Monthly Archives: September 2015

Thoughts

Some of My Favourite Things

Besides “raindrops on roses”, of course.

Warm toast with anything you choose to put on it. It’s one of the fastest comfort foods I know, and it never fails to make me feel content. Having toast or sandwich bread in your cupboard is a sure-fire solution for those evenings when the supermarke is already closed. Toast makes scooping out the last contents of your Nutella jar more fun and the last slice of cheese goes from blah to bam. Also, toast with mayonnaise and tomato is one of the most fantastic things on Earth – something I got hooked on after reading Harriet the Spy (though I’m not sure her sandwiches included toast).

An apartment filled with sunlight.

Knowing that I still have enough left of an enjoyable book and still reading quickly to get to the end…and ready it again, because I love re-reading.

There isn’t a question that Google hasn’t been asked and typing that makes me remember this sketch by CollegeHumor:

There’s a wonderful website called Visual Statements, which is an online haven for lovers of words, slogans, life truths and humour. They also have a shop where you can get STACKS of postcards with their statements, or cute ear studs with tiny print.

It’s the small joys.

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Seen/Heard/Read

Happy Birthday, Hermione Granger

I’m slightly late with this, but then what are belated birthday wishes for? And I join the Pottersphere in saying Happy Birthday to a heroine beloved by myself and many others – Hermione Granger!

September is proving to be a particularly enjoyable month for Potter fans, as J.K. Rowling has yet again tweeted about an important date in the life of a cherished Potter character. Hermione’s birthday was on September 19th.

I too am looking up my favourite gifs and Youtube videos of one of the smartest witches around. But in terms of my own tribute to Hermione I reminiscently turn to the books and remember why I like this character.

While Hermione’s smarts and intellectual abilities are justifiably admirable, she has a host of other qualities that make her very real to readers. Beneath her initial briskness she is a kind person, which is obvious from an early age. In her first year she is the only one to jump up and free Neville Longbottom from the full body-bind curse while the rest of the Gryffindors laugh (although later in the same book she herself puts it on Neville. Oh, well. Happens!)

She is an extremely hard worker and wants to get as much as possible out of her years at Hogwarts, without forgetting her values or trying to throw other people over. Hermione is constantly conscious of her fantastic opportunities and she invests her energy accordingly. Not without mishaps – see the Time Turner experiment in book three.

She shows her feelings, be it crying after Ron first called her a “nightmare” (which ultimately lead to him and Harry saving her from a mountain troll, and subsequently friendship and love for life), shouting at Ron after the Yule Ball or being visibly frustrated when Harry is suddenly and suspiciously better at a class than she is.

After both normal teenage experiences and the final, epic journey to destroy Lord Voldemort, it’s clear to see that Hermione’s inborn sense of loyalty, developed emotional maturity and courage blend together with her own unique intelligence.

Wingardium Leviosa, Hermione, and Happy Birthday!

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Style?!

5 Exasperating Style Moments

Buying nail polish because of the shimmering, irresistible and thick way it rests in its little bottle. Eagerly applying said nail polish during an evening in. Discovering it doesn’t look shimmering, irresitible and thick on your nails, but rather dull, off-putting and half-transparent.

Why do I always feel incredibly energized about styling my hair on a windy day? This adrenaline-fueled fast-paced switch between elation and the swooping setback that follows as soon as you set foot aside is really too much on a workday morning.

You pull up your tights and they tear. And you don’t have a spare handy. Enough said.

The jeans that used to be perfectly alright and adaptable to everything keep getting untucked from your ankle boots as you attempt to strut your stuff. It’s demeaning. It’s uncomfortable. And it lets in that damn little autumn breeze that is just looking for a way to make sure you sniffle all day.

Secretly too-low jeans that slide down with the speed of lightning once the person in front of you bends over, revealing all manner of undesired insights (it’s amazing how much is visible on the human almost backside once in a close-up, unasked for view). I mean, really, that one is so old. What would happen if I just tapped you on the shoulder and described in detail that the hairs on most of what I can see of your butt do not go well with your choice of underwear, judging by the generous Snoopy-covered band of it I can see? If I asked you how you felt about the possibility of your pants simply sliding off right there on the bus stop? And don’t try to tell me I shouldn’t look if it bothers me. I’m not the one who bent over. You have invaded my personal style space. Instead of unobtrusively tucking my own decent jeans in to my boots or pulling up a sock, my thoughts have been sidetracked by this disturbing display.

 

 

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Thoughts

The Giving Up Thing

So one of the things about life is that from time to time we think about how it actually works. For example, this whole thing about giving up.

Have I ever given up? Was I ever close? The second question produces memories more quickly. As is often the case, a lot of these memories are connected with areas like university studies or work. The interesting thing is, in my mind it has often applied only to “big decisions” that affected my life trajectory, decisions that manifested change outwardly. The truth is, the question of whether one was ever close to giving up applies to a lot of issues and aspects, not just the ones that result in moving to another city or getting a raise.

When was I close to giving up? I was applying for scholarships to pay for my Masters degree and I was rejected for every single one of them. I remember very clearly how I got the last rejection letter, about three months before the application deadline for my chosen course. I had read it through and was sitting on my couch, a mixture of bewildered helplessness and unfamiliar lack of inspiration filling me up. I had tried for so long and so hard, what if this was a sign my aspirations were simply not going to work out? The voice did whisper – from very far away, from the deepest recesses of my brain: maybe I should give up?

Those two words have always carried such a strong sense of finality and that terrified me. The terror would make me stir inwardly and always bring me back to confronting the same two choices: let go and start the what ifs, or just do it again? There was nothing epic about it, no film-ready soundtrack in the background. It was real, in my face, and I had to deal with it. This scene would repeat itself several times over the course of the next few years.

I may not have gotten those scholarships, but I got a job straight out of graduation, samples from which were actually helpful in the application. I also had a family member say, “Don’t be paralyzed now.” My choice university accepted me, and looking back I wonder just what I was thinking, as it was the only one I applied to. For various reasons it did indeed turn out to be the right choice, or at least I didn’t have a massive list of things wrong with it and got the absolute best out of the years I spent there.

I was close to giving up when I was searching for a place to live after my second graduation (who hasn’t been). The process simply has no rules, only tips, and it’s an incredibly tiring experience. I was already expecting to have to figure out whether I could stay longer in my student dorm, though there was this one place I kept inquiring about. So maybe I wasn’t that close to giving up after all.

The what ifs come back after you succeed at something you might have let go, in a different way. If I hadn’t tried again, we wouldn’t be sitting in this park, having this conversation, laughing until we cried. I wouldn’t have seen this band in this arena. I wouldn’t have met several more mentors. “I wouldn’t have…” and so on, and so on. These moments are still exciting to me.

But to be able to take on something you do need to be able to let go, and that’s where giving up does come in. But not on yourself or what you want to do – for yourself. Sometimes you do really need to give up. On contacts that leave you with the wrong feeling no matter how often you try to make it work. On doing things that make you feel continuously uncomfortable. On saying things you neither really feel nor think. On holding on to destructive experiences, bad relationships.

Maybe the trick is simply listening to the inside. If the feeling spreading through your veins is verbalized with “I still need to do this”, then you haven’t given up, regardless of what is happening around you, regardless of whether you think you have. Whether it’s a mindset, an action, a project, a person, a letter you want to write, a conversation you need to have – we usually know inside. And we might even be lucky enough to have people around us to point us in the needed direction.

The possibility of grand things unknown is a very powerful competitor.

 

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Thoughts

Of Bullies and Not

I’m at a turning point at the moment, and sometimes in these cases you remember other pivotal phases of your life. And I find my thoughts turning to my high school years.

Being a teenage freshman and hoping to have more choice of subjects that interested me was enough to fill up my mind. Some crushes still accompanied me in to the autumn. I wasn’t really thinking about what high school would be like. I just assumed I was grown-up already. Then I walked in to my first class and immediately knew that the next years until graduation were going to be a challenge. And that being grown-up was probably just beginning (though I have felt that way several times since).

What stands out in my memory of that first day was the note I made in my diary. “It’s scary how opposite they are.” I didn’t mind being different, or other people being different. But quite a few people did. And they did things I didn’t want to be a part of. I wasn’t telling them so, I just didn’t need to participate. Our opposites became evident as soon as I declined to go for a smoke, refused to give my homework to copy, didn’t want to cut class, had to sit in the first row due to being nearsighted etc etc. The usual. Long story short, I was bullied all through high school.

There was a pack, as is often the case. But it was a numerous pack, consisting of half the class. There was one other girl I could hang out with, which helped. But they had picked me. And the remaining few huddled together, anxious to be ignored. Swift parental interference after I had overheard some threatening plans being made about me stopped the situation from escalating physically. When I came to school afterwards and bumped right in to one of the bullies, she said, with a strange mixture of disappointment and disbelief, “You told your parents?” Looks, whispers, outright insults, powdered chalk on my seat, noise when I had to make a presentation followed me. It wasn’t easy. But I remember knowing right then and there: they were all cowards.

My family, three teachers who weren’t afraid and setting myself goals kept me going.

Looking back now, I see that I was immediately not compromising on my values and simply not doing things I knew were bad for me. As if it was natural. I didn’t yet know how to put it in to words, but I was plunged in to feeling what it was like to stick with being yourself, living the version you know you should. The one that feels like the real one. I wasn’t proving anything – I simply was.

If meeting yourself was possible, it would undoubtedly be a strange experience. But I would give that girl a hug. I can see her now. She worked her butt off for her grades and was first to be called on the stage on her high school graduation day. The pack were astounded. She didn’t feel any regrets. She didn’t feel any sadness. I remember walking through the school dance area later that evening and some weird drunk guy grabbed my hands. I wrenched myself free and thought, I’ve had enough, I don’t have to be here anymore. I walked back home with my family, and if there is some way to feel as if there are literally wings speading behind your back, I had found it then.

Friends laugh with you if you trip and your skirt flies up, and at the same time they grab your arm to prevent you hurting yourself. “Next time you can tell me sooner” is what they say when you share something you confess has been bothering you for a while. You give back the happiness you receive. You keep getting as good as you want at something, or slow down, and they let you, while doing the same themselves. When they are proud of something they achieved, big or small, you’re proud with them. You remember daily things. You say you’re having a bad day and don’t get judged. You discover you are sometimes quiet next to each other and it feels just as comfortable as chatting. Laughter comes easily.

A few paragraphs about bullies, and you might also ask what does all this matter, it was a long time ago. True. But the experience made sure that I would not have illusions in life, but hope. That I would know friendship when I saw it. Would I have felt as deeply and as purely about good things later in life otherwise? I hope so.

 

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