Just a bit over a week until I move back to the bustling metropolis of Waco, and all of the nervousexcitement has been building up again.
You would think that after doing this twice, I wouldn't have butterflies about starting college...again.
It's my third year, and my third time to be facing new things simultaneously scary and thrilling. At first it was freshman year in its entirety, and last year it was being in a CL in a new hall and a new staff.
And you know, both turned out splendidly. Freshman year was incredible, and being a NoRo CL was better than I ever dreamed. I grew and grew through them both. I hope and pray that this time next year, I will be saying the same thing about changing my major to GTX and adding Creative Writing as a minor.
I don't like decisions I make myself: if it doesn't turn out the way I want it to, then guess what? My fault. [I learned that the hard way this summer.] . Understanding direction and His will have always been desperate points of panic for me. I feel like if I get on the wrong train, nothing can be right again; the whole trip is ruined. But all in all, I feel good about this one. I think I've done my best listening to whisperings and responding to nudges. I have no idea where any of this is taking me, and my mother's talk of picking a grad school makes me want to cry, but...cross my fingers, hope to die I think it'll be ok.
And now for a Billy Collins poem. It's relative, sort of. Well, really just to the fact that I'm minoring in poetry now. Anyways, enjoy :)
The Effort
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"
as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.
Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed
with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.
Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,
not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost.
So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—
to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.
You would think that after doing this twice, I wouldn't have butterflies about starting college...again.
It's my third year, and my third time to be facing new things simultaneously scary and thrilling. At first it was freshman year in its entirety, and last year it was being in a CL in a new hall and a new staff.
And you know, both turned out splendidly. Freshman year was incredible, and being a NoRo CL was better than I ever dreamed. I grew and grew through them both. I hope and pray that this time next year, I will be saying the same thing about changing my major to GTX and adding Creative Writing as a minor.
I don't like decisions I make myself: if it doesn't turn out the way I want it to, then guess what? My fault. [I learned that the hard way this summer.] . Understanding direction and His will have always been desperate points of panic for me. I feel like if I get on the wrong train, nothing can be right again; the whole trip is ruined. But all in all, I feel good about this one. I think I've done my best listening to whisperings and responding to nudges. I have no idea where any of this is taking me, and my mother's talk of picking a grad school makes me want to cry, but...cross my fingers, hope to die I think it'll be ok.
And now for a Billy Collins poem. It's relative, sort of. Well, really just to the fact that I'm minoring in poetry now. Anyways, enjoy :)
The Effort
Would anyone care to join me
in flicking a few pebbles in the direction
of teachers who are fond of asking the question:
"What is the poet trying to say?"
as if Thomas Hardy and Emily Dickinson
had struggled but ultimately failed in their efforts—
inarticulate wretches that they were,
biting their pens and staring out the window for a clue.
Yes, it seems that Whitman, Amy Lowell
and the rest could only try and fail
but we in Mrs. Parker's third-period English class
here at Springfield High will succeed
with the help of these study questions
in saying what the poor poet could not,
and we will get all this done before
that orgy of egg salad and tuna fish known as lunch.
Tonight, however, I am the one trying
to say what it is this absence means,
the two of us sleeping and waking under different roofs.
The image of this vase of cut flowers,
not from our garden, is no help.
And the same goes for the single plate,
the solitary lamp, and the weather that presses its face
against these new windows--the drizzle and the
morning frost.
So I will leave it up to Mrs. Parker,
who is tapping a piece of chalk against the blackboard,
and her students—a few with their hands up,
others slouching with their caps on backwards—
to figure out what it is I am trying to say
about this place where I find myself
and to do it before the noon bell rings
and that whirlwind of meatloaf is unleashed.
