You Are Here

You are here.

But you don’t want to be here. 

Your mind is elsewhere.

The future, the hopes, the fantasies couple with dread that you are here and you don’t want to be here. You want to be in the distant time where your brain guarantees that it will be better. You are here but you can be there. It’s an obsession and you feel like you’ll never get there. You stop, drown in your sorrows and feel no sense of purpose. You push away your reality searching and seeking anything. You are here and everything you want is elsewhere. You got here by giving up everything, making the necessary sacrifices until you were left dry and thirsting for anything to give you a sense of bliss.

She shut the tablet and grabbed her duffel bag, several smaller bags and her pillow. You are here, she thought to herself. Hoping she had everything she needed, she walked out the door.

~

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/379357968596679214/

The radio rattled on as the pickup meandered down a dusty highway. She kept throwing sideways glances at him; he caught her from the corner of his eye. She smacked the button on the dashboard silencing the loud commercial.

“Let’s play a game,” she said clutching the notebook she’d been scribbling in.

“Okay,” he said. “What game?”

She tells him once on a road trip to a rodeo in South Dakota—or was it North Dakota?—her friend played a game where every time they passed a specific sign, they had to compliment each other. On this route, there were signs every few miles advertising an attraction.

“Since there aren’t really signs like that,” she said looking around the barren, unmarked landscape. “we’ll just take turns saying nice things.”

He smiled shaking his head ever so slightly. She wrote at the top of a page in her notebook, “10 Things I Like About You.” Turning a page, she wrote, “10 Things You Like About Me.” She put the date in the top right corner like the scrupulous writer she was. She looked up at him.

“You first,” he said.

“I thought of the game.”

Pause.

“I like your laugh,” she said. It was something she knew he was self-conscious of. He used to be embarrassed when she made him laugh; he’d cover it up and never let a full hearty laugh out.

“I like your smile,” he said. She tried not to smile.
Each bump and jostle of the road drown in the background and the places they cruised by might as well not have existed.

“I like your butt in those jeans,” she said.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “I like the way you accept me the way I am.”

The landscape started to change. There were more hills and trees. The grass held shades of autumn.

“How much longer?” she asked.

“Oh, not too long.”

“Okay, let’s do things we hate about each other.”

Again, she titled two different pages.

“I hate how you won’t listen to my music,” he said.

“I try!” she retorted.

“You’re getting better,” he acknowledged.

She looks out the window. A large property with a beautiful home, a barn and lots of pasture. They make eye contact, the knowing look that says someday.

“It’s only ‘cause,” she says returning to the conversation, “My brother used to listen to that kind of music and he would get so angry and frustrated. I just associate it with that.”

He nodded.

“Your turn.”

Without hesitation, she said, “I hate your driving.”

“I hate your side seat driving,” he responded.

She wrote “side seat” in quotations refraining from saying she hates that he said it that way.

They pull up to a house with a car port. Leaves from a tall expansive tree crunch beneath our feet.

“This is my future daughter-in-law,” her future father-in-law said wrapping an arm around her.

“Hi,” she says to the first of many people she’ll meet for the first time.

~

A long-distance relationship is like balancing two lives in two different places.

Places.

In "Harry Potter," Hermione could be in two places at once. Sometimes I want to be in two places. Sometimes I really am. I am in Nebraska going to school. Sometimes I want to be home in Colorado and sometimes I want to be in Oklahoma with my cat and fiancé. Sometimes I’m talking to my fiancé so much when we aren’t in the same geographical location that I feel although I am physically in Hastings, I am mentally somewhere else. It’s like leading two different lives, which is silly because I hardly handle the life I was given.

Home. It’s one of my favorite places. The first place I left; the first place I returned. The scenery was something I took for granted. I didn’t know anything but the mountains, vast forests, blue skies. It took leaving for me to appreciate what I woke up to each day. 

She looked up from her tablet, her hands poised above the keyboard. She leaned back in the chair with a sigh. Her coffee was cold; her brain running on fumes.

~

“We’re praying,” someone said.

Everyone stood in a large circle. She grabbed his hand and he grabbed his grandpa’s next to him. His grandpa saw her and quickly switched spots with him.

“I want to hold a pretty girl’s hand,” he said in a raspy voice. She smiled and obliged. They bowed their heads as the prayer began.

Just like that there was movement to the kitchen, a pot luck style of filling your flimsy paper plate with as much as you can.

After eating they went back outside. The sun was shining and it was warm out. He stood by her as she sat on the tailgate of her pickup. They had a cooler of beer. The contents of it they had to drink inconspicuously.

“We’re starting games! Get in here,” a woman said peeking out the door.

“Noooo,” she groaned. She meant to keep that internal, but her dread pushed outward. “Do I have to? Can we just hide?”

He only nodded in sly confirmation. He poured a beer and they walked towards the park. The family gathering was taking place at a church so there was plenty of room to spread out. It was only a matter of minutes before his mother called out to them, commanding them inside. Everyone was on teams. The noise ricocheted off the walls, bouncing off her ears and making her head pound with it.

“You can take my place,” a brother’s wife said. “Or you can hold the baby.”

“I’ll hold the baby,” she said. The baby was reaching for her watch as it caught the light. As soon as he was in her arms, he nuzzled his head against her neck and dozed off. She tried hiding but the mother found her and insisted it was her turn to play; she needed to feed the baby. Her stomach dropped when she saw plates of whip cream on the tables.

“Come on!” everyone seemed to yell.

Hesitantly, she stood next to him.

“You can’t use your hands. There’s a letter on each plate. You have to find all five to spell a word,” a voice said.

She pulled her hair back eyeing the plate. Then stuck her face in it. But she could not find a letter. The rest of the team had already found theirs. She stopped, looked around, and paused before continuing. Another team already won. Her future mother-in-law patted her on the back.

“You’re a trooper,” she said.

~

“Now what are we doing?” she asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Going to Papa and Nana’s,” he said. “My dad’s parents.”

“How long of a drive?”

“Two hours.”

She plugged her phone in and played the end of the podcast they hadn’t finished earlier. She was fidgeting and after stopping at Starbucks, the caffeine only made it worse.

“Let’s ask each other questions,” she said. The highway was extremely dark now.

“What kind of questions?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I saw some good ones on Facebook.”

The screen lit up her face as she scrolled.

“Okay,” she said. “It says, ‘Without prompting, ask your significant other these questions and write exactly what they say.’ Okay. What’s my favorite food?”

He thought about it for a while. “I’m not sure actually. Steak?”

“I’m not sure either. . . depends on my mood. Yours is definitely steak,” she said. “What makes you proud of me?”

“Your writing. You write so well, and you’re just so smart.”

He turned the cruise off as his brother slowed down in front of him.

“I wish he would just pick a speed,” he muttered. “What are you proud of me for?”

She glanced at him. “How adaptable you are, especially at your job. They can throw anything at you and you can handle it.”

“Mmpf,” he grunted.

They grew tired although it was only eight o’ clock. He followed the pickup in front of them onto the exit ramp. But his brother continued back on the highway.

“What is he doing?” he said aloud as he turned right.

“Is this the right way?”

“Yes,” he said. A little later he said, “I guess it’s just a little longer.”

He turned off on a side road and drove into some trees. He pulled into a grassy area by some campers and parked. An older gentleman walked towards them with a flashlight. He went to hug him but when his grandpa saw her, he pushed him aside.

“I’d rather hug this pretty little thing,” he said. “How are ya?”

“Good,” she smiled.

They followed him toward the house. There was a garage full of junk. A fridge stood open; it’s doors filled with non-perishable items.

The home was warm, filled with family and shelves of knickknacks, a large kitchen, cook books filling the cupboards. A crock pot of white chili. The men say in the living room. A father and a son reminiscing of old hunting stories.

~

The morning was brisk. Frost covered the grass and a light fog floated around the trees. It was completely silent. Inside the house cinnamon rolls were baking in the oven, coffee brewing in the pot. Everyone was slowly waking up, even the kids.

“I’m going to Atwoods today to get some bullets,” he was telling his father.

“Yeah, I’ll go with,” his father had said.

They went, the two of them, a brother, father, and grandpa to town. Grandpa drove with sharp turns, unexpected braking and random swerving. Expecting it to be busy on this Black Friday, they were pleasantly surprised. The spent almost an hour perusing the sales at the country store. Camouflage, camping gear, home decorations, clothing.

“If we stand here long enough, I’m going to buy a pair of boots,” the brother said to her.

“I know right. Fifty bucks off?” she said.

Eventually all of them found their way to the front, and they made their way back to the house. Someone else drove on the way back, sparing all of the necks whip lash.

At the house, the rest of the family started showing up. More introductions for her.

“This is my betrothed,” he said.

“Hi,” she said shaking their hands.

“I didn’t know you were engaged,” one woman said.

“It’s still early,” she said. “We’ll talk after Thanksgiving.”

The woman laughed. “I think you’ve found your match,” she said smiling up at him.

I wasn’t joking, she thought to herself.

They stood in another circle of prayer.

“Does anyone want to say grace?” Nana asked.

“My dad does,” a boy chimed in.

Everyone laughed and his father stared down his boy from the other side of the circle. She stood in his arms as the prayer ended and everyone ushered into the kitchen. This was her place.

You are here.

Social Media Has Changed The English Language

Ever hear a member of the older generation, perhaps an English teacher, say texting, tweeting, and facebooking are ruining our language? There is actually no proof that shortened text language affects our grammar. Facebook introduced us to new words with new meanings like 'friend,' 'wall,' and 'like.' Read more here.

English Majors: It's What We Want

English majors have a bad rap. We're virtually taught to be poor and thrown out into the world assumed that we can only be teachers. False. My English major is everything I want. And it is a lot more than people think. 
I'm pursuing what I love, and it has opened so many doors for me. No, I do not want to be a teacher; I want to be an editor, a writer, an intellectual, a critic, and a traveler. My English major gives me these options and coupled with my Spanish and Publishing major, the world is wide open! 
There is nothing wrong with being a teacher; they're the people that do the most for this world and receive the least credit. I salute them, and I have an utmost respect for them. Teachers are the ones who got me to where I am today: I owe it all to them. 
But let me tell you what I can do with my English major: Anything I want. 
I can travel. I can teach English in Spain. I can edit articles for the local newspaper. I can submit short stories to popular publishers. I can write a novel. I can read The New Yorker and Wired, and learn about anything I want. I can be a writer; I can be an editor; I can be an intellectual. I have the skills to do just about anything, skills that are valuable in a company. 
I started taking a Web Communications class this year, and the class is not what you would think it is, unless you were like me and had really no notion of what a class with that title could entail. The professor spoke in terms a layman like me did not understand (what are deliverables), assigned 60 pages of reading, and told us there was a large project due at the end of the semester of producing an online presence for a real company. I shrugged and said, "That's nothing for an English major." 
The professor and the students in this class looked upon me as unprepared and oblivious to this class. On day one. And as much as I mirrored those looks, I knew I had what it takes. Sure, the first reading I actually had to active engage myself and look up terms and take notes and do such things that I've managed to skip since freshman year, but I get it. I think critically; I think outside of the box.
Second day of class, the professor notices my Star Wars mug and jeers, "Hannah's a closet nerd!!"
I said, "Oh, there's nothing in the closet about it." Apparently, I gave him the perfect segue to his next discussion: being open to new concepts and the ever-changing world. 
I may not know all the web design terminology, or what deliverables are, but I surely can find out. I can be as up-to-date as anybody because I love information and I love searching for it. Reading is easy. Research is easy. Best of all: It's my passion. 
So here's to the doors opened to me, doors of travel, opportunity, and novelty. 
Lastly, here's to all the English majors. Keep on keeping on. 

Spanish Poetry and my Journey to Fluency

As much as I hate being stuck in the same cycle, having a daily routine is healthy. I've started a list of things that I want to do each day, and limited them in some ways so that the list is achievable and more feasible. School started this week, and with the new rhythm of a schedule, I'm settling into a new routine. I'm writing of list of things I want to do everyday, and the first thing on my list is to read one Pablo Neruda poem a day. I bought Cien sonetos de amor (100 Love Sonnets) by Pablo Neruda translated by Stephen Tapscott several months ago and I didn't start digging into until now.
I will share my favorite stanza:

Oh invádeme con tu boca abrasadora,

Indágame, si quieres, con tus ojos nocturnos,

Pero en tu nombre déjame navegar y dormir.

Invade me with your hot mouth; interrogate me

with your night-eyes, if you want—only let me

steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there. 

These words struck me, "Only let me steer like a ship through your name; let me rest there." I read them over and over, settling into their loveliness, their familiarity. Some people truly have a way with words, and it's one thing to be a poet, famous or not, and it is quite another to be a translator of poetry. 

I'm speaking from experience. 

Spanish Senior Seminar last year, I worked on several poems, translating them from Spanish into English. Spanish is a much prettier, more romantic, and lyrical language than English is, and it is tricky to maintain the rhythm and the mean. I translated poems by Venezuelan poet Elías David Curiel (1871-1924).

Curiel used archaic Spanish and some words are not widely used today, in English or Spanish. Many times I could not find any inkling of the words online and sat down with my professor who pulled out aged thick books to look up outdated definitions.

This was one of the poems I had the most fun with. Many times I took creative license to make the English lines lyrical and pretty. 

~

MAL DE LUNA

a Antonio Smith

¿No ha padecido usted nunca  de ilunación?

 He aquí una enfermedad mucho 

más peligrosa que la más terrible de las

insolaciones, según lo atestigua Guy de

Maupassant.

Blanca noche. Me enfermo de mal de luna. Un prado. Surtidores.

Estatuas. Indecisas penumbras. Temblorosas claridades.

Una niña, en su blanco peinador semi-envuelta, entre las flores,

me espera, junto a una de las marmóreas míticas deidades!

Esa desconocida, que me aguarda, a los tímidos fulgores

de las rubias estrellas en un pensil cuyas frondosidades

penumbrosas acendran perfumes de sus labios tentadores,

suda el humor divino de las divinas voluptuosidades!

Bad Moon (Moon stroke)

For Antonio Smith

Have you ever suffered from moon stroke?

I have a sickness more dangerous than the 

worst sunstroke, as witnessed by Guy of 

Maupassant.

White night. I have moon stroke. A meadow. Fountains. 

Statues. Irresolute shadows. Trembling clarities. 

A girl, half wrapped in white negligee, among flowers, 

She waits for me, next to one of the mythical marble deities!

That unknown, she awaits me, the timid glow

Of the blonde stars in the garden whose shadowy 

Canopy of trees purify the perfume of their tempting lips,

She sweats divine humor of divine voluptuousness!

Seated, beside her, upon the moss bank, among the roses 

And amid the statues,—an arbor of goddesses made of Pentelikon marble—,  

I will tell her that love is the cradle of art, of which she is they symbol. 

She will squeeze a cluster of grapes in my mouth with a kiss.

I will bite an apple: her heart. And in my memory printed

her love, my soul will be the vision of a garden full of moon!

~

Poetry is beautiful artistic expression in all languages. Incorporating into everyday the poetry of Pablo Neruda makes me happy! And furthers my journey to fluency in Spanish. 

A Letter to My Person

A Letter to My Person
After a successful surprise birthday weekend (I kept the surprise a secret for months!) of watching Jim Gaffigan at the Riverwind Casino in Norman, Oklahoma, and drinking at college bar "Logies" by Oklahoma University campus (Go Sooners!), I wrote an article about the person the birthday surprise was for. My Person. My person is also my boyfriend and my biggest fan, the love of my life and my biggest critic.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/502292164665357394/sent/?sender=45338602

4895132075&invite_code=b4ccf59a6916bb2fcfb124486b6c52e7

A Letter to My Person

11 Signs You Attended Hastings College

Hastings College provides a unique experience for students. Not only do they have a wide variety of classes, they have a rodeo team, and many campus events including Mr. and Mrs. Bronco and Boars Head. The professors are personable and give one-on-one experience with all of their students. 

From drinking warm beer and cheap vodka, students in Nebraska get creative when it comes to entertaining themselves in the flat lands and cornfields. 

"Upon graduation, the government sends you a reminder that you owe at least your firstborn’s life in debt.

While I spoke of students earning a lot of scholarships, few received full rides. After four years, any amount of tuition adds up, leaving grads with a surmounting amount of debt to the government."
Read more here: 

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/signs-attended-hastings-college

The Lessons Rodeo Taught Me

Patience

The long, sometimes drab drives taught me the patience to sit for hours, along with the talent of entertaining myself while driving for hours.

Growing up in rodeo, a lot of people train their own horses. I learned how to barrel race and pole bend with my horse. Neither of us had any experience and we taught each other in our own way until we started winning. But that is one of the hardest parts, working with a horse. It's also the most rewarding. For some people, it comes natural, but as a little girl learning by doing is quite the process. Not only that, but a horse has so much personality. 

A horse has off days and on days just like we do. Days they don't want to work and days they have too much energy to contain. Relying on a living creature that weighs 1,000 pounds is a scary thing. Getting bucked off, trampled, and stepped on comes with the territory.

Read more here.

https://www.theodysseyonline.com/glimpse-of-the-rodeo-road

You Can Bump ‘Em

Dirt flew across the paneled fence, splattering the faces of onlookers. Cowboy hats ducked slightly and the announcer cackled into the microphone, “That was quite the show, my friends.” Minutes later the bull trotted proudly out of the arena, after much effort of the pick-up men.

She sat on her horse in the corner outside of the arena: out of sight, out of mind. Her arms were crossed, hiding her anxiety. Barrel racing was next. She knew once she picked up the reins her mare would start up, like an engine of a motorcycle purring in anticipation, and she would have to contain her. The excitement, the nervousness—it never died away. Three cans were set up. The cowboys scooted them and twisted them to the perfection of a barrel racer’s pleasure. She was last hole, the bottom of the rake. ‘Saving the best for last,’ she told herself. She let out a long breath. Her mare matched her with a loud blow. She patted her neck careful not to disturb the reins. That was how sensitive her mare was, how in-tune they were as an ensemble. Stepping off, she tightened the cinches, another indication that the race was nearing. Anticipation.

The announcer spoke her name in a long drawling voice; she was next.

She picked up the reins, the mare started prancing and breathing quickly, pulling her head against the reins, explosive but gentle. She pointed her towards the alley, the long path to a short pattern. Instantly, the mare picked her head up, pushing against the reins, begging to be let loose. Closer they inched to the gate as the previous horse left the arena. The anticipation building as they saw the first barrel. She kept her eye on it before giving the mare the cue that it was all hers; it was the mare’s turn to take control.

Trust. A major part of barrel racing. Trust that as they ran full speed towards the barrel, the mare would, in her right lead, hunker down grazing my toe in a perfect semi-circle around the girth of the barrel. Trust that we would find each barrel and getting as close as possible—“You can bump ‘em, you can kick ‘em, just don’t knock em over!”—we would make the pattern home, clocking our fast time. 

Princess Sincerity

I am a dating expert. I said it, I am the date expert. I get women; I understand them. I consume them. And they love me. It doesn’t matter who you are; with a few of my tips women will be crawling all over you. 

The only problem I have is women, well, they get too attached.  My techniques are not meant for the one night stand. I make women fall hard in one night. If a committed, long term relationship is what you want, I can get it. But I cannot get you anything less.

My goal is not to find a relationship, nor is it to find a one night stand. I revel in the flirting, the small talk, and the attraction. Yet nothing more. My skill is in the art of the human mind. I understand the intricacies of its desires and complications of its functions. The fields of psychology and therapy suit me. But it is not enough for me. I strive to apply my knowledge, to test it in real life. I cannot sit across from someone and give them therapeutic advice. I like being out in the field. I call it research and women are my test subjects.

A dating expert typically is associated as being a player, a cheater. Essentially, the expert views dating as a game. I disagree. As an expert, I am a keen observer of the human psyche. I’m a charmer. I watch behavior patterns; I look for signs, clues to who is sitting across the bar. It may be a game for me: a psychological game. Psychological thrillers always interested me. My mom and I would sit in the living room reading mystery novel after mystery novel, soaking up the twists and turns, the surprises and the unanswered questions. I never admit this, but I enjoy curling up on the couch with a cup of coffee and a book to read on a snowy day. Women enjoy the thrill of being ‘picked up,’ flirted with, and lusted after. In itself is an art of mystery.

She’s stirring her drink quickly, almost agitated. I whisper something in her ear as I walk by, brushing my fingertips against her neck. She smiles and turns to look. But I was already immersed in the crowd. Now I’m the one that makes her happy and I am just out of her reach. Her eyes are scanning the place for me. She’s looking for something she never knew she wanted. I’m the mystery.

What did I say to her? Well, I could have said anything. It was in the way I caught her off guard, leaned in close sending chills all over her, and disappeared. The questions to be asked, “Who was that?” “Where did they go?” She must find out more.

“Your eyes sparkle like a thousand stars in the night sky.” That was charming.  But it was the truth laced with poetry. A romantic statement of an observation. Pretty words to whisper in her ear.

Prince Charming got his name because he gives delight and admiration. He is not called Prince Sincere. As for me, I mean what I say. I know it is exactly what they want to hear, but I am not lying. And that’s the difference. The honesty in my voice creates a security in her mind. And a desire for more. I believe one can be charming and sincere. And that’s important.

Sincerity.

I’m leaning against the bar when she sidles up next to me.

“Hello,” she says in a barely audible voice. She doesn’t look at me.

I’m observing her from the corner of my eye.

“Crown and coke?” she asked.

“Mm. Martini? Dry.” I asked.

She nods.

“You’re not what I expected.” She said.

“How do you know it’s me?”

She turns her body to me and leans an elbow on the bar and her drink on the napkin.

“Woman’s intuition,” she smiled.

“Are you disappointed?”

“Oddly, not at all,” her eyes flashed, zeroing in on my body.

“Good.” I said.

She thought she was one step ahead of me.

“It was the way you touched me, your lips against my ear and your fingers on my neck. And when you disappeared, I knew you couldn’t have gone far. The bar would be a safe bet. You’re alone, but you’re not waiting for anybody,” she said as though reading my mind. “Your body position is open, yet not welcoming. I walked by a few minutes before and I saw you shift your weight and I felt your eyes. That wasn’t the first time you’d noticed me. And you weren’t prepared for me to notice you yet.”

I shook my head. “Wow.” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“Want another one?” she motioned to my drink.

“Absolutely,” I said, watching her cautiously.

“I don’t usually drink martinis, but the happy hour makes them cheap enough to be worth it.”

“Mm,” I said. I still faced the dance floor and she leaned over the bar talking to the bartender.

I was intrigued.

“Any plans for later this evening?” She asked.

It was 11:30.

“I hadn’t planned that far ahead,” I said.

She examined me. “What? Did I throw off your game?” she smiled.

“No, no.” I smirked. “Not at all. I’m just impressed you found me so quickly.”

“Hmm,” she mumbled. “Well, after this drink do you want to get out of here?”

I looked into her eyes, searching them.

“I’d like that,” I smiled.

She put her hand on mine.

She fancies the idea that she outsmarted me. She thinks this was her idea.

She leads me out of the bar and to her car, proud of what she snatched up.

I have an unfair advantage; I have quite a bit of insight into what makes a woman, a woman. I know what makes her heart throb, what she loves and what she hates. I know her weaknesses.

Because I am one.

I am a woman.

Call me Princess Sincerity. 

She was Beautfiul

She was beautiful but sometimes she just got really sad. I think that’s what scared people away. Sometimes she will get into these moments where she’ll be so deep in thought and you can tell by the way she talks. She’ll say something without finishing the thought-no explanation. And pause & say something completely unrelated. Then she’ll respond to your story from earlier before smiling & saying ‘”sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.” What makes people uncomfortable though is when she goes quiet. “What’s wrong?” “Did I do something?” “Are you mad?”

I wonder how many things a human can think about at once. How many boxes can a person have open at once? I think she’s reached the ultimate-maximum-number-of-boxes-opened several times.  She’s smart but her brain over stretches itself resulting in mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion.

Most people don’t like it when she gets in these moods, but these are one of my favorite moments of her. This is when she is the most real and if you listen to her when she doesn’t feel like talking it is one of the most spectacular things. She’s not depressed; sometimes she gets caught in another universe. The universe of her mind. Sometimes it’s hard for her to escape and sometimes she doesn’t want to. But what causes her to get stuck in this universe is when people probe her for answers she doesn’t have. They ask what’s wrong and what’s on her mind and she’ll say there is a lot on her mind but nothing wrong and she definitely doesn’t want to talk about it. It’s her way of processing things. She’s half introvert and half extrovert and nobody can accept that. But I can more than accept it.

photo via compfight

Her mind is beautiful and terrifying.

I think its ok to be sad. It’s necessary. But she bears the burden of everything. She’s hypersensitive to other peoples thoughts and feelings.

This is one of the moments of her that I adore.  

Hours of Our Lives

As a college student, I struggle with the balance between work, school, and rodeo. I need to make money because I want to be financially independent from my parents. However, at this point in my life, I don't think having a job is the most important thing. A little extra spending money is awesome but not necessary. "We don't buy things with money, we buy them with hours from our lives."

photo via compfight

This thought scares me. I don't want to spend all my hours at a job doing something I do not enjoy with the only purpose of making money. I think Americans rush too much. Our perception of time is very strict. Being early is ideal. So is being busy. We desire success from our jobs but that success is defined through money. As a result, money defines our lives. We believe we achieve happiness through a raise or purchasing a brand name product. Our social statuses are associated with money as well. When we spend all our time working, it's important that our job fulfills our hours with what we enjoy. Money is necessary for me to board and feed my horses, and also travel to rodeos. But most importantly, doing what I love to make money.

Happy for No Reason

I like to explore different ways to approach things, different ways of thinking, and different perspectives on things. It's healthy to have an open mind. As a result, I find random yet interesting books or articles to read. This summer I stumbled across the concept of being happy for no reason. What does that mean? Well, look at your life right now. Are you, in your own terms, happy? (I say 'in your terms' because it's impossible to measure happiness. It is all relative and dependent on our own idea of it.) If so, why are you happy? Maybe it's because you got a raise at work, bought a new car, or your boyfriend bought you flowers. Would you be happy if those things were taken away? If the answer is no, then your happiness depends on materialistic things or other people. If you are happy for a reason, then that reason can be taken away.
So how do we find happiness without having a reason for it?

photo via compfight

Instead of saying we will be happy if we had that new car or had a relationship, we should be happy first, and then these things will fall into our laps. Eating healthy has proven to improve our mood. As does exercise. Both are natural ways to improve our bodies which in turn increases our happiness. This website explains the phenomena in terms of the book by Marci Shimoff:
http://www.learningstrategies.com/Happy/Home.asp

Infatuations: An intense but short-lived passion or admiration for someone or something

I titled my blog "Infatuations" because that is one of the things that defines my life right now. And I think it defines a lot of people's lives -at least in certain aspects. I am living my life based on the infatuations I have, or to use a less strong word, my actions are driven by desire. My desire to compete in rodeo drives me through the chores of feeding my horses, cleaning up after them, hooking up the trailer, hauling to the arena to practice, and repeat. I think it is important to ask ourselves why we do something. Yes, the answer 'because I want to,' is valid. But why do we want to? The answer to that question is one that helps me get out of bed in the morning. Why do I want to write? Because I enjoy it. It is an outlet for me to express my thoughts in an abstract way. I love to write stories about other people because I can still fulfill the need to think about my problems, but in an indirect and less stressful way. Oh dear, my character is listless and unmotivated because she sees no point in fulfilling her degree requirements.. is there a solution to her problem? Sure. I give her a cup of delicious coffee on a rainy day. I put her in a comfy oversized sweater and sit her on a couch to stare out the window. Her spirits are lifted and so are mine. It really is as simple as that for me.
There are many more reasons for why I write, but that will have to wait for another time. I want to get back to infatuations. The kind of infatuations that we cannot control. Like for other people. Or the past. Or the future. These are things we do not have control over, yet can be absolutely lost over. Why? Well, that's a complicated answer. But I think it comes down to the make up of our brains and the values we hold at the time. And we must be careful with these infatuations. Being aware of them is half the battle.
What are your thoughts?
Nos vemos!

photo via compfight

The Writing Lover

Once upon a time, there was a writer. This writer wanted to do nothing but write. Sadly, as a college student, this writer needed to make money. After searching for inspiration online, she stumbled across 5 Jobs for Writers. All of which seemed rather easy to jump right into! Then the application process started and websites requested resumes and background experience: all sorts of fancy stuff like that. Discouraged by the fact that she had no experience outside of classes, she decided to read her friend's blog to see if she had updated with any posts. And she had! The wheels started churning as she realized she had absolutely no excuse for not having a blog. In high school she had started one and kept up on it for a good year before she got bored with it and lost all motivation. Those were the days she would write everyday. Those were the days when a career in writing didn't seem so daunting. As an English major, it only makes sense to be exploring all aspects of the word, whether that is reading Old English British Literature (for a class, of course. Nobody does that for fun.) or writing creatively to keep the brain refreshed.
Well, those are all of my thoughts for now. I need to go feed my horses!
Hasta Luego!

photo via compfight