Artist Spaces: On Knowing the Studio Life

Barcelona, Spain

             Lindsay is turning 21, so Lindsay, Laura and I flee from our little university dorms in England, fill our backpacks with granola bars and a change of clothes, and hop on a weekend flight to Spain. Even though it’s November, it’s still sweater and cotton dress weather in Barcelona.

Days before we leave on the weekend, Lindsay talks a lot about Antonio Gaudi and how he is her favorite architect in the world. “You will love his work,” she tells me. “You’ll never see anything like a cathedral that Gaudi has designed.” I highlight his name in my guidebook and jot down some initial thoughts about his work in my journal.

*

My older brother has dark brown curly hair and his pockets are always full of pens and pencils. There are shelves of sketch books in his old bedroom in my parents’ house. We are about 11 feet tall when I sit on his shoulders. We when were younger, he used to sit on the couch and play his gameboy, and I’d drape myself over the back of the furniture like an old throw blanket, giving him advice on which pokemon to use for any given circumstance. He ignored my hints and tips, his face staying calm and reserved, even as I pinched the back of his neck and hissed instructions in his ears. He’s always been like that: so collected and composed and mild, pouring all his thoughts into journals and ink drawings.

*

Our trip to Barcelona has a rocky beginning. We miss our flight because there are “technical difficulties” with the Piccadilly line on the way to Heathrow Airport. When I call my dad from the airport to ask him to wire more money into my account to buy a new ticket, he answers his work phone and I burst into tears because I realize that I haven’t heard his voice since I moved away in September. Lindsay takes the last available seat on a flight to Barcelona that evening to meet up with her brother in Spain. Laura and I wait until the next morning to leave, camping out in the airport terminal in a fortress of magazines and backpacks and coats.

When we all reunite in Spain the next morning, Lindsay shows up with her brother, Nate. We are all too tired to act excited to see each other. As we ride the underground system to our hostel, Lindsay looks out the window and stares into space as if she were trying to remember a vague memory or the opening chords to an old song. I tell her that I’m excited to visit some of Gaudi’s work and the corners of her mouth move upward into a distant smile.

*

My older brother has always been an artist. During the early years- when he was only 7 or 8- he drew smudgy pages chronicling the life of a small, demanding girl named “Penny,” who traveled through life with speech bubbles hovering over her head, which were filled with dialogue that seemed suspiciously familiar to my own.

In high school, my brother settled into a group of kids who hung out in the art building during lunch and had pens behind their ears. They got along well because spending time in the studio was more important to them than attending prom. One of my volleyball friends called them “the nerd herd” and I just laughed because I couldn’t process how I felt about it.

*

When I think of Gaudi as a child, I imagine him as a pale, dark haired boy with thin legs and wispy arms. He had rheumatism during his early years, which turned him into a reticent child, always hanging on the outside edges of social opportunities. Later, he became a vegetarian to try to combat his health issues.

I think of these little scraps of him as we venture into the Barcelona, Laura snapping pictures of trees and menus. Lindsay insists that we start finding as many of Gaudi’s buildings as possible. Nate pulls out a map and we start tracing our way through the sunny cobblestoned streets to the sound of Laura’s clicking shutter.

*

During his junior year in high school, my brother wrote a piece of short fiction for a class assignment and received an “A” on the project. The teacher pulled him aside and suggested that he begin pursuing creative writing more actively. “You have talent,” he told my brother.

My parents, always interested in our artistic endeavors, read the piece during dinnertime and complimented him on their favorite scenes and scraps of dialogue. “I agree with your teacher,” my mom said. “I hope you pursue writing.” I mentally agreed, because I used to think that my older brother’s work was bland. He drew hundreds of pictures of somber people just staring into voids with stoic expressions on their pale faces. “Draw a picture of the time you fell over the tree root and got dirt on your face while we were camping,” I told him. “Or make a family portrait of us dressed up in ’80’s work-out apparel.” He sometimes laughed at my inane suggestions, but he didn’t deviate from his solemn sketches.

His short story stayed on our coffee table for months before he brought it back to his room to clip onto his bulletin board.

*

After hearing so much about Gaudi’s work, I feel disappointed as we stand at the foot of Casa Batlo, one of the houses he designed. It’s impressive and unique with its skull and bone-like designs, but I feel removed from it. I can’t imagine a family living there, sitting around the breakfast table with a copy of the New York Times splayed across a platter of toast.

Still there is something about Gaudi’s life that makes me wish I could engage in his work. Maybe it is the fact that he invested himself in nature so actively, joining the Centre Excursionista de Catalunya , which was an exploring group that accompianied him on trips to southern France and Catalonia.  He used to walk as many as six miles a day. I picture him hiking through thick plant growth, ignoring his sore joints in the pursuit of the natural world.  I don’t give up on him yet.

*

My brother struggled through his first few years of art school. He used to stay up late into the night, poring over design books while dipping brushes into watercolors. A lot of his work received poor marks because he didn’t always pay enough attention to detail and would leave smudges or eraser marks on the edges of his prints. I used to wake up to find a trail of black finger prints around the house after he had stayed awake all night working on a charcoal etching final project.

Those were also the days that I’d sneak into his studio space, pull out his art boxes, and lay the tools around me in a circle on the floor. I used to open all the boxes of paint and smell the colors and feel the silky bristles of the brushes. I would also flip though his portfolios, searching for a piece of art that would pull me in and move me. I never found anything that I could grasp, but I always looked anyway.

After his second year, he dropped out and took a semester off to work and “think about what he wanted to do with life.”

He got a job at a warehouse and spent his days lifting and stacking and cleaning, reading novels during his lunch break. He mentioned that one of his co-workers- a middle-aged man with an elementary school education- tried to knock the book out of his hands while he was reading one afternoon. “What did you do?” I asked. “I just ignored it,” he said. “You can’t reason with people like that.”

When he wasn’t at work, he spent hours typing novels and designing posters. I found his old fiction essay from high school when I was looking for something in his bedroom. It was in his sock drawer, still unfolded and crisp like the day he turned it in.

*

On our final day in Barcelona, we trek to La Sagrada Familia, which is one of Gaudi’s most famous cathedrals. A line of tourists wrap around the building, necks extended upward to see the top of the building. They look like thirsty young birds, craning and gaping in the sunlight. From the outside, it looks as if the whole building is melting downward. There are thousands of Biblical stories carved around the outside of the cathedral, but I can’t identify more than two or three scenes. After paying 12 euros to get into the building, we spend the first half hour just wandering around, running our fingers across the cool marble surfaces. The air in La Sagrada Familia feels majestic and full of light, but I don’t take many photos. I just sit on one of the pews and watch people exclaim over the vaulted ceilings and ornate woodwork.

*

We all felt relieved when my brother decided to go back to school. He finished a fine  arts degree before transferring to a different school to study graphic design. He started getting better marks on his projects and the smudges and etches disappeared. I began to recognize familiar faces in his work- faces of people at the warehouse, faces of people he used to go to high school with, faces of dogs and cats we used to own.

*

Before we leave La Sagrada Familia, we visit the little museum on the bottom half of the building. I bury myself in an exhibit about how Gaudi’s architecture is grounded in the natural world and how if you look close enough, you can see elements of plants and animals in his work. Relief begins to wash over me, like I will begin to know Gaudi more if I keep reading about the things he loved enough to pour into his designs. I forget that I’m part of a group, and I move down the hallway to an empty corridor filled with pictures of Gaudi’s studios. In one picture, I can see the tiny cot where he slept in his studio along with all his art supplies and paintings. It’s a cluttered mess of supplies and tools, but it’s where he worked and imagined and created. There are also framed samples of his school work. I picture him sitting at an oak table, measuring tiny lines and sketching buildings with a dull, chewed up pencil. I restrain myself from touching the tiny models of his early design ideas. Maybe a half hour passes before I realize that I’m sitting on the floor of the museum, writing frantic notes about my impressions of Gaudi’s life, trying to piece together the type of person he was from his early work and studio space. Tourists start to spill in from the other exhibits, so I pull my things together and search for my friends.

As we fly back to England that evening, I stare out the window of the plane, trying to remember the details from the La Sagrada Familia. All I see is the photo of Gaudi’s studio. The place that the cathedral was probably born.

*

            I think that my brother will be a great graphic designer someday. His work is clean and precise and bold: strong colors with white backgrounds, simple fonts, clear illustrations. It is of this blonde girl with a newspaper in her hands and a nose piercing and a striped sweater and red boots. She’s waving her hands and talking animatedly.

I smiled because in some ways, this moment is like using your finger to trace the wet ring left from a glass of water on the coffee table. It is like looking at the smudged cartoon of “Penny.”

When I look at my brother’s art, all I see is him at age 6 and 16 and 23 with a sketch book in his lap and pens and pencils in his pocket. I see his messy desk and a series of charcoal finger prints on the kitchen cabinets. I also see his essay, still lying in his sock drawer.

And I often worry that other people won’t see these things, too.

About Moments and Their Weight

Last Friday night, I was driving back to my parents’ house in my green car. The heat was on, because whenever it’s cold outside I turn the car heaters on until I almost begin feeling sleepy from the warmth. Rain drops were covering the side windows, forcing my windshield wipers to sweep back and forth with that comforting, flip flap, rainy evening noise. It was dark outside- just lanes of white bulbs floating down the highway like strings of lights on December trees.  I had NPR tuned in and the BBC world report was on just loud enough to barely make out the faint sounds of the British newscasters’ voices. Then, I had one of those tingly-spine, teary-eyed moments of nostalgia. I’m not sure why, but all these little snap shots- times that weren’t significant enough to actually be events- kept sliding through my mind.

Like last Fall when I lived in England, I was on late bus back to the university from the city center. The streets outside were all dark and quiet and the bus was warm with the heat of dozens of people. All the seats were taken, passengers spilling out into the aisles, clinging to the overhead rails, packed together in a mass of scarves and boots and pea coats. The overhead lights on the bus were dimmed down low so that it almost felt like that peaceful moment when you are the last awake person in the house, so you step into the living room to switch off a single lamp that someone left on.

Everyone was headed home from school and work and shopping. The sounds of peoples’ voices were just the cozy murmurs of contented end-of-the-day conversations. There were some Germans standing next to me, quietly speaking in a mix of German and Polish. I don’t remember wanting to hold onto the moment for any special reason, but I think that it was a happy night for me.

Or like when I was much younger- like only five or six- when my mom and I were getting home late from running errands in town, she used to listen to this cheesy radio show on the way home. The host had this comforting, mellow voice and she would take time to listen to peoples’ stories about how they were missing their ex-boyfriend or how their dad had just been admitted into the hospital and they were quite scared about it. Then she would spout out a few words of comfort before dedicating a sappy 90’s pop song to their situation and telling them that everything would be okay eventually.

That show used to make me cry. I’ve always been kind of emotional- even then. So I’d lean forward and reach up from where I was sitting in the back seat and find my mom’s hand in the driver’s seat and just hold it, sometimes resting my face on our interlaced fingers while I watched rain drops have races down the sides of the windows.

Remembering these odd little moments- things that weren’t even important enough to be a tick on my life’s timeline- is unsettling in a way. Because when significant things happen to me, I’m able to acknowledge their presence and either grieve that they are happening or rejoice that I’m experiencing them. But blurry memories like these just tend to slip by without me getting a chance to think about what they are worth or how I will feel when I realize that they aren’t part of my life anymore. Kind of like how I can’t remember the last time I bought a pair of shoes that were one size bigger or the last time I slept in the same bed as my younger brother because one of us was scared of the dark.

 

Security

 

When I was in grade school and high school, it was always assumed that nobody in my family would schedule meetings or social activities on Sunday afternoons and evenings. We used to go to my grandparents’ house and drink cool drinks like Coca Cola with lemon and ice water. My grandma’s towels always smelled like they had just come out of a load of fresh, laundry, even if they had been in her linen closet for a long time. I used to promise myself that the towels in my future home would smell that way.

Sometimes we would watch sitcoms like “Home Improvement” or “Boy Meets World.” At dinnertime, we ordered pizza from Papa Murphy’s (vegetarian for me and my mom and pepperoni for everyone else) and my grandma would always have to pull a thick stack of coupons out of her drawer and hand them to whoever ran over to the shop to pick up the meal. Later, when the whole house smelled warm and delicious ( like cheese and tomatoes and peppers and mushrooms) my grandparents always exclaimed how they were getting the best pizza in town from Papa Murphy’s. Even though I knew it wasn’t necessarily the best pizza in town, I would always pretend that I agreed with them and sometimes I believed it for awhile, too.

After dinner, I usually fell asleep on the floor of the living room, listening to the comforting voices of my parents and grandparents. As I was drifting off to sleep, my mom would say something like, “Oh, it looks as if Joanna was tired.” My grandma would respond, ‘Well, it’s hard work being in school all week. You learn things in the classroom all day and then come home, have a snack, go to sports practice, have dinner, and do homework until bedtime. Being young is like having a full time job.’

And those things – the things that made up a child’s life – were so cement in my grandmother’s mind. Those were the things her kids had done. Those were the things she assumed all normal American children did. I’m sure she knew about the kids who didn’t get to come home for a snack that someone had prepared for them. But when she talked about childhood, it was normally assumed that children got to play softball after school because their parents encouraged them to be part of a team and bought them a mitt and baseball glove. And of course, that all parents made sure their children sat a dinner table and ate a nutritious meal before laying out all their homework on a clean desk to write with sharpened pencils.

I knew that those things weren’t true of every family. But I always drifted off to sleep feeling like they could be.

Yesterday, my own family was watching a movie before bed in the living room. Both my mom and I fell asleep about halfway through and didn’t wake up until the credits were rolling. As everyone got up to go to bed, my mom said, ‘I like falling asleep while the family is all together watching a movie. It feels so safe.’

And I could identify with what she said so much that it overwhelmed me with this emotion that I think was love.

 

One of the reasons that I write

When I was a freshman and first declared my majors (Mass Communication and Creative Writing), I don’t think I fully understood what they meant to me. Probably because they didn’t mean much to me. For the past three years of college (how did that happen?), I’ve been learning how writing isn’t something disposable to me. This dedication in the front of John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden,” drives me to create stories more than ever before:
“Dear Pat,
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, “Why don’t you make something for me?”
I asked you what you wanted, and you said, “A box.”
“What for?”
“To put things in.”
“What kind of things?”
“Whatever you have,” you said.
Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it is not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts- the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.
And still the box is not full.
-John”

Reminder to Myself about School

I’m sitting here in the university’s library café, drinking a cappuccino and staring out the window at all the snow that appeared in Nottingham yesterday. I’m also writing an essay on the 1937 Paris International Exhibition. It’s specifically focused on the Spanish Pavilion as piece of synthetic artwork.
Sometimes college stresses me out. Even after being immersed in it for almost three years now, I still wonder if I’m ever going to learn to be organized and prompt and neat about my studies.
Yet, there are also plenty of moments like this- moments when I’m typing away about the influence of Piccasso’s Guernica- and I realize that I love what I’m doing. I feel bad for people who don’t enjoy the academic setting, because even though I’m not one of those people who earned a 4.0 GPA in high school, I’ve always had this romantic view of learning and school that I hope I never lose. I like getting handouts and writing responses to things that I care about. I like making myself tea before class and drinking it while I take notes on the lecture. I like group discussions. I like it when there are so many good ideas floating around a room that I can hardly write fast enough to take them all down on paper. I like the first and last days of school when you are either excited for what the year is going to hold or proud of what you’ve finished. I like leaving a classroom feeling like I have been changed and challenged and handed the keys to something new all at once.

Nomadic

I moved to England two months ago. It’s been such a happy time in my life. As the days go by, I’m noticing that I’m becoming more and more unattached. I have all these semi-homes now: a home in my parents’ house, an apartment at my college in Oregon, a room here in England. I don’t feel anchored to any of them. During the weekends, I travel with friends to different places: Dublin, Barcelona, London. I usually fall in love with little pieces of these places. Like St. Stephen’s Greens in Dublin or the little coastal bay in Malahyde. But at the end of the day, I always load up my backpack and hop on a train or plane back to the university in Nottingham.

Yesterday I was having coffee with a friend in Nottingham’s Market Square and I saw a young couple walking past, pushing a stroller and carrying holiday shopping bags. They were laughing and talking and looking down at their beautiful child. I remember thinking, “That’s such a happy snapshot, but I’m so glad that it doesn’t belong to me right now.”

I think that someday I will be happy to settle someplace and learn all the street names. I’ll get a library card and pick a favorite coffee shop and learn what time the Saturday markets are held and who sells the best tomatoes there. I think those things are beautiful and happy.

But for now I like constantly being on the move and only having to book a plane ticket for one to as many different countries and cities as I can afford.

Yet, let me say this: I’m spending hours and hours with old friends  who moved to England with me from my university in Oregon. And I meet new and wonderful people from all over the world every day. And I can’t wait to meet up with my parents in Italy for holiday. People (even people who are halfway across the world) will always be close to my heart, even when everything else is constantly moving and changing. I’m hoping to explore this more in future posts. My journal is already filled with stories from the past few months that show this.

Snapshots of Dad

My dad is a former naval officer, over 6- feet tall, with a deep voice and dark hair that is beginning to look thin.

He’s a mechanical engineer. I used to love it when people asked me what my dad did for a living  (I still do). “He’s a senior project engineer at Hydration Technology Industries,” I told them. He went away on business trips quite a bit when I was young. He used to follow him into his room when he packed for his trips. I would tumble around on my parents’ bed while he put things in his briefcase, asking him questions in between turning summersaults on the quilt my mom had stitched together. “Are you going to get homesick? “Are you going to get your own room in the hotel or will you have to share a bed with your boss?” “What happens if mom gets scared of the dark while you’re away?” Sometime he would laugh at my questions, and other times he would just answer them like they were valid things to wonder. I used to love it when I made him laugh.

*

My dad was an elder in the church that I grew up in. He also played guitar during the morning worship service and taught a Sunday school class for adults. During the sermon, I would always try to sit between him and my mom. I would reach for both their arms and put them around my shoulders so we were all wrapped together in a giant side-hug. Then, as the pastor talked, I would start playing games with my dad’s loose hand. I’d touch the tip of my finger on his palm in a succession of quick taps until he suddenly closed his palm tightly around the finger, holding it tightly. I did this over and over, always trying to move faster than he did so I could avoid his iron grip and win the game. I usually only won when he lost interest in the game and started writing notes on the sermon, but it seemed hilarious and fun every Sunday.

*

I think my dad feels bad for my lack of math skills. He cringes when he sees me do things like measuring things with my finger or singing songs to remember multiplication facts. That’s probably why he helped me get through every math course I’ve ever taken. I used to sit at our round oak table with him every night as he basically did my algebra homework for me. My math homework would usually be returned with “100%” written across the top, which helped balance out all the failed test scores I received when he wasn’t there to do it for me. “Are you understanding what I’m doing?” he asked while we worked. “You’re going to need to know this eventually.” I would just nod and watch the way his writing was so neat and consistent- little block letters and numbers that looked like they were marching across the page in a consistent line, even when there weren’t lines on the paper.

*

Whenever I owe my dad money, he asks that I write him a check and write what the money is for in the memo line. Every time, I write the check for a dollar (or sometimes only 5 cents) less than what I owe him. Then, instead of writing something useful in the memo line like he always asks, I put a funny quote from a television show or something absolutely random that I make up on the spot (e.g., “Reimbursement for the kitten-themed turtle neck sweater I bought with your credit card”). I always laugh when I hand him these checks, and he usually rolls his eyes and chuckles and hugs me and says, “You’re such a funny girl.” I always feel really good when he says this- like my dad’s love will enable me to do anything I want.

*

“You can’t keep telling me how this won’t work,” he yelled (my dad yells quite a bit, but it’s usually not directed at me- my brothers are more likely targets). “I can’t do anything for you. I just can’t.”

We hung up on each other before I burst into tears, even though I was 18 and wasn’t  supposed to need my dad anymore. It was the first week of college and I called home every night, telling my dad that I hated it and wanted to come home. “My roommate is drunk half the time.” “Nobody here has even heard of the town we’re from.” “I’m exhausted and stressed all the time.” At first he would just say, “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I hate that my girl is hurting.” The love in his voice just made me cry more and wish that I had never left him in the first place. But finally, my phone calls informing him that “it just wouldn’t work,” made him yell at me. “I can’t do anything!” he said. “I want to help you, but I can’t be there this time.”

After he said that, I didn’t call home for a very long time. Partly because my feelings were hurt that he yelled, and partly because I hated the fact that he couldn’t be there, fixing all my problems in his neat, block lettered writing.

Thoughts On Cooking

I’m flipping through a magazine as my mother gets her hair cut. As the beautician is clipping away, blonde snippets of hair dusting the tiled floor, she tells my mom about how she hosts a lot of estate sales. “I’m okay with sorting through people’s things, but I absolutely can’t go through someone’s dead mom’s kitchen,” she says. She tells a little story about an old man’s wife suddenly passing away, leaving a kitchen full work behind. “It was so sad,” the beautician says, “There was still food in the fridge and cupboards full of chocolate chips and baking supplies. It was almost like she just ran to Fred Meyers to get a gallon of milk and never came home.”

The beautician keeps working on my mom’s hair, angling the bangs and explaining how kitchens just seem so personal and sentimental to her, like they are the places where a mother makes memories. My mom nods like she can understand all this.

I think about how I hate baking and sifting flour and standing in the kitchen, peering into a recipe book, trying not to get chocolate on the slick pages.

*

When I was younger, I used to try to go to bed as early as possible so I could switch off my bedroom lights, open the door, and listen to my mom making artisan bread in the kitchen. She would spend hours there, measuring ingredients and rolling the dough into perfect loaves. Sometimes, if I didn’t fall asleep before she put the bread in the oven, I scurried out of bed and sat beside her by the fireplace and waited for the dough to rise. I usually put my head in her lap as she read a book, falling asleep to the feel of her hands running through my hair. Later, I would wake up to the sounds of her pulling the fresh bread from the oven. She always dabbed a little honey on a warm scrap before handing it to me. As we bit into the bread, she would ask me what I thought about it. “This is seriously some of the best you’ve ever made,” I always told her. Sometimes she would say, “Mhh…I think I should have used a little more salt…” or “This could have been better if I would have used cooler water in the recipe.” But other times, she would make a certain face- a face that I think I am only capable of identifying- and say that it was wonderful. I felt safe and comforted during those times- as if I had the most successful and knowledgeable mother in the world.

*

It is one of the first nights since I have moved back to my parents’ house for the summer.  My mom shows me this recipe for guacamole and I put on a vintage-looking apron (even though I knew I wouldn’t get my shirt dirty without it) and turn on an acoustic guitar song about summer evenings and crooked teeth before starting to make the dish. As I pull the avocados apart, it feels natural to enjoy the smears of soft, cool green on my hands. I glance at the recipe, but I don’t measure the salt and pepper and I don’t feel guilty about just haphazardly squeezing lime over the avocados instead of making sure I add exactly two tablespoons. Other things I dice up and throw into the bowl: juicy tomatoes (with the seeds still clinging to them), garlic, peppers and some cilantro from my mother’s garden. As I mash it all together, it feels a little bit like I am creating a June evening- the kind of night that I think of when I think of summer and family meals at dusk.

My mom asks me if I want her to fry some pork to add to the meal. “The boys might like it,” she says.

“NO,” I say. “Not when I’m cooking. Not in my meal.” I say this even though I know the kind of food I eat- rice, beans, vegetables, daps of hummus on crackers- aren’t what my brothers and dad love most. But it feels good to distinguish my food from the food that they are accustomed to.  Like if I don’t make what they want, then I won’t be trying to fill the role of the housewife or the mom. Like I’ll still just be me at age 19.

When the meal is over- just scraps of flour tortillas and rice scattered across the oak table- there is an easy feeling in the room. Like those freeing moments when the ropes on the swing go slack for a bit before lurching you back.

I might break my computer if I see one more facebook post about how President Obama is single-handedly destroying America as we know it. I don’t expect everyone to support his causes. But I do expect people to be more intelligent than to think that a president is capable of causing (or fixing) the world’s problems. Things go a bit deeper than that, don’t you think? And joining inane groups titled, “I bet this piece of dog poop can get more fans than Obama,” doesn’t make me think you’ll have anything insightful to say about politics.

February Part 1: Interviews, Newspapers, Churches, Math

1. I just finished an interview with a ’77 Linfield alumnus, Al Riske.  My section editor assigned me to read and review Riske’s first book, Precarious. If you click on the link and read the description, it’s obviously not the type of book I would start on my own accord. But it’s been fascinating to read these stories with the goal of producing a thoughtful review. And I got to interview an actual author instead of 20-year-olds who don’t really have strong feelings  or inspiring thoughts about their voice recitals or the volleyball games that they lost. During the interview, I made myself push past the superficial level (which is difficult to break) and asked some pretty personal questions. I’ll definitely force myself to keep asking tough questions, because I got a lot more information than last year’s version of myself would have.

2. Speaking of interviewing and newspapers, this semester has been a huge turning point in my newspaper experience. My writing is tighter and I enjoy the subjects I cover. I’ve transitioned away from sports writing and I’m a culture reporter. As much as I love sports and miss being a student-athlete, art majors are a lot more interesting to talk to than volleyball players who lost almost every game of the season. There are only so many ways to recount a game (” The ‘Cats swept the Bruins in three sets, sealing their spot in the play-offs) while inserting quotes like,

“It was disappointing,” Smith said. “I hope that we can tighten our defense more next game.”

3. I love Lauren Winner’s book, “Girl Meets God.” I’ve been reading it this month and am enouraged by her honesty about religion and churches. It’s been a therapeutic experience and has opened me back up to the idea of being part of a church-body again.

4.  My roommate and I have been searching for a church lately. We started out at a community church with baptist roots. Then we moved to a Lutheran church. Finally, today,  we found a non-denominational that seems to be a better fit than anywhere else we’ve been. The pastor talked about the importance of living in “thin spaces,” which are the places where earth and the Kingdom of Heaven are as close as possible.  Part of living in these spaces involves looking to the future with wisdom while striving to live fiercely in the present. Something I’ve struggled with for the past year.

5. I hate rotating through different churches. Saying that a church is a “good fit for me” seems so silly and selfish. The point of going to church isn’t to find somewhere that “works for me” or caters to my personality. Yet it’s so much easier to be intimate with a group of people who are similar to the people I was raised with or who share my values or who are the type of people I would like to be more like. But shouldn’t all churches (except those who deliver false teaching) fit this description? Aren’t  God’s grace and Christ’s blood enough to unite anyone who has received them? Hard questions. Probably unoriginal questions. Things that have been running through my mind lately.

6. I still hate math. My math class is not fun or exciting or revolutionary. On Thursday, the professor mentioned “Fermat’s Last Theorem.” He told us that Andrew Wiles spent six years of his life proving the conjecture. The professor’s voice was reverent and his eyes looked teary. I just felt sorry for Wiles. I’m sure all the math-nerds ( including my father) in the world feel like punching through their computers and throttling me, but I just don’t find numbers moving and compelling. They don’t speak to me. In fact, they don’t even seem to have a ” mysterious language,” which is something my professor has tried to tell us. Poor professor. He probably dreads the class. “Great Ideas in Math” is full of kids who are just like me. They never scramble to get their calculators so they can be the first one to answer the teacher’s question. They don’t point at the board and say things like, “I think you did that algebra wrong. Isn’t it supposed to be two instead of three?” They don’t say that they like math because it’s something you can always count or because there has to be one correct solution. They are my people. The type of people who draw trees on their math homework and only love the names of people in story problems.

The professor tries to cater to our needs. Instead of saying, “Find D,” he says, “Find DARTH VADER!” Instead of writing, “Use the Fibonacci Sequence to….(blah, blah, blah),” he writes his questions in conversational tones. Example: “Well, hey, since we solved the last problem by using the Fibonacci Sequence, can the same principles apply to a problem like….”

This is helpful. It relieves some of the pain that is math. It’s nice to hear creative things like, “Let’s find… Geppetto!”

But I still hate math. Even after I finally solved a problem all by myself without help. It almost made me cry because I was so relieved and so proud of myself. I still hate math.