Procrastination sets in.
This afternoon I considered working on my senior paper for about three seconds. Then I spent the remaining five hours of lab supervising poking around on facebook, looking at various psychology programs in another state, talking to people, editing ads for the News of the Day, helping an old lady figure out how to use a computer, selling blank paper to a poor sap who forgot a notebook, halfway filling out a scholarship application I will probably never submit, and reading blogs. I probably did some other stuff too.
I’m a good 9 hours into my spring semester and I’ve already lost the will to learn. This is odd because this morning I was way fired up. It’s amazing what a good five hours in front of a computer screen can do to one’s soul.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
Major decisions
Obsession of the day: Should I stay or should I go?
I’m trying to decide if I should add another major. Here I am on the verge of graduating with a degree in journalism, but I’m well past burnt out on newsrooms, layouts and inverted pyramid. I went to University Relations today to chat with Lynda and I saw a local reporter talking to Evan. I felt nauseous at the mere prospect of becoming him anytime soon. At least for right now, journalism is not for me.
And so May approaches at lightning speed and I realize I’m about to be cut off from my child support umbilical chord and thrust into the real world with no notion of what to do with myself. It’s not really the unknown that scares me, it’s the fact that I’ve spent the last four years equipping myself for a life I have no intention of leading. Oops.
But then there’s Psychology. I love Psychology. Last semester I took a class on counseling theory and everyday was a vacation. Nothing fascinates me more than discussing the implications of human psychological development, the effects of emotional wounds, the chance for change, and what it means to be healed anyway.
So I did the math. After spring semester, I’ll be 17 hours away from a Psychology major (I’ve done all the elective work for a Psychology minor. Making the minor into a major simply requires 20 more hours of core credit).
I see so many upsides to this, but there’s one big downside that’s been nagging at me: I want to graduate with my friends this May. Still, this could be an amazing opportunity to get more settled into the prospect of adulthood. It would also make me more acceptable to MSW programs if I decide to go that route. I have a few friends who are staying on for a fifth year, as well as several underclassman friends to play with. I would be practically guaranteed off-campus housing. Plus, I’ll have health insurance.
I don’t have to decide right now, but I can’t think of much else. I’m looking forward to talking over my options with Nate tonight on the phone. Until then, I’ll make like a freshman and remain “undecided.”
I’m trying to decide if I should add another major. Here I am on the verge of graduating with a degree in journalism, but I’m well past burnt out on newsrooms, layouts and inverted pyramid. I went to University Relations today to chat with Lynda and I saw a local reporter talking to Evan. I felt nauseous at the mere prospect of becoming him anytime soon. At least for right now, journalism is not for me.
And so May approaches at lightning speed and I realize I’m about to be cut off from my child support umbilical chord and thrust into the real world with no notion of what to do with myself. It’s not really the unknown that scares me, it’s the fact that I’ve spent the last four years equipping myself for a life I have no intention of leading. Oops.
But then there’s Psychology. I love Psychology. Last semester I took a class on counseling theory and everyday was a vacation. Nothing fascinates me more than discussing the implications of human psychological development, the effects of emotional wounds, the chance for change, and what it means to be healed anyway.
So I did the math. After spring semester, I’ll be 17 hours away from a Psychology major (I’ve done all the elective work for a Psychology minor. Making the minor into a major simply requires 20 more hours of core credit).
I see so many upsides to this, but there’s one big downside that’s been nagging at me: I want to graduate with my friends this May. Still, this could be an amazing opportunity to get more settled into the prospect of adulthood. It would also make me more acceptable to MSW programs if I decide to go that route. I have a few friends who are staying on for a fifth year, as well as several underclassman friends to play with. I would be practically guaranteed off-campus housing. Plus, I’ll have health insurance.
I don’t have to decide right now, but I can’t think of much else. I’m looking forward to talking over my options with Nate tonight on the phone. Until then, I’ll make like a freshman and remain “undecided.”
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Job hunt parameters
In light of graduation looming on the horizon, my lunchtime discussion with Margaret turned to possible career options. I’m getting quite sick of being told I can do anything to which I set my mind. That’s not helpful. So we started brainstorming occupations that I cannot/will not do. Here are a few, but keep in mind this is not an exhaustive list. My limitations are endless.
- Neurosurgeon
- Chimpanzee trainer
- Horse whisperer
- Priest
- Ship builder
- Seamstress
- Pianist
- Professional rugby player
- Taxidermist
Margaret also pointed out that I cannot be 5-years-old, which is a shame because I already have a full year of experience in that position under my belt.
- Neurosurgeon
- Chimpanzee trainer
- Horse whisperer
- Priest
- Ship builder
- Seamstress
- Pianist
- Professional rugby player
- Taxidermist
Margaret also pointed out that I cannot be 5-years-old, which is a shame because I already have a full year of experience in that position under my belt.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
"I find a fatal flaw in the logic of love"
Music never forgets. Feelings one hasn’t experienced in years come flooding back at the mere memory of a chord. A song is like a snapshot of a musicians’ soul. Long after the songwriter emerges from the moment, the song remains as a testament to that particular moment’s feelings, thoughts and convictions.
I’m haunted by a melody from my childhood. It’s a love song penned by my father to my mother. I can barely remember his soft, musty voice serenading the nighttime as his fingers danced upon guitar strings. For a wedding present, my dad had the lyrics written in brown calligraphy onto a giant piece of framed paper that hung from our wall until I was twelve. It hung from our wall until he left.
I can’t remember the song in its entirety, but fragments return to me if I concentrate hard enough. It’s full of beautiful promises, hopes and dreams. It turns my stomach to think how drastically wrong it all turned out to be.
“So look in my eyes and tell me that you’ll stay. My love for you will never go away.”
Little more than 20 years later, the songwriter sang a different tune. I often wonder what went wrong-- and of course I have my theories-- but life never works itself out in simple cause-and-effect relationships. Life’s tragedies are built upon a multitude of wounds, missteps, accidents and misunderstandings. Untangling the mass to reach some sort of solution seems an impossible task. Suffice it to say the road from “I do” to “I never loved you” must be a twisting and painful one, a path based on the faulty idea that marriage is a contract that can be broken if its terms are not satisfactorily met.
Does the fact that nothing in the song worked out invalidate my father’s past feelings? I honestly don’t know. I’d have to travel back in time more than 10 years prior to my own conception to know the answer to that one. Still, the song remains a passionate exposition of my father’s long-forgotten desires. I find myself returning to these few lines in my memory as I try to catch a glimpse of my parents’ past. The photo albums have long been stashed away. The music provides my only window.
I’m haunted by a melody from my childhood. It’s a love song penned by my father to my mother. I can barely remember his soft, musty voice serenading the nighttime as his fingers danced upon guitar strings. For a wedding present, my dad had the lyrics written in brown calligraphy onto a giant piece of framed paper that hung from our wall until I was twelve. It hung from our wall until he left.
I can’t remember the song in its entirety, but fragments return to me if I concentrate hard enough. It’s full of beautiful promises, hopes and dreams. It turns my stomach to think how drastically wrong it all turned out to be.
“So look in my eyes and tell me that you’ll stay. My love for you will never go away.”
Little more than 20 years later, the songwriter sang a different tune. I often wonder what went wrong-- and of course I have my theories-- but life never works itself out in simple cause-and-effect relationships. Life’s tragedies are built upon a multitude of wounds, missteps, accidents and misunderstandings. Untangling the mass to reach some sort of solution seems an impossible task. Suffice it to say the road from “I do” to “I never loved you” must be a twisting and painful one, a path based on the faulty idea that marriage is a contract that can be broken if its terms are not satisfactorily met.
Does the fact that nothing in the song worked out invalidate my father’s past feelings? I honestly don’t know. I’d have to travel back in time more than 10 years prior to my own conception to know the answer to that one. Still, the song remains a passionate exposition of my father’s long-forgotten desires. I find myself returning to these few lines in my memory as I try to catch a glimpse of my parents’ past. The photo albums have long been stashed away. The music provides my only window.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
"All I do is sleep all day, I think of you."
“Love is no big truth; Driven by our genes, we are simple selfish beings.”
-- Kings of Convenience
For the last couple of days, I’ve been thinking about how true that line is about me. I hate that. I don’t want to be a “simple selfish being” to whom “love is no big truth.” I want love to be all that is Truth. But then I find myself in a situation where my wants aren’t being met and I lash out. Chalk it up to human nature, I guess.
And yet even though I default to selfish Megan, I know there’s a part of me that can transcend all that determinism. If Jesus Christ is the truest thing about me (and I believe He is) and God is love, then I must be capable of love. Maybe the Kings of Convenience have it all wrong. I suppose it depends on one’s definition of love.
In Christian Marriage, we learned about Agape love, benefiting love, the commitment to unselfishly give to another according to his/her need. Human beings by themselves are not capable of this type of love. Sure, we can do nice things for each other, but when it comes down to it, I’m looking out for me. Yet God promises us that we can love like He loves when we submit ourselves to Him.
I do think Kings of Convenience are onto something when describing the universal experience of precarious human relationships, but I have such hope that love IS big Truth, that it not only exists but is attainable and livable. Call me romantic, but I think discovering this Truth is what life is all about.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Spanglish
According to Gary Chapman, I’m bilingual.
This JTerm, I’m taking PSY 390: Christian Marriage. So far it’s a fascinating class. Our first assignment was to take a survey from Chapman’s The Five Love Languages to assess our “primary love language.” I scored a 10 for both words of affirmation and physical touch. In the event of such a tie, Chapman declares the individual “bilingual.”
However, I’m becoming increasingly convinced that my love language is coffee, which works out well for Nate. :)
This JTerm, I’m taking PSY 390: Christian Marriage. So far it’s a fascinating class. Our first assignment was to take a survey from Chapman’s The Five Love Languages to assess our “primary love language.” I scored a 10 for both words of affirmation and physical touch. In the event of such a tie, Chapman declares the individual “bilingual.”
However, I’m becoming increasingly convinced that my love language is coffee, which works out well for Nate. :)
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
"Life's like an hourglass glued to the table"
2006 has barely begun, and I can’t help but look forward with optimism and anticipation. So much has happened to my soul in recent months. I’m not a new person, just a more authentic one.
Glancing back at 2005, I see there’s a lot of room for regret. I choose instead to follow the advice of Katherine from Under the Tuscan Sun that “Regrets are a waste of time. They're the past crippling you in the present.” Or join Rent’s Life Support group in chanting, “Forget regret or life is yours to miss.”
However, there are moments when the past catches me and regret seeps into my soul. My eyes sting from restraining tears and I wonder at the grisliness of my still-gaping wounds. At times like these, I pick at emergent scabs until they bleed afresh. The falling scarlet only rekindles my misery as I realize I’ve just taken a giant leap backward in my healing journey by entertaining that two-faced monster called regret.
A few days ago, I walked silently along the shoreline of a small island off the coast of Naples, FL. My quarry had been seashells, but I found myself instead contemplating a piece of green glass softened by the sea. I considered the crashing waves that once assailed the fragment before it came to rest on that very beach. What tribulation it must have endured to go from sharp and clear to soft and dull! I could hold it in my hand without fear of laceration, but I could no longer see through it with any degree of clarity. I think how easy it could be for me to become like the sea-weathered glass. I pray to God that never happens.
Whatever happens, I don’t want to lose my transparency. I will look forward to the future, denying my impulse to hide who I really am in a useless attempt at safety. I cannot recover the lost sands of time from 2005; I cannot undo what is done. I can only accept my life as it now is and thank God for delivering me into such verdant pastures.
Glancing back at 2005, I see there’s a lot of room for regret. I choose instead to follow the advice of Katherine from Under the Tuscan Sun that “Regrets are a waste of time. They're the past crippling you in the present.” Or join Rent’s Life Support group in chanting, “Forget regret or life is yours to miss.”
However, there are moments when the past catches me and regret seeps into my soul. My eyes sting from restraining tears and I wonder at the grisliness of my still-gaping wounds. At times like these, I pick at emergent scabs until they bleed afresh. The falling scarlet only rekindles my misery as I realize I’ve just taken a giant leap backward in my healing journey by entertaining that two-faced monster called regret.
A few days ago, I walked silently along the shoreline of a small island off the coast of Naples, FL. My quarry had been seashells, but I found myself instead contemplating a piece of green glass softened by the sea. I considered the crashing waves that once assailed the fragment before it came to rest on that very beach. What tribulation it must have endured to go from sharp and clear to soft and dull! I could hold it in my hand without fear of laceration, but I could no longer see through it with any degree of clarity. I think how easy it could be for me to become like the sea-weathered glass. I pray to God that never happens.
Whatever happens, I don’t want to lose my transparency. I will look forward to the future, denying my impulse to hide who I really am in a useless attempt at safety. I cannot recover the lost sands of time from 2005; I cannot undo what is done. I can only accept my life as it now is and thank God for delivering me into such verdant pastures.
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