Accept Expectation April 17, 2012

Study abroad. Study abroad. Study abroad.

These two words have been the drumbeat of my education. My first semester of college, I was already looking into programs and deciding where I wanted to go. After searching the  Internet far and wide, I selected my location: England. It was all I wanted. It applied to everything I was doing, what with my English major and interest in theater, and my brother had gone a few years earlier. He and my parents said it was a must. I would be walking the same streets as Shakespeare! Seeing the same sights as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle! Everything I worked for during my freshmen year, whether classes or a backbreaking summer job, was for England.

But then, the price of the program I’d chosen skyrocketed. Suddenly, there was an extra $5,000 standing between me and my goal. Along with that, my 120 credit major wasn’t flexible enough for me to pick up and leave for a semester. My world, which had had such possibility for growth, suddenly began to close in on me.

Then, out of the sky fell a travel study program that would take me away for three weeks in July. This program was actually through my university and with a professor I was familiar with. I began to get excited. For me, living abroad for a semester wasn’t nearly as important as experiencing London. I imagined myself skipping down cobblestone streets, wearing flowing dresses while I nibbled scones, and sipping tea beneath the rim of an extravagantly colored hat. Things were falling back into place.

A conversation with my brother this weekend, however, uprooted all of those expectations. He pushed for a full semester. It was the best experience of his college career, he said. I had to do it, he said.

I was back to square one.

Today, I suppose my focus is on expectations, the ones we have for ourselves and the ones others have for us. Although expectation can be motivational, it can also cause crippling disappointment. I fell in love with the idea of a program and, when that desire was unrequited, I was heartbroken. When I finally moved on, my brother’s opinion still managed to sully my excitement. In the case of study abroad, expectation has gotten me in trouble.

My question is, should we value expectation? Or is it better to go through life without preconceived notions?

While it’s probably impossible to separate real life from what we expect life to be, it’s interesting to consider. If I hadn’t expected to be in England, would I be open to visiting other countries when the program fell through? If my brother hadn’t studied abroad, would he and my parents have different thoughts about my experience? These questions apply in so many aspects of life, whether study abroad or simple, day to day decisions, but are never really acknowledged. As human beings, we have expectations. But rather than simply saying, “This is what I expect” of ourselves and others, we disguise the things we want beneath different labels. “I just really wanted…” or, my personal favorite, “If only I could have…” are perfect examples.

Why can’t we just accept that expectations often fall through?

Why can’t we live without expectation?

Or, better yet, would we want to?

Living life without expectation would also mean living life without regret. I try my best not to put stock in regret, but that standard is often difficult to uphold. There are so many things I want to do in my life. Pardon, let me rephrase that. There are so many things I expect of my life, and I fear that leaving one aspiration untouched will leave me with regret I can’t shake.

Study abroad. Study abroad. Study abroad.

The beat is quieter now. The motivation is less. I don’t know whether or not my expectations, or those of my family, will be fulfilled. Right now, I don’t have the time to think about it. There are other expectations I have, such as my GPA for this semester and my personal hygiene, closer to the forefront of my mind.

My goal today is to enter every situation without expectation. I want to let go of preconceived notions, at least for today, and see how it feels.

Of a Certain Age April 16, 2012

I had a different post written and ready to go. In this post, I berated the education system. I ranted about a handful of my Education professors and lamented the downfall of teaching as we know it. The piece was well written. It made a number of good points. Publishing this post, however, would have been dishonest.

Lately, I have had a lot on my mind. The Education classes that I’m currently enrolled in haven’t been helping, mostly because they add twice the stress of my other classes while engaging half the brain power. However, blaming my discontent on these classes rather than on myself seemed wrong. That’s where this fresh post comes in.

Now that I’m a college student, I have to take responsibility for the things I think and feel. Currently, I feel unhappy. I feel restless and uncertain about my future, which makes me feel frightened as a result. While the classes have influenced those feelings, they didn’t create them. There’s something inside of me causing unhappiness, which I have to figure out. I need to actively decide to change my life, or at least the aspects of it that are unsettling me.

When I brought this up with my parents for the first time, they thought I had PMS. A few friends pretended like they didn’t hear me. A professor attempted to psychoanalyze and tease me out of it. Even though these interactions were unhelpful, they pushed me to keep trying. Was I creating something out of nothing? Were these feelings normal? I felt as though I was going through mental puberty, except this time around, there wasn’t a graphic book to help me understand what was going on.

After enough attempts, however, I found people willing to listen. They sipped coffee, nodded, and allowed me to rant. They helped me see myself. I wasn’t going crazy, and knowing that was enough to soothe my mind. At least temporarily.

Perhaps this could be referred to as a quarter life crisis. Or a mid-college-life crisis. Either way, things are about to change. I don’t exactly know how or why, but this restlessness will no longer be ignored. Here is my voice! Here are my thoughts!

Mind you, those exclamation points are still unspoken. I over think everything, including my own state of crisis. It will still be a while before I begin waving flags with my innermost aspirations scrawled across them. But goodness gracious, I’m this close to opening my mouth and letting the chaos ensue!

I like to think that making this post is a start.

I Should have Told You January 29, 2012

You are why I’m still awake.

It’s 1:17 a.m. on a Saturday night. The dorm is like a page out of “Good Night Moon,” with everything all silent and dark, but I am not sleeping. I’m laying here, staring at my drawn window shade. I am thinking about you, what you said or did or left behind. Or, in a few cases, the ways in which I let you go.

I try to live without regret. Every relationship, whether friendly or romantic, failed or successful, is something to learn from. When I try applying that idea to a still, black room, however, my logic is compromised. This scattered dialogue begins sprinting through my head. Your faces appear, right there behind my eyelids, and my mind starts chattering away:

“I am trying to be happy for you.”

“Sometimes, I wish it could be just the two of us.”

“Stop talking about her.”

“I wish you could see how beautiful you are.”

“Don’t leave me behind.”

“I am so thankful for you.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Open your mind, just a little.”

“I love you.”

“Your religion hurt me.”

“I am happier without you.”

“I miss you.”

“You violated me.”

“Even though I want to, I still can’t forgive you.”

“Can we talk?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I should have told you.”

The Poet Tree January 26, 2012

I climbed the poet tree,

Sang through his branches and

Embraced the thick trunk miracle

That crumbled into dust

Against my cheek.

 

I climbed him for security,

His as much as my own.

We forsook the brutal saws as humor

And quivered quietly

Against the laughter of breeze.

 

When they told me to come down

I stretched arms in imitation and

Wracked brains with memory.

Snapping branches

Hopeless leaves fluttering fast

Beneath steel toed boots.

Theirs was a resolute destruction.

 

I climbed higher and my

Bare feet clung to word sap as

The air began to thin.

Voices below hummed along with

The casual brushes of birds and

Mingled with the migrating moon.

 

I climbed until there was

Nowhere to go but up.

And as the tree began to falter and

Shake with the cruel teeth of aggravation,

I inhaled the night sky.

Stressaholic January 24, 2012

Chocoholic. Alcoholic. Workaholic. Shopaholic. Everyone has their own form of addiction. Before tonight, I had taken pride in my non-obsessive behaviors. I like sweet food, but not in excess. I work out regularly, enjoy the occasional cup of coffee, and like shopping just as much as the next nineteen-year-old female. Tonight, however, I realized that my Average Joe persona is nothing but a mask. I have displayed past obsessive behaviors including, but not limited to, my addiction to stress. 

This semester, I am taking eighteen credits including an internship, heading up the English club, rehearsing with the improv troupe four hours per week, performing three pieces in “The Vagina Monologues,” and beginning my Education field experience. Just reading through that list makes me feel dizzy. The insanity of all of this isn’t the schedule, however, but my willingness to continue adding stressors. Because it’s only week three, and because my schedule hasn’t gotten into full swing just yet, I’m unoccupied. And when I’m unoccupied, I loose the ability to function. I laze around, procrastinate, and finally secede to the illness that’s been chasing after me for the last few months. I become somewhat pathetic. I overanalyze. I forget what a clean bedroom looks like. 

None of this is healthy, not the lack of function or the overabundance of it yet to come. I’ll eventually be tearing my hair out, but I don’t know any other way to exist. My high school experience was similar to the one I’m having now, jam packed with extra curricular activities and leadership positions, and I loved every second of it. I’ve loved college, too, despite the high levels of stress I inflict upon myself. Sometimes, I want to punish myself for pursuing multiple interests. Why couldn’t I have just picked one thing and stuck to it? But on the other hand, my experiences and time at school wouldn’t be as fulfilling if I’d chosen just one activity.

When is the line between diversity of interests and insanity crossed? How do I know when I’ve made the fatal step from one to the other?

My name is Olivia, and I’m a stressaholic.

Extremely Incredible January 14, 2012

I hope the girl running next to me didn’t feel uncomfortable. Nonchalantly, I tried wipe away a tear. After casting a sidelong glance her direction, I cleared my throat, took a sip of water, and willed myself to stop publicly weeping like a nincompoop.

Some books should come with disclaimers. “Do not Read in Public,” to be exact, especially for folks like me that wear their emotions on their sleeves. Reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close that morning may have been a good idea, but not at the gym. It’s the kind of book that requires a warm blanket and tissues. Perhaps a bed and some chamomile, if you’ve experienced a recent personal tragedy. But this book is far too fragile and beautiful to be drenched in sweat amongst grunting weightlifters.

For those who are unfamiliar, the book centers around a young male protagonist named Oskar. When I had been told about the book prior to reading it, most people only mentioned that he’d lost his father on 9/11. My first impression was uncertain. Would this book be a tearjerker? I knew it had to be. Would it be overly sentimental? The song “Christmas Shoes” came to mind. It’s so easy for books with young protagonists who have experienced tragedy to take on this voice of feigned innocence and syrupy sentimentalism. This is supposed to be okay because the narrator is a child, but in reality, these emotion traps are set by forty-year-old authors begging for your tears. The words seem to be trying too hard for emotion rather than simply speaking for themselves.

I found myself weeping onto the buttons of my treadmill while reading because this book doesn’t rely on easy outs. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close is honest. It is written with beauty and care, and instead of pitying the young speaker, I respect him. His voice is strong and clever, riddled with questions about humanity that the characters struggling around him often accidentally answer. Tragedy whispers through every sentence of this book, but not just one large, horrific event drives it. The people woven into the story are all human and, simply because of what they are, they represent everyday, seemingly average, and small tragedies themselves.

Thankfully, I am only halfway through this book. There are still many pages of Oskar’s adventure that I get to travel through before reaching the conclusion. I don’t know what the key belongs to, nor do I understand the meaning of the mysterious “Black.” The letters seem to be piling up. Who is The Renter? Right now, I only know that this book must be cherished. And that, maybe next time I want to read, I’ll put on slippers instead of Sketchers.

Thanks, Rob December 30, 2011

As long as I’m feeling inspired, I might as well publish my third…

 

We stood outside of the Cadillac Palace Theater, gaping at the sign that read “The Addam’s Family Musical: December 27-January 1.” For the ten millionth time, my mother looked at our tickets, which were for December 17. “These are for today,” she said again, frustration hanging from her words. But, the theater doors were locked. And there weren’t any lights inside. And although the nice couple from Champagne was just as confused as us, we couldn’t help but wonder why there wasn’t an angry mob of supposed-to-be theater attendees screaming for Revolution on the streets of Chicago.

 

“The Addams Family” had stood us up.

 

My high heels stung as we walked dejectedly back to the hotel. They bit my toes, scolding me for donning them without a suitable occasion. Instead of striding down the carpeted aisles of a reputable theater, my shoes now carried me down the dirty sidewalk of State Street. A drunken man whistled as he walked past. I buttoned the top of my jacket.

 

“What do we do now?” my mom asked. The tickets were still dangling from her hands. She had carried them around in her purse for over a month, tucked away in a secret pocket no one could find even if the bag was stolen. Only a half hour earlier, these tickets had been like gold. Now, they were just useless pieces of paper.

 

No one could tell us what had happened, not even the concierge at our hotel. For one reason or another, “The Addams Family” had unexpectedly cancelled all but four days of their run. As we stepped into the elevator, I ran through the possibilities in my head. Tragic cast accident? Faulty set piece? Director implosion? Nothing seemed to fit, and my faith in the theater had been shaken. This had never happened before. What company in its right mind cancels three weeks of shows in Chicago?

 

We returned to our room on the seventeenth floor and began brainstorming. My brother, the social coordinator and Chicago resident of the family, began thinking up ideas. He and his iPhone went to work.

 

“I hope we get a refund,” my mom said, furrowing her brow.

 

My dad, using his own friendly cellular device, was researching the downfall of “The Addams Family.” He nodded.

 

“What about the theater?” my brother asked, lifting his eyes from the luminescent glow of the touch screen. “The movie theater, I mean. ‘Sherlock Holmes’ has a 9:20 showing on Michigan Avenue.”

 

Within ten minutes, we had piled into a taxi cab headed toward the theater. The mention of Robert Downy Jr. was enough to get us out of our funk. He has been a member of many of our important celebrations together, including Christmas 2009 and my brother’s graduation. While most seniors were symbolically shifting their tassels, we were enjoying the antics of that delightful Tony Stark character as he saved the world. Although our family is composed of four people with four very different personalities and tastes, Robert Downy Jr. movies are one thing we can all agree on.

 

My high heels happily accompanied me out of the theater. They bathed in the comfort of thick carpeting and giggled as we stepped onto the escalator leading down to the lobby. No one crudely whistled. There weren’t any pedestrians giving us funny looks. And most importantly, Robert Downy Jr. hadn’t stood us up. He was there when we needed him most, an unassuming superhero waiting for the day live theater would leave us stranded in the cold.

Second Helpings December 30, 2011

Yesterday, I spent three hours sitting on my living room floor and contemplating a story I’ve been writing. My friend and I decided that a book conversation was long overdue, especially since we recently discovered just how much we both need help. We’re both working on pieces we hope to make into novels (I fear that I’ll regret publishing that statement someday…) but are realizing just what an undertaking that is.

This month was supposed to be my NaNoWriMo. Surprise, surprise, I’ve let if fall by the wayside. There are just so many entertaining television shows and comfortable pillows in my home. It’s quite distracting.

Anyway, focus has been rediscovered. And thanks to a viewing of “Julie and Julia” moments ago, so has the world of blogging. There are at least three posts I’ve saved but haven’t had the courage to publish as my second on this blog, but that all ends now. Here is post number two. Although it may seem like pointless rambling, this is my next step. I am committed to this, and I’m committed to my novel. Both will be completed. Someday.

That “someday” needs a bit of touching up. But it’s late. Further decisions will simply have to wait.

Speak December 15, 2011

It’s a typical night at home. My parents have gone up to bed and have left me, the nineteen year old college student, seated on the couch in the living room. This has been the extent of my time at home, really, other than endless hours of reading and contemplating whether to get out of bed. Isn’t winter break glorious?

But with so much time to think, I find myself wondering about words. I love to read them. I love to write them. And more than anything, I love to collect them. My collection of words is extensive, from the books lining the shelves upstairs to the novel recordings on my itunes, from the lyrics dancing through my head to the countless pieces stashed secretly in Microsoft Word. I appreciate all of these in different moods and circumstances, and I love to share songs, books, or opinions with anyone that asks. But my secret words, the thoughts I keep locked away in my laptop, are never shared. I am afraid of whispering them aloud.

Which brings me to this blog. Hello.

I want to become a better writer. I want my ideas to translate into black and white, and I want to end this secret affair with my words. With this ambition in mind, I embark on a journey. Through this medium, I hope to express everything that I can already say aloud and to embrace it’s written permanence. I have a voice. Now I just have to learn to love it.