tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84247686889918397022024-03-14T04:23:37.263-04:00Crazy Dreamer"Hello you long-shots, you dark horse runners, Hair brush singers, dash-board drummers, Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom. There's a little bit of all that inside of me and you,
Thank God even crazy dreams come true." ~Carrie Underwood, "Crazy Dreams"Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-68315503502856233312017-07-12T20:13:00.002-04:002017-07-12T20:13:25.410-04:00An Unexpected Celebrity Couple<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiLihrZnbQ6aUNgpWDwi2dc53NWyukTX6JKLpF_HIYnNhlDiLdLe4XhjVYPcy5GYmW7lgU2EgusOtPv1ZtWNDP7wufLxOspfX7PtQ2iduyhzze4ED9JCiiubW_rMTKD3mj-XYuqy5OLg/s1600/IMG_1809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSiLihrZnbQ6aUNgpWDwi2dc53NWyukTX6JKLpF_HIYnNhlDiLdLe4XhjVYPcy5GYmW7lgU2EgusOtPv1ZtWNDP7wufLxOspfX7PtQ2iduyhzze4ED9JCiiubW_rMTKD3mj-XYuqy5OLg/s400/IMG_1809.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<li>Ronzoni's Garden Delight Veggie Tricolor Penne Rigate, cooked al dente with a little sea salt in the water</li>
<li>Chipotle black bean burger</li>
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<li>Sautéed:</li>
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<li>Kale</li>
<li>Swiss chard</li>
<li>Tomatoes</li>
<li>Olive oil</li>
<li>Sea salt</li>
<li>Garlic</li>
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<li>Garnish:</li>
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<li>Pumpkin seeds</li>
<li>Bronze fennel leaves</li>
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The pumpkin seeds and bronze fennel leaves were the unexpected celebrity couple in this dish. I added the fennel to compliment the spice of the black bean burger. I find that the warmth of the fennel calms my palette. I added the pumpkin seeds because I thought their crunch would hit it off with the pasta. I first had nuts in pasta in a pesto pasta dish, in which the chef added slivered almonds. I didn't know I had been waiting for a crunch with my pasta until it was right in front of me. Even though the pumpkin seeds got along well with the pasta, and the fennel liked the burger, it was the pumpkin seeds and the fennel that sent sparks flying. Their flavors blended as if they were the same ingredient. The more neutral pumpkin seeds were brought to life by the fennel leaves, as if finishing the sentence that the pumpkin seeds started. A match made in heaven.</div>
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What was it about the flavor profiles of these two ingredients that made them pair so well together? I did some research. In an in-depth explanation of staple kitchen spices and their uses, a website called <a href="http://adventuresinspice.com/flavormap/flavormap.html" target="_blank">"Adventures in Spice"</a> explains that fennel is used in curry powder, which supports my instinct to pair it with the spicy black bean burger. It also combines well with garlic and tomatoes, further connecting it with other ingredients in my dish. What about pumpkin though? Interestingly, although fennel isn't linked with pumpkin, anise is. "Adventures in Spice" writes that fennel is "reminiscent of anise but sweeter and less pungent." Anise and fennel both taste like licorice and have a warm flavor. It makes sense to me, then, that fennel would also pair well with pumpkin. The more you know! </div>
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Overall, this was a really tasty meal. Each bite was different, thus avoiding what people at work describe as "palette fatigue." It's difficult to figure out how to feature all the flavors individually and together. I've found that if I layer the ingredients in the dish instead of mixing them, I can mix and match them with each bite. This provides me with a more varied eating experience. Yum! </div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-85244840663252666912017-06-23T21:47:00.000-04:002017-06-23T21:47:52.799-04:00Whipped Cream Sunset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDPsYXqeB6pnuRQKXRu3hu10_l4vUr3tkpeW3wai24QMMDLSSPlOTngvUBeZofO8wndaRX_ENhv9PHliwxejD9qBkw-BYdVlO9ynY72uWOnYRX66TSP63KzEqrRuWiPtArgHdRhlnT_g/s1600/FullSizeR+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghDPsYXqeB6pnuRQKXRu3hu10_l4vUr3tkpeW3wai24QMMDLSSPlOTngvUBeZofO8wndaRX_ENhv9PHliwxejD9qBkw-BYdVlO9ynY72uWOnYRX66TSP63KzEqrRuWiPtArgHdRhlnT_g/s320/FullSizeR+%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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This dessert is inspired by a Lemon Curd dessert served at the place I work at, Sunbird Kitchen in Orleans, MA. The plating is different (Sunbird serves theirs on a flat plate instead of a bowl), and whipped cream in my dish replaces the lemon curd base in theirs. The ingredient pairings are all Sunbird-inspired though. Mixed in with the whipped cream are fresh and melted frozen blueberries. I melted the frozen blueberries mainly so I could get the juice, but it also adds a fun temperature contrast. Sprinkled on top of those are crumbled lemon wafer cookies. The dish is garnished with fresh lemon zest and thyme (Sunbird uses thyme oil in their dessert). Next time I would also sprinkle coarse sea salt on top to liven it up. I finished the dish by wedging a whole lemon cookie on the side of the bowl. I learned that it's important to add the whole cookie last, or else it will soak up the blueberry juice and turn soggy and blue. Soggy and blue isn't great for initial presentation, but once the dish is served it's fun to eat the cookie last because as the cookie soaks up the juice, it looks like a sun setting over water. </div>
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Serve with a spoon and enjoy with a "Pocket Full of Sunshine." </div>
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<u><span style="font-size: large;">Whipped Cream Sunset</span></u></div>
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<li>4-5 heaping tbsp of homemade whipped cream (heavy whipping cream, vanilla and cane sugar to taste) </li>
<li>Handful of fresh blueberries</li>
<li>Handful of frozen blueberries (melted in microwave for 40 seconds)</li>
<li>3-4 lemon wafer cookies (2-3 crumbled, 1 whole)</li>
<li>Lemon zest</li>
<li>Fresh thyme</li>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-12983466608896462422017-01-08T18:47:00.000-05:002017-01-08T18:48:38.678-05:00Leaving One Home for Another<div>
Home is crafted out of construction paper and Christmas lights. </div>
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Sometimes, it's made out of necessity. Going into this school year, my college roommate and I were determined to make our room "homey." Freshman year, we both missed the comfort of going home to someone we could talk to at the end of the day. We wanted our room this year to be cozy and warm. We've filled our room with crafts and notes and it's a place that we both enjoy hanging out in. </div>
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Home is in Starbucks, when I'm sitting next to my best friend.</div>
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If I were to go to this same Starbucks without my friend Liv, it wouldn't feel like home to me. But on this day, it did, because we hadn't seen each other in months and she was heading off to Ireland for the spring semester. Home was unpacked and repacked in 45 minutes.</div>
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Home is Nauset Beach, with the ocean dissolving the snow like cappuccino foam.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb7-lQLGfMfS5ef_XK7BXca5gLs6gslamusVNk67CWoHHYB6SioT7-rFeDArbdlSaxTVWcVU_49yjtJSE7pcIIKp6E-WQ-7mRtdXqgXfiL8l2biV5O22Rmbesy2TwNWEvUECe1qViHiU/s1600/unnamed-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzb7-lQLGfMfS5ef_XK7BXca5gLs6gslamusVNk67CWoHHYB6SioT7-rFeDArbdlSaxTVWcVU_49yjtJSE7pcIIKp6E-WQ-7mRtdXqgXfiL8l2biV5O22Rmbesy2TwNWEvUECe1qViHiU/s400/unnamed-1.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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This home was formed over four summers of working, living, and swimming in Cape Cod. I gained my independence here. Its salt water buoyed me through the summer before my freshman year of college. It's the water I bottled up and took with me to my dorm room. It's the home that helped me find new homes. </div>
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I think part of growing up is not just about leaving home, but finding new ones. These past few weeks have made me think a lot about the concept of home. I was "home" in the house I grew up in, with my family and childhood friends. I'm home in Cape Cod now, with my co-workers from the summer and the beach. I leave to go back to Denison University later this week. All of these are home for different reasons. My childhood home offers the comfort of high school friends, my cat, and homemade cooking. Cape Cod has salt air, open skies, and fresh mussels. Denison is stimulating with its lectures, theater productions, and class discussions. All of these homes offer a loving and supportive community.</div>
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The more I travel between these three homes, the less disruptive it is every time. I can appreciate what each home has to offer. Like I was excited to come home to Massachusetts and rest for the holidays, I'm equally excited to go back to Denison and start my classes and rehearsals for our winter musical, <i>Sweeney Todd</i>. I'm grateful to now have a community at Denison that I miss and look forward to seeing. I'm leaving one home and going to another, and I feel so blessed to be able to say that. </div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-36640627226877303472016-06-24T22:23:00.000-04:002016-06-24T22:24:17.622-04:00A Satisfying Spice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SWH3JgoVGPzcsThg7r2-uQQW_q4d_CVfwnE8-ktlaluG0Q-MxxphBPP-IlveG1SweQiwQ-xa9E5hj_6EseyukQwMb_I3XnIyA0YVGc8T7joH5L8sHOr4_AvayC01C4W2qLbIF2pAKiU/s1600/IMG_0853.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SWH3JgoVGPzcsThg7r2-uQQW_q4d_CVfwnE8-ktlaluG0Q-MxxphBPP-IlveG1SweQiwQ-xa9E5hj_6EseyukQwMb_I3XnIyA0YVGc8T7joH5L8sHOr4_AvayC01C4W2qLbIF2pAKiU/s320/IMG_0853.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tokyo turnips with xo sauce, chili oil, toasted quinoa and nasturtium flowers. It’s like stepping into a hot bath. The chili oil burns my mouth at first, but I let it linger on my tongue. I breathe and feel my sinuses clear. The juicy Tokyo turnips give respite from the spice. I sink in deeper. The Hinona Kabu turnips taste similar to radishes, and pair well with the nasturtium flowers. They add a peppery flavor, which compliments the subtle saltiness of the xo sauce––a caramelized shellfish and meat sauce. Surprisingly the xo sauce is my favorite part of the dish. After I finish eating, I wipe my mouth. My lips feel slightly numb, but I don’t try to neutralize the spice with dairy. It’s a satisfying spice.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This summer I’m lucky to be working at Sunbird, a local café in Orleans, MA that serves intentional dishes for mindful eating––carefully selected ingredients, thoughtful preparation, and considerate presentation. The kitchen sources their ingredients from local farmers–the turnips in the above dish are from Chatham Brews Inn (CBI) Farm in Brewster–and the menu changes depending on what’s in season. Above is a new dish I tried last week, after chatting extensively with one of the chefs about the turnips and the kitchen’s plan for them. </span><span style="line-height: 22.08px;">Through inquiring about, tasting, and selling the food we serve</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I’m learning to trust what ingredients a chef pairs together. In many of my past experiences as a customer at restaurants, I've been particular about how I want my food prepared, what ingredients can be left out, and can I please substitute this ingredient for that one? </span></span><span style="line-height: 22.08px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Although I would not voluntarily add chili oil to the dish, my experience with the dish wouldn’t have been the same without it.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUnllOS_agYbwpdk1JsbGA2EgBPA8giMmuANX0ojODynOTdavNO41ks9xjf9PPm3tj2_qqJA0tw2VyUUXJuUcmr_kgKfDP75ZkGuh2sbNvbHbVDqbPf-atWxSED7NCxAHL6BFUBqJt-4/s1600/IMG_0860+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnUnllOS_agYbwpdk1JsbGA2EgBPA8giMmuANX0ojODynOTdavNO41ks9xjf9PPm3tj2_qqJA0tw2VyUUXJuUcmr_kgKfDP75ZkGuh2sbNvbHbVDqbPf-atWxSED7NCxAHL6BFUBqJt-4/s400/IMG_0860+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dish courtesy of Sunbird Kitchen.<br />
Meatballs with harissa yogurt, ricotta salata, dill, and mint. A Moroccan-inspired dish––harissa, dill, and <br />
mint are all common in Morocco. It's not as heavy as meatballs and marinara, and the aftertaste reminds me <br />
of spicy chorizo sausage. The dill, meatballs, and ricotta salata compliment each other well.</td></tr>
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Through my work at Sunbird, I'm rekindling a joyous relationship with food. I respect the entire experience of a meal, from selecting the ingredients to washing the dishes after. <span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Inspired by my work at Sunbird, I’ve been experimenting in my own kitchen a lot this summer. Here are some highlights:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaiIvjxJm2bT-wBYebx5efqTJCmuiqH4o1SQBhfKyaIuJrbCifIpFxkESamgxSfmR_jsX-Z2BDxwn40pNg-ysBKIKbSfpCLC6lMTvtbNqbgdf3qHf6TMGbwWVm9-V9b-QrkMYBwb2RQns/s1600/IMG_0839.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaiIvjxJm2bT-wBYebx5efqTJCmuiqH4o1SQBhfKyaIuJrbCifIpFxkESamgxSfmR_jsX-Z2BDxwn40pNg-ysBKIKbSfpCLC6lMTvtbNqbgdf3qHf6TMGbwWVm9-V9b-QrkMYBwb2RQns/s320/IMG_0839.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lettuce, garden veggie burger, crumbled smoked gouda cheese,<br />
cucumbers, sautéed carrots and kale, hummus, Braggs dressing. </td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Melted gouda cheese on a garden veggie or portabella burger. Just trust me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mixing fresh veggies with </span></span><span style="line-height: 22.08px; white-space: pre-wrap;">sautéed</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> veggies adds interesting temperature and texture to a salad. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fresh mint counterbalances spicy and fishy flavors.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Herbs are most flavorful when kept raw. Thank you, Sunbird Kitchen.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fresh mint and dill compliment each other.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Pickled turnips.</span></div>
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<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 17.664px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Braggs dressing, sesame ginger tofu, and sea beans. The combination of flavors reminds me of sushi.</span></span> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Sd8S7t2smGJdIugehOAtVEF2B0hFrL32kGXXo8VldBjuuRiVjYdCfA-coKlJbHj9X3-D9uNEJ4v-mqclL7ZozcspLuMyY4mqiNcjYgKvtEb0ASW6DTfXZ1l1magfY9JTR8fgmzkj95o/s1600/IMG_0854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Sd8S7t2smGJdIugehOAtVEF2B0hFrL32kGXXo8VldBjuuRiVjYdCfA-coKlJbHj9X3-D9uNEJ4v-mqclL7ZozcspLuMyY4mqiNcjYgKvtEb0ASW6DTfXZ1l1magfY9JTR8fgmzkj95o/s320/IMG_0854.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lettuce, sesame ginger tofu, sea beans, cucumbers, egg yolk, <br />
hummus, parsley, Braggs dressing. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; list-style-type: decimal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fresh parsley on hummus. It echoes the traditional tabouli and hummus combination. This is best when hummus is the main feature of the dish––otherwise the hummus can overpower the dish.</span></span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fish sauce. I've had it in three different dishes this summer: the butter turnips from Sunbird, kimchi from Sunbird, and crispy </span></span><span style="line-height: 22.08px; white-space: pre-wrap;">brussels</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sprouts from The Canteen in Provincetown. It's salty, spicy, and satisfying. </span></span></span></div>
</li>
<li dir="ltr" style="background-color: transparent; list-style-type: decimal; vertical-align: baseline;"><div dir="ltr" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Poached egg whites. Smoked egg yolks. Fried eggs. Omelets. Sunny side up eggs. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-align: center; white-space: normal;">Scrambled eggs. I've tried them all this summer.</span></span></span></span></div>
</li>
</ol>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYiXfS0ZnAY2EVb1j4C2zOWYRKNnUWp-nSvjqe2eyRK-hYvpgdq775ve9gq_n5-b-ZCwcJibvuql2niGfE73zoyjs-liP2yoWfP-lQ_mpGRm4ham0gdkJ3i8UBCnXIcOZMrs-E5WMUAOw/s1600/IMG_0844.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYiXfS0ZnAY2EVb1j4C2zOWYRKNnUWp-nSvjqe2eyRK-hYvpgdq775ve9gq_n5-b-ZCwcJibvuql2niGfE73zoyjs-liP2yoWfP-lQ_mpGRm4ham0gdkJ3i8UBCnXIcOZMrs-E5WMUAOw/s320/IMG_0844.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lettuce, cucumbers, granny smith apple, <br />
scrambled eggs with kale, carrots, sesame ginger tofu.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_aPJGunx_J4679Y6SBWPdlBFWP2cAX3nRcYrkE9KCnu3RPXjSLK3gPbEo3bbWZDEDEu8unHT4Bjt09VzAfY62g1A3iy6l5LmDKlKdJk2_vWXoVcw-PozYnEbuvZXsLfOy4U88eLZp-i0/s320/IMG_0861.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My latest creation: Brown rice toast spread with fresh avocado. Topped with two fried eggs, <br />
sautéed mushrooms and onions, salt, pepper, and fresh rosemary. I was proud of this one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8tZybGvY0jr10staDZJ2SdQbGJ1RSljATxg0_nrOyuHXMgX7IFgc1ACyNO_bU6gjUiywuGGFoHKeDixBXuoaOd1seOzrzj1JpBUZCRzcbAYQ7unn1T2b2A3oR9aZ4ut9xMVApLlnXfc/s1600/IMG_0859.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8tZybGvY0jr10staDZJ2SdQbGJ1RSljATxg0_nrOyuHXMgX7IFgc1ACyNO_bU6gjUiywuGGFoHKeDixBXuoaOd1seOzrzj1JpBUZCRzcbAYQ7unn1T2b2A3oR9aZ4ut9xMVApLlnXfc/s320/IMG_0859.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><br />
Brown rice toast. Mango and strawberries. <br />
Omelet with goat cheese and sautéed mushrooms, onions, and rosemary. Topped with fresh rosemary. <br />
It's photo worthy because the omelet actually stayed intact when I flipped it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I take the time to cook, arrange, eat, and reflect on my food, I'm less likely to jump for the next flavor. I sit back and appreciate what I'm tasting. </span><span style="line-height: 22.08px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m present. I’m satisfied. </span></div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-33383700964981345862016-05-25T21:57:00.003-04:002016-05-25T21:57:45.888-04:00Reasons to Celebrate<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPyUjThN83Mh6GdjSJVuQ2ES8mMZliNlA1E5QfR-bS5MEm8QxnJ-q7myDC0cXxf3_mvq5zLgS-2zd_ioTSjjzG7C63GJ_UAzJD2hL4wl80b2jcTuA-LyC78P2ImQo4e1KV8WSaFZWQL4/s1600/IMG_20160519_105948797.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPyUjThN83Mh6GdjSJVuQ2ES8mMZliNlA1E5QfR-bS5MEm8QxnJ-q7myDC0cXxf3_mvq5zLgS-2zd_ioTSjjzG7C63GJ_UAzJD2hL4wl80b2jcTuA-LyC78P2ImQo4e1KV8WSaFZWQL4/s400/IMG_20160519_105948797.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">*All photos are credited to Ali Brodeur.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It was Day 2 of hiking with my friend Ali in the White Mountains. We were about an hour and a half into the hike, and were yet to see a sign for the Fishin Jimmy trail. We figured we'd have a snack at the junction, but it was taking longer to get to it than we thought, and I just thought a fallen tree was a moose. Finally I saw what I thought was the trailhead.<br />
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"Celebration junction!" I cried. It's a tradition Ali learned from her prior basketball coaches, who she hikes with a lot. Whenever you come to a junction in the path, you shout, "Celebration junction!" and click your hiking poles together or clap. It's a morale booster. It turns out, though, that what I thought was a trailhead was actually just a sign for a stream. We decided to celebrate anyway, and from that point on celebrated at every landmark we recognized from our White Mountain guide book.</div>
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Ali and I said many cheers on our hike. We toasted with brownies, PB&Js, and cinnamon raisin bagels. We took selfies at every lookout and high-fived at each summit. The hiking trip itself was a sort of junction celebration. We both just finished a successful first year at college––schools that <i>we</i> chose, and we're both happy with our choices.<br />
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I think about how anxious and nostalgic I was last year at this time. I still feel the nostalgia when I come home to visit, especially when I go back to see my high school's shows, but I long for my high school life less and am better able to appreciate what I had while embracing where I am now. Last summer, I celebrated my graduation from high school. This summer, I'm celebrating the present moment. There may not be a wooden sign nailed to a tree, but I'm still finding many reasons to celebrate. </div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-27139359112925576792016-03-30T11:53:00.002-04:002016-03-30T11:53:17.089-04:00Basking with the Daffodils<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I raise my face to the sun with the blooming daffodils on campus. I just had a rejuvenating meeting with my advisor regarding course registration for next semester and negotiating the dynamics of my interests in Communication, English, and Theatre. After much deliberation, I have decided to major in Theatre, with a double-minor in English and Communication––and I want to shout it to the world. Amidst my planner filled with pencil marks is a clearing––a better sense of how I want to shape my education at college, the work I want to produce, and the world I want to be a part of. I crouch down by the daffodils and breathe in the spring air.<br />
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<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-37538900274695270012016-01-17T19:18:00.000-05:002016-01-18T19:30:15.977-05:00Hope in the Absence of a Happy Ending<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Where is the hope in the story?" my step-dad asked at the talk after a Tuesday night performance of Ayad Akhtar’s play, </span><span style="font-style: italic; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced</span><span style="line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Unlike most popular dramas, </span><span style="font-style: italic; line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced</span><span style="line-height: 1.38; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> doesn't give us a clean lyrical moral to sticky-note on our mirrors. Instead, one of the most memorable quotes from the play is when the Muslim lawyer Amir, who rejected his religious roots to advance his career, admits he felt a sense of pride on 9/11. A black woman participating in the talk-back after the show affirmed that these conversations amongst minority groups happened after 9/11––the sense of pride that the culturally oppressed finally found a way to "punch back" at those who had tried to impose their cultural values on them. That's not a quote I would put on my mirror.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But it's honest––frighteningly honest. It's a statement that might be held only in a living room, where the entire play is set. What starts out as a celebratory dinner for Amir's white American wife, Emily, in recognition of her Islamic-inspired art (including a portrait of Amir), soon turns uncomfortably political, religious, and personal. The guest list at the dinner party is religiously and ethnically diverse, between Amir (an ex-Muslim), Emily (a white American), Amir's colleague Jory (an African-American), and her husband Isaac (a Jewish art dealer promoting Emily's work). With the help of too much booze, the realistic New York apartment setting transforms into a room of mirrors, as every character's inner prejudices, bottled resentment, and naivety is reflected before their eyes. What they find is a distorted form of the put-together individuals they try to portray.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Despite all this, the play uniquely makes no apologies for its bluntness. Shakespeare's Hamlet explains that actors must hold "a mirror up to nature" (III.ii). This often distorts how we perceive ourselves and the world around us. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> rejoices in the theatre's ability to hold a "mirror up to nature."</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The absence of apology and obsession with "political correctness" is the hope in this unsettling play. There's hope in the honesty of the script and the five actors who are brave enough to embody these discussions. There's hope in the talk-back sessions after the show, where audiences have a public forum to discuss the issues raised in the play. I find hope in the black woman who was brave enough at that talk-back session to affirm the reality of Amir's pride in 9/11. There's hope in the high school attendees in the back corner of the theatre. There's hope in the shared silence and stillness of the audience, and in the standing ovation at the end. I find hope in the support of and engagement in this cross-cultural discussion. </span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brené Brown, a writer and research professor at the University of Houston Graduate College of Social Work, writes about the importance of conversation in her book, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Gifts of Imperfection</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Most everyone reading this book knows how to eat healthy. I can tell you the Weight Watchers points for every food in the grocery store. I can recite the South Beach Phase I grocery shopping list and the glycemic index like they're the Pledge of Allegiance. We know how to eat healthy.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We also know how to make good choices with our money. We know how to take care of our emotional needs. We know all of this, yet...</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are the most obese, medicated, addicted, and in-debt Americans EVER.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why? We have more access to information, more books, and more good science––why are we struggling like never before?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Because we don't talk about the things that get in the way of doing what we know is best for us, our children, our families, our organizations, and our communities. (36-37)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We know the only way to achieve coexistence and communicate across cultural borders is by practicing tolerance, immersing ourselves in diverse communities, and being open-minded to self-reflection and change. To quote Brown, "We know all of this, yet..." (36)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our Congress’ parties can’t come to a consensus about gun control in the United States, even in the aftermath of the Sandy Hook and San Bernardino shootings. American citizens vote for the familiar and therefore “electable” candidate, rather than the one who presents something new. A woman like black lesbian feminist Audre Lorde writes an essay titled, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Age, Race, Class, and Sex: Women Redefining Difference</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, explaining how “white women have such difficulty reading Black women’s work…because of their reluctance to see Black women as women and different from themselves.” </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why? "Because we don't talk about the things that get in the way" (Brown 37). We don't talk about our universal fear of a way of life different from the one we already know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jonathan Lear, a philosophy professor at the University of Chicago, explores this universal fear in his book, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Radical Hope</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Following the story of the devastation of the Crow Native American tribe through the eyes of Plenty Coups, “the last great chief of the Crow nation” (Lear 1), Lear explains how Plenty Coups was able to courageously lead his people in abandoning an old way of life to make room for a new one. Plenty Coups’s courage, Lear argues, comes from his </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">radical hope</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, a hope that allows the Crow to identify their anxiety over an uncertain future.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lear writes, “Humans are by nature cultural animals: we necessarily inhabit a way of life that is expressed in a culture. But our way of life––whatever that is––is vulnerable in various ways. And we, as participants in that way of life, thereby inherit a vulnerability. Should that way of life break down, that is our problem” (6). This universal vulnerability is perhaps why so many individuals and groups cling to their cultural ideals; they’re ways of making meaning in an inherently uncertain world.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Crow culture is grounded on the virtue of courage. Aristotle defines virtues as states of character that, if practiced, will lead to an excellent life (Lear 108). At its core, courage is “living well with the risks that inevitably attend human existence” (Lear 121). The changing nature of human existence therefore requires courage to be flexible (Lear 83). However, most of us have what Lear calls a “thick” definition of the virtues––definitions compiled based on our culture (Lear 59). For the Crow, they defined courage based on their performance in battle. Since virtues are a conscious practice, everything in the Crow way of life revolved around preparation for battle. They lived their lives in confidence of what it meant to succeed and fail in their world. “This is what came under pressure” when the whites began to take over––the possibilities they had counted on as remaining stable (that they would either succeed or fail in battle), were no longer applicable (Lear 26). Thus, they were forced to reevaluate what was and wasn’t courageous. Referring back to Lear’s assertion that “[h]umans are by nature cultural animals,” this reevaluation essentially worked against their inherent nature as humans, thus spurring anxiety. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Lear proposes that our anxiety about this universal vulnerability is our inability to name it (7). Anxiety is inherently unnamable, because it’s grounded in what we cannot understand (Lear 76). Lear suggests that “if we could give a name to our shared sense of vulnerability, we could [perhaps] find better ways to live with it” (7). The power of radical hope is its ability to identify this anxiety, and thus redirect it toward progressive action. The radical hope manifested in a dream Plenty Coups has about a Chickadee allows him to abandon his thick definition of courage and adapt it to the new reality of the time. Courage, now, isn’t defined by the warrior who performs nobly in battle, but by the Chickadee-person who practices his ability to listen and learn from others. For the Crow, this means learning the ways of the whites.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Radical hope is important because it allows the Crow to hold onto the core foundation of their culture: courage. However, Plenty Coups has to have hope that there is a future with a different definition of courage, a future which he cannot yet see and doesn’t yet know how to navigate. Plenty Coups is courageous in his willingness to sit with the uncertainty.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brown writes that, like most people, she “always thought of hope as an emotion––like a warm feeling of optimism and possibility.” Her research revealed “hope is </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">not</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> an emotion; it’s a way of thinking or a cognitive process” (65). She cites the work of C.R. Snyder, who used to research at the University of Kansas, Lawrence. “Hope is learned!” Brown exclaims. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Snyder suggests that we learn hopeful, goal-directed thinking in the context of other people. Children most often learn hope from their parents. Snyder says that to learn hopefulness, children need relationships that are characterized by boundaries, consistency, and support. I think it’s so empowering to know that I have the ability to teach my children how to hope. It’s not a crapshoot. It’s a conscious choice. (66)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Plenty Coups’ radical hope was a conscious choice to sit with uncertainty. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgrace</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> manifests radical hope in its candid script and unsettling ending. Perhaps what was missing from </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">wasn’t hope, but comfort. One woman in the talk-back session suggested that maybe Amir would go on to explore his double-consciousness and become a better person. She was writing the comforting ending she was deprived of. But </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> isn’t </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Beauty and the Beast</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, where Belle finds the man within the beast. As Amir confronts Emily’s portrait of him at the end of the play, the lights go out with his back turned to the audience. We don’t get even a hint at Amir’s inner feelings, or a glimmer of comfort from a possible transformation. We’re left to wrestle in the dark room of mirrors. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The standing ovation at the end of the play was another manifestation of hope in the Boston University Theatre on Tuesday night. Maybe some of them just stood to follow the crowd, but I would like to believe that many of them stood to recognize the conversation that was had onstage. Maybe some audience members were forced to go to the show, like some of the high school students. Maybe some of the heavy silence was because people were asleep. I would also like to believe, though, that most of the audience members consciously chose to spend their Tuesday night immersed in the cross-cultural discussion </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Disgraced</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> brought forth, and that most of them actively engaged and listened. I would like to believe they practiced the courage of the “Chickadee-person,” and had the radical hope to look at their vulnerable selves in the room of mirrors. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Disgraced” runs from January 8-February 7th at the BU Theatre on 264 Huntington Avenue in Boston, MA. Discount tickets are available. Go to </span><a href="http://www.huntingtontheatre.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://www.huntingtontheatre.org/</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for more information.</span></span></div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-67425031347603086852015-12-31T13:59:00.001-05:002015-12-31T14:01:21.848-05:00Going Out on a Limb<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eight months ago I sat in a tree overlooking Walden Pond with my friend Maiel. It was a day of adventures––philosophical conversations in an empty field, going off the path, throwing rocks defiantly across railroad tracks, and daring society to force us to conform to unspecified societal norms. For those of you who read my post, <a href="http://crazydreamer2015.blogspot.com/2015/04/will-grow-and-prosper-wherever-planted.html" target="_blank">"...will grow and prosper wherever planted"</a>, you'll recognize this as the adventure I went on with Maiel in April, on a journey to decide where I was going to college. After an affirmative "D" drawn in the sand, I could hear my heart voice pronounce its need to go to Denison University in Granville, Ohio. Eight months later, after my first semester at Denison, I've had another soul-fulfilling adventure with Maiel that wonderfully captured my last four months at college.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGsgo0kHor5-jFXNmBpN2skrJ1rOe7u-KLfuoqXw48OCtu4figKde7uw15vPZJ2pLw4NWth8lSLon_Q4ZM7TGiuB-i33eJHL5loEL2qd9xmKk2sBdULHSfHKYy6XJzOEMx0AHOvJpPpo/s1600/IMG_0477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXGsgo0kHor5-jFXNmBpN2skrJ1rOe7u-KLfuoqXw48OCtu4figKde7uw15vPZJ2pLw4NWth8lSLon_Q4ZM7TGiuB-i33eJHL5loEL2qd9xmKk2sBdULHSfHKYy6XJzOEMx0AHOvJpPpo/s400/IMG_0477.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Our "Adventure Trees" (Mine: Left ; Maiel's: Right)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Above is just one of the many crafts we made. The inspiration for these trees come from <a href="http://windysunset.blogspot.com/2012/04/how-to-make-gem-tree-for-beginners.html" target="_blank">Windy Sunset's Creations</a>. Windy Sunset's Creations calls them gem trees. We call them Adventure Trees, reminiscent of the monumental adventure we had back in April. For me, that adventure marked the liberating risk of choosing an uncertain future. Granted, the future is inherently uncertain, but as I reflected in my April blog post, Denison was more uncertain than St. Olaf. I chose Denison because I knew there were parts of myself aside from English and Theatre that I had yet to discover. As I wrote in my April post, "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes.<span style="color: #656565;"> </span></i></span>I would bring my solid foundation to the unfamiliar soil, and allow new branches to grow. The result was much like my "Adventure Tree:" very unstable. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I liken our trees to Banyan Trees. The Collins Dictionary of Biology defines a Banyan tree (<span style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; line-height: 20px;">Ficus benghalensis) </span>as, "<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">an Indian tree best known for the production of large aerial roots that are let down from its larger branches and, in effect, form secondary trunks which give extra support and allow the tree to spread." Maiel's tree is the main trunk of the Banyan tree. With its well-balanced branches and neat, evenly spaced out roots, it reflects 18 years of a developed foundation: strong relationships with teachers and peers, invested in her high school's drama program, and a developing romance. I could be describing her foundation or mine (they're similar in these three areas), although it's not for me to describe her emotional attachment to it. I can say that my own emotional attachment to my main trunk was strong––stronger than I realized. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;">I didn't realize how comfortable I was with my tight knit drama group and established relationships until I started branching out. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I brought my stuffed animals and sweaters and love of theatre to Denison. However, despite my initial romanticization of spending every free moment in the theatre and late night walks up the hill from rehearsal, I opted out of the first show for fear of overcommitting myself like I did in high school. Without a cast or a character to immerse myself in, and without my familiar teachers, friends, and environment, I felt like I was dangling in the tree. Unlike the main trunk, the roots growing from the branches aren't neat and orderly, like Maiel's tree. They're like mine––tangled and desperate to cling to something familiar. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">(I think this is why my first friend was someone who carried a briefcase––he reminded me of my friend Alex.) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">What I sometimes forgot was that this new limb was part of an already built foundation. It's the line I drew between "pre-Denison Megan" and "Denison Megan" that left me feeling so disconnected. It felt like I was starting my life over. When I finally realized that this new limb was attached to my main trunk, and would ultimately strengthen my total foundation, I was able to relish in the uncertainty of the ungrounded roots. I can objectively say now that not diving into theatre was the best decision I could've made for myself this semester. If I had gotten right in with a cast, I likely would've followed one group of people, and lost out on the opportunity to let my roots explore new territory. It's through dangling that I found myself in the Communications department so often, and engaging in interfaith dialogue at the house for spiritual and religious life. I'm clarifying what it is I love about English and Theatre––how they help people <i>communicate</i>. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Most importantly, recognizing that my "two selves" don't need to be as separate as I thought opened up the possibility of a multi-dimensional self––a Megan Lovely larger than the </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">theatre-enthusiastic, academic-driven, and self-controlled individual, including parts I don't like. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I realized sitting in that tree at Walden Pond eight months ago, going out on a limb is liberating. What's most significant about the Banyan Tree is that it's the trunks that grow from these limbs that strengthen the core foundation of the tree, and allow it to spread. Before going to college, I was in the habit of saying, "I can't make a decision." The growth I experienced during my first semester at Denison–a school <i>I </i>chose–assures me that I can make decisions. It's affirmative of the power of not just choosing, but embracing uncertainty. These last four months have given me the confidence and strength to keep going out on a limb, and spreading out to unexplored soil.</span></div>
<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-21628072149443345402015-11-06T17:59:00.000-05:002015-11-06T17:59:52.724-05:00Packing My Suitcase for the FutureAfter going almost nonstop since four o'clock this morning and turning in my English essay 15 minutes before it was due, I finally had the opportunity at five o'clock this evening to sit on the hill, drink Happy Belly tea, eat some of Mom's homemade cookies that arrived in the mail today, and read heartfelt quotes from Brian Andreas' book, <i>Trusting Soul</i>. The book is filled with rough sketches of people and quotes about uncertainty, change, growing up, and other ideas related to trust and the future. In the introduction to his book, he writes,<br />
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The future is what you bring with you & you get to choose. I think of the stories & drawings in this book as the things I have chosen, the suitcase I've packed for the future. It's only the essentials, because I know you'll bring stuff, too. I packed the lilt of a voice, the curve of a neck in laughter, the glance between people who have wrapped up in each other in the soft night. I've put memories of my grandparents & other made-up people because it seemed like they'd be fun to have around. I've thrown in more than enough packages of love & play & chocolate because the future can always use extra of those & I sneaked in a few unexpected gifts, simply because there is no greater joy than an unexpected gift to a trusting soul. (Andreas) </blockquote>
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The things I try to include on my blog are what I've chosen to pack for my future––pictures and quotes and musings and questions and stories and moments that fill me with inspiration and joy. I try to avoid rambling complaints or conclusions that end with bitter emotions, because these aren't what I want to bring along with me in the future. I'd rather leave them behind.<br />
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What's even more fun than packing the suitcase is opening it up and sharing it with others, which is why I get such joy out of posting. It's a space for the collective relish of big questions and small moments.<br />
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So for you, today, I'm sharing a picture of the autumn trees on campus and one of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver.<br />
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<i><u>Morning</u></i><br />
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Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.<br />
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.<br />
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.<br />
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.<br />
Then laps the bowl clean.<br />
Then wants to go out into the world<br />
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,<br />
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.<br />
I watch her a little while, thinking:<br />
what more could I do with wild words?<br />
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.<br />
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.<br />
<br />
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***</div>
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What will you pack in your suitcase?Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-51030390749413382432015-10-17T15:35:00.000-04:002015-10-19T19:40:15.302-04:00Dandelion Sponges, Brush Strokes, and Runny EggsIf I painted with a white dandelion puff, I'd get a smattering of dots, a constellation of stars––sponged constellations on the page.<br />
<br />
But I don't want to always sponge. Sometimes I want a paintbrush to make big, long, passionate brushstrokes. Sometimes life is a constellation of moments, but other times it's a passionate sweep.<br />
<br />
I dreamt about this idea a few weeks ago. It has been a sampling semester for me in college. Although I came to Denison fully anticipating to dive right into theatre, I've found myself wading in, afraid of what I might miss above the surface if I'm underwater. There are so many things to do all the time, and I'm surrounded by so many different styles of living and hobbies and paths of life. Considering that all of my classes have touched somewhat upon the question, "What is the self?" my brain is spinning with existential questions like, "What is life?" and "Who am I?" I've dabbled in a lot of different areas this semester, between talking with a variety of people, trying out different clubs (I'm trying fencing this week!), and going to unique campus events, like a lecture on policing. I'm used to fully committing myself to a few areas that I'm passionate about, so not doing that has made me feel somewhat scattered. This, in conjunction with the dandelion puff I found at a park off campus a few weeks ago, is what I think led to my dandelion puff dream.<br />
<br />
I returned to the park this morning. The river and the swings and the trees make it a nice getaway from campus. As I was running over the bridge, I noticed that the trees looked like painted dandelion puffs with their colored leaves. I so badly wanted to stand on the bridge, gather all my breath, and make a wish on the trees, seeing their leaves scatter in the wind.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItiO3NDVxy0kgDIa1Y3-U1ynYQPwB5EfRbX4Qja0TWbOYrVz6P-VddO20W4sm1zy57MHeTMAc189pH1G8lCql4OD-DXkk69o1ywjvYgFHBs7VjSVsNwgjkfOYrn8CRHl5X8QKWb-X3N8/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgItiO3NDVxy0kgDIa1Y3-U1ynYQPwB5EfRbX4Qja0TWbOYrVz6P-VddO20W4sm1zy57MHeTMAc189pH1G8lCql4OD-DXkk69o1ywjvYgFHBs7VjSVsNwgjkfOYrn8CRHl5X8QKWb-X3N8/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I also expressed the desire in my dream, though, to paint with a paintbrush. I don't want to always sponge constellations. I want to paint cirrus clouds. I want to dive in.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2t_tj5rWzi9IoR1IU0j48TOxwGxBUNJ2z8Gb2soxXmWV_slS78w-YtT6zVAZqIThnzMezfm0Ijlh_lyHKnYwZ93ISpK0HDjIeet5nKCre4Z3JY-F8Z35lzLHOEohrrfzg-Ze3gEdCUc/s1600/800px-Cirrus_clouds2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2t_tj5rWzi9IoR1IU0j48TOxwGxBUNJ2z8Gb2soxXmWV_slS78w-YtT6zVAZqIThnzMezfm0Ijlh_lyHKnYwZ93ISpK0HDjIeet5nKCre4Z3JY-F8Z35lzLHOEohrrfzg-Ze3gEdCUc/s320/800px-Cirrus_clouds2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are cirrus uncinus clouds, taken from Wikimedia Commons, a public domain.</td></tr>
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Somehow egg yolks also leaked into my dream. The only explanation I can think of is that sometimes I want to crack the "egg" and see where the yolk (paint) runs. (Although, I'm not usually one to just crack an egg.) </div>
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The thing is, whether I sponge constellations, take bold brushstrokes, or let the paint run, it's all still a work of art. More importantly, it's the contrast of all these that makes for an interesting composition.</div>
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My first semester of college has not been what I expected so far. I'm starting to be more bold with my painting, but it's a process. I think I've repeated that phrase–"It's a process"–every day to myself since I've been here. There are some parts I wish I could paint over, but there are other parts that shimmer. When I step back and I look at the whole picture, I like what I see. </div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-9385526209494672642015-09-30T23:59:00.001-04:002015-10-01T00:08:06.274-04:00Wildflowers in Bloom<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"I'm an imperfect being, living in an uncertain world, and I embrace that."</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRiQvyc4YmdTrrkGdMB8xCTfW7rJPH6zVTkzBnYZRZYSMycT1-I71ZCm4eIPydk8zudpD2pkmH_OynWB1HipWWqCgXY7psu4SJKOnahRujUBq5k14kOSGj1NCbgZvnwGx6EfvGEsZ91U/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRiQvyc4YmdTrrkGdMB8xCTfW7rJPH6zVTkzBnYZRZYSMycT1-I71ZCm4eIPydk8zudpD2pkmH_OynWB1HipWWqCgXY7psu4SJKOnahRujUBq5k14kOSGj1NCbgZvnwGx6EfvGEsZ91U/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">This is a mantra someone told me recently, and it has been very helpful to meditate over. Denison has thrown me into a world full of uncertainty, and it has been scary. I'm surrounded by new people and new food and a new environment, away from the relationships I spent the last eighteen years of my life developing. I knew I was entering an uncertain environment when I chose to come to Denison. As I reflected back in my <a href="http://crazydreamer2015.blogspot.com/2015/04/will-grow-and-prosper-wherever-planted.html" target="_blank">blog post from April</a>, I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn't recognize myself at Denison, and that was (is) scary. Most of my life, I chose the certain option, the safe option. I chose what I knew would match the picture on the front of the flower seed packet. But when I chose to come to Denison, I didn't plant sunflowers or tulips. I planted wildflowers. And I'm growing.</span></div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-5599531602016145522015-08-31T23:20:00.000-04:002015-08-31T23:20:09.128-04:00The Yin and Yang<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTKyvi9DlqlsFk_ex2HpLTi2vAJYeNTrfbrY9Rk5TrytdB86UgoJj7DhudBy3VPiiK4QZKWk0MZYt5-TNEThiU3lGY_Kr6jNTt_jTlVlJHWVzhUabTmMCejGBxkv-qCt6_sWOYkO2Eew/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYTKyvi9DlqlsFk_ex2HpLTi2vAJYeNTrfbrY9Rk5TrytdB86UgoJj7DhudBy3VPiiK4QZKWk0MZYt5-TNEThiU3lGY_Kr6jNTt_jTlVlJHWVzhUabTmMCejGBxkv-qCt6_sWOYkO2Eew/s320/unnamed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This rock I found on the beach is one of the little "you can do it"s that has been keeping me going throughout the college transition. At this phase in my life where everything seems new, I'm questioning myself more than ever. This rock reminds me that it's all about balance, and to find my center and embrace every part of me. </div>
<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-214762874946515092015-07-16T16:35:00.000-04:002015-07-16T16:43:55.117-04:00A Life of One's Own<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRksNsqezhTph1ddxoxTSBcOP9kkiGUmyp7WfYZw4KUaG8tXPv01ePweIllFvF_XhJ0m1SoZQs0-RfHna2TArDeCIOFNWpsIkuMa0swx5-jEPZtyIgqFZVz-mgfRaASAS-OyuuT6UtbGk/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRksNsqezhTph1ddxoxTSBcOP9kkiGUmyp7WfYZw4KUaG8tXPv01ePweIllFvF_XhJ0m1SoZQs0-RfHna2TArDeCIOFNWpsIkuMa0swx5-jEPZtyIgqFZVz-mgfRaASAS-OyuuT6UtbGk/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Are
you a writer?” a customer asked me at work. I was wearing my favorite
T-shirt, one I got from the Reynold's Writer's Workshop two summers ago at
Denison University. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">"I
want to go into English and Theatre," I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">She
beamed, thrusting her hand forward to shake mine. "Best of luck to you!
I'm a writer and my daughter wants to go into theatre. Congratulations!" I
couldn't help beaming back. I could feel my body swelling with pride, being
congratulated just for wanting to go into the field. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s a daunting question that Mary Oliver
asks. It sounds similar to the “slower and booming” clock that Lin-Manuel Miranda
talked about in his <a href="http://newsletter.blogs.wesleyan.edu/2015/05/24/mirandacommencementspeech/" target="_blank">commencement address at Wesleyan University</a> this past
spring. In her novel <i>The Bell </i>Jar (semi-autobiographical), Sylvia Plath analogizes all the different paths she could take to figs hanging
on branches. As she contemplates which path to take, they begin to “wrinkle and
go black,” and eventually drop to the ground because of her inability to choose
one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">It’s a question that I myself often get
overwhelmed with. After all, I can’t even choose how I want to fill a day, let
alone a life of days. But this wouldn’t be my favorite T-shirt if I thought the
question was demanding. (Considering the question literally sits right on my
chest, I probably wouldn’t be able to wear it without my chest tightening up.) I
wear it because it reminds me to be excited about the question, rather than
daunted by it. Instead of a melodramatic take on it, I can be enlivened by it. I
imagine it phrased like how a parent would ask a child in the candy store,
“What do you want to buy?” and the child responding with wide-eyes and a million
colors swirling through their heads. Of course, I’ve always been indecisive, so
whenever anyone asks me what I want I usually take a really long time
deciding. But I’m trying to learn to be excited by choices rather than
overwhelmed by them, and to learn to make decisions without attaching so much
life or death weight to them (unless, of course, it is a life or death matter,
in which case the head in my hands overwhelmed position is acceptable).</span><b><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
I’m at a point in my life where I have so much ahead of me, and I so badly want to make the most of everything that comes my way––every painting I see, every interaction I have, every new place I visit, I want to get something out of it. It seems like a good mindset, except that I try too hard. In trying to figure out how to make the most out of life, I'm losing out on life. So even once I choose the "fig," it's dropping in front of me while I’m trying to figure out the best way to pick it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">My favorite question to
ask people right now is, "What did you major in?" followed by,
"What do you do for work?" which is sometimes followed by, "Is
that what you see yourself doing long-term?" More often than not, the
people I talk to aren't exactly where they want to be, nor does where they are
directly correspond with what they went to college for. Their paths aren't
linear, and that's what makes their lives interesting. We don't have to know
exactly where we're going. All we have to do is look at what's right in front
of us, and know that it's all a part of our overall experience. Not everything
has to correlate, and things may correlate in ways we don't see right away,
until we get to the end and finally everything seems to fit together so
seemingly perfectly that it seems like it couldn't have happened any other way. It's like at the end of a mystery novel when you finally find out "who did
it" and you flip back and wonder how you didn't see it coming, because
everything seems to connect so perfectly. What I'm learning from talking to people is that there is no one "right way to do life." </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That energy I felt when that woman shook my hand embodies the excitement of Mary Oliver's question. I thought about how my math teacher gave me a hug at the end of the year. "Good luck, kiddo," he said. I thought about my classes for this semester, and how next month at this time I will be preparing to head off for Denison University. I thought about working in the scene shop, all the plays I will get to direct, spending long hours in the theatre, and all the people I'll meet. I get to make this life my own. And that's an empowering thing, one not to melodramatize, but to celebrate. </span></div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-10923561678339393522015-07-01T21:49:00.000-04:002015-07-01T21:49:00.250-04:00Salt Water Heals All<div class="MsoNormal">
When I have a sore throat, my grandma tells me to gargle with warm water and salt. It's one of those things I've always done without questioning. I think part of it might be the mental game of, "This is going to make me feel better," like how I tell myself that eating mom's homemade chocolate chip cookies are going to make me feel better when I'm feeling lonely, or how my stepdad says that eating cinnamon sugar Pop-Tarts will ease his sour stomach. The <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/common-cold/in-depth/cold-remedies/art-20046403" target="_blank">Mayo Clinic</a> confirms my grandma's remedy, though, recommending a solution of half a teaspoon of salt with a full glass of warm water for best results. After brushing my teeth and stretching, gargling with salt water was the first thing I did this morning to try and combat my sore throat.<br />
<br />
I'm learning that salt water can also combat a sore attitude.<br />
<br />
After a long first day at work today, I was left feeling more tired and very hungry. This poor combination heightens my typical indecision, making me unable to commit to anything, whether it be what to eat or what to do. There are times I'm able to shrug off my indecision––laugh at myself or roll my eyes––and others when I get frustrated with myself about my indecision, sending me into an extended and unproductive rut of self-irritation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I spent the majority of dinner picking at the food on my plate, not feeling in the mood to eat even though I knew I was hungry. I was irritable and didn't talk much, and was mad at myself for being irritable. I knew I was being ridiculous, and I knew getting mad at myself wasn't making the situation any better, but there are times I'm good at getting myself out of the rut, and others when I'm not. I went to the beach after dinner with my family to check out the surf. As my stepdad observed the waves to the far right, I walked down to the water silently, anxious to feel the salt water on my skin. I took off my glasses, put them in my sweatshirt pocket, and scooped the water in my hands and splashed my face. My whole body instantly relaxed. I splashed my face again, wanting more than anything to submerge myself entirely in the water. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We went back home, and I was tempted to go back to the beach to swim. I wanted the salt on my arms and legs. I wanted coarse and salty hair. The grainy water makes me feel raw, scrubbed clean, and refreshed. My mom and stepdad warned me against sharks, though––apparently they're more frequent at dawn and dusk. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'll go for a dip with you," my mom said. I agreed, but then questioned whether I wanted to go alone, and then whether I wanted to go at all. I got in my swimsuit, told my mom I was going alone, and then froze at the door––classic "paralysis analysis." I collapsed on the steps in my tri-colored swimsuit, feeling deflated and frustrated at my continuing indecision.<br />
<br />
"I'm taking you to the beach," my mom said, and I got in the driver's seat of our Ford Explorer. She came out moments later in a towel identical to the one I was wearing. I couldn't help but laugh. We drove to the beach, and I left my flip-flops in the car, wanting to feel the sand underneath my feet. I could already feel the calm setting over me. We dropped our towels on the life guard chair and ran in.<br />
<br />
"Next wave, we dive," I said. We did without hesitation. I could feel my heart skip a beat as it plunged into the cold water. I felt my skin absorbing the salt water, like settling into a hot bath. I dipped again––and again. I laid on my back and floated, letting my hair fan out like a mermaid's, like I used to do in the bathtub. I laughed the kind of laugh I do when I'm really happy and feeling free.<br />
<br />
"If you're feeling down, find salt water." That will be the remedy I tell my grandchildren. </div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-57767632069768484312015-06-30T09:04:00.001-04:002015-06-30T09:05:30.710-04:00From Cairn to CairnOne ________ at a time. I first learned it through open water swimming. One stroke at a time. There are days when the water is calm and warm, and the swim is easy. I can enjoy watching the hermit crabs scuttle on the sand below me, and allow my mind to drift. Then there are days when the waters are rough and jagged. I'm tossed side to side by the waves, I swallow salt water, and I battle the current the entire time. These are the days I must take the swim one stroke at a time. I look for the orange buoys ahead. If I make it to one, I can make it to the next.<br />
<br />
I learned something similar from the mountains this past weekend. My uncle, who has lots of hiking experience, agreed to take me hiking along the Presidential Range. It was a challenging experience, mentally more than physically. I found that in the mountains, even more so than in the ocean, you never know what is going to get thrown your way.<br />
<br />
Our first two days of hiking were beautiful. It was clear and sunny, but not hot. Hiking along the ridge on Saturday, we could see for miles. We stayed at the Lakes of the Clouds hut that night, and overnight the mountain quickly reminded us of its strength. With 60mph winds blowing against the hut all night, it sounded like a war zone outside. From my bottom bunk, I tried to tell myself that I liked the wind. I loved storms. But every time I listened to the wind, I felt a pit in my stomach as I thought about having to hike in that weather outside, over 5000ft in elevation, in just a few hours.<br />
<br />
When I got up a few hours later, the weather hadn't gotten better. We put on all our rain gear, bundled up in layers (significantly lightening our packs) and stepped outside, where I was promptly nearly blown over. I felt like I did the first time I swam at Nauset Beach, with the big waves: frozen with fear. Except this felt scarier, because I wasn't in water. I was in open air, with nothing to catch my fall. On top of that, neither my uncle or I could see the trail because visibility was so poor. We went back inside, questioning whether we should continue. After a hut crew member pointed us in the direction of the trail, though, we figured as long as we could keep on the path, we could get down.<br />
<br />
That's when we began our cairn to cairn trek. Cairns are piles of rocks that are used to help mark the trail above tree line. For two miles, we were exposed to the winds. There were moments when the wind was so strong, all I could do was stand my ground, grip hard on my uncle's hiking pole, close my eyes, and wait for the gust of wind to pass. Other times we had to hold hands through the wind and make it to the next big rock, where we could take shelter for a minute. The whole time, we just kept setting landmarks for ourselves. One cairn at a time. If we could make it to one cairn, we could make it to another. One step at a time.<br />
<br />
I'm learning that's how I can get myself through my moments of anxiety. When my mind starts spinning, I need to slow it down by looking at what's immediately in front of me. I can't think about what I'm going to have for dinner or how tired I might be tomorrow or how I'm going to finish everything on my to-do list. I just need to take it one step at a time, put one foot in front of the other, and site the next cairn ahead.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-50438461136187582642015-06-06T10:10:00.001-04:002015-06-06T10:10:47.138-04:00The Ticking Clock<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yesterday was my last day of high school classes. Next week at this time I'll be lining up for graduation, ready to turn the tassel and graduate. It feels anti-climactic. These last few weeks were so stressful. I was on auto-pilot, not quite aware of what I was doing until I got to the end and it was over.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been up and down all week. There are moments I’m desperate to cling to everything familiar. I just want to fall asleep next to Mom on the couch. I hug her goodbye when I leave for school in the morning, and then go back for another because I wasn't fully present with the first. I kiss my brother goodnight and take him out for ice cream probably more than he has the craving for. I steal every hug I can from my friend Connor. I want to make sure I touch base with all my senior friends. I plant myself down at their lunch table and will myself not to leave, for fear that I'll later regret I didn't spend enough time with them. I visit my grandparents next door often. I'm anxious to eat as much of home food as I can, from Mom's homemade cookies to my stepdad's oatmeal to Grandma's crepes. I'm scared about not getting enough of all those I love.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then there are moments, sometimes only an hour later, when I'm anxious to throw it all away. I want to toss all my t-shirts from high school drama. I don't want my parents to talk to me. I'm determined to be independent. I don't want help or advice. I put on my Denison sweatshirt and browse their website, watch the campus tour and envision myself there in a few months. I just want to run away to Denison, away from familiar influences. I feel uninspired and stuck. I’m ready for a change of scenery and new voices. I feel uncultured and ready to move on.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can just as quickly switch back, suddenly feeling overwhelmed about leaving, scared that I'm losing part of myself. I tear off my Denison sweatshirt, nauseous at the sight of anything red. I dig through my closet trying to find </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">something</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to wear. Then somehow I decide that nothing I wear feels like me and everything is restrictive, and all I want is to be naked on the beach, where no fabric restricts my chest and I can just breath the salt air.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I get frustrated at myself for these fluctuating emotions. I don't eat and then I binge and then I get more frustrated with myself, unsure of what to eat or who to talk to or what will make me feel better. I didn’t know the direction in which this post was going, except that I just needed to write and get out all these emotions. As I wrote, I realized that what I’m scared of and very aware of is time. I'm conscious of time slipping by, and I'm paralyzed by everything I want to cling to and everything I want to do. I remembered that Lin-Manuel Miranda, who graduated from Wesleyan University in 2002, delivered the Wesleyan commencement address this year, and he mentioned something about a “ticking clock.” I re-watched the video and realized that Miranda was describing exactly how I was feeling, and, as he often does, he put me at ease.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Before you read further, I recommend you listen to Miranda’s commencement address, beginning around 4:15.</span><a href="http://newsletter.blogs.wesleyan.edu/2015/05/24/mirandacommencementspeech/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://newsletter.blogs.wesleyan.edu/2015/05/24/mirandacommencementspeech/</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Although I will provide some context for my references throughout this post, they will be easier to follow if you watch/read the address. It’s also just a really good address.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In describing how he felt upon graduation, Miranda said,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Most of all, I remember the sound of two distinct clocks in my head. One is super fast, whirring. T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s the sound of your four years at Wesleyan. With one day to go, all the packing you still have to do, all the people with whom you are still trying to find a moment to say the right goodbye."</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">That "super fast, whirring "T-t-t-t-t-t-t-t" clock in my head is the sound of the last 18 years of my life.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then there’s the second clock, “slower and booming.” “[T]hat’s the sound of the rest of your life,” Miranda says, “and what you’re going to do with it in the time you have on this earth. Some of you hear this clock constantly. You wake up in cold sweats at the thought of it. Some of you are utterly oblivious to it, God bless you. Guess what? It’s ticking whether you hear it or not.”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">That “slower and booming” clock is the clock in my head that is so anxious to go off to Denison and start this next phase of my life. I want to immerse myself in the arts. I’m so ready to “sink my teeth” into them. But I feel like I keep delaying it, choosing an outdoor orientation instead of an arts one because I was afraid the art one might be too stimulating for transitioning into college, and I thought I might like a lower-key transition. But the thing is I’m hungry for inspiration and stimulation. These last few weeks have been so hard to stay motivated in school, and my lack of investment in my classes has been bothering me, because I’m usually someone who is very invested. So even though I know that I’m going to enjoy the outdoor orientation, the part of me that regrets my choice is the part that's very aware of the "slower and booming" clock and is anxious to start following her passions. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">I cried as I watched Miranda’s address. I just want to be where he’s at. So badly. I want to be so angsty with emotion and things to say that I crank out some project in three weeks. I want to be so invested that I forget to eat or sleep. (It's the romantic idealist in me.) I just want to do something, but I'm so overwhelmed with this desire to do something that I don't know what to do. And the clock ticks louder.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Miranda describes two characters in his new musical <i>Hamilton</i>: Vice President Aaron Burr and Founding Father Alexander Hamilton. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">He says that both Burr and Hamilton are aware of “the ticking clock of mortality,” and present two different ways of facing death: Hamilton charges forward, while Burr waits for the perfect opportunity. Neither approach guarantees success, and I think what </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.38; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Miranda is trying to say in his address is that sometimes we will wait for our shot, and sometimes we will charge forward. But whether we’re waiting or charging forward, we must “sink [our] teeth into this life” and not let go. We must cherish what we have now while always looking ahead, ready to take our shot. </span>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-5880713632909959202015-05-31T19:12:00.001-04:002015-05-31T19:14:39.579-04:00Growing and Prospering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Senior year is wrapping up, college is getting closer, and every day my <a href="http://crazydreamer2015.blogspot.com/2015/04/will-grow-and-prosper-wherever-planted.html" target="_blank">wildflowers</a> grow taller and stronger. Keep on growing wildflowers. Keep on growing.</div>
<br />Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-62172887160782049392015-04-22T14:00:00.001-04:002015-04-22T14:00:34.622-04:00"...will grow and prosper wherever planted"<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I’m going to college! After nearly a month of stressing about where I’m going to go next year, I am excited to announce that I am officially a member of Denison University Class of 2019. I think I knew where I wanted to go these past few weeks, but I had to come to the decision on my own terms in my own way––with thorough contemplation, heavy analysis, and lots of symbolism.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">My college mascots: Clifford the Big Red Dog (Denison's mascot is "Big Red") with the ever-faithful Olaf the Snowman, donning a new Denison pin. The two of them remind me of Snoopy and Woodstock. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Up until yesterday afternoon, I was torn between Denison University in Ohio and St. Olaf College in Minnesota. I had several moments when I nearly decided on Denison, but then I panicked at the thought of actually committing to one place. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I always imagined myself at a place like St. Olaf. St. Olaf is me in a college––group conversations about favorite soup flavors, warm sweaters, cozy spots by the fireplace, an Olaf stuffed animal, homestyle meals, a dry campus, heavy on the arts, and not so big on sports. Looking on the Facebook page, nearly every student was into the arts in some way, and that was enticing and comforting.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I never imagined myself at a place like Denison. I only applied because I attended the Reynolds Writing Workshop there the summer before my junior year and it’s my stepdad’s family school. I figured if my other colleges didn’t work out, I could see myself being satisfied at Denison. Denison is opposite of who I’ve always defined myself to be––more into sports, the more “typical” college experience (I certainly didn’t have the “typical” high school experience going to a small, project-based charter school), Greek life, and more outward with their accomplishments (as evidenced by their active outreach and promotion). </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I recognized myself at St. Olaf. I didn’t recognize myself at Denison, and that was scary. By going to St. Olaf, I was more sure of what I was going to get, of who I would be. I couldn’t see that so clearly at Denison. From what I gathered, Denison was more diverse in student interests, and while I knew I would find some of "my people" (people into the arts) eventually, it wouldn't be as easy. By going to Denison, I feared that perhaps I was trying to be someone I wasn’t, trying to fit into a more university-style campus (although it has just over 2100 undergraduate students and is by no means a large school). </span></div>
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Yet there was something exciting about Denison. Before I visited three weeks ago, I was really excited to go on the trip, and I couldn’t understand why. While there, I didn’t find “my people” right away and I was worried about being able to find my place. Yet I liked walking around campus. It was more sprawled out than St. Olaf was. I felt free. It felt like college. I remember feeling somewhat out of body at Denison, as if I was watching myself from afar. I sought out help at the IT office to fix my water-logged computer. I sang karaoke at the coffee house with a Denison student. I talked for almost two hours to another prospective student on the plane ride home, and didn’t even know his name until an hour and a half into the conversation. </div>
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<span class="s1">If you’re getting lost in my yo-yoing pros of St. Olaf versus Denison, then you understand a taste of what’s been spinning in my mind these past few weeks. Ultimately, I knew that I could be happy at either school, but that each school would offer me something slightly different. I was trying to figure out what I wanted. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">So let’s backtrack to Sunday, the first major step in my college decision. I woke up feeling deflated and helpless. My inability to make a decision was clouding my focus and making it difficult for me to be present or accomplish anything. I was anxious to get out of the house and get a change of scenery. I messaged my friend Maiel, who is always ready for an adventure, and asked her along for the journey. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We originally planned on hiking Mt. Monadnock, but as the morning slipped away, that plan got downgraded to Mt. Wachusett and eventually Walden Pond in Concord, MA. We both still had our full hiking gear, complete with backpacks, plenty of water, a day’s worth of snacks, first aid supplies, sunscreen, bug spray, and hiking boots. We were both eager to get away from civilization, which was harder at Walden than if we were climbing to the top of a mountain. We ventured deep into the woods though, eventually finding a stream and following it into an open field by another pond. We sprinted across it, feeling full of life and also slightly rebellious. Ignoring the “No trespassing” sign, we wandered around the pond, and eventually just lay in the field debriefing about life, which naturally for me, involved talking about college.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“The way you’re talking sounds like you want to go to Denison,” Maiel said. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I don’t know, I can’t make a decision,” I said, and we soon started our trek back home. On our way, we came across railroad tracks.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Maiel, who also enjoys symbolism, took a poetic approach to them. “You know, railroad tracks are kind of romantic,” she said. “They represent the confinements of society. Society tells you to stay within their rigid path.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Continuing with my rebellious feeling, I plopped myself down in the middle of them. (I recognize that to most, my “rebellious” actions of the day may sound pathetic, but they were freeing for me.) Maiel sat down next to me, and we started throwing rocks at the tracks, first one by one, seeing if we could bounce them off the track, and then by the handful, letting them fall where they fell, every rock another decision that we weren’t going to give a damn about and just let happen. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Alright, now what you’re going to do is take this big rock, and throw it up into the air,” Maiel said, drawing a line with her foot in the tracks. “This side is Denison, and this side is St. Olaf. Wherever the rock lands, is where you’re going to go to college.” She hid behind the fence a good ten feet away so I wouldn’t impale her with the symbolism, and I threw the rock.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But the story doesn’t end here, because the rock fell on the St. Olaf side. (Besides, while I may have been feeling freer than usual, I’m not someone who can just let what could be a coincidence make my decision.) </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“How do you feel?” Maiel asked.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I could be happy at either place!” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">And I ran off the tracks and we continued our journey home, venturing off the trails some more, climbing trees, and trying to get as much outside ourselves as possible.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As we started making our way back to the car, I plopped myself down in the sand by the pond. “I don’t want to go home until I make a decision,” I said. “At home, there’s too much external influence. My mind is too cluttered.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I was absent-mindedly playing in the sand for awhile when–"Stop!" Maiel shouted.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“What?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You just made a D in the sand,” she said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Really?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“You were starting to make an O, and I was about to say, 'I wish D’s and O’s didn’t look so similar,' but then the O went away and you started to make a line and then you made the D.”</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A slightly more defined version of what I drew. </td></tr>
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<span class="s1">“I think it’s Denison,” I said, suddenly feeling sure.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Really?”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Yes. But I can’t go home, because I know I’ll start second-guessing myself. I need to stay out of my house.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We went back to her house and made dinner, and characteristic of me, over the course of the next few hours I started questioning my decision. It was 10:30 at night, and I was once again feeling stuck. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I’m not leaving your house until I can call my mom with a decision about where I’m going to college next year,” I said. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Do you need some wine? Do you need to get drunk to clear your head?” Maiel joked.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“No. I need fresh air,” I said. We went outside on her porch and I leaned over the railing, trying to imagine myself at each school and seeing how I felt, like what Mom used to make me do when I couldn’t figure out which stuffed animal I wanted to buy in the store.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“What’s your soul telling you?” Maiel asked after a few minutes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“It’s telling me that St. Olaf is comfortable and is warm sweaters and my cousin Rachel and an Olaf stuffed animal. And Denison is scary and new and exciting.”</span></div>
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<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“And what do you want?” she prompted.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Denison.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Really?” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Yes.” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I left as quick as I could after that, anxious to call my mom before the doubt kicked back in. I called her in the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot, not wanting to risk the doubt that might sink in when I got home. I told her my decision, my tone scared, confident and excited.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">That night, I felt the lightest I’d felt in a long time. I found my Clifford the Big Red Dog stuffed animal in the attic (Denison’s mascot is “Big Red”), and threw on my Denison sweatshirt. I danced, skipped, and ran around my neighborhood twice, smiling so much it hurt and crying because it was the first time I could really see my future. I laid on the grass for awhile, looking at the stars, and slept a sound 10 hours that night.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And then I woke up in the morning, panicked. All day Monday I was mopey and unsure. I started reconsidering St. Olaf and was leaning more towards there, even though we had a “Denison celebratory dinner” with burgers (Ohio has lots of farms and therefore good, grass-fed beef) and fries and chocolate shakes. On Tuesday, I went for a run with my childhood friend Coltin around Walden Pond and then out to breakfast, and I talked both of our heads in circles about which school I wanted to go to. We went back to his dad’s house and he was fixing his car. There was part of me that said I should get back home to work on memorizing songs for the musical <i>Rent</i>, but there was part of me that just wanted to stay and watch him work on his car, because that was new and exciting. There wasn’t much for me to do though, so I ended up leaving.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">On my way back, I passed a flower stand and decided I really wanted flowers. What I originally wanted was magnolia flowers, a la the line in Carrie Underwood’s song “Crazy Dreamer,” “Hello you wild magnolias, just waiting to bloom.” But magnolias grow on trees, and even if I had the space to plant a new tree, the flower stand didn’t have any magnolia seedlings. I realized what I really wanted to do was plant something, so I went to O’Connor’s Hardware Store and bought a packet of wildflower seeds.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It’s then I made my decision. I would go to Denison, where I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to get. I chose this particular packet of wildflower seeds for two reasons: one, because it didn’t specify the types of flowers that even <i>could </i>grow, and two, because of the line on the back of the packet,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"The large selection insures that many varieties will grow and prosper wherever planted and reseed themselves each year." </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I, too, will grow and prosper wherever I’m planted, and I like the idea that I’m not sure what I’ll look like in full bloom.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I bought the seeds and drove home blaring Taylor Swift’s song “22." Luckily no one was home. I ran upstairs to my room, grabbed my checkbook and Denison acceptance packet, looked up how to write a check, and got out of the house as fast as I could to drive to the post office to mail my $300 deposit before anyone could get home and see what I was doing.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When I got to the post office, I slowed down my brain enough to fully recognize what I was doing and accept that. I didn’t want to make a rash decision, although I was purposefully keeping myself moving forward to stop myself from going into another circle of indecision. I asked a nice man at the post office to look over my deposit check and make sure I signed it correctly, and he told me to add the two 0’s over the 100 after the words "Three hundred" to indicate that it was $300 even. After quadruple-checking the check and enrollment card, I sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the blue mailbox where I couldn’t reach in and change my mind.</span></div>
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Turning around, I saw a girl I used to sing in the choir with that I hadn’t seen in years. </div>
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“I just mailed my deposit into college!” I said, eager to tell someone.<span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Where are you going?” she asked. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Denison University!” I exclaimed. She was the first person I told.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Congratulations! My friend’s a junior and he was just touring there today,” she said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I drove to Bedford Farms ice cream to get sugar cones because we had chocolate coconut-milk ice cream and chocolate Jimmies at home, and I wanted a celebratory ice cream cone. The girl behind the counter gave me six cones for free, because she couldn’t find a button for “just cones” in the register. I gave her a nice tip, and then turned back at the door to say, “I just enrolled to college!” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Where are you going?” she asked.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Denison University!” </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“My friend will be a freshman there this fall and will be playing baseball!” she said. I was ecstatic––two people within a half hour who knew someone either attending or looking to attend Denison.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I wanted to share the joy. I drove back past my house to Market Basket to get a gallon of chocolate ice cream, and then finally drove home. I nonchalantly put the ice cream and cones away, and asked my stepdad where I could plant some wildflowers. I planted my seeds, digging my hands in the dirt and getting it under my fingernails, usually not one to enjoy dirty hands but loving the fresh earth scent. When my mom finished with her client, I gathered my family in the living room and announced my decision, and we all had ice cream cones. Shortly after I went for a walk and called my dad to tell him, and as I was finishing my walk I passed my childhood friend Bella’s house. Eager to tell someone else, I knocked on her door but didn’t wait for her to let me in.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I’m going to college!” I shouted. I stayed for dinner and we hung out for almost two hours, which we haven’t done in a long time.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I’m writing all of this today, the day after, because I needed the time to process it all for myself. I didn’t post my college decision on Facebook yesterday, or tell all my friends and family. I didn’t wear my Denison sweatshirt to bed or drink out of my Denison mug. It would’ve been too overwhelming. I actually avoided packing a lot of red for my New York trip this week. I had my initial excitement, and now I need to process it. It reminds me of how I felt after my first date freshman year. I had my initial giddy excitement when I was first asked on the date, and then afterwards I was more quiet but feeling very content and fulfilled. That’s how I feel now.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I had another moment of self-doubt last night, questioning whether I'm trying to be someone I’m not by going to Denison. I don’t know what I’m going to get at Denison, like I don’t know what’s going to grow in my wildflower garden. And I feel okay. I will bring my sweaters and stuffed animals and love of theatre to Denison, but I will also be given the space to grow in an environment where I'm not surrounded by my familiar tastes. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I usually like being in control and knowing what's next, but I also like what happens when I’m out of control. I let myself be free and let what happens, happen. It’s how I fell in love this year with a boy two years my junior. It’s in those out of control moments that I surprise myself. I venture outside of who I’ve defined myself to be, and I grow. </span></div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-31892102919495800682015-04-10T22:45:00.000-04:002015-04-10T22:45:47.603-04:00My Story<div>
There are days when I can't wait to leave high school, to leave home, to go out into the world and start defining my life. Then there are days like today, those "Oh my God, high school is ending" days. Suddenly everything feels rushed. I don't feel like I have time. I have to move on and leave some of my friends behind, where they'll continue being in high school without me. And while I know that I don't want to stay in high school, the comfort of it can be appealing. So I want to capture all of high school but I don't feel like I possibly can, and my schoolwork seems so insignificant compared to the people I want to see, the things I still want to do. It all piles on and I'm left feeling really overwhelmed. </div>
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I tried tangoing with friends to make sure I didn't isolate myself amidst my overwhelmingness. A run helped clear my head. <i>Sex and the City</i> and <i>The Office</i> were good mind-distractors. Chocolate frozen yogurt and peanut butter cups never hurt. But it always comes down to Lin-Manuel Miranda––composer, rapper, actor, lyricist, and playwright. Watching interviews with him and listening to his work never fails to remind me of the direction in which I'm headed.</div>
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Before I performed Miranda's Tony-award winning musical <i>In the Heights</i> my junior year of high school, I knew I wanted to study theatre in college. But studying Miranda's musical intensified that passion for me. While preparing for <i>In the Heights</i>, I watched every YouTube video imaginable about the show and Miranda. I soaked up every interview, every backstage tour, every promotional video. </div>
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If I were to say who my idol is, it would be him. He, along with those he has brought with him in his artistic endeavors (Alex Lacamoire, Thomas Kail, Christopher Jackson) are spearheading this next generation of art. Miranda doesn't just create art––he creates timeless art, as evidenced by the stories he chooses to tell. (His new musical <i>Hamilton, </i><a href="http://crazydreamer2015.blogspot.com/2015/02/when-their-world-becomes-my-world.html" target="_blank">which I saw</a> back in February at the Public Theatre, tells the life of Founding Father Alexander Hamilton.) His art already spans generations. </div>
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Tonight, watching videos of <i>Hamilton </i>was what relaxed me. I just want to soak up everything Miranda says. His genius of turning a 800+ page biography into a hip-hop musical astounds me. He said in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wboCdgzLHg&list=PL_wkt47jVmHcVoBMPEVx-B3fiE3qQ_ouX&index=5" target="_blank">an interview with CBS</a> (warning about spoilers in the video) that by the time he had finished the second chapter, he was looking online, saying, "Someone's already made this into a musical. How could someone not make this into a musical?" That sureness, that clarity of vision, is the most incredible feeling. In my limited directing experience, the best way I can describe it is like wearing a different pair of glasses. Everything looks clearer. Unnecessary muck is blocked out of my sight. I see the stage, I see what's in front of me, and I start to construct my vision. </div>
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The underlying message of <i>Hamilton</i> is, "Who lives, who dies, who tells your story." Miranda is telling the story of Alexander Hamilton. He is bringing Hamilton of the late 18th century into the 21st century, making sure he lives on. Art tells stories. It crosses bridges between social classes and generations, creates this universality. I want to tell stories. </div>
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I still don't know where I want to go to college next year, but I know that I want to end up where Lin-Manuel Miranda is. I'm ending one chapter of my life and moving on to the next. I feel like I can see what I want five chapters from now to look like. Now it's just a matter of figuring out how I fill in the ones in between, what will best get me to that target chapter. </div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-91774272081934371072015-03-29T13:10:00.003-04:002015-03-29T13:10:42.335-04:00Trust in Yog(i)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpPk3BrT_eiyIcm7eae93eFhAOTFvAJK2BnPQSXMINvV3VCX2SKls51xKAywsPO-ew5VfS-Pceat4Dm8hefDm9tkfhe8BGgd_QmzAbSPO2138Nipz9nDahpSwfaGSngo-dGoLsWS6u5I/s1600/IMG_3963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEpPk3BrT_eiyIcm7eae93eFhAOTFvAJK2BnPQSXMINvV3VCX2SKls51xKAywsPO-ew5VfS-Pceat4Dm8hefDm9tkfhe8BGgd_QmzAbSPO2138Nipz9nDahpSwfaGSngo-dGoLsWS6u5I/s1600/IMG_3963.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"There is nothing more precious than self-trust."<br />
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There are some days when Yogi gets it just right, and this morning was one of those times. The quote on my Yogi Throat Care tea tag this morning made waking up with a sore throat a little more bearable. </div>
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This weekend is one of those weekends I am ready to fly. Perhaps it's the shining sun and the melting snow, the rugs airing out on the car roofs, or my new haircut, but I feel like I've been holed up for awhile. I'm not just feeling claustrophobic from winter. It's high school. Yesterday I went for a fast run, threw on my Denison University sweatshirt (one of the schools I'm considering going to next year), and went over my friend Shelby's house to talk about the future. It's all I want to talk about. I'm at the point now where people ask me what year I am, and I can say I'm a senior. They ask me where I'm going next year, and I can give them an answer, which is that I'm not sure quite where, but I have ideas. They ask me what I want to study, and I can tell them, which is I want to double-major in English and Theatre with the hopes of directing.</div>
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It seems like so long ago that I submitted my college applications. I remember the day vividly. It was the last Saturday in October. I had rehearsal for <i>Peter Pan</i> in the morning, then came home instead of going to my friend's senior day for soccer (which I remember feeling guilty about) because I wanted to submit my applications. Around 6 o'clock I finally finished, and then I drove over my friend's house and we sang and watched the musical <i>Rent. </i>Now I've heard back from all my colleges. The waiting game is over. Now it's time to decide. The dilemma of decisions...</div>
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I think part of my characteristic indecision comes from my fear of “choosing wrong,” whatever “wrong” may be, whether it be what movie we watch, which cinnamon roll to choose, or what topic to study for a project. It’s much easier when someone else makes the decision, because then if it doesn’t turn out to be the “best” decision, well, I didn’t make it, so I don’t feel inclined to beat myself up over it. But this is my future, and the idea that I am getting to decide where I want to go next year excites me. I don't want anyone else to make the decision for me. </div>
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For awhile, I was questioning whether I really did want to go far away for college, which was scary, because I mostly only applied far away. Visiting St. Olaf last month was like a trip into my future. The entire weekend was scary, exciting, and overwhelming. I had so much freedom...the freedom to skip lunch and sit in on an extra class, to share my passions with strangers, to sit in on a Lutheran chapel service. There were moments I felt confident, that I was ready for this next phase in my life, and others when I just wanted to crawl back into my bed at home. But I kept pushing through the weekend, telling myself that I was okay. My weekend at St. Olaf confirmed my decision that I do in fact want to go away. Everyone challenges themselves in different ways. My challenge is going away from home, where I don't have Mom to validate my every decision. </div>
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"Are you going to be okay next year? I mean, without Mom?" my brother asked me a few weeks ago. It was a valid question, and I think the fact that even my younger brother picked up on my reliance on my Mom assured me it's important to start relying on myself more. I've always been okay on my own. I like my space. But I second-guess myself a lot. </div>
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And this is where Yogi comes in. I need to start trusting myself and my own decisions. I need to be confident in myself, and accept my decisions. If I make the wrong decision, I need to own that and roll with it, rather than berate myself for “choosing wrong.” </div>
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And I can't just trust myself because Yogi said it. It can't be trust in Yogi. It has to be trust in <strike>Yog</strike><b>i</b>.</div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-79220294354346054422015-02-26T19:26:00.001-05:002015-02-26T19:26:30.609-05:00When Their World Becomes My World<div class="p1">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with Javier Muñoz (understudy for Alexander Hamilton) after the show.</td></tr>
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<span class="s1">I’m writing this post while sitting in Logan Airport. In less than one hour I will board a plane to Minneapolis. Exactly one month ago I received a letter from St. Olaf College announcing that I am a finalist for a theatre scholarship. Tomorrow I will take part in the Fine Arts Scholars weekend, during which I will meet with theatre professors, sit in on an Intermediate Directing class, tour the theatre facilities, chat with students, and stay overnight with a fine arts student. I will be among people who I might be working with on a daily basis next year at this time. I am going off to college for the weekend, but it seems like so much more.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">This past week, I got a glimpse at my future. On Sunday, I saw the new off-Broadway musical <i>Hamilton</i>. Lin-Manuel Miranda, playwright of <i>In the Heights</i>, is the mastermind behind <i>Hamilton. </i>In addition to writing the musical, Miranda performs as the principal character, Alexander Hamilton. The musical tells the story of the founding father, Alexander Hamilton...through rap.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I became familiar with Miranda through my work on <i>In the Heights </i>last winter, in which I played Nina Rosario in my high school’s production of it. Since then, Miranda has been my idol, the figurehead I look at for where I want to be someday. After I met him at Lawrence Academy in October, I immediately pooled all my Christmas and birthday requests into tickets for <i>Hamilton. </i>With its catchy tunes, timeless themes, and stunning choreography, props and set, it was worth a lifetime of Christmas and birthday requests. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The night went better than I could have imagined, especially considering the initial disappointment that Miranda wasn’t performing that night because he was taking notes in the audience. </span> Javier Muñoz understudied him, and after the first number, it didn't even matter that he wasn't Miranda––I immediately bought that he was Hamilton. Additionally, to my luck Miranda ended up sitting right in front of me, and I got to chat with him during intermission. I also met Robin de Jesús (who happened to be in the audience), who played Sonny in <i>In the Heights. </i>I ran into him in the lobby during intermission, and explained how his version of Nina’s song "Breathe" helped me find my voice with the character. Jesús brought a softer tone to the song, something that better matched my voice than Mandy Gonzalez's powerful belt. I also met several of the cast members, including Christopher Jackson, whom I’ve long admired from the countless YouTube videos I’ve watched of him.<br />
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What I explained to each of the people I talked to was how incredible it was to be in their presence. The playbill compared Miranda to Shakespeare. Shakespeare took common speech and communicated it through poetry; Miranda is taking common speech and communicating it through rap. Also like Shakespeare, I feel as though Miranda is creating his own theatre company. Miranda took several people from his <i>In the Heights </i>team, including Director Thomas Kail, Christopher Jackson (who played Benny in <i>In the Heights </i>and plays George Washington in <i>Hamilton</i>), and Javier Muñoz (who understudied Miranda as Usnavi in <i>In the Heights</i> and understudies him as Alexander Hamilton in <i>Hamilton</i>). The work they are doing is revolutionary. They are taking the theatre and bringing it to this new generation, communicating themes about family and loyalty and storytelling through language of today. These are the people who I believe, ten years from now, everyone will be studying. They are on the brink of making it big––<i>Hamilton </i>is already scheduled to go to Broadway. To be able to talk with them when they are on this cusp, to be able to see their work while it’s still off-Broadway, is such an honor. </div>
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<span class="s1">On Sunday, I was a part of their world. This weekend, I will further dive into this theatre world. Every day when I’m working on my Senior Project (which is all about exploring what it means to be a director, and specifically, what it means for me to be a director), I’m going deeper into this world. And I can’t imagine living in a better one. </span></div>
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-39978366938228810132015-01-31T23:58:00.001-05:002015-02-01T00:21:39.846-05:00AirDoes one hunger for air? Thirst for it? Whether it's a thirst or a hunger, I crave air. Specifically, cold air. I love the sting in my lungs on a winter run––it's why I always take off my neck warmer in the last 100m, to breath in the fresh air. Fresh air is why I like to wear tank tops when I ride a bike, to feel the air on my skin. I like everything that comes along with the cold. I like the goosebumps and the rosy cheeks, the tingling on my skin when I come back inside. I especially love it when I get fresh air before bed, when my cheeks are still cool as I lay down on my pillow.<br />
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Mostly, though, I love air because it gives me space. I get claustrophobic when I don't have enough room to breathe, to stretch. My friend told me that one of the hardest parts about college for her is the lack of space. She doesn't have room to stretch her limbs. She longs to just spread out her arms without hitting anything.<br />
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This past week, I had two beautiful open-air experiences. The first was on Sunday, before the big blizzard. My mom, stepdad and I ran around Walden Pond, lost in the snowy woods with the blue sky peaking through the trees. But the best part was the end of the run, when we emerged out from the woods onto the snow-covered lake, a great tundra in the middle of Concord, MA. So many times have I swam across that lake, but never have I run across it. And I just kept laughing, like I do when something is so great and somewhat unbelievable, the same kind of laugh I get in English class when my teacher or a classmate makes a particularly profound connection. There was just so much space on that lake. I felt like I do when I swim straight out at Skaket Beach on the Cape, into the horizon. This tundra is another place I will return to when I'm needing air.<br />
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And then there was Tuesday, the day of the blizzard. After a day spent inside, I was craving the air by 10:00pm. I went for a walk by myself around the neighborhood, trudging through the three feet of snow in my driveway. At some places, I couldn't even lift my feet. When I got to the end of the driveway, I had to practically climb over the pile of snow to get to the snowplowed street. Now on the plowed road, I skipped, ran, spun, and hummed at odd intervals. There was a driving ban because of the snow, and the snow had stopped falling awhile ago, so I didn't even have to worry about running into a plow. I threw my arms out and pranced in diagonals down the hill and then up it, my shadow lively in the streetlights. No one could see me. I had the world to myself. It was so remarkably freeing.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-67297820042510710692014-12-31T23:49:00.000-05:002014-12-31T23:51:09.303-05:00Stepping Into the New Year<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOs-4I3Ra7p8mwf0DaVRpH-GDcz4ewH7O-cJNn-5PrJ9SYk_aA0yvn3t0weOJUocLN259oUPKXNNiYMKkLqjA29hQT-tRbuRl2KqkxXpJzUTKgDpynjsYS8ADuRlyY-G-39Qf7KF1TZI/s1600/IMG_2668.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOs-4I3Ra7p8mwf0DaVRpH-GDcz4ewH7O-cJNn-5PrJ9SYk_aA0yvn3t0weOJUocLN259oUPKXNNiYMKkLqjA29hQT-tRbuRl2KqkxXpJzUTKgDpynjsYS8ADuRlyY-G-39Qf7KF1TZI/s1600/IMG_2668.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Our intuition comes from innocence." </td></tr>
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That was my Yogi tea bag tag message for the new year. My intuition, my gut, my instinct, comes from innocence, purity, no muck. It comes in the silence within myself, when I can close out the bickering devil and angel on each shoulder. It comes in the feeling, not the label. It comes in my secret smiles to myself when I'm driving alone in the car, listening to Michael Bublé. It comes in the happy rumble in my stomach when I satisfy my potato and ketchup craving. It comes in the lightness of my step as I run along the beach at midnight. </div>
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This year, I aim to listen to my heart. It's where I'm happiest. It's where I feel the most connected to myself. It can be hard to get to sometimes, mucked up with clutter and indecision and doubt. I'm good at talking myself out of things. I tend to focus on what I don't know, rather than what I do.<br />
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I need to start with what I know. Start with what I can do. For example: </div>
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I don't know what to eat. What do I know? I know I like vegetables. Good. I know I like rice. Good. I know I like chocolate. Good. Go from there.</div>
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I'm feeling crummy right now. What can I do to make myself feel better? </div>
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I don't know what I want to do. What do I know that I don't want to do? I don't want to watch a movie. Okay. That's one thing off the list.</div>
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It's like working on a math problem. </div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
Step 1: <b>Reword</b> the problem into words that make sense. </blockquote>
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Step 2: Write down <b>what I know</b>. </blockquote>
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Step 3: <b>Solve.</b></blockquote>
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Step 4: <b>Check my work</b>. Did I come to a solution? If not, <b>try again. </b> </blockquote>
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It's like writing an essay. Ernest Hemingway said in his memoir <i>A Moveable Feast</i>, "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know." Then, "go on from there." If I can write one true sentence, I can write another.<br />
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It's like putting one step in front of the other. Just take each day one step at a time, one moment at a time. If I can take one step, I can take another. Step through the muck. Be patient. Keep walking until I find my heart.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-24132960526398883332014-12-23T00:11:00.000-05:002014-12-23T00:11:47.938-05:00A Solstice Run<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzPtVbHdNNeICHRO6TcP7R1XVyOScT_NWla-PWvhjZyZv2LO5iaPReXr6ey8sZ5m2GxpziB3_T8PgNPx3O-7ecvbLOEcnN_LIRd-uZpnT3Qq2ulYkTJEPYBIu5ow22mn1mYq0FrUpakQ/s1600/1222140059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinzPtVbHdNNeICHRO6TcP7R1XVyOScT_NWla-PWvhjZyZv2LO5iaPReXr6ey8sZ5m2GxpziB3_T8PgNPx3O-7ecvbLOEcnN_LIRd-uZpnT3Qq2ulYkTJEPYBIu5ow22mn1mYq0FrUpakQ/s1600/1222140059.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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11:45pm and we laced up our sneakers. The car idled in the driveway, the exhaust against the night air like the stream from the tea that awaited me when I got home. It was December 21st, the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, meaning that starting the next day (today), every day gets a little longer. And we–my mom, Michael, my dog Mocha and me–were ready to welcome the longer days.<br />
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This is the fourth or fifth year we've ran on the winter solstice. The first year we did it, the solstice fell on a full moon, and we ran by moonlight while the "cows" howled in the distance, or so my mom told my brother. The solstice hasn't fallen on a full moon since that first year, but the solstice runs have become a tradition. There's something about waiting up until midnight, seeing your breath fog up in the night air, feeling your way blindly on the trails, listening to the lull of the night. It's as if the world and we are in on a little secret. "Shh..." it tells us. "Don't let anyone know I'm awake."<br />
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This year was kinder than some years. There wasn't any snow on the ground and the air was cool but mild. Although it was cloudy, it wasn't too dark; our eyes adjusted quickly.<br />
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We did four laps this year–one for each runner–and then came home to tea and Trader Joe's gingerbread men. We each had four cookies for four laps for four runners. I went to sleep with my cheeks still rosy from the night air and my stomach warm with tea and cookies.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8424768688991839702.post-15927552410219557182014-11-16T16:26:00.001-05:002014-11-16T16:26:36.439-05:0021 Pages of Peter Pan<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNcGhRFoEKZP2ue4FV_KyZbgbFKAtXPUduhVLylu_npyJLRrwYKQ_gKweZgAr1GiQ0YzJvJBOYI_C4wZeJaLyGSo_lED7W3tcBwf7Lag8EHjL4QekgyAKbASn4tAf16ZvmfMDKzxnlzE/s1600/unnamed-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNcGhRFoEKZP2ue4FV_KyZbgbFKAtXPUduhVLylu_npyJLRrwYKQ_gKweZgAr1GiQ0YzJvJBOYI_C4wZeJaLyGSo_lED7W3tcBwf7Lag8EHjL4QekgyAKbASn4tAf16ZvmfMDKzxnlzE/s1600/unnamed-4.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Wendy costume.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last night, my fellow castmates and I took flight one final time to Neverland in our high school's production of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Peter Pan: The Official British Musical</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I specify that it was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Official British Musical</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> because it is so much richer than the Disney version. More true to the book, it primarily tells the remarkable coming of age story of Wendy Darling.</span></span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-c7b205a5-ba41-1e61-c3de-9ecb28ae870e" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't fully realize until last night at IHOP that we have been working on <i>Peter Pan</i> for the last six months. In June I was cast as Wendy, the twelve-year-old girl struggling to balance her desire to grow up with the temptation to stay a child alongside the whimsical Peter Pan––the perpetual little boy. Since then, I have invested myself in the story, like I do for every play.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This story was unique in that I had an entire book and several movie adaptations to construct my own interpretation of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Peter Pan</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, and more specifically, Wendy Darling. I was also fortunate to have castmates who shared my love for analyzing the play––in particular, my friend Emily, who played my mother (Mrs. Darling), and my friend Joe, who played Peter Pan. I scrolled through all our Peter Pan e-mail exchanges and Facebook messages and copy and pasted them into a document. That document is 21 pages long. There's so much I want to talk about, so I think the best way to address them is to break this post up into sub-divisions.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Wendy, Peter and Mrs. Darling</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mrs. Darling and Peter are the embodiment of Wendy's coming of age struggle. In Mrs. Darling, Wendy sees her adult self. J.M. Barrie's book implies remarkable similarities between Wendy and Mrs. Darling. It is because of Mrs. Darling that Wendy realizes she needs to grow up someday. The book begins: </span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end. </span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To say "she must grow up" has a tone of negativity, yet there is part of Wendy that is excited about growing up. She loves taking care of her brothers. She loves to play house. In picturing herself grown up, I imagine that Wendy thinks of Mrs. Darling. To Wendy, growing up is inevitable. She doesn't question it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Until Peter. Peter flies into her window and enchants Wendy. He talks about flying and mermaids and fairies; about the Neverland, a world filled with fun and games and make-believe. Peter has somehow managed to beat the system and not grow up. In meeting Peter, growing up is no longer inevitable. Wendy has a choice, and her decision about whether or not to grow up is one of her many coming of age moments in the play.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The book says Wendy "grows up of her own accord," so eventually Wendy grows up because she wants to, not because it’s inevitable.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Wendy and Peter</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Throughout the play, I was obsessed with figuring out Peter and Wendy's relationship––in particular, Peter's feelings for Wendy. How appropriate, considering in the script Wendy asks Peter, "What are your exact feelings for me?" It was a line that got laughs every performance, which made me defensive of Wendy. "She really wants to know!" I thought. "This is really hard for her!" But then again, it is a very adult line for a twelve-year-old girl.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Joe and I talked about this a lot, each proposing our own theories. Below are two of our many theories.</span></span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My Theory: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I definitely get the sense that Wendy loves Peter, and she wants Peter to love her too, but love is too grown up of an emotion for Peter. What I can't understand (and maybe you have some insight/ideas?) is where Peter stands. When Wendy asks how Peter feels about her, he says that he feels like a "devoted son." Do you think that's all he feels? I know he enjoys Wendy's company, but the book doesn't seem to show any adolescent romantic interest (that's the weirdest way to word that) on Peter's side. There's no kiss on the cheek at the end, or sweet song. Peter forgets to get Wendy for spring cleaning the second year, and forgets a lot of their adventures. But, although he doesn't come back for almost 30 years, he does come back eventually, so I guess he still remembers Wendy, which, I don't know, is maybe significant because Peter forgets so much (including Tinkerbell and Hook)? </span></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Wendy desperately wants Peter to love her and to grow old with her. I think Peter does love Wendy to some degree, but he doesn't know it's love because it's too adult of an emotion for him. I think Peter is sad Wendy isn't staying with him, which is another new emotion. But ultimately, he sacrifices Wendy because he loves being a child more. So why does he kiss her? I don't know.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Joe's Theory: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well...maybe he can't admit he does love her so instead of admitting it he just kisses her instead. Oh I've got it. Peter does love her. And he does want to grow up but his ego is too big and he won't admit it... I could probably keep coming up with weird things to answer your question but I really don't think I know either.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The kiss at the end of the play was hard for us to figure out, because it shows a remarkable amount of character development for Peter. It was important to us that this kiss contrasted the kiss at the beginning of the play. For the first kiss, our director instructed Joe to make a surprised look after I kissed him–like "What is this?"–immediately followed by a, "I like this" look. At that moment, the kiss is just, “This is cool.” The kiss doesn't have the same emotional attachment for Peter as the kiss at the end does, when he kisses Wendy. But where does that emotional attachment come from? And how much emotional attachment is there? </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here I am talking about Peter even though I played Wendy, but I can't help trying to analyze him, because Wendy spends the whole play trying to analyze him and her relationship to him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I still don't think Joe or I have the entire relationship figured out, because I don't think we're supposed to. A few weeks ago, Joe and I watched an acting video of the renowned German American actress and acting teacher, Uta Hagen, with a group of friends. In it, she warns her students to not think about what they're feeling onstage––the words “think” and “feel” themselves are contradictory. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I do that to you all the time,” I said to Joe. “I’m always asking you, ‘What are you feeling?’ ‘What are you thinking?’ ‘I’m going to do this here because of this.’” </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In this way, I realize I am more like Wendy than I thought I was: the desire to always put a label on my emotions, rather than just feeling them; wanting to have it all figured out; wanting to know rather than feel, or rather, know</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">how I feel, because knowing is so much more concrete. But the more time I spend trying to know how I feel, the less I feel. I understand this when I’m onstage. My best performances are the ones when I’m in the moment, not thinking about, “What is my character feeling at this moment?” but just being that character in that moment. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This show comes at a very apropos time for me. It’s my senior year, and as I prepare to wrap up this chapter in my life, I’m torn between the desire to grow up and the longing to stay a child. Like Wendy, who grew up of her own accord, I am leaving home of my own accord next year. No one’s telling me I have to go to college or that I need to go far away. I’m optimistic and nostalgic; excited and scared. I’m taking ownership of my life, which scares me because if I’m wrong, there’s no one to blame but myself. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last night was my friend Connor’s last performance ever on our high school stage. Three Novembers ago, we were performing together onstage in </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Romeo and Juliet</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, our first high school play. As I watched him bow, I couldn’t stop crying, thinking about the time when I will need to say goodbye to him and my other senior friends. We’ve been through so much together. I have so many emotions about it all and I’m not always sure what I’m feeling or how I’m feeling, and somehow I want to find a name for it. But there I go again, thinking instead of just feeling.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My favorite part of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Peter Pan</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> was the final number, when Joe and I slow danced while he sang “Don’t Say Goodbye.” I believe that is Wendy’s freest moment of the play, because she is not thinking, just feeling. And in my performance, I too was not thinking, just feeling. Nothing made me feel freer than when Joe would spin me in my blue nightgown, and I could feel the fabric swishing around me and the wooden stage beneath my slippers. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Don't think of when we meet again, if it will be the same. Don't cry too hard, just smile, be happy now, be strong,” sang Joe as Peter, urging me not to worry about the future. "Don't wonder how we came to now, don't wonder why,” he sang, telling me not to think about the past. Just think about the present. Because if you read the book, you know that Peter forgets to come back for Wendy most years. He’s too preoccupied with his own adventures. But in the moment, Wendy believes with all her heart that Peter will come back for her, and that’s all that matters. </span></span></div>
Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01809181186200355366noreply@blogger.com0