The four year anniversary of "Ode to my Mechanic"

I've had a practicality crush on my mechanic Mitch for over four years.

Not many women swoon over the idea of  marrying for the cause of automotive reasonableness. Not many would look into a man's brown eyes and think "You look so... Steady and capable, and no one invoices their wife for marked up car parts or service time- right? So..."

I've spent hours and hours sitting in the brightly lit, oil perfumed waiting room at my mechanics over the six years I've been driving my little Ford Thunderbird. I've made weekend plans there, finished math homework for undergrad education classes there, read dystopian novels  there, and, fortunately for you and my future grandchildren (who will probably be reading this on their transmission devices (thanks for imagining the future for us, Star Wars) ), I have also blogged there.

When I think about all that has happened in the four years since I last wrote about marrying my mechanic (which you can read here), I'm... Silenced. That 18 year old Jazmin had no idea what was going to hit her. She was always sitting at the counter in Bellatazza, looking down Minnesota Avenue and blithely ranting about how Disney princesses are distorting our worldview and dreaming about being a kindergarten teacher.  I loved Mae and Toms and sad classical novels. I was quiet about the things I wanted and shouted the things I thought others wanted to hear. I spent a good chunk of my life thinking  that, if the whole mechanic thing didn't work out, I could be quite happily covenanted to my doctorate degree and adopt kids on my own. When I was 18, I couldn't imagine life outside of Bend,  let alone  in South America.

I am thankful with my whole heart that I'm not 18 anymore, and that God has graciously allowed me to grow,  to experience, and to dream bigger dreams. 22 year old Jazmin is less "outgoing" and far more brave, more adventerous, and she knows what she want in life. I'm thankful to be sore every day, to be spending so much intentional time with friends, to simplify my life down to what I NEED.

Fittingly, the day I found out that my mechanic got married is the same day I found out my car  is loudly and agonizingly dying. It's time for a new dream.

Love,
J.

Why I still have to marry a mechanic: Ode to my Thunderbird

 This is another short little essay for my Nonfiction English Class. The prompt was 500 words on "Cars." Just for fun, my professor said we could submit these essays to the "Readers Write" section in The Sun Magazine.

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Well-meaning friends and gas station attendants always ask what happened to my passenger side mirror. “It fell off somewhere,” I answer profoundly, and usually they have no further questions.
    I would like to think that my 90’s radio antenna was transported to that same fabled “somewhere,” along with whatever metal gizmo made my heater work before it corroded into rusty scraps and left me to slam the glovebox while driving over a speed bump to kindle some warmth from the deep caverns of the heating mechanism.
Hopefully the clinking part that once permitted the unlocking of my passenger side door has gone to rest there as well. The trigger inside the seatbelt that made it lock properly without surgical maneuvering on part of the buckler must be there, too. I sincerely desire that the never-seen cog or wheel that transmits washing fluid from some container under the hood to my windshield, cleaning it so that I don’t have to keep a spray bottle of Windex behind my seat, has joined them. Maybe the missing link that makes my cruise control engage is also part of their company.
    The myth of the elephants’ graveyard originated from old stories of hunters and people groups finding elephant skeletons congregated together. It has been romanticized that old elephants make pilgrimage to the graveyard when their time has come. Others speculate that elephants band together in times of famine or disease and then all die, littering their bones to rot within close proximity to one another. The elephants’ graveyard as depicted in the Lion King was terrifying, I’m sure you remember it, full of dark shadows cast by sharp bones onto piles of ashes. Also: hyenas and green hellfire.
    I imagine that these spiritually dead parts of my car have also found each other, after acknowledging that their time had come to an end. The hellfire in this elephants’ graveyard of car parts is fueled by dozens of paper receipts from visits to the mechanic, the auto parts store, and grocery stores that sell motor oil and ice scrapers. The shadows in this graveyard are freakishly grotesque, mechanical and oily. The wind slinking around the parts sounds like the regretful sighs of my father, when I tell him about this noise or that piece that’s hanging down. I sometimes don’t tell him about the horrible soul-wrenching sounds that come from my car. Don’t sounds usually go away like colds if you just wait long enough? Additionally, I want to avoid those sighs of his and the responsibility they make me feel, for it was me who wanted to buy it; “Please, daddy.” However, after ignoring a certain sound for too long and burning through my brakes to whatever nasty noisy part is behind the brakes, I had to adopt plan B, consult my dad, and get the brakes replaced.
    For all of my efforts to be a self-sufficient, wise, worldly, sassy,  and trash-talking woman of 21 who doesn’t need a man to take care of her, darn it, I am still a pitiful pouting Sleeping Beauty when it comes to my car.

Postcard.

This is another nonfiction essay assignment.
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    I am using a postcard from Washington, D.C. as a bookmark in Moby Dick. Kaitlyn, who has never been to Washington, D.C., but does love collecting other peoples’ postcards, sent it to me with a filled-out punch card to Townshends tea house downtown unceremoniously taped to it. Her benediction states “Take yourself (and a friend) our for a cuppa on me! XO, K.” So, with this postcard, she sent me a cup of tea. The “Message Here” segment on back of the card (except for the place where she had taped the punch card) is crowded with her endearingly illegible cursive, leaping awkwardly across the cardstock with all the grace of a beautiful, dying bird dropping out of the sky.
    The postcard could not exist without the standard postage rate stamp. When postcard stamps were first introduced in July 1928, they cost one cent. 40 years later, they cost five cents. This year postcard stamps cost 33 cents.
    I am nine. “I’m going to write myself a postcard so I can remember this!” After this proclamation, I scrawl about the meal we are eating at the Sisters diner, the antique shops we visited, how much fun I am having, and how much I love my aunt from Florida. I truly believe that, if I do not write as much as possible on this postcard, these memories will be lost. I will surely forget everything as soon as I arrive home. So, as I scribble on the card with a gel pen, I imagine my extreme delight when I open the mail box to find a postcard from myself that will remind me of how much fun I had in Sisters on that day long ago, last week.
    Postcards owe their existence to Dr. Heinrich von Stephan, a German postal official. However, while the Germans were busy debating the value and practicality of a card with a universal stamp that could be purchased before being mailed, the Austrians put it into use in 1869, a year before the Germans. The United States began using the postcard in 1873. The postcard has always represented a snapshot of someone’s travels or daily life, and is the only such snapshot that can be affixed with a stamp, tossed in a mailbox, and delivered to the recipient, all without an envelope.
    Finding blank postcards in a thrift or antique shop is always a bittersweet discovery for me, not entirely unlike finding a treasure chest beneath the clutching hand of a corpse, though less morbid and ghastly. I flip through the stack, and wonder who purchased that postcard from the Alamo, packed it up carefully, so as to avoid creases in the cardstock, brought it home by car or air or train or boat, over some hundred miles, and then donated it to Goodwill in company with old dishes and outgrown shoes. Postcards have to be the most disappointed of all inanimate paper products. They are manufactured with a destiny in mind; to offer the selected recipient a brief glimpse of your travels or your hometown. Postcards are potential moments of intimate handwritten connection, sparse and intentional lines of text meant to share the story of a journey or the feeling of walking down an unfamiliar, or familiar, street. However, for those homeless postcards that were never addressed, never allowed to achieve their sole purpose, there is a sort of transition house here in this cardboard box in the thrift store. Old postcards can experience a rebirth here. They are offered a second chance to fulfill their mission to deliver news too romantic or brief to be shared in a letter. “I am offering these postcards a second chance at life,” I say to myself, walking with my head a little higher towards the cash register. Does that make me some sort of postcard hero?

In Company with the Little Lady (Personal Essay No. 1 Revision No. 2)

 This essay is still in progress and I am still seeking feedback and criticism!
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 In case you have not yet experienced the joy of summertime in Bend, I need you to know that it is lovely. The light is all roses and gold and the air is both crisp and soft. I do not have words tender enough to describe all the green things growing out of the ground, or the way people’s eyes light up when they see them in the park. The people of Bend, natives and visitors alike, love summer. It can be seen on their faces by the way their smiles change from looking dutiful and required, like taxes, to organically manifesting between sunburned, freckled cheeks. It is as if the smile cannot help but appear there. Summertime; sometimes when I am sitting near a window and sunlight warms my face I imagine that I am there, in summer. There are so many things to keep one company in summer, it is nearly impossible to be lonely with all the new grass growing under one’s feet.
    This story is not really about summer in Bend, but it creates a lovely scene, does it not? It is hard to describe something so beautiful without using beautiful words, making the description sound like it belongs in some well-written book. Maybe that’s why my grammie loved summertime in Bend; because it reminded her of a passage out of a book. I do not know if that is true, but it makes me smile.
    I remember an afternoon in the summer, which I have established as being wonderful, when grammie and grandpa were visiting. Grammie and I were in the music room at my parents’ house. There was a big bay window opening up into the summer light before us, baby grand piano on the right. She was sitting on that rocking recliner she and grandpa had reupholstered for my dad years earlier. I always felt a kinship with the fishermen on the fabric, endlessly casting their lines into a pond made of thread, surrounded by grass composed of the same. Grammie was likely wearing some handmade purple floral polyester ensemble like she usually did. She often made her own clothes, because she preferred to be comfortable and she preferred her clothes to be purple. It was, after all, her favorite color. I still think of her when I see it. Her feet were probably tucked into work Birkenstocks.
    I do not remember what my eight-year-old self was doing before she called me over, or what I was wearing. I do know that it was just the two of us in the room, it was afternoon, and it was summer.
    She held the book near her chest, her heart, as she explained its significance to me. “I’ve had this book for a long time,” she said, her age-spotted hands tenderly holding the aged yellow pages. Grammie looked at the book the way other people look at photographs of their favorite childhood friend; knowingly, fondly, with a soft sigh of remembrance. The worn pages of the book were bound together between a threadbare cover, so the word “bound” is used very loosely.  I recognized it as she held it, I think, like it was a book she had read to me before. Maybe she hadn’t. But I remember looking at it, seriously, as if it was a book I already knew well. She warned me to not let it fall open as she passed it to me, and I felt its weight in my hands. I can no longer recall whether she or my dad used packing tape to reinforce the binding of the book, an ungraceful attempt at slowing the deterioration that had already begun. Pages, pictures, and stories gone missing, numbered sheets out of their intended sequence. Deterioration and aging happens quietly without begging our permission or pardon. We all make ungraceful attempts to slow it. Sometimes I ponder how afraid we are of something falling into pieces and returning to the dust. Does that slow and quiet death remind us of ourselves? Or, are we simply determined to maintain our lives and objects in a state of beauty, not because of fear, but because we really believe they should be beautiful, as if it is a birthright? Is it a fear of detached covers and lost pages that cause us to tape up the bindings of books, or is it a desire to make sure we can read the story again? Do we mourn death or celebrate lives at funerals?
    The summer light coming through the window must have been beautiful when I held the book close to my own chest, my own heart. Grammie then said that we should write my name in the cover of the book. I opened the cover carefully and saw her name there; Lois Burnett, and next to it the name of her sister who died while she was still small; Gladys Burnett. The date noted next to their names was 1939. I knew then that it was not a mere book that I was holding in my hands. It was part of her memories, of her sister, moving throughout Oregon, settling in her own home in Lebanon, and raising her three children. She carried that book with her for over 60 years before handing it to me. I am sure that there were many times, many difficult moves or rough years when it would have been easy to lose such an item.
    I watched her with a young amazement as she wrote on the inside cover with that elegant, graceful script I have always admired;
“To Jazmin Julene Miller
This was a special
book to me, and I
hope you will feel
it is special too.”
    I read the book several times after that, with her and by myself. The title was (and still is) The Little Lady: Her Book, and was published in 1901. Just as the title suggests the stories it contains are about a little girl. She and her parents reside in in the House of Many Windows, which is what she calls the apartment building she lives in, though she knows “it is really a great castle, with dungeons beneath and battlements at the top...” (p. 11). She takes outings in town with her father, Big Man, and goes to the sea, and has puppies, and eats sweets, sometimes before dinner.
    The Little Lady and I were reunited last year when I read the book again. I cried. The book was as sweet as I remembered, but I couldn’t tell grammie how much I still loved it because she had already passed away. I realize that she likely had no doubt that I would always love the book, but I still wish that I could tell her. I would tell her how much I love the graceful font of the title on the cover, the illustrations that were intended to be black and white but were colored in by some child less precocious than I. I still love the book, the words of the story, the words on the paper, the words in my hands. I am now far beyond the fear I felt when it was first handed to me, like I should encase it in glass and titanium, but I am thankful for the packing tape on the binding, because I plan on reading it to my children. Until then, it sits in a place of honor in company with other old and beautiful books that I have collected.
    Maybe I picked up those other old books because I wanted the Little Lady to never be lonely. I found them, brought them to my house, adopted them, and they all became a family. At least that’s what I would like to believe. I imagine that the Little Lady and Jo March and Tom Sawyer and talking horses from Narnia all sit down for tea together on a regular basis because they so conveniently abide on a shelf together.
    I have been many things, but lonely was never really one of them. I think this is due in large part to grammie. She introduced me to many friends that live within the covers of books. They helped keep me company even after she died, though they all had a sad look between their eyes because she would never be narrating them again.
    Family was always so important to her. That’s why she loved her children and her grandkids so well. She loved having us together at Thanksgiving and Christmas and whenever else we could make the trip over the mountains. She had this open-handed generosity that drew people to her. I never saw her waste anything or say ‘No’ when she had an opportunity to help. Now I have a whole pack of cousins that help honor her memory by modeling that way of living, and by keeping and reading her books. We have kept Brother and Sister Berenstain Bear and many others in the family. Maybe it’s because we all read the same books with her as kids, but I cannot look at my cousins without seeing little glimpses of grammie. But even without those glimpses and the reminders from book characters, however, I do not have to worry about losing her because I have her in writing.
    Well, I suppose it is not HER. How demeaning to suggest that a person, with all her complexity and warmth and practicality, could be written with pedestrian and base words on scratchy white paper. That implies that I know more of her than I do, and that what I don’t know (which is a great deal) is of no importance. So, while I do not have all of her in writing I have what I need. You see, she didn’t just write my name and her wish for me to enjoy the book in the cover that summer day. She also wrote that she loved me, in ink, and the Little Lady bears witness of that to this day.
    To believe that you are loved, not were loved, or could be loved, or even will be loved- it changes something in you. To believe that you are loved is to evict loneliness from your soul.
    The Little Lady and I were never lonely because we were always loved.

"The Little Lady" (Personal Essay No. 1)

 One of my classes this term is a Nonfiction English class that requires a great deal of personal essay-writing. Since I have been meaning to write and blog more, I am (hopefully) going to be posting the essays here. This was written in-class, writing nonstop, on graph paper.
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It was summer and we were in the music room at my parent’s house: bay window before us, piano on the right. She was sitting on that rocking recliner she had reupholstered for my dad years earlier. I always felt a kinship with the fishermen on the fabric. She was my grandmother, Lois, grammie, probably wearing some purple polyester getup like always. I don’t remember what I was doing before she called me over, or what I was wearing, but it was just the two of us in the room, it was afternoon, and it was summer.
    She held the book as she explained its significance to me. “I’ve had this book for a long time,” she said, her gnarled hands tenderly holding the worn pages. I recognized it, then, I think, like she had read it to me before. Maybe she hadn’t. But I feel like I felt it was a book I already knew. I remember her handing it to me, gently, warning me to not let it fall open. I no longer remember whether she or dad taped the binding, an ungraceful attempt at slowing the deterioration that had already begun: pages, pictures, and stories missing, numbered pates our of their intended sequence.
    I held the book before she said we should write my name in it. I saw her name, Lois Burnett, next to the name of her sister who died when she was still small: Gladys Burnett. I knew then I was not holding a mere book in my hands, it was her memory itself, and she entrusted it to me. To me, in ink, as she wrote my name and the date next to her own and some other name I did not recognize. The dates were decades apart, spanning nearly a century.
    I read the book, with her and by myself, I read it several times. The title was and still is “The Little Lady: Her Book” and was published in the early 1900’s. Just as the title suggests, the stories are about a little girl growing up in a big house and all that happened to her: big man and puppies and sweets and stores in her fathers office, stores she set up there and then made him pay for.
    I read it again last year, and I cried, because the book  was just as sweet as I remembered, but my grammie was gone so I couldn’t tell her how much I still enjoyed it, still enjoyed the graceful cover, the illustrations that were intended to be black and white but were colored in by some child less precocious than I. I still loved the words of the story, the words on the pages, the words in my hands. Far beyond the fear I felt when it was first handed to me, like I should encase it in plastic, now it sits in a place of honor, in company with other old beautiful books I’ve collected. Maybe I picked up those other books because I never wanted the Little Lady to be lonely.
    I have been many things, but lonely was never really one of them. I always had those books, even when grammie died I was left with a pack of cousins who help keep her memory alive, parents who help fill in the gaps in my memory, and a note in the cover of the Little Lady that proves I was loved.

Angry Letter to the Editor RE: Django Unchained

This letter was written in response to a review of Django Unchained published in Volume 61, Issue 12 of The Broadside, the campus newspaper for COCC and OSU-Cascades. Unfortunately, the review has not been posted on the papers website, http://thebroadsideonline.com. 

Letter to the editors and readers of The Broadside;
    Aaron Fennell’s recent film “review” in The Broadside distressed me for many reasons. However, it should be noted that I placed the word “review” in quotes intentionally, to draw attention to that ill-advised word choice. In order to call a piece of writing a review, the writer is required to have actually experienced what is being reviewed. It is clear from Fennell’s description of Django Unchained that that experience did not occur, which is unfortunate both for him and his readers. Not only does Fennell inaccurately describe main characters and the plot of the film, but he grossly underestimates the shocking quantity and quality of violence in the film.
    I would have been able to tolerate either a positive or negative review, despite my own feelings about it. However, I will not tolerate an uninformed review, especially regarding a film of this caliber. I vehemently disagree with Fennell’s statement: “This is a must see for everyone who loves a good story and very graphic descriptions of gunfights.” This film, while being one of the greatest achievements in cinema I have ever seen, is certainly NOT “for everyone.” The brutality of the violence in this film goes far beyond mere gunfights, and to not mention that is both irresponsible and ignorant on part of the writer. Based on what was printed in The Broadside, readers anticipate a “deep love story” filled with “quick comebacks” and “explosive action.” What they will actually experience is something much more compelling and unsettling than that.
    To Aaron Fennell, I do not mean this to be a personal attack. However, I cannot allow your statements about Django Unchained to go unchallenged. If you decide you want to see the film in all its bloody glory and write another, more informed review, shoot me (pun intended) an email. I’ll buy the ticket.
Sincerely, Jazmin Miller

Chicken soup for the soul of the exhausted college student.

This is not something I ever thought I would write, but I am aiming to write a B essay tonight.

I'll explain that statement by explaining why I never thought I would say it. While I don't have a type A personality and I'm not a perfectionist (or maybe I'm just in denial), I am very competitive, especially in academic environments. My goal for this year is to graduate with a 3.9 GPA, because I know I can do it, and it is hard for me to accept anything less than the very best I can do. This is not inherently a character flaw (at least in my mind... or maybe that's the type A personality I don't have talking).

However, I am not great with the art of balancing one's life. When I'm in school, I am a great student. I'm not a great friend, or co-worker, or most other things. I have a hard time being wholly present anywhere because I am always thinking about school. I disappear from the lives of my friends and family, buried beneath textbooks, notebooks, and assorted Apple products. While it may just look like I have a great work ethic, what I am actually doing is fusing my self-esteem with my grades. This is not healthy and not something I'm proud of.

I am trying really hard not to do that this year.

The reason why is as follows:

My grandma died just over a month ago. While we were going through boxes and boxes of her things, we found many pictures and documents that'd we never seen - or paid attention to - before. We found her diploma from George Fox (then) College, where she graduated with honors. We also found boxes of old cards she had sent and received, almost a dozen photo albums, even collections of recipes. We pored over the cards and photos and clippings, and we loved it because we were seeing things that mattered to us as a family. However, no one gave the diploma more than a brief glance. Truthfully, I don't even remember what level of honors she graduated with.

Now, I am one of the last people in the world who would degrade college education, or graduating with honors. I want to go to graduate school, so I know that grades really matter.

However, so does life.

I realized that when I'm dead, my dozens of grandchildren won't really be concerned with my GPA or what's on my diploma. They will be far more interested in pictures, in my stories, in what I did with my degree - with my life.

I think everyone is going to school for different reasons, so this state of mind that I have somehow ended up in may sound straight-up crazy to you. That is okay. My goal with confessing these things is to encourage you, as a student, to take a second to reflect on why you're going to school, how you're living your life right now, and what will matter in years to come. Take breaks, go for walks, spend time with friends, eat grilled cheese sandwiches and watch sports once in a while without kicking yourself for it afterwards. Our college experience are, after all, 4 years of our lives - I for one don't want to hate it.

Just an thought.

Much love, and good luck with midterms. 

"Our well-intentioned destruction of history" and other thoughts from the first week of school.

This is straight out of a class assignment, but it sums up nicely where my head has been for a few days. Feedback and/or questions welcome. 

After one of my classes this morning, I started thinking about how the discovery of some element of history – whether it is a site, an idea, or a people group – is often the first step in its eventual destruction. I began to wonder if it is unavoidable that humankind’s attempts to appreciate and understand history would end up destroying it. I have seen this pattern repeat in multiple ways. Physically, it manifests itself in the destruction of Mesoamerican historical sites that stood for centuries before tourists started visiting. Figuratively, it is shown in white America’s attempts to “remember” and “honor” Native American culture, succeeding only in propagating images of the censored version we are comfortable with.

                In Steinbeck’s piece “The Leader of the People,” he painfully describes Grandfather’s repeated attempts to inspire his family to appreciate and sympathize with his journey Westward. Carl’s angry outburst: “That time’s done. Why can’t he forget it, now it’s done?”(p.890) caused Grandfather to see that his eager retellings were only defiling the overarching story for the people he most wanted to understand it. He sought to use specific incidents (Piutes and the 35 horses) to illustrate what it felt like to surge Westward, he desperately wanted the “movement” (p. 891) to be as emotionally meaningful to them as it was, and is, to him. It was not until he sadly recognized that “Westering isn’t a hunger anymore” (p. 891) that he could see his experiences as the others saw them. I cannot help but wonder what the reaction would have been if he had only told the story once. But who has the self-control or humility to tell a story only once? Who can take only one picture of a beautiful scene, who has been to only one museum? When we see something we like, we want more, whether it is good for us or not. However, it is that overexposure, that rabid appreciation, that does not enhance our enjoyment but rather makes it mundane, untrue, or even damaged.

                I suppose it is an innate human urge, to cling to or draw near the stories and experiences that move us, though that often means that we will defile or corrupt them. It is almost as if we are small children with candy bars, holding onto them so tightly and eagerly that  we melt them with our hot little hands, ruining it for ourselves or anyone else who may have enjoyed it.

Is there a metaphor for trying to create a metaphor for a metaphor?

Perspective is a funny thing.

I become so used to my own, 5'4" from the ground (give or take 1/4" depending on how worn my TOMS are), looking through young blue grey green eyes that have seen sunlight nearly every day of their 20 years.

My outlook on life and my worldview are shaped by my perspective, by the things I've experienced and seen. My perspective is unique because no one else has lived my life.

Explaining how one's perspective, thinking patterns, ideas, and understanding are/have been/will be changing is like trying to explain swimming to someone who has lived in a desert their entire life.

The reason I started thinking about this is as follows: today I found myself in the theoretical but very real trap of creating a metaphor for a metaphor.

I tried to think of a way to relate the bizarre impression of vertigo I felt when the rearview mirror in my car fell off while I was driving to something else - but how can the feeling of suddenly not being able to see in two directions at once while moving be explained? I can't think of another way to explain it. It just is what it is. Like in math class with those pesky algebra problems, this answer cannot be simplified.

What is a metaphor for the way water soaks into dry land? How do you describe a description?

How do I explain what it looks like to have a room filled with sunlight coming through a window that has been blocked for years?

I can't.

Maybe we can all imagine a sort of picture of what those things may look like, but that's because we've seen them before. If you haven't seen something before, you can't really understand what it looks like.

Your perspective can't account for things that you haven't experienced or learned, and when your perspective changes it can be as foreign to someone else as the concept of mp3's would be to someone who had only ever listened to records.

Perspective is a funny thing. And when it changes, slowly or dramatically, it can be as hard to rationalize or explain as the sudden loss of the assurance of a rearview mirror. And if no one else has ever driven the type of car that tends to have things like the rearview mirror fall off, it's possible that no one will know what I'm talking about.

So I suppose, by my own explanation, no one will understand this post. It won't resonate in your bones or change your lifestyle. But still, my wish is that we'd all have our perspective widened a little bit. If you need to stop revisiting the past, I hope your rearview mirror falls off. If you feel thirsty and dry, I hope you get the refreshment you need. If you're in the dark, I hope you find a window.

And when you do, and your perspective changes, I hope you remember what it was like to look back, be thirsty, or be in the dark. Because our perspectives are best used to understand other people.

A tribute to the Thunder to the tune of "Oklahoma"

Oklahoma!
Where Durant comes driving down the court,
And Chris Bosh will weep
When the Thunder sweeps
While Lebron and Wade fin'ly retire!

Oklahoma!
Better than the Lakers or the Spurs,
So they won the West,
Soon they’ll be the best
When they win the finals and the rings!

We know that the Thunder is king,
And so this is the song that we sing,
And when we say: ah yip ah oh ee ayy,
We’re only saying “You’re gonna win, Oklahoma,"
Oklahoma,
O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A:
NNNN BBBB AAAA finals!

(Song begins at :52) 

Summer to-do list: working draft

1. Memorize the list of logical fallacies and mention every one I see/hear (AKA: be obnoxious all the time)
2. Purge my vocabulary of unnecessary abbreviations. Yeah guys, I know it's hilarious and charming when I say "totes perf" but no more.
3. Movie marathon list:
     A. Scorsese
     B. Wes Anderson
     C. Ellen Page
     D. Brad Pitt
     E. Emma Stone
     F. Christian Bale (censored, most likely)
4. Get really good at bocce ball
5. Improve frisbee skills from level 'arm amputee' to '12 year old boy'
6. Climb a mountain

In defense of #eavesdropping

Urban Dictionary defines "eavesdropping" as:

To spy on something or somebody.

Two federal intelligence agents were charged of eavesdropping on behalf of Russia. 

Related Words: espionage, whistle-blowing, nosing.   

The Online Etymology Dictionary states that an "eavesdropper" is: 

"mid-15c., from M.E. eavesdrop, from O.E. yfesdrype "place around a house where the rainwater drips off the roof," from eave (q.v.) + drip. Technically, "one who stands at walls or windows to overhear what's going on inside."

The ever-lovely Miriam-Webster Dictionary describes "eavesdropping" as: 

"to listen secretly to what is said in private "

And the incorrigible (do you need an definition for that, too?) Jazmin Miller (dare you to click that hyperlink) defines "eavesdropping," at least for my purposes, as: 

"I heard you." 

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I've always been of the opinion that if  you are going to say something that you don't want "other people" to hear, you better darn well say it when "other people" aren't around. If other people are around, it's fair game for them to hear it, because let's face it: only 7 year old's can pull off selective hearing with any semblance of grace.  

A "private" conversation held in public is no longer private. 

Again, for my purposes, the part B to that phrase is: "therefore I will post whatever you say on Twitter." 

Part of me is trying to make you laugh and get excited about my new favorite hashtag, but the other part of me is serious enough to be repetitive: if you want privacy, then keep your personal business private. Remember the delicacy of being discreet and verbally conservative, before Facebook and (ironically) Twitter brought our feelings and words to the public and un-erasable diary of the internet? Back when we whispered and spoke in confidence? 

In a way, this new hashtag is a plea for you (not necessarily you the reader, I am speaking to the ambiguous, vague, societal "you")  to watch what you say. 

Because, if I hear you, I'll probably take it out of context and paste it on the internet. 

NOTE: I am totally open to differing opinions on the idea of "eavesdropping." Just to be clear, I am not following people into their homes or taping microphones into restaurant booths, everything I post I hear in painfully public places.  

Also, if you like, you can stay updated and follow me on Twitter here.

The pink door (BONUS: new DiCaprio-inspired life goal)

Tonight, walking up the driveway to my house with leash and dog in hand, I decided to actually open this door.

This is the door to the shed on the property next to my parent's house. If you've ever been out to my house, I'm sure you've noticed it, because my dad hasn't yet found a way to get our lilac bushes to grow into an adequate divider and vision-blocker (think: Berlin wall). Maybe it's the expired Pepto-Bismol pink color or the endearingly dilapidated fence, but we've never found the view particularly appealing. Nobody lives inside the shed or the house in front of it, and nobody has for a long time. I have vague childhood memories of people living there, and even of being inside the house. I remember watching movies and eating delivered pizza, and noticing for the first time that the little white things they put inside the pizza box look like tables for very small people, or mice.

 Let me step back and mention that I've mentioned the shed door in my mind a hundred times, each time finding some new illicit drug growing in the floorboards or rogue bandits planning their next heist.

But even though the house and shed have been empty (allegedly) for years, and I've looked at that door every day of the 20 years of my life, I've never opened it.

So tonight was the night that I actually saw the door for what it was, something I've always wondered about but never committed to exploring. There was always a better time, or a better pair of shoes, or a better soundtrack.

Until tonight.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Maybe it was some Narnia-like moment of opening the door and discovering fairies and living garden gnomes inside, or a secret treasure, or even just some old relic that reminded me of my childhood.

A strong tug on the latch gave only resistance - I used both hands only to find that it still wouldn't budge. I peeked into the crack behind the door to see... more wood. The shed had been boarded up from the inside.

To ward off any attacks on the anticlimactic-ness of this non-adventure, I will address the "point" of this blog.

Sometimes the door to your next adventure doesn't open, and that's okay, because that just gives you more time for another one.

I feel like I'm in a place in my life where I could go in a dozen different directions and open a hundred different doors, and I know that statistically not all of them will open. I want me to know that it's okay, because there are other doors. I think I want you to know that, too.

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Also. I saw Titanic for the first time (!!!!!) in the theater last week, and it was definitely life changing. Especially Leonardo DiCaprio, who deserves a high-five for being so classy and talented. This experience was so moving that I'm now inspired to do two things.
(1. Watch every movie that Leonardo DiCaprio is in. I'm beginning tonight with This Boy's Life, and am accepting offers from anyone who wants to watch Gangs of New York with me.
(2. Do something before the age of 23 (which is how old Leo was when during the filming of Titanic, fun fact) that will make me memorable. Maybe not movie-poster and fan club memorable, but something worth talking about in 20 years.

Movies Ryan Gosling shouldn't be in.

My brother and I are both 100% on the Ryan Gosling fan club list. Honestly, who isn't, at least a little bit? Tonight we were talking about how awesome it would be to see Ryan Gosling in a wider range of films - and my brother tried to say there were some movies he shouldn't be in. I vehemently disagreed, and almost made this blog post into a list of movies Ryan Gosling SHOULD be in. This includes but is not limited to: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Pride and Prejudice (hel-lo Mr. Darcy), and The Princess Bride. However, that list is longer than I'm willing to type out, so I went the other route and am writing a *short* list (with said brother's help) of the few movies Ryan Gosling wouldn't make exponentially better.

1. Bambi, for obvious reasons. Even though it would be truly awesome to hear him say "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything else at all" because I'm sure it would resonate straight down to the heart of even the most jaded cynic, it would significantly reduce his street cred.

2. The Hobbit, mostly because he would be limited to a dwarf, a wizard, shady guys from Lake Town, or a dragon. Though dwarfs are notorious for being surprisingly charming, I can't bear the thought of him being half my height.

3. High School Musical. Even though he's great when he sings (Blue Valentine, anybody?), he would be a teacher that bursts into song and choreographed dance about his feelings - nobody wants to see him ruined like that. Not even choir and a capella geeks, and I am a diehard a capella fan.

4. The Brady Bunch. Fighting over hairbrushes, attics, or who has to wash the dog? Nooooo thank you. Or he could be Mr. Brady in his flared corduroy pants... actually, maybe that's not such a terrible idea.

5. Fiddler on the Roof. Mostly because it physically pains me to imagine him 75 lbs heavier singing "If I were a rich man..."

For when you intentionally show up late to a final (bonus: Aragorn's version of a finals pep talk)

Say you're in this Psychology class that normally meets at 8:25 AM. That has been going as well as can be expected all term long, but now it's finals week. Because of some cruel, sadist person out there, occasionally the times of the finals are different than the normal class meeting times. If your Psychology class was to be stricken by this cruel, sadist person, your final may be rescheduled to take place, at, oh, say 8AM.

But, of course, you know this. You remember this 25 minute time promotion like you remember to make your socks always match. So, when you're in your bathroom barely dressed with wet hair and you see the clock strike 8:01, of course you are not plunged into a mind-numbing panic when you realize that you should leave about 20 minutes ago.

Because, as you coolly reassure yourself, today we're only hearing more presentations. I have to make an appearance, but (just like at local concerts) who wants to actually show up on time?

So you casually blow dry your bangs (priorities) and nonchalantly stuff your makeup bag into your purse as you snatch a granola bar and saunter (quickly) out to your car. Secretly you are relieved that you get to maintain your street cred by breezing confidently into the room after the suckers all showed up on time.

But first you have to get there, and you know you can't look like you accidentally forgot what time the final started. You scoff at the very idea! So you have to work some magic with the single bobby pin you can find and the makeup you can put on with one hand. The one hand part is important because Psychology finals do not deserve to be died over, so for heavens sake keep a hand on the wheel, at least one eye on the road, and don't speed. Besides, you planned for this to happen.

Blush is quick and easy and will help you maintain your "cool" image. Mascara is a little harder but not impossible. If you're a newbie, only do this at stoplights. Put on foundation if you have a kabuki brush but avoid (repeat: avoid) liquid foundation. There isn't ever a casual explanation for getting it all over your shirt. Also, though eyeliner may seem like a good idea, it's not. Do not doubt that theory.

While driving, it's best to give yourself a pep talk. It'll help you focus and get into the zone, even though you don't really need any help because obviously this is going according to plan!

The pep talk should look something like this:

I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me.

A day may come when you curse the very institution known as college,

when we forsake our finals

and break your impressive record of class attendance,

but it is not this day!

An hour of stoplights and slow pedestrians,

when you can see your GPA come crashing down,

but it is not this day!

This day we WILL make it to the final!!

By the power of the impending spring break,

I bid you stand, poor college student!!!

You will show up barely in time to catch the 2 presentations that you need to evaluate, and not even your professor will care that your hair is still wet.

Soap box of the day: "gay"

I just wanted to say that I'm really glad the decent social world has started to see that racist jokes, music, etc. are not funny or appropriate ever. It may seem like a common-sense thing, because we're all just people, but I'm still glad to see that change.

And I can't wait until homophobic, disability, or sexist jokes are also recognized as 100% inappropriate and aren't laughed at anymore.

I've heard it said that calling something "gay" isn't homophobic or offensive, because it's just a word and it doesn't mean something, but it is offensive and it does mean something. I don't want to make this an emotional rant or a thesis, but this is an issue that drives me absolutely crazy.

Using words like "gay" or "retarded" in a negative way is dehumanizing to homosexual and disabled individuals because it attaches that negativity to definitions of people. I know there is a better way to explain that but I'm really worked up so I can't.

Gay people are just that, people, and using the word "gay" as a negative or derogatory term is incredibly calloused and offensive.

There are so many other words to use that aren't demeaning to groups of people.

And that's why I turn into a big jerk when someone does use the word "gay," because I figure that if I make the user feel as uncomfortable as possible they might think twice the next time.

If you ever wanted to see the feeding of the 5,000...

I heartily recommend spending some time at your local community center.

Well, I guess I can't say this for EVERY community center out there, but at the one here in Bend offers up a miracle every Sunday. The community center, or BCC for short, runs a program every Sunday called "Feed the Hungry." Volunteers and a few staff come together before 7am to prepare breakfast, sack lunches, and a full meal. Typically 100-200 homeless and hungry are served. BCC also offers other services on Sundays, including a shower truck and occasionally a dental service, as well as a space to get out of the cold for a while. Most if not all of the food is DONATED by local businesses, churches, organizations, and individuals. Volunteers and staff work hard to meet the individual needs of the community and to avoid wasting any food.

I've only spent a few hours volunteering at the BCC, but it's pretty amazing to watch the food and the volunteers to prepare and serve it come out of nowhere every week. And okay, maybe it's not the equivalent of the feeding of the 5,000, but it's still a miracle for people who really need it.

If you have time between church services on Sundays or if you don't go to church or if you're just looking for something to do that benefits the members of your community, email Diane at volunteer@bendscommunitycenter.org. 

Learn more about the community center at http://www.bendscommunitycenter.org.

Of course I would create a library metaphor

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be. - Douglas Adams

I believe that whenever you end up anywhere you have a story to tell about how you got there.

And I believe in sharing your story.

Today I was really struck by the beauty that can be found in that, even if it's just small moments and chapters that are shared. Because when you've made the journey and your story is bound, there isn't anything worse than locking it up and pretending like those footsteps never happened. Your memories should be like a library, ready to share and be made new in someone else's eyes. A journey made is wisdom gained, you can't pull the difficult books off of the shelf just because the covers are worn.

And that is as far as I will even attempt to push that metaphor, it stops well before past due fines and the Dewey decimal system.

I feel a little bit like a fortune cookie, but I'm serious: Take every good opportunity to kindly, wisely, and meaningfully share the moments and the chapters of your story.

What I love even more than bucket lists...

"I am so glad that I did this" lists.
"I can't wait to tell my grandchildren about this" lists.
"I will never regret this" lists.
And "I never would have thought to put this on a bucket list" lists.

Think about it!

Bucket lists became a big part of pop culture after that movie came out - what was it called? (just kidding)

And they're popular because they're great! I have written out many a bucket list in my time (which is almost embarrassingly short, yes I am aware). Seasonal bucket lists, before I get married bucket lists, before I graduate bucket lists. Sure, I know the real idea behind the thing is things to do before you die, but when you're young you have so many other milestones ahead of you- who wants to wait for the last one?

How many bucket lists have I completed? Ummm...

How many listed experiences have changed as my tastes and comfort levels and dreams change?

In my mind, bucket lists should be inspirational outlines at best. They should be a starting point but not a roadmap.

Because what I've also discovered in my time is that often the best experiences in life are the ones you never had on a to-do list.

That's where the whole idea for "I am so glad that I did this" list came from. I'm a believer in the power of reflection and of knowing the paths you have already walked over and learned from. There is hope and inspiration and magic to be gained from remembering the times that you took a chance, embraced the crazy, or stayed true. The things you never planned on doing but changed you anyway.

Here's part of mine.

The things I am excited to tell my grandchildren:
- I took the reins hat were offered to me in downtown St Louis in 2007 and drove a horse drawn carriage down the street
- I played a fateful game of red rover in which I took a hard fall and went back in to keep playing, and my foot was broken he whole time
- I emailed my favorite professor about a tv show and ended up starting an independent study that could change the course of my education and career
- I wrote back to the boy in Seattle who would end up changing everything
- I went to Shari's at 3am in a formal dress and heels just for kicks with three of my best friends
- I played twister in an elevator
- I sent my grandpa a joke
- I listened to my father when he told me that I was only 18 and closed minded and he thought it was sad
--- and all those times when I answered the phone, said "sure I'll go!", almost drowned, got sunburned, didn't finish the book, and drove too fast.

Even if this doesn't make you look at bucket lists differently, I hope you are able to look back on the beautiful moments in your life and take note of the lists you've already conquered.

With love, Jaz.

Alright, so it's been a few days

But I don't want to waste typing energy on excuses that you and I don't care about anyway.

Most people have habits. Little quirks or strategies or systems that they put into place in order to live the way they want to, or think they should. Some people drive the same way to work every day, some people always draw a line through their 7's, others tie their right shoe before their left. Me, well I clean my room.

Sure, it's about as often as I blog, but I clean it. And when I do, I usually blog about it.

Please don't make any rash judgements about the psychological implications of following cleaning my physical space with cleaning my mental and emotional space.

This time I went deep, I dug through every drawer and box and old container that once held cheap stationary and purged. Purging is hard for me because, let me just admit it right now, I am a hoarder. A 20 year old hoarder. About a dozen five year old magazines, movie tickets from 2001, too many notebooks with only one page of writing in them to count, and just about everything else you could think of.

Literally, everything you could think of.

Napkins from special restaurants, baggage tags from trips, notes, every birthday card I've received in the last 10 years. If I ever babysat you and you colored me a picture, I still had it. Pictures of people I don't know, event flyers, bottle caps, even my wisdom teeth.

I have no shame.

But as I think I've attempted to explain before, I'm a believer in remembering. I believe in the power of memories you can touch. I love the idea of having a physical legacy to leave behind. I love the idea that, someday after grad school when I have children and after they have children, they will have a piece of my life to look at that isn't an iPad or digital photo frame.

I found this red-violet Crayola crayon that I found while I was dancing in the leaves in Drake Park the morning of my last day as a 17 year old. With Kaitlyn.

I also found this little journal with 4 pages that I made with paper and bound with ribbon when I was 8. I wrote about camping and Star Wars and popcicles, which I really spelled like that. I also wrote about the time when my parents were busy playing an intense game of Sequence, and it happened to be during dinnertime, and I happened to be hungry, and they told me to eat marshmallows for dinner. The journal ends with "Life is full of departure, isn't it?"

I had pen pal in the Philippines eleven years ago that I had completely forgotten about. In one letter she said "You asked me if our country is really good. Yes, it's good because God made it" and in the other she said her birthday was coming soon - on January 17. I discovered that letter in my room-cleaning... ON JANUARY 17.

This is the beautiful, weird stuff in life that you just can't make up, you don't even want to make it up. Because really, who wants to find their wisdom teeth in a box of cards?