beautiful things out of the dust.

I spent some time remembering all the music I played in high school and looking up those pieces (or at least the ones I could remember) on Spotify. 

I was never very good at concert band, but there is something so indescribably rich, so wonderful about playing together in a group, to sit in a circle surrounded by so many layers of sound. No matter what my problems in high school were, I could sit in that semi-circle, play what little I could, and everything else would fade away for a little while. I could lose myself in the basics: keeping the beat, controlling my breathing, looking for cues, crescendos, codas. 

Music taught me how to belong. 

Thank you David Senn for unleashing a love of music that I didn’t know I had. Those pieces we played mean more to me now than any other music I know.

stthomasthedoubter:

Heavenly Father, we remember before you those who suffer want and anxiety from lack of work. Guide the people of this land so to use our public and private wealth that all may find suitable and fulfilling work, and receive just payment for their labor, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

My mother called me on Saturday, which isn’t that unusual. I knew something was up when she didn’t leave a voicemail. She always does this; her training as a nurse has taught her to take notes and leave messages, always.

I called her back, and she told me about Arnie. It wasn’t a secret that he was getting old—after all, we had gotten him when I was nine and Matt was five, and the two of us are twenty-six and twenty-three now. We’d known that nineteen was an exceptionally long time for a dog to live. But I broke down sobbing on the phone  at the thought of putting him down just the same. My mom had told me that he couldn’t get through the doggie door in our garage, and so when it rained this week and she and my dad were at work, he stood outside for hours shivering in the cold until Dad came home and found him. That broke my heart.

When I was little I had always wanted a dog, but do to a childhood incident, big dogs frightened me. They still do. My parents promised me we’d get a small dog, and since I had already gotten a cat, my brother got to pick him out. So on a Saturday they drove and picked out a teeny black puppy, one that was nearly bursting from the seams with energy. Matt and I were so excited, and he named the dog Arnie, after a dog in a book he just learned how to read.

I may have had lots of childhood memories that deserve to be forgotten, but none of them have Arnie in them. He was just too good-natured for that. He had limitless energy, which was great for two kids. Arnie seemed to endure everything that two kids could throw at him: he still loved us after we sent him down a flight of stairs in a laundry basket (we made sure he was protected with pillows), dressed him up, and threw snowballs at him. He was great for cleaning up food spills we’d make in the house and curling up for naps. Even when he managed to eat the teeth I had planned to leave for the tooth fairy, I loved him still. He would play fetch for hours and constantly try to battle his sworn nemesis, the garden hose. My parents (who constantly chastise people who treat their pets like people) called him our furry little brother. Dad would roughhouse with him often, and Mom would constantly sneak him leftover scraps from dinner.

It wasn’t until I got sick the first time that I realized just how special he was. After I first got diagnosed, I didn’t want to see anyone, or to let anyone see how sick I was. I was falling apart, and was inconsolable.  I don’t know how, but that dog knew I wasn’t okay. There was one night in particular when I was not well, and had curled up in my bed for the night. I was watching TV when I heard the thump, thump, thump of Arnie—arthritic legs and all—hobbling up the long staircase to my room. He came straight to my bed, cocked his head to the side, and refused to budge. I was so grateful for the company; I picked him up and put him in bed with me for a long time. He was my special little puppy, who loved me unconditionally.

It may be cliche to call a dog a full member of the family, but so be it. The house will be so quiet without the sound of his little feet on the tile floor, empty without a doggie bed in the washroom, absent without his little black face waiting for me when I pull into the driveway. I’ve never lost a dog before—I have no idea really what this will be like. We’ve made the rough decision to put him to sleep Saturday, and it feels like a huge part of the best of my childhood’s leaving with him. You can’t replace that.

All I want to do it to get to Friday so I can go home and love on him one last time. I think I even want to be in the vet’s office with him on Saturday, just so in those last moments he can know that he was such a good boy, and he was loved.

1) Had a venting session today with a grad school friend about people who don’t work as much as we do and who complain about not being able to get their work done. Also it was nice just to hear that someone else gets frustrated when non-grad school friends fail to realize that if I take time that I already don’t have to text or call you,  it’s a big deal, because grad school doesn’t play around. The higher the educational level, the higher the stress quotient.

2) I had one of my worst panic attacks on Monday night. I almost passed out alone in my apartment. It’s just as scary as it sounds.

3) I worry a lot about my relationships with other people. I get scared that I’ll be abandoned or replaced. There, I admitted it. I don’t like doing that. But there’s power in the truth. 

4) Still fighting suicidal thoughts. I get too scared and embarrassed to admit that to people. But I’m still here. That’s something, I guess.

stthomasthedoubter:

Eternal God, in whose perfect kingdom no sword is drawn but the sword of righteousness, no strength known but the strength of love: So mightily spread abroad your Spirit, that all people may be gathered under the banner of the Prince of Peace, as children of one Father; to whom be dominion and glory, now and forever. Amen.

I’m having to take a break from the twentyseven project in order to finish out the semester and to stay mentally healthy. But don’t worry; it’ll be better and I’ll definitely resume the blogging project before May 11 rolls around.

visualoop:

Bipolar Disorder: the Basic Fact Sheet

Via

Coming up with something to be grateful for today is hard. There isn’t a lack of things to be glad for, but individually they seem either too insignificant or too complex to delve into tonight. 

So today, I am grateful for my hair.

Yes, my hair.

I am grateful for my wild, unruly, and curly hair. This had not been an overnight process. I had not-straight and not-curly hair as a little girl, and it wasn’t until the magic of puberty hit me in 7th grade that my hair began to change. I hated it. I hated that I didn’t know what to do with it, hated how it looked, hated that my hair got added to the list of things I got bullied about, hated how my hair and my height were all anyone wanted to talk about when they spoke to me.  I am more than just a tall girl with curly hair!  I wanted to yell at them. 

Eventually, slowly, that changed. 

I would love to say that I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror, and magically fell in love with how I looked. But I’m a girl who grew up in America and who was bullied pretty badly in middle school, so that’s not my story. 

Today I woke up, stumbled into my bathroom, and began the arduous process of fixing my hair. And for a moment, I saw what my Dad sees when he tells me I look pretty. For years he’d tell me that I was pretty and just didn’t know it. 

But today I saw a glimpse. 

Another short post, but this is what happens when there’s two and a half weeks left in the semester and you haven’t started your major papers yet. 

Despite all the complaining I do about it, I am thankful for graduate school. I am thankful for professors who are so willing to work with me in spite of my shortcomings, who are patient, and who are willing to help me grow as a scholar.

[But I’m not gonna lie, being in grad school really makes me miss the LU English department. I miss Matt Hearn, Kim Reed, and Kenna something awful. They’ll surface in another post; this I know.]