it.
     Coincidence?  Probably.
     When I was fifteen, my parents showed me The Village, which did not freak me out as much as I was expecting.  Oh, it had its moments for sure, I will not deny that.  We didn't watch it last year.  (Are you sensing a trend here?)  My parents, my sister, and I watched this one a couple weeks ago for my sister's first time.
     I absolutely love The Village.  Love it, love it, love it.  I love the story, and I absolutely adore the characters.  I don't know, it just really strikes a chord with me.
     Last April was when we watched The Visit, but I don't count that because I try to forget that that movie exists.  So, the new Halloween movie that I watched last year was Poltergeist, which I watched at a friend's house for a Halloween party.  My parents have seen it previously, but they've kind of distanced themselves from it since having kids because it kind of hits a little too close to home.
     Poltergeist was not my favorite, mostly because the little girl reminds me too much of my youngest sister.  Overall, I liked it.  There was one scene, though, that really disturbed me, and has kind of ruined me from ever wanting to watch it again.  (If you have seen it, it's the scene at the bathroom sink.)  While watching it, I wanted to look away, but I was completely frozen in terror, and once it ended, I don't think I could form coherent sentences.  It is probably the most disturbing movie scene I've ever watched before in my life.
     Then, last night we watched Shaun of the Dead.  I actually rather enjoyed it, and I think I laughed harder than I should have.  (If you're terribly concerned, we watched it edited.  If the fact that it was edited concerns you, sucks to suck.)  I don't know, I think it was too funny for me to take seriously, which is probably a good thing, as we've seen from my experiences with movies.
     Well, there you go.  I hope that was enlightening.
     "So count your blessings every day.  It makes the monsters go away.  And everything will be okay.
     "You are not alone.  You are right at home.  Goodnight."

If It Ever Gets Too Dark to See

     Listen up.
     I know that there's a lot of bad in the world.  Trust me, I know.  I read and see all the terrible things that people do on a daily basis.  And I'm only reading about a small portion of it, I'm sure.
     It's really easy to look around and say that life kinda sucks.
     And maybe we're perfectly justified in saying so.  It almost seems insensitive to not admit that there are some serious issues in this world.
     What makes it worse is that there's no agreed way to fix any of it.  Any of it.  So we're just stuck on some sort of psychotic, disgusting merry-go-round, spinning at dizzying speeds in horrendous directions, doomed to be glued to our seats for the rest of our lives, right?
     Wrong.  Very, very wrong.
     I'm not going to say what I think we need to do to change, because I've already mentioned that I don't write about that sort of stuff.  This is a safe place, remember?  This is a place where I don't care what gender, race, religion, or whatever you are.  What good does that do?  We all read the same.
     So, set down whatever burden you're carrying right now.  Go ahead, put it down.  Kick it away if you need to.  I don't want you to think about it.  I don't care what it is, just let go of it for a few minutes.  Don't think about everything going wrong in your life.  Don't worry about what might happen to you within the next few days, weeks, months, or years.  Just focus on what you're doing right now, which is reading this blog.
     I want you to think about your favorite song.  Just pick one.  One song that has struck a chord in your heart every time you've listened to it.  If it has lyrics, think about them.  Hum the tune.  If you can, think about the first time you heard it.  How did you feel?  Why did you like it?  What made you go out and find it again?  Did it just happen by pure happenstance?
     Now think of your best friends in the world.  I don't care how many you come up with.  Think of them smiling and laughing.  Remember all the little habits they have, all those little things they do that make you so grateful for their friendship.  Think of how you met each of them, and what made you come back for more.
     If you're by a window, look outside.  What do you see?  Do you see trees, as I do, with their green leaves slowly giving way to yellow in the autumn air, with the houses of the neighborhood in a solid line that covers the distant land?  Do you see tall grass, swaying gently in an October breeze, the ripples brushing across in a tantalizing pattern?  Do you see mountains in the distance, standing stronger than even the most well-built house?  Do you see a bustling city, with cars going to and fro, people continuously moving?  Do you see a quiet street, with the occasional stray cat roaming about on the dim streets?  Is it something else entirely?
     In a moment, I want you to go outside.  I mean it!  Once this paragraph is done, go outside!  Leave your computer or phone or whatever you're reading this off of right where it is, then stand up and head out the door.  Bring shoes if you must, but no jackets (even if it's freezing).  Go outside, look up at the sky (but please don't look right at the sun if it's out), and lift your arms.  (Please, just trust me.)  Taste the air.  Notice each sound.  Close your eyes, if you'd like.  Imagine flying right up into that beautiful sky--whether it's blue, grey, black, or otherwise.  Imagine leaving all your cares and worries and frustrations right there on the ground.  Don't worry about other people seeing you--nothing they think matters.  They're worried about life, but you're taking a break from it.  Get going!
     Welcome back.  Chances are, there are several of you that didn't even move from your seat.  Fine by me, but just keep quiet while I talk to those who followed directions for a moment, okay?
     How did you feel?  Foolish?  Calm?  Did you feel anything different at all?
     If not, it's fine.  If you were expecting heavenly reassurance, you severely overestimate what I'm able to do through my words.  Was it cold?  Was it hot?  Was the weather less than satisfactory, or was it absolutely perfect?  Did you notice if there was wind?
     You are going to be just fine.  I know that life sometimes seems like more than we could ever handle alone--but that's exactly why we did this rather strange exercise.  You're not alone.  You are never alone.  You have your friends.  And if there's no person whom you can feel you can turn to, then there's a song that you can find strength and comfort in.  There's an entire world out there, and you can only see so much of it.  But no matter where you are, you're looking at the same sky I am--it's just a different part.
     There is no end to the amount of good that's in this world.  What's more, there's no end to the amount of good that's in you.  Don't you know that you're the most wonderful human being there is?  I can say that with full confidence because it's completely true.  Don't you ever sell yourself short.  You have a wealth of potential and power within you, and if you ever truly tapped into it, the very earth itself would tremble at your being.
     You are loved.  You are so loved.  Even if it doesn't come from the people who should be showing you the utmost love, it comes from someone.  If you can't think of anyone on this planet who cares about you, think of me.  I promise that I do.
     You are priceless.  There is no amount of money that could pay for everything that you have to offer.  Don't ever put a discount on that price, and don't ever accept anything less for payment.  Ever, ever, ever.
     You have talent.  You have infinite worth.  You are worth walking through a storm for.  You are worth fighting down to the last breath for.
     And you have the power to change the world.
     There is nothing--nothing--that can truly stop you from doing whatever it takes to make this world that much more bearable to live in.
     And I'm not saying that you have to eradicate diseases or anything of the sort--all I'm saying is that you have the complete capability to add drops of light to this increasingly dark world.
     So, look over at your burden, right where you left it.  Does it still daunt you to pick it up?  It shouldn't.  If you weren't strong enough to carry it, you would not be asked to.  I know that with all my heart.
     All right.  Pick up your burden again, but don't let its weight bother you.  Let's a deep breath of fresh, renewed air, and together step out into the wonders that this world has to offer us.  Just promise me that you'll keep holding on.
     "So count your blessings every day.  It makes the monsters go away.  And everything will be okay.
     "You are not alone.  You are right at home.  Goodnight."

A Season of Seasons

     I can't remember the last time I was this excited for autumn.  I don't know if it's because this summer was just absolutely dreadful or what, but I am honestly reveling in every heat-free moment.
     But no matter how hot summer gets, at least it's not spring.
     Call me crazy (or a heathen), but I absolutely hate spring.  Hate it, hate it, hate it.  I hate that it starts warming up, I hate that weeds start returning from H-E-double hockey sticks, I hate that everyone associates it with romance.
     But most of all, I get terrible hay fever during the spring.  TERRIBLE.  My nose gets super runny/stuffed up, and I use so many tissues that it ends up hurting my poor nose.  My eyes are either super dry or tearing up.  My ears get plugged and feel sticky and wet, especially in the morning.
     Death.  Spring is death.
     Summer is little better.  I feel fine, but I absolutely despise anything warmer than, say, seventy-five degrees.  Mind you, I live in Utah--summer gets distinctly hotter than that.  I hate the heat.  It's uncomfortable, it's stupid, it's pointless, it's inconvenient.  And when the wind shows up, it's at the worst times, like when it's cloudy or sprinkling lightly--which are times when we're cooling down enough as it is and don't need wind.
     I hate summer.
     And I don't understand people who consider summer a romantic time of the year either--you're too sweaty and uncomfortable and bitter.
     Autumn and winter, on the other hand, are glorious times of the year.  Like, there's real air to breathe.  It's not saturated with pollen or devil's breath.  And everything just looks so beautiful, and everything has that feel about it--like everything is taking a turn for the better.
     And as for the romance, I've always found winter far more romantic because you have to really seek for warmth.
     You're welcome.
     I don't know if you've realized it, but October has a certain smell in the air.  Like, it's something that I smell and think "October," not just autumn.  I thought I was just insane until last week, when I stepped out of the car and said, "It smells like October out here!" and my sister agreed with me almost immediately.
     And winter is just a wonderful season.  The only downsides are: 1) I already hate having my hair wet, but a freezing December morning makes that even worse, 2) I have a persistent cough that nearly kills me (I didn't realize it happened every year until my parents pointed it out), and 3) my bedroom seems to have issues with heating properly.  It's nothing serious, but it's very apparent that I have the coldest room in the house.
     Other than that, though, winter is a marvelous--and very underappreciated--time of year.
     Anyway.  That's my spiel on seasons.
     "So count your blessings every day.  It makes the monsters go away.  And everything will be okay.
     "You are not alone.  You are right at home.  Goodnight."

Look How Far We've (Well, I've) Come

     I just had a really weird experience.
     I was just sitting here.  It was probably a little after 9:30.  There was a pen and a piece of paper I'd been using earlier (for nothing important), and for some reason, I wanted to write down all my schedules since seventh grade.  If you know me, you know that that's the sort of thing I like to do.
     So I did.  I wrote down the class name and the teacher.  And as I was doing it, I almost felt like I could see myself growing and developing and learning.  It just felt weird.  The song I've kept on loop probably didn't help ("Light in the Hallway" by Pentatonix).
     Five years ago.  I started seventh grade five years ago.  That feels so impossible.  I just can't believe how much has changed since then.
     I'm more confident in myself--but at the same time, also a little less.  I mean, five years ago, if you had told me I'd try out for Madrigals my junior year, I would have laughed...and probably cried because of unnecessary stress.  Simultaneously, five years ago, I was totally fine trying out for a solo--in fact, I daresay I almost liked it.  Now-a-days?  Ha.  Ha ha.  Ha ha ha.  {sobs heavily}
     Five years ago, I rarely ever answered questions in class.  Now, I'm a lot better with it in most of my classes (emphasis on most).
     English has never really been the same for me after leaving Bennion.  I still love it, but it's just different.
     Man, five years ago, I was playing the flute in cadet band.  I was learning the very basics of cooking, sewing, woodshop, technology, and business in CTE.  I was beginning science, English, and math, and I was in Utah studies.  I was in reading and writing.  I started choir.  I wanted to die in P.E.  I breezed through keyboarding.
     And then four years ago, I continued learning about cooking and sewing and even some child development and stuff in FACS.  I better befriended Bailey (try saying that five times fast) in math.  I discovered the absolute worst class I would ever take in U.S. history.  I continued with choir and strengthened my friendships with Alida and Payton.  I learned of my dislike yet morbid interest in health class.  I continued to want to die in P.E.  I found a new sort of sanctuary in English.  I found a weird source of comfort from science (it's a little less than glamorous, so I won't share--nothing too strange).  I learned of my love for all things secretarial while as an office assistant in the counseling center.  I still continued to dislike art, but learned that I absolutely love scratch art from my first (and only) art class.  I discovered that I actually don't want to be in acting and such when I took theatre.
     Three years ago, then...oh man.  Arguably the best nine months of my life.  I started knocking off credits with computer tech.  I took my first AP class (human geography).  I continued to hate math.  I had my first year of seminary and loved every bit of it.  I took (and totally rocked, I think) food and nutrition.  I took my second year of mixed chorus and loved it.  I loved English even more than I did in eighth grade.  I took my first high school science class (biology).  I actually didn't want to die in P.E. this time around (I still thought I was going to, but I didn't want to).  I continued unknowingly preparing myself for my future job by being an office assistant in the counseling center again.  I grew so close to my friends and some of my teachers, and I just had fun.  If I had the chance to go back and do it all over again, I'd take it in a heartbeat.
     Two years ago sucked.  Most of tenth grade majorly sucked.  I went back to wanting to die in Fitness for Life...and AP World History...and math...  Chemistry wasn't my favorite, but I made a friend I definitely never expected to make.  Seminary was utterly and completely my lifeline for a while.  I honestly don't know if I would've made it through okay without seminary (I don't mean that I would've done anything drastic, but I don't think I would've made it through as well as I did).  English took a long time to get used to--a long time.  So did choir.  Spanish wasn't necessarily a "lifeline," but it definitely kept a smile on my face.  Taking health again reminded me of why I'm grateful for my standards and beliefs, that's for dang sure.  I grew close to a couple teachers--one that I never would have expected to grow close to.
     One year ago seems like ages.  Was I really taking food and nutrition, AP U.S. history, my last year of standard math, AP English, physics, and social dance, only a year ago?  Was I really falling even more in love with Spanish only a year ago?  Was I really unsettled by the fact that seminary didn't need to be my lifesaver anymore only a year ago?  Was I really starting concert choir and questioning whether or not I should have tried out for Graces only a year ago?
     Did I really start this blog a year ago?
     Now, I'm taking AP Literature, AP Statistics, Madrigals, Spanish 4 (I got to skip Spanish 3, but that's a whole other story), Italian 1 (taught by my Spanish 1 & 2 teacher), Concert Choir, Drivers Ed (puke), and Seminary.  I'm on seminary council.  My sister has started high school.  I love it and hate it all at once, but...I think that the love side is going to win.
     "So count your blessings every day.  It makes the monsters go away.  And everything will be okay.
     "You are not alone.  You are right at home.  Goodnight."
     And I think that's going to be my new sign off.  Cool?  Cool.

A Catharsis

     I think I'm going to be okay.  I'm going to put that out there right now.
     You remember me telling you about Drew?  He's gotten worse.  Read his dad's blog (jeffreyolsen.com) if you're interested because I honestly do not have the heart to share it any more than I already have.  Don't worry, he's still alive.
     The weird thing is, I feel more at peace than I did three weeks ago.  Like, I'll hear about a new development, and I just kind of shrug it off and say, "Eh.  He's going to be fine."  I don't know if I've just convinced myself, or if my brain is physically preventing me from thinking otherwise, or if it's really God's assurance.
     But I almost don't want to feel so casual about it.  It seems almost disrespectful in a way to just brush off his medical condition and say that, "Well, he's going to be okay."  And I'm not saying I'm not worried about him--I definitely am--but it's kind of been pushed to the back of my mind now, and I feel like that's not right.  I care about Drew.  For a couple weeks, worry for him filled almost every waking thought.  Now?  I think about him a lot, but I can also focus on other things too.
     But see, when I say it that way, it sounds like it's totally okay for me to have backed off a bit and be a little more chill about it.  I mean, I still want to cry every time I hear/see an update, but I don't just start crying out of nowhere.  I don't know, I just really don't know.  I want to be as worried as I was, but I also don't want it to consume me anymore either.  I'm so confused.
     Then, while trying to gather these thoughts, I opened my email and saw one from a survey website with the subject, "Don't be silenced, tell us what you really think."  And out of nowhere, every ounce of me exploded.  I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to run away, I wanted to pound my fists into the floor, I wanted to kick, I wanted to pray, I wanted to just get away.  But most of all, I wanted to write.  So I did.
     And for another second, I thought I was about to start ranting to God, asking why He would allow something like this to happen to someone I care about so much.  I thought I was about to let every selfish thought within me burst out just to make me feel better.  I thought I was ready to cry and blame God for not caring and angrily try to confront Him.  And I almost wanted to.
     But I couldn't.
     The thoughts formed.  I felt almost like something was telling me, "This is what you should be saying.  You're grieving.  It doesn't matter what you say right now."  But that's not true.  That is very much not true.
     The fact that I'm grieving and in pain and hurting and frustrated and scared makes everything I say and do matter.  Everything.  These are the very moments that will define me later in life.  When trials occur, do I lash out at God, or do I come to Him earnestly, praying with everything I have for His comfort and peace and protection and healing?
     And besides, this isn't about me.  Not one bit.  There are plenty of other people out there who are even more concerned and in pain than I will ever be for Drew, no matter how close we've become.  He has his family, friends he's had for years, ward members, a girlfriend.  It would be unfair for me to ask God, "Why are You doing this to me?  Why would it even occur to You to come this close to taking him away from me?"  That's not how this works at all.
     I've seen firsthand that this is affecting people all over, and not even people who know Drew.  There are so many people who are learning from this experience.  I just happen to be one of them.
     So, while my mind was filled with a pretend red-hot rage, trying to be angry at God because that seems to be what everyone does when things like this happen, the rest of me put out the fire that never existed.  I asked the questions aimlessly, and I answered them myself in the most matter-of-fact tone I could ever imagine.  (The Holy Ghost will bring all things to your remembrance--keep that in mind, readers.)
     Why would God do this?  I can't give specifics, but we aren't placed on this earth to live lives of sunshine and gold.  There has to be gloom and dirt mixed in there so that we can learn and grow and develop and come to rely on our Heavenly Father and our Savior, Jesus Christ.
     Why is this happening to Drew?  I don't think it was random.  I don't think God looked down and saw Drew and thought, "Okay, let's give him FIRES."  And He definitely didn't look at me and think, "All right, let's put her friend in the hospital."  He has a bigger plan than that.  I know that for certain.  As previously stated, we have to suffer through things in this life.  And maybe he's not even the one to learn from it.  Like I said, this is affecting a whole lot of people.
     Yes, my heart aches for Drew.  Yes, I am terrified that he's going to die.
     And no, I am not happy about it.
     But, I am happy.  I have a knowledge of God's eternal plan for us, and I know that Drew's family has that same knowledge and those same blessings.  Because of this, I firmly believe that he's going to be all right, no matter the outcome.  And you may think whatever you'd like--that I'm kidding myself, that I'm only fantasizing, that I'm willing to believe anything that's good news.
     Well, I'd rather live believing that there is more to this life than what's here than live with the acceptance that everything happens by chance and contributes to absolutely no outcome.
     And even if it wasn't meant for me, I know that I have learned more than I could have ever imagined through this experience.
     Just get better, Drew.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Praying for My Friend

     Hey guys.  I know this is probably borderline traitorous of me, but my very first blog of the summer is going to be quite a bit of a downer.  Trust me, I'm not thrilled about it either.
     Last summer, at my job, I was assigned to work double shifts every Saturday.  Yeah, it basically sucked.  I mean, I eventually got used to it, but I still would've rather not had to deal with them.
     Really, though, the only reason I became okay with them was because I was not the only person who had to work them.  Drew and I were hired at about the same time and had become close acquaintances.
     We also worked a shift together on Wednesday nights at the south entrance, where it was just the two of us.  Between the double shifts every week and these ones just to ourselves every Wednesday, we became pretty close friends.  He became one of my favorite coworkers, if not my absolute favorite.
     After the summer, we didn't really work any shifts together, except for when we'd pick others' up on occasion.  But this almost didn't affect our friendship at all because it made our reunions all the sweeter (at least on my end).  And besides, we had inservice meetings where we saw each other, and we'd often walk out of the building together, just catching up with each other.  I truly began to value him as a real friend, not just a "Well, we're pretty close as coworkers, so I guess we're friends" type of mentality.  (Again, I don't know how much of this he returned.  Keep that in mind.)
     Thankfully, with the summer season coming around again, I knew that schedules would be changing a lot, and it was very likely that we would finally have shifts together again.  After the inservice meeting where we received our summer schedules, we talked about them with each other.  We were thrilled to discover that we'd work together on Mondays, and then see each other for a few moments on Wednesdays and Fridays (since one of us would be at the south entrance while the other would be at the front).  I made a comment about how we'd finally be really working with each other again, and he responded with an enthusiastic "Finally!"  He could not have replied better.
     So, the summer started, and we even got to work a couple south entrance shifts together, since some of them needed to be picked up.  It almost felt like our friendship hadn't been put on hold at all.  Everything was back to the way it was--helping each other out, conversing about things outside of work, teasing each other, watching random (and often weird) videos when it wasn't busy.
     During one of these south entrance shifts (it was a Thursday), after we'd been talking for awhile, I mentioned that I considered him to be my favorite coworker.  Later, after watching a set of particularly strange YouTube videos, Drew laughed and said, "See, Odessa, this is why you're my favorite.  There is no one else here I could show things like this to."
     We continued to crack jokes together.  For example, Drew had bad allergies one day, but I wasn't affected at all (I usually take one sniff of pollinated air and nearly die).  He wondered why I wasn't sniffling too.  I said, "Probably righteousness."  Indignantly, he said, "Righte--shut up!"  We both laughed pretty hard.  That's just how our bantering went.  We knew it was all in joking.
     Over most of the rest of June, we talked and laughed during our shifts, just enjoying working together like we always had.
     Then it shattered right before my eyes, and I didn't even know it until it was too late.
     It was two weeks ago on Monday, June 26.  I came into work, as usual.  Drew was there, as usual.  He seemed a little lackluster and I asked if he was all right.  He said that he was okay, but he had a virus and a fever.  I encouraged him to sit back and let us handle the job, but he assured me that he was fine, that he'd been to the doctor's and everything and they said he'd be okay.
     On Wednesday, I only saw him for a few brief moments, as I was heading up to the south entrance.  I asked him if he was doing okay, and he said he was feeling better.
     Then, on Thursday, while counting the tills with my coworker and friend Kaylee, another coworker came rushing back and told her that Drew's dad was on the line and that they were taking him to the hospital.  His symptoms had worsened, so they decided to take him in.  We were worried about him, but we figured, "Well, his fever just probably got too high.  It's nothing to worry about."
     It turns out, it was everything to worry about.
     I don't want to post invalid information, so I won't go into detail on what the medical condition is.  If you're interested, Drew's dad has a blog where he posted an update (go to jeffreyolsen.com and go to the blog page).
     I'm posting my feelings on this issue.  There are many.  With each new event, I feel my stomach sink deeper and a cold hand grab at my heart.  He's in a coma, and it sounds to me like he'll either fully recover or die.
     And I am so scared that it's going to be the latter.
     I've cried myself to sleep over this.  Sometimes, I feel physically sick because I'm so worried about him.  One of my best friends in the world could literally die.  I am not prepared for that--not one bit.
     But, no matter what happens, I'm going to have faith.  I'm going to have faith in my Heavenly Father and His plan.  I know--I know--that He doesn't just take people from our lives for the fun of it.  If it's Drew's time to go, then there is a reason for it.  But if there's more for him to do here on earth, He will heal him and provide him with the means to carry out his work, just like He's done for all of us.
     This knowledge doesn't make it easy at all.  But it makes it bearable.  Knowing that, no matter what, Drew is going to be okay and taken care of--whether he lives or dies--means more to me than anything.  I just want him to be all right.  I want him to recover.  I want everything to go back to the way it was, where we lived in a blissful ignorance of the pain that would soon become nearly overwhelming.
     I love Drew, and I'm praying fervently that he recovers.  I'm praying for his family, because I cannot even fathom what they must be going through. If it's this hard for me, it must be at least a thousand times more so for them.  I'm praying for his friends, who are worried sick for him.
     I'll keep you updated as much as I can.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Looking Backwards and Forwards

     I've been thinking a lot about ninth grade lately--like, a lot.  I think part of it is the fact that I'm going to be a senior next year, but I think the biggest part is that, with me being in concert choir, I'm seeing all these seniors getting ready to graduate and experiencing some of their emotions while we practice the songs we'll be singing at graduation.
     Or, at least, that's what I tell myself.
     In reality, I'm not experiencing their emotions at all.  They're completely and one hundred percent my own.  In choir, we're singing a song entitled "Thankful," which we sang the first verse and chorus of at the ninth grade assembly on the last day of school for the ninth graders.  When I heard that we would be singing it, I was rather excited.  Now?  Well, I still love singing it, but I get teary-eyed every time we do.
     I keep saying that it's just because I'm going to miss my senior friends, or that it's because I'm going to be a senior next year.  But those are only a couple of my tears.
     In all honesty, it's because I'm missing junior high again.  Some nights, I just lie in bed, thinking about those different memories over and over again.  They make me happy, which is a significant change from last year, when I would be reduced to tears sometimes over a journal entry of something fun that happened.  But they also make me sad.  Again.
     It's frustrating because I'd gotten over it.  I daresay that I had just gotten over it.  This feeling of being at peace with high school and moving on from junior high is relatively new.  And it stuck for a few months.  I honestly and truly thought that it was behind me, and I'd never cry about it again.
     Now look at me.  It's like reliving the first half of last year all over again, except within the space of three weeks.  It doesn't hurt as much though--I will admit that.  And thank heavens too.  But it still hurts nonetheless.
     And I know, deep inside, that I'm going to do the exact same thing at the end of next year.  It might even be on a bigger scale.
     I can't remember the last time I've dreaded something more.
     I do not want to feel like that ever again.  Never again for the rest of my life.  For the life of me, I can't figure out why it was one of the hardest things I've ever done.  I moved on from junior high; so what?  Yeah, I loved junior high, but I didn't realize how much I did until ninth grade, which was the last year.  Whatever it was, the sick feelings of misery spread gradually like a poison for most of that year.
     But I ignored it.  I forced myself, after the first couple weeks, to not think about it.  It was hard sometimes, but I did anything and everything I could to distract myself.  I dragged it out as much as I could, squeezing every last drop out of the year.  I wrote down all of the fun things that happened.  I relived every fun moment I could over and over again in my head.  I never took any of it for granted.
     And it was not enough.
     At the ninth grade assembly, I cried a lot.  And while we sang that little bit of "Thankful," I was crying so much I couldn't sing for a few lines.  (But I composed myself enough for when we switched to "We Are the World" and my solo.)
     The point is, I'm already reliving it, and I have absolutely no reason to.  Well, maybe I do.  Given the chance, I'd still go back to junior high, but only if it was the way it was when I left.
     But, then again, I'm pretty sure that next year will essentially be ninth grade on steroids.  I'm on seminary council, I made Madrigals, I'll be taking Italian 1 (I've wanted to learn Italian for a long time), and so many other amazing things are going to be happening next year, I can barely contain how excited I am.  It's like all my dreams are coming true.
     That's probably going to make it harder, but so help me, I will not feel that emptiness and misery again.  I refuse to let my emotions overwhelm me again.  I have not suffered and learned and prayed and cried and believed and healed only to have the same exact stupid thing happen to me again.  I've grown too strong for that.
     This could also potentially be my last blog of the school year...not sure yet.  So if it is, this is Odessa Taylor, signing off and wishing you the best that life can give you.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Late Night Thoughts

     Do you ever get the craziest urge to write?  And then, as you're sitting there, fingers eagerly twitching in anticipation, you can't think of anything you want to write about?
     This happens to me all the time.
     It's almost like wanting to eat, but not knowing what to eat.  Nothing sounds good.
     It drives me absolutely nuts.
     Like, I want to write.  Badly.  My fingers sometimes are literally itching because they want to type or write so badly.  But nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  My mind just looks blankly at my fingers, trying to understand why they're doing a weird dance on the keyboard.
     It hits me especially strong after 10:30 at night, which is a good time for inspiration for me, but absolutely terrible for writing during the school year, even on the weekends, because I'm rather tired, thus making my brain move rather sluggishly.  Not to mention most of my thoughts are completely aimless and random the later it gets, and there's usually nothing worth writing about for longer than two minutes.
     I think it's interesting that I work so much better at night.  Of course, it makes sense.  That's just my personality.  However, I struggle doing homework at night, and I think it's partly because night is my time to have fun and think in ways that I enjoy--not my time to think about math or history.
     I mean, this is easy to write about.  It doesn't require too much thought.  It's just something to write that doesn't overwork my tired brain while still giving my fingers that satisfaction of pushing down each key.  (Look, I'm trying to give my brain a break, I took the AP U.S. history test today).  It's also something that I like to write about, which is writing.  And no, I don't think that's paradoxical at all.
     I haven't had a really creative idea in a long time.  When I get a creative idea--an actual creative idea with a lot of potential--my stomach hurts, or right below it does.  Like, real, physical pain.  It's so weird.  But that's how I know I've come up with a good idea.
     It's been a long time since I've felt real pain from an idea.  Maybe the occasional tightening, but no pain.  It makes me a little bit sad because there was a time in my life when it was a noticeable occurrence.  I wouldn't say it was regular, but it was definitely not rare.  That must've been two years ago.  I didn't even realize how long it's been until I thought about the last really creative idea I've had.  Yeah, it was not recent.
     Maybe that's a sign.  Maybe it's my mind's way of telling me that I've finished preparing myself, and now it's time for me to just go ahead and write.  Maybe once I finally empty my head of the previous ideas and put them on paper, there'll be room for more ideas to grow.
     Only one way to find out, eh?
     As much as I love you all (I'm fully aware that no one reads this, but whatever, I don't care), I will not be publishing my creative writings on my blog.  Those will be typed on my other computer--the one downstairs in my room that's technically a laptop but still needs to be plugged into a wall and sounds like a rocket about to launch when I turn it on.  I'm pretty sure it's from the 90's at the latest.  The Microsoft Word application is so old.  But I like it.  It's basic--nothing terribly elaborate.  Really, there's nothing elaborate.
     Wow.  This blog has jumped from, like, three different topics.  Oh well.  I did warn you that my brain doesn't work right after 10:30 at night.
     And in case you were wondering, it is currently 11:44pm.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Letters to the Past

Dear twelve-year-old Odessa,
     You've just left elementary school.  You miss your teacher and you're nervous about going to Bennion, especially since there are only three people you know of in your grade who are going there.  But you're also a little bit excited to find out what'll happen.  You're interested in having eight classes in a day.  Like I said, you're nervous.  But nothing you can't handle.
     You're also slightly upset that you're not going to be taking theatre due to a schedule conflict, and to make matters worse, you're being put in soprano-alto chorus.  You do not want to sing.  You do not like to sing.  You are not happy.
     Oh, you're in for a treat, my dear.
     You get over that initial feeling of dislike rather quickly and you even get a solo in your very first choir concert.  But the real delight will come in approximately four years and eight months.  I don't want to spoil anything for you, but it's very safe to say that you're not going to hate singing for very much longer.
     However, I won't lie: there are some major hardships in store.  Seventh grade P.E. is going to be living H-E-double hockey sticks for you.  I'm not even being hyperbolic.  You are going to cry and cry and suffer and cry again because it just does not work for you.  It's going to affect your whole outlook on the importance of exercise, because how could you ever go run a mile again without remembering how much you hated doing it in junior high?  How could you ever enjoy sports without knowing how badly you did in junior high when you played volleyball and soccer and basketball and ultimate Frisbee?  And how could you ever feel comfortable exercising in front of other people without remembering how consciously aware you were of how terribly you did during cardio day?
     Of course, you're not going to hate every single aspect of P.E.  You're really going to enjoy the weight room, and you actually don't mind lacrosse and hockey that much (it's not ice hockey, don't worry).  And you're going to find a strength and a resolve in you that you didn't think you had.  And it'll even be to your advantage in a few months.
     And you're going to just shine in English.  Not that this is any surprise, but still.  It's probably a good reminder for you sometimes just how good you're going to get.
     Seventh grade will be hard for you, but looking back on it, I'm surprised you don't take it harder.  Every time I think back on it now, I'm amazed that you'll actually enjoy it.  But you do.  And that's what's important to remember: the only grade you've truly hated is fifth grade, and I'm writing this from eleventh grade.  The years are going to be hard, but you'll never see it so negatively again.
     My parting words to you are that the next three years are going to possibly be the best three consecutive years of your entire life.
          Love,
               seventeen-year-old Odessa

Dear thirteen-year-old Odessa,
     See?  Didn't I tell you?  You made it through seventh grade with a smile on your face!  Except for P.E.  But you were prepared, which is more than I can say.
     Of course, right now, you're lying on the couch in the living room by the window, extraordinarily sick.  Trek was not kind to you, but it was significantly kinder due to the mental endurance you've been able to build up from P.E.
     Doesn't change the fact that you're sick though.
     But, you have your schedule, and it looks interesting.  You've heard things about some of the teachers--good and bad--and you've had a couple of them before, but it's new enough that you're pretty excited.  Or, at least, as excited as you can be while feverish and queasy.
     I'm sorry I'm making fun of you, but it's too good of an opportunity to waste.
     I bring up previous teachers, because if you take a look at your fourth period, what does it say there?  Mixed chorus?  That can't be right.  You don't like singing.  And if it's your fourth period, doesn't that mean you gave up taking GT Integrated Science?  Are you settling for honors in order to take a more advanced choir class?
     You know full well that you are.  And you don't regret it whatsoever.  You probably never will.
     You're going to have another solo this year, and you'll be part of a trio for one song.  You're also going to find one of your absolutely favorite choir songs this year.  It's going to be crazy fun.
     P.E. is still going to be absolutely horrendous, but you don't cry as much this year.  And I really don't mean that in a condescending way.  You'll know what I mean soon enough.
     And you are going to have the absolute worst class of your life this year.  I won't tell you which one it is, but let me just tell you, you will feel bitter towards the teacher and the class for who knows how long.  I haven't gotten over it, that's for sure.  Maybe I never will.
     At least you're out of Heidel's class.  Spoiler alert: you never go back.  Ever.  Not to any of the classes he teaches.
     You're going to become so close to Bailey this year, it's going to be amazing.  The two of you are going to have so much fun...I mean, at the time, you think that you're having more fun with Bailey than you ever will.  I won't shatter that image for you.
     Oh, one last thing...I hope you're not too excited about having Mrs. Travis for English, because you actually don't have her.  But believe me, it's going to be one of the best things to ever happen to you (nothing that has to do with her, don't worry).
          Love,
               seventeen-year-old Odessa

Dear fourteen-year-old Odessa,
     We'll just get it out of the way now: ninth grade P.E. doesn't suck nearly as much this year, but mostly because you actually have multiple, awesome friends this time around instead of just one or two decent ones.
     Now, you are absolutely restless at home this summer.  All you want is to go back to school.  All you want is to dive right back in where you left off, but without the eighth grade U.S. history you so despise.  (I did warn you, did I not?)
     I want you to know that I have to drop this bombshell because I love you and because I wish someone would've done it to me earlier.
     You're about to start your last year of junior high.
     Oh gosh.  That knowledge still makes my stomach twist.
     You are going to have such a hard time this year.  Like, you're going to cry yourself to sleep quite a few times, and you're going to keep yourself awake thinking about everything you're going to miss about it.  This also means you'll get too caught up in your choice of high school a little too early on in the year.  But, you'll have one of the most spiritual experiences you've ever had because of that.  Just a forewarning: the answer you get at the beginning of the year is not what school you should go to.
     Despite how sad it's going to make you, you are going to have so much stinkin' fun with your friends.  You're going to keep a notebook of all of the fun things that happen to you guys, and even now, that notebook is a blessing to you and your friends.  Like, you and Bailey and Alida are going to have so many adventures, it's crazy.  They all happen at school, usually among seminary, choir, and English.
     Coincidentally, those are the classes you'll miss the most.
     But don't think about that.  Just enjoy living each second because you'll wish you could hold every precious moment in perfect detail.  So breathe in each one.
     You, Bailey, and Alida are going to cause quite a bit of havoc for some of your teachers, namely Brother Hill, Ms. Puzey, and Mr. Graff.  But it's fun havoc.  You also become so much more outgoing in some of your classes, which is a nice surprise for some of your teachers (although I'm sure those three sometimes wished you shut up).
     I haven't yet had a school year that beat out ninth grade, if that's any indication as to how much you'll enjoy it.  Even with your first AP class, you enjoy it.  And AP really isn't all that bad.  You'll find it pretty interesting, in fact.  The teacher won't be your favorite, but it's okay.  You'll have worse ones.
     Whoops.  Pretend I didn't say that.
     And seminary is going to be so amazing.  You're going to find such a great appreciation for the Doctrine & Covenants, it's unbelievable.  You'll be so incredibly surprised at how much it means to you, and how much it will always mean to you.
     But probably the best outcome of seminary is that you're finally going to establish a pattern of reading your scriptures every day.  I won't tell you why you suddenly start doing so because it's a little less than glamorous.  Besides, you won't learn if I tell you, and that's the best part of the experience.
     I just want you to remember that, as happy as you are in ninth grade, there's plenty more good stuff comin' your way.
     Oh, and in case you were wondering...
     You and Bailey have a little duet at the ninth grade promotion assembly (not an entire song, don't worry).
          Love,
               seventeen-year-old Odessa

     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Food

     I've come to the realization lately that my favorite types of my favorite foods are considered the "fake" versions.
     And no, before you start rolling your eyes, I'm not about to rant about processed foods because I figure, if everyone's bound to get cancer, hot dogs are not the worst way to get there.
     What I mean is that, out of my top five favorite foods, none of them are technically considered the quality--or "real"--options.
     Let's start off with my favorite food of all time: macaroni and cheese.  I love macaroni and cheese to a probably inordinate level.  Back when I was younger (and by that, I mean junior high), I'd scarcely chew it when I ate it.  I'd stick a forkful of mac 'n' cheese in my mouth, chew for .5 seconds, and swallow, because I could not get that delicious happiness into my mouth fast enough, and I could never eat enough of it.  I still can't, especially since my siblings enjoy it too.  But now, I chew my macaroni...mostly.
     But I digress.  Generally, when I say that this is my favorite food, I get the "Oh, do you like boxed or homemade better?"  I proudly say boxed.
     Whoever asks usually gives me a look like I just declared that I enslave children.
     I'm sorry, but I do.  I think part of it might be that I've loved good ol' boxed mac 'n' cheese for years and years, and the first homemade one I tried was not my favorite...and we kept eating it.  It had ham in it, and I don't like that.  There might have been other reasons, but I'm not sure.
     Besides, there are few things more cathartic and satisfying than making a perfect pot of luscious macaroni and cheese in less than half an hour.
     Also, I like my macaroni a certain way.  I like the cheese really creamy and soupy--like, completely liquid.  I do not follow that wimpy 1/4 cup of milk for every box of macaroni.  Plus, I always make two boxes (unless there's an unknown shortage, like there was a couple Saturdays ago, and then I have no choice).
     So, sorry--boxed macaroni and cheese for the win.
     Then, there's popcorn.  I actually chew my popcorn (at least, I chew it more than I chew macaroni and cheese), and I put more effort into controlling my popcorn-eating habits.  I start with just one.  I eat one piece at a time.  At least, until it's easier to just grab two.  I mean, my hand's already in there, right?  Two at a time, two at a time...well, may as well take three, right?  Three at a time, three at a time, five at a time, seven at a time, a whole handf--whoa.
     The sad thing is, I repeat this every time, and still never regret it.
     My favorite type of popcorn is those microwaveable bags, but air-popped is what is socially acceptable food-wise (which I could probably just say as sushi-ally acceptable), because air-popped popcorn is apparently more "real" than the microwaveable goodness.
     Air-popped popcorn just tastes too bland to me, even when butter is poured on it.  And it just never tastes quite the way I want it to.  Microwave popcorn, on the other hand, never disappoints.  Everything just works together properly.  Air-popped popcorn always has something missing.
     And then, there's tacos.  Some of you might be very offended with this section.
     I've loved tacos for a good long while, almost as far back as I can remember.  And my favorite tacos of all time are the tacos from Jack-in-the-Box.
     I'm sure I've just murdered some of you, including my own father.
     "How can you like that fake, Americanized food more than the actual Mexican tacos?!?!?!"
     Um...'cause the fake, Americanized tacos taste better?
     I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but authenticity is not what I'm particularly worried about when it comes to what I eat.
     Of course, the most "real" Mexican tacos I've had are probably from Cafe Río...so maybe I'd like authentic Mexican tacos more than Jack-in-the-Box.
     And then, chocolate.  I never thought that the certain chocolate made in Pennsylvania (I'm not sure what kind of copyright laws there are, and I'd rather not risk it) was considered "fake" until recently.  One of my coworkers lived in Sweden for a couple years, so he experienced that kind of chocolate.  He made a rather snotty comment about my love for the Pennsylvanian chocolate a couple weeks ago (but we're friends, so it was all in good humor, chill).  It was the first time I'd ever considered that I might be getting the short end of the stick.
     But then I remembered that this same coworker had given me some Swedish chocolate to try previously, and I realized that, as good as it was, the Pennsylvanian one is far more magical.
     And finally, there's pizza.  "Fancy" pizza has never impressed me because they always have to pander to those who can afford it, adding fancy sauces and vegetables and rare meats.  Look, just give me a normal pizza from Little Caesar's or Papa Murphy's or even from my own home.
     "So, you like cardboard?"
     Shut up.
     Well, that's my spiel on food.  Enjoy your next meal/snack.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Introducing My Camera

     One of my favorite possessions--and one of the best Christmas gifts I ever received--is my camera.  I'd wanted a camera for a while because I absolutely love taking pictures (and filming the occasional video).  So, I did the obvious thing and asked for a camera for Christmas.  I put it to use immediately, and didn't really stop for the rest of the break.
     Man, I carried that camera around like nobody's business.  I took pictures and videos at just about every family get-together, vacation, or trip.  Even if I didn't think we were going to need pictures taken, I brought it just to take pictures.
     I still love my camera, and I'll never quite get over taking pictures with it.  I'd use my camera over my phone to take pictures any day (as much as I love my camera, it's quite useless when trying to call my parents).
     I don't use it as much anymore, since my phone is a little more convenient, but if we're going on a vacation or camping, you can bet that my camera will be one of the items I bring.
     One of my favorite features of my camera is that it's a touchscreen.  It was actually the first thing I ever owned that had a touchscreen (my Kindle Fire came the next Christmas and my smartphone came this past May).  I thought it was the absolute coolest thing--and to be honest, I still kinda do.
     I remember one time--I don't even remember where I was or who I was with--but I was telling someone about my touchscreen camera.  Some bystander (I think it was someone I knew, but not well) interjected, "You mean a phone?"
     I stared at whoever it was in complete shock.  Whoever it was also gave me a bit of a dirty look.  "No..." I said perplexedly.  "A touchscreen camera."
     "Yeah," the person said hotly, "that's a phone."
     "No," I said, still completely bewildered.  "Like, it's an actual camera...but with a touchscreen."  At that point, I'm pretty sure they'd just walked away and weren't even listening.
     I could not understand for the life of me why someone was irritated that I had a touchscreen camera, not a phone.
     Of course, I rarely understand why people get offended these days.
     I've pondered on that event a couple times, and I still don't understand why it happened, especially with someone I wasn't even talking to at the moment, nor do I understand why they seemed genuinely annoyed with me.
     But I laugh about it now.  Most people can't open their minds to anything past what their smartphone is, so it doesn't surprise me now.  Maybe that person didn't have the phone they wanted, so they thought I was being a little snot and pretending my phone was less than it really was--just a "touchscreen camera."
     To this day, there are few things more satisfying than grabbing my camera case, camera inside, and carrying it with me to whatever photo opportunities I'm off to discover.  Just holding it gives me a sense of...not power, per se, but more the sense of, "I am holding a device that can capture a moment of the world around me in one frozen section of time and space, to be cherished by me forever."  It's kind of crazy to think about sometimes.
     I could never fully replace my camera.  My phone can only do so much, and besides, I have standards when it comes to the quality of a picture.  A phone is useful for convenience, but when I really want to remember something, my camera is the obvious choice.
     Anyway, that's all for today.  Cherish your memories, all right?
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

The Truth About Reading

     You know what one of my biggest pet peeves is?  People who think they're being funny when they're really not.  Especially when it's in regards to another person, such as when someone starts "teasing" another person in what they may think is just jovial fun, but in reality, is just plain rude.
     Anyway, that's all I'm saying about that today.  No, my focus is an entirely different topic, and one that I am very fond of.
     Books.
     I absolutely adore reading.  It is my favorite thing to do.  I love it because I love stories, and I especially love stories that allow to me to enter an entirely new world.  I think it's the highest degree of talent to create your own world and your own people, and then make it so emotionally stirring that you are able to show that world and those people to real people who don't even know you.  This has also led to my love of writing, and I hope to write novels someday.
     Of course, I do have a disclaimer: just because I love reading doesn't mean I love all books.  I know, I know, it's shocking.  But it's true.  In fact, I'm not singular in this feeling.  I've yet to meet a person who loves all books and all genres with no bias or preference whatsoever.
     Often, people will sneer at that, or they'll tell me that the types of books I like to read are "too simple" or "don't challenge your brain enough."
     That's the point.
     When I read, I am not reading with the goal to challenge myself.  I read to relax and to take a break from the world that already expects so much from me.
     Of course, that's not saying I don't read things that aren't challenging.  I'm not reading Dr. Seuss and the Junie B. Jones books.  And some of the books I read have some crazy concepts and vocabulary and stories, which engage my thinking and give me a different aspect on life.
     I also don't like being forced to read books, even if I eventually end up liking the book.  Being forced to read a book makes it seem more like another thing in this world that I'm expected to do instead of something that gets me out of the world.  But I've also been forced to read some very good books.  Granted, I haven't done much about them since reading them, but...I liked them.
     "But Odessa, reading isn't always meant to be fun."  I never said it had to be fun.  All I expect from a book is a good story that gets my mind going at a brisk pace while giving it a break from everything else that's going on.  That's it.  Do I prefer to have fun while reading?  Of course.  But as long as the story is halfway decent, I'll probably make it through just fine.
     The problem is, we're always being given books that are considered "classics," which, let's face it, don't have the best stories.  Are there good aspects of each one?  Yep.  But there are only a few books that I've been forced to read that I've thought, "Wow, that story was so engaging!  I really feel like I've become a smarter and better person because of reading this!  I might even read this again someday!"
     You know how many of those books have come from this AP English Language class?
     
     While The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald had interesting characters and an interesting look into the societal muck of the Roaring Twenties, the story was completely worthless.  No one got what they wanted, except for the person who I felt deserved it the least, and three people died--one rather violently.  What did I learn from that book?  Um...............
     Don't cheat on your spouse?  Well, golly darn, that sure ruins my plans.
     "But Odessa!  All the symbolism!"  Yeah, it's great, isn't it.  180 pages of an excess of the color yellow and glasses that symbolize God.
     Yep.  That made me smarter.
     Then there's The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger, which, again, had interesting characters and a look into the mind of a struggling teenager, but we could've done without the story--and the foul language.
     Some of you may be rolling your eyes at that.  "Oh, Odessa, you're such a Mormon girl!"  Yes, I am, but that has very little to do with the fact.  The language in that book is terrible.  If anyone in class started talking like that, any normal teacher would reprimand them and get them into so much trouble.  But if we're reading it in a book, it's fine, because it's a "classic" and "educational."
     Educational about what?  The different ways you can use swear words and talk about dirty things?  200 pages of that?  I'm sorry, but if you're going to go on and on about how we need to use more sophisticated words and then give us this novel that had little to no advanced language, how is that going to help us?  We're constantly being told to not use the same words we used as seventh graders.
     Hang on...The Catcher in the Rye is at a seventh grade level, you say?
     Hm.
     Oh, and let's not forget The Secret Sharer by Joseph Conrad.  "Ooh, lookie here, there's a man in the water who looks an awful lot like me, so I'll invite him up and talk with him all night, and I don't care that he murdered someone last week because he's just like me, and I'll hide him since I don't want my crew to know I have a murderer on board, and wow, this man is a lot like me!"
     Seventy-five pages of that.  I wish I could have been the one murdered.
     "Odessa, it's such an interesting book to talk about!  Perhaps the man didn't actually exist, because the steward walked right into the bathroom and didn't see him!  But he might exist because the other captain came looking for him!"
     Yeah, because you can talk about that for ages.
     There were hardly any "sophisticated" words used in the story, and certainly none that stuck with me.  The hardest it made my brain work was challenging my mental ability to not tear it to shreds.
     But, of course we should read it because it's a classic, and seeing as how we're in an AP English Language & Composition class, reading the classics will help us write the essays better.
     Don't interrupt me, I'm not finished.
     Then there was The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, which was the most boring, awful book I've ever read in my life.  An old man goes fishing for nigh on 100 pages, finally gets the fish, and loses it within the next thirty pages.
     Awful, awful, awful.
     "Odessa, a book doesn't have to be fun."  That's all well and good, but does a book need to be completely boring and pointless to be considered a classic?  I mean, who read that book and exclaimed with a touched soul, "Oh, this book shall be read for generations to come!"
     "Odessa, it's the symbolism.  It's the way it was written."  Fine.  Why did it take 130 pages to do that?  Why couldn't it have been half that length?  But no, we have to read about Santiago trying to catch this fish and the thoughts he has while the fish is dragging his boat out to sea.
     And why do we have to read it?  Sure, this book changed my life--by giving me an eternal hatred for it.  I can't hear the title without suddenly being filled with red-hot anger.  Was the book long?  No.  But what it lacks in length, it makes up for in one single fish.
     Then, there's our most recent one: The Tempest by William Shakespeare, which was actually a fairly decent decision because it's not written in a way that's terribly simple to read.  It can be tough to understand at points.  Even as much as I like Shakespeare, I was confused sometimes.  The thing that makes Shakespeare hard to understand--for me, at least--is the way the sentences are arranged, not the words themselves.  This was no exception.
     And now, we're reading Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston, which is definitely not a book that's going to teach us sophisticated and advanced language.
     "But Odessa, there have been books you've gotten to choose with your Lexile score!"  Oh, you mean the books that only have high reading levels because of the length of their sentences and the content matter?  If you're going to judge a book by a reading level, rate it based on, I don't know, something like comprehension and the difficulty of the words themselves!  The Lexile scores are as useless as the MyAccess essays we had to do in junior high (but that's a different rant entirely).  And while we're "choosing" what book we read, we're choosing from a very small pool of books, which is often made even smaller when giving us such a requirement as it being a biography or written before the 20th century.
     The real issue for many of us is not the lack of sleep, or that we're being forced to read these books.  It's not the content or the time it takes out of our day.
     As has been so eloquently pointed out, we are in an AP English Language & Composition class.
     Would you mind pointing out to me where it says "books" or "literature" or "classics" in there?
     Oh, that's right!  AP Literature is next year!  That's all about books, isn't it?  And we know that because it's actually in the name of the class, you know, we signed up for AP English Language & Composition because we were under the impression that we would spend more time writing than reading (not because we thought there wouldn't be any reading), but that was really dumb of us because excellent writing can't be done without reading, right?
     I mean, how can't you impress the AP board with your essays when you're reading a book that has such sentences as "'Dat's just de same as me 'cause mah tongue is in mah friend's mouf.'"
     "Oh, Odessa, not every sentence is written like that."  Fine.  But that's how quite a bit of it is.  And again, if one of us started talking like that, there would be quite the conversation with that student.
     My point is, these books have a place in the world, and that place may even be at school.  But we are learning more about the importance of reading a book than how to write an essay, which is really what this class is based on.  And if we must read, then we must read.  But is there no possible way for us to read something that sounds intelligent?  We're not reading any of the classics that have language that fits the language we're expected to be writing in.  If reading is so directly related to writing, why isn't there more evidence of that in the class?
     There's always going to be complaints about book choices.  Always, always, always.  You just have to decide which complaints you want to pay attention to.
     And if mine doesn't fit into that, then fine.  This is more my way of putting all my complaints about these books where I can see them.  But don't discount them, and certainly don't try to argue with me.  Because whether you like it or not, I have made valid points.  These books have good aspects to them, but assigning them in such an impactful way does not help us the way I think you're trying to.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

Refugees and Homeland Safety

     Please, just ignore this blog post.  I'm being forced to write it for my AP English class.  I care so little about this, I basically care negatively.  So, just skip this one and read the much more interesting and well-written piece about music just below, if you don't mind.
     Oy vey.  Well, a very prominent political issue at the present moment involves refugees and those fleeing persecution and distress in their homelands.  Just in case you weren't aware.
     These refugees often flee with next to nothing.  Literally.  They're trying to get away as fast as they can, so it's not like they can just haul their rocking chairs and vases with them.  They're not moseying along, passively examining each town and village, deciding they don't want to live there, and moving on.  They are running away.  They are escaping from war and destruction and severe danger.  And when they try to get into other countries, they have nothing to offer.
     Some of you may be asking, "Well, what exactly is the issue with refugees?  Aren't they just running away to other countries or other parts of the country?"  And that, my friends, is exactly the issue, especially when running into other countries.
     There's also trust issues, and I'm not talking about your petty little raisin cookies that look like chocolate chip cookies.  I'm talking about the possibility (and it's sometimes a very real possibility) of the people fleeing into other countries for other purposes than trying to start a new, safe life.  There are some people who can and will readily take advantage of a country with open arms and sneak in to cause all sorts of havoc--some more severe than others.
     This can be a real problem, and governments would rather not deal with it.  After all, they need to protect their own people, and just letting anyone in at anytime is not the wisest thing to do when striving for safety for your homeland.
     So, what wins out?  The desperate needs of refugees, or the safety of the land in which governments have sworn to protect and serve?
     That depends.  There needs to be a delicate balance.  We need to help people, but we also need to be very cautious because, as selfless as someone might be, our lives matter too.  And that's my position on it.  The end.
     I did warn you that I didn't want to talk about current events on my blog, didn't I, Harward?
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.

The Songs You Need

     "Some days I need the music, and some days I need the lyrics."

     As much as I'd like to say otherwise, I did not come up with this quote, but I'm not sure who did, so...quote credit to whoever made it up and published it on social media.  Kudos.

     Part of why I like this quote is that it's very deep and thought-provoking while being very straightforward and blunt at the same time.

     So, what does it mean for me?

     Well, I identify with that statement on a very personal level.  My favorite type of music is movie soundtracks (I know, how boring--shut up), which don't exactly have many lyrics.  But I also love songs with lyrics--I'm in choir, for crying out loud.  There are some days when I strictly want soundtracks, and then there are days where I just want to listen to words and sing to them.
     Usually, when I really, really want to listen to soundtracks, I'm missing something that I don't even recognize.  Sometimes it's motivation.  Sometimes it's some heart-tugging material.  Sometimes it's even some happiness.  But there are certain scores that get to me in a way that nothing else in the world can--which is the most magical thing about music.  There is something special about music, no denying it.
     I think that the most romantic song ever written in a movie score is "Epilogue" from La La Land.  For one thing, it plays little bits of all the songs throughout the movie, which I automatically love, but the way that the music flows together so seamlessly is just perfect.  And then, when it gets to 4:32, the way it swells into their theme is just beautiful.  Every time I listen to it, it never ceases to leave me breathless.
     The first songs that made me fall in love with scores were "Statues" and "Courtyard Apocalypse," both from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2.  I remember sitting in the theater on July 14, 2011, giddy beyond belief that I was finally seeing these scenes on the screen.  The music for "Statues" started ("Courtyard Apocalypse" comes a little later), and it made me feel something.  I can't quite describe it.  It felt like excitement, but it also made me feel so involved in the story and drew me into that world more than anything had done in a while.  I saw it differently, which doesn't really make sense, even as I say it myself.  But every time I listen to either one, I feel like that eleven year old sitting in the dark theater, feeling emotions soar through me with every note.  I could not get over how that music made me feel--and even now, I still haven't.  The score for that movie is my favorite of all time.
     But my very favorite individual score is "The White Tree" from The Return of the King.  When I first watched this movie, it was New Year's Eve (actually, it was probably really early on New Year's Day), and I was watching it by myself at this point.  And when the song started, I didn't really notice it.  I mean, let's be real here--how often do you really pay attention to the music in movies?  But when it got to 2:35...oh man.  It's a little different on the soundtrack than in the actual movie (nothing severe), but both of them still yank at my heartstrings.  Something about the hope and adventure and determination that were all expressed through the music stunned me.  Listening to it while watching the scene, I thought to myself, "Wow.  I think I'm in love with these movies."  And again, every time I listen to it, I can just feel a renewal within me of encouragement and strength and happiness (and a desire to watch Lord of the Rings).  I'd never fallen in love with music like that before that night.
     Some of you are rolling your eyes, saying, "Odessa, music like that is so boring.  Why don't you talk about stuff that actually has words?"  Sure thing, impatient readers.
     Of course, if I like the lyrics of a song, I'll probably like the music as well.  It just happens that way.  Just take that into consideration and remember that I love the music in each and every one of these--I just appreciate the lyrics far more.
     I didn't used to really "care" about lyrics.  I mean, I cared what the words were, but I very rarely, if ever, listened to a song and thought, "I swear, I could've written this if I were able to write decent song lyrics."  It wasn't until rather recently, in my ninth grade year, when I finally came to understood why lyrics are so important to some people.
     I really loved junior high (yes, I had ninth grade in junior high, get over it), and the closer the year drew to its end, the more I struggled to accept the fact that I was moving on.  Right around the same time, the final Hobbit movie came out, and I don't remember exactly when or how it happened, but I ended up listening to the song in the credits: "The Last Goodbye" by Billy Boyd.  I remember I was watching it on DVD, but I listened to the words (I don't know why I decided to do so), and I was just stunned.  I had never identified with a song so strongly, before or since.  The part that really struck me and made me listen was when he sang, "To these memories, I will hold.  With your blessing, I will go to turn at last to paths that lead home."  I couldn't think of better words to describe those feelings I had at the end of junior high.  Listening to it makes me sad yet happy at the same time (which is a good thing).
     Another song that has truly impacted me through its words is "Vienna" by Billy Joel.  I've known of the song for years: my dad is an avid Billy Joel fan, so I was familiar with it.  After a couple years of having an MP3 player, he put no less than thirty-three of his songs on it (I had requested three but when he offered to put more, I gladly accepted).  I'd requested this one because I remembered the basic tune and that I'd liked it.  Listening to it for that first time--really listening to it--provided me with a source of motivation that I didn't think possible.  It was shortly into my first year of high school, and the line that particularly struck a chord with me was, "Slow down, you're doing fine.  You can't be everything you wanna be before your time."  Honestly, what better advice could you give to a poor, stressed sophomore trying to figure out life?  I certainly couldn't see any.  It calms me down when it comes to all of my different responsibilities and such.
     And let's not forget "Lead, Kindly Light" by John B. Dykes.  I've liked this one ever since I was pretty young, but I never really knew why until a few years ago.  There's always something I need to look forward to, and I've always loved comparisons to light.  This one helps to remind me that there is nothing permanent about any of the trials we face.  There's a light at the end of the tunnel, but no one said it's coming towards us, and that's because we need to find the strength to move toward it ourselves.  "Keep thou my feet.  I do not ask to see the distant scene.  One step enough for me."
     Finally, there are songs that fit in both categories: songs that I love for their words and their music equally.  These include, but are certainly not limited to: "Savior, Redeemer of My Soul," "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing," "Take Time to Be Holy," "Indodana," "The Music of the Night," "Silhouettes," and "Your Song."
     So, what's the point of me sharing all these with you?  Certainly not to convince you that these songs are far superior to what you listen to.  I just read the quote and found it interesting, and the more I pondered on it, the more I wanted to write about it.  I wanted to share with you the joys and stories that I have felt connected to music (and to maybe introduce you to a couple new types).  Music is an important part in my life, and it's one that I don't share nearly often enough.
     As I'm sure you've already seen, the links are provided for each song if you're interested.  (If you don't like the song, don't listen to it--it's real simple.)  If any of you out there are actually reading, I'd love to hear your opinion on this quote, and also what songs stir powerful emotions within you (with or without words), and if there are any you'd recommend to me.
     P.S. I'd like to put it out there that I've never seen Moulin Rouge.  I know the song because of my parents.  I'm also fully aware that this was not the original version of the song.  Don't worry, guys.
     I hope your day is as awesome as you.