gratitude

In the vein of http://1000awesomethings.com/ and Mama Cass's Gushing with Gratitude, here are the 10 things I'm thankful for this week. I encourage everyone to participate in the practice of saying thank you (it doesn't really matter to whom you say it -- just projecting it is a good thing), because I've realized that even when you feel like you're living in a land of suck, there are always things, no matter how small (and some of mine are small), that make the world a better place.

Without further ado, my 10 good things of the week:

10. I just turned on the TV to my favorite part of Caddyshack. I changed the channel and landed on my favorite episode of Friends. Changed the channel again to find my favorite scene of Top Gun.

09. There is a beautiful tree outside the window of my cube at work. It's been steadily changing colors, from green to gold, to orange, and now it's a rich burgandy. Tomorrow I fully expect the leaves to begin to disappear -- but it's been absolutely gorgeous while it's lasted. Seeing it makes my day brighter, more colorful.

08. Because I haven't been to the grocery store in about two-three weeks, I've been forced to be really creative about what I cook in the past week. And the results have been generally tastey. I'm proud of my ingenuity and impressed by my cooking skills.

07. I'm finally, finally, going to send my friend a care package. I'm thankful for finally finding motivation to just send it!

06. I figured out an awesome Halloween costume that is the right blend of creative, funny, clever and scary (with a bit more modification).

05. I got one of those coupon inserts from the paper in my mailbox yesterday, upon looking through it, about 1/2 of the coupons were for things that I need to buy in the next few days/weeks. I've estimated that I'll probably save more than $15 simply because I got some junk mail that I took the time to look at before I tossed it in the recycle bin.

04. I made it safely to and from Elon this weekend. The car survived and so did I.

03. I had lunch with my 91-year-old Grandma.

02. My yoga instructor's topic of guided mediation made me recognize a need to refocus, realign and rebuild. Her message: Surrendering to what is, is not the same as giving up, rather it's a realization and acceptance of a situation with the intent to move forward toward the better; and finding the courage and strength to surrender is an incredible and powerful ability.

01. I'm convinced I have the best friends in the world.

be here now.

Lyrics are beautiful. Music is beautiful. The whole show was beautiful. Ray Lamontagne, you've stolen my heart.

practicing the art of an open palm

The image of the open palm is universal. It has different meanings across pretty much every culture: Buddhism has about six different mudras (hand positions) that use the gesture of the open hand, and each has a slightly different meaning. Catholics use the gesture when recieving the Euchrist to signify an openness to the glory of the body of Christ and a sense of wanting. The list could go on and on, but if we were to draw a common thread across the cultures, the open palm is a symbol of a sense of willingness to accept what is given.

My grandmother had a saying: "You can hold sand in the palm of your hand forever, but as soon as you close your fist and try to hold on tight, it will all fall through."

Lately, I've been attempting to practice the art of an open palm. In my yoga class, my instructor often asks us to focus on acceptance of the moment and things within our power to control. Does your leg hurt? Move it to the left. Are you cranky? Maybe you're hungry, eat something and drink some water. Are you tired? Take a nap.

If only all of life's questions were that easy, right? But I think, to some extent, maybe there is something to it. I think maybe when we get frustrated, we're not asking ourselves the right questions. We're frustrated because we're asking ourselves questions we cannot answer. What do I want to do with my life? Why am I here? What am I doing in this job that I hate? When is he going to marry me?

My friend Bridget says that the best way to talk to kids is by asking them questions they can answer. They'll never learn to behave if you start off by asking them why they did something wrong. They have no clue. You have to ask them things that they know: Are you hungry? Are you tired? Are you thirsty? Do you have to go to the bathroom? Now, I am, by no means and expert on parenting, but I feel like most of the time, the source of the problem is probably somewhere within reach after a few rounds of those sorts of questions.

I feel like we (adults) are probably about the same way. I think it's about asking the right questions of ourselves at the right magnitude. We cannot arrange world peace, end world hunger or make someone love us. But we can do things to change and affect the way that we participate in the world.

To me, acceptance, or allowing the sand to lay in our palms, does not mean complacency. It does not mean blindly ignoring the world and allowing it to trample us. Practicing an open palm, to me, means knowing when action is needed and when it isn't.

into the bin

I moved this past Saturday. Unlike all the moves I've done before, to and from college, this move was particularly special. I moved into my own place. A place that I pay for with my own money, without help from anyone else. This is a big deal for a number of reasons. For me, it means insurmountable increases in independence that had be lost since moving home after graduation. It means learning about unclogging toilets, hammering nails, painting walls and calling Pepco when our power is out. And it means that never again in my life is my parents' home "my home." I will, in all likelihood, never again live with my parents for longer than a week.

And that, in so many ways, is incredibly bittersweet.

I could go into all the sappiness about how I feel about being left to my own accord with rent payments and such, but that's not really what this post is about. What it's about is all the stuff that I found when I started packing up the bedroom I've occupied since I was 8 years old.

We moved to the house we live in now the summer after I was in fourth grade. I think this is significant because I feel like the age of 8 is sort of when, developmentally, you start to have things that are significant to you on a new level. Sure when you're little you have your pacifier, or your special blankie, or pilly if you're my cousin Melanie, but I think after about fourth grade, you start to have things that you collect that are significant because of things that happened to you.

Now, I'm not a scrap-booker. I never have been, and I sort of never want to be. But I do save things. Most of them end up on bulletin boards or in boxes. My anti-scrapbooking mentality has nothing to do with any lack of creativity, it has more to do with a lack of time and a desire to allow the objects and things that I save to speak for themselves. I've always felt like I was a photo/memory minimalist. Let it stand for itself. No frills, lace or goofy catch-phrases needed.

Now, let me clarify. I am, by no means, a hoarder, a pack-rat or anything else along those lines. Things that I save are things that would normally go into a scrapbook, like a Charlie card from a visit to Boston. A button from a march in DC. A drawing a friend gave me in seventh grade. Random things that hold value and importance to me.

So this past week, as I was packing up, I started uncovering the stuff. The bits and pieces of my life that I'd saved for who knows what reason. The cool thing is that most of the stuff, I could tell you right away where it came from.

But then came the hard part: I had to get rid of it. It couldn't come with me to my little apartment, and at some point, my mom would want "my room" back to use for something else. It'll all have to go eventually.

I had to physically throw away the odds and ends, trinkets and stubs, of my childhood and adolescence. And the weirdest part of it all was that for the most part, I was OK with it. There were some things I kept, just because they were very, very significant. But most things ended up in the trash bin with the old pair of flip flops, the broken picture frame and the other refuse that had been collecting dust in my room since the 1990s.

I'm sure there are somethings I'll never be OK with tossing, and I think that's normal.

inspirational words.

We have what we seek, it is there all the time, and if we give it time, it will make itself known to us. -- Thomas Merton

a penchant for feel-good

I like movies that make you feel good. So sue me. I've seen both of these movies (below) within the last few weeks, and I would highly recommend them. Not only do they make you feel good, but they have great messages of acceptance, love, life, personal growth and understanding. They also have killer soundtracks, wonderful casts and are interesting takes on the standard "summer" movie. Neither of these are blockbusters, which is probably why I love them.



Of the two here, this is my particular favorite for a number of reasons. The sound rack is to die for, including a song by Wolfmother that I have a special fondness for. The story is really sweet, and I think everyone can relate to an unrequited love story on some level. It's funny without being corny, and indie without being emo. All around wonderful film.

The Answer Man


Managed to catch this by accident on a movie channel we get (one of our 700 channels...) and it was really great. Lauren Graham is quirky, as always -- she's pretty much Loralai Gilmore but as a chiropractor, and Jeff Daniels is equally sweet, weird and fabulous as the famous writer, Arlen Faber. It was an entertaining film, both my mom and I got sucked into it.

Usually I'm not a film critic, but I felt like I needed to share these -- they're just so enjoyable and in times like these, who doesn't want to sit and just be entertained for an hour.

connectivity.

I'm becoming more and more convinced as I get older that everything is connected, that there will be things in your life that never seem to leave or disappear all the way.

My mom and our family friend Karen and I went to the 50th Anniversary Barbie convention the weekend before last. Yeah, I know ... but my aunt makes reproduction historically accurate gowns for the dolls (her work is some of the best there, if you ask me) and the convention was in D.C., so we went. It was an experience, to say the least, but the best part was the memories it evoked. More than once Karen or my mom would burst with joy at the sight of a doll they'd forgotten they had, or would begin to tell a story about a pair of shoes, a wig set or cutting Barbie's hair.

I was astonished by how few of my Barbies they had. In fact, they didn't have any of the ones I had -- perhaps they're not old enough yet. My Aladdin and Jasmin dolls, my skater Midge and Barbie, my Kelly dolls -- they're just not "vintage" enough yet. As I walked through the tables, I wanted some sort of a jolt of recognition, something from my childhood that I'd forgotten, something that I'd loved and then given up along with the American Girl dolls, Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies. But it didn't come, at least not until the very end.

And then, on a table, there it was, my Barbie poodle. Yes. I had a poodle. He was white (I'm assuming it's a "he" even though there were no anatomical indicators) with legs that bent at the shoulder and hip joints. Matted white "fur" with floppy white ears and white, hard plastic feet and face. He was my dog! I had him! And I had completely forgotten about him. He's sitting in an enormous plastic container in my parents' basement. I'd loved him.

Moments like that one are so bizarre, and they remind us of how strange memory is. How we can be such good friends with someone and then five years later we can still remember the name of their cat, but their name escapes us. We can find our way to their house, or remember their phone number, but their birthday is gone. We can be so invested and yet something happens and the dustbuster in our brains turns on and starts to make space, eliminating somethings and keeping the others, forging hair-thin links between that stuff and other stuff so we can someday access that bit of information in our seemingly infinite rolodex.

I'm thinking about all of this because I've realized that these links don't actually matter unless we pay attention to them. Like anything else, if you ignore it, it might as well just not be there. As I was updating some contact information today for one of IPM's donors, I had a moment's flash of recognition with the organization she works for: The Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.

It was one of those moments that's similar to trying to remember the movie a favorite quote comes from. Or the lyric to a song where you can only remember the tune -- why did I know this organization!? I've been working with organizations with names like that since I started at IPM. I've even seen that name before, so why was it sparking something now? I don't suppose I'll ever know. But then I realized it -- I know them because of the Corcoran. I worked with them last summer.

The Global Fund partnered with Magnum Photography last summer to produce an exhibition called "Access to Life" that would originate at the Corcoran. I wrote the press release for the show. I stuffed hundreds of press folders for the show. I met people from the Global Fund at the show. Light bulb!

So, I don't really know what it all means or if there really is any significance that it's all connected. But I find it really bizarre how one thing has taken me to the next. How everything seems to be related, whether or not it really is, I guess that remains to be seen. But still, it's these little flashes or recognition, these moments of connectivity, that really surprise and startle me into questioning how many of these moments we miss.

we get up

When I was in London, the girls I lived with and I began taking what we called "bridge jumping photos." The premise was fairly simple, any time we would cross a bridge, we would take a photo of the group jumping. Everyone's body had to be airborne and we had to yell "1, 2, 3, jump!" because let's be honest, it's pretty funny (in a morbid sort of way) to hear a group of girls yelling "jump" while on a bridge.

The album that resulted from this little activity spans nearly a dozen different countries. Each of us had vowed to take a jumping picture any time we crossed a new bridge.

Until I stumbled randomly upon a blog, "Jump. Because.", I hadn't thought about these photos in a very long time. Run by a few people in Richmond, Va., the blog asks for submissions of jumping photos and then asks the photo's creator to finish the sentence, "I jump because ..."

As I scrolled through, I became more and more nostalgic for the jumping I've recorded over the years with my friends, and I wanted to share a few with you. We're going to share a few with that blog, but I figured I'd include a bunch here also.

Why do I jump? There are so many reasons that I can't even begin to explain, but the biggest: I jump because I can.

(I'll add more as I find them...)





















Olivia and I in Prague, CZ

Olivia and I on Millenium Bridge, London, UK

Mandy and I on a bridge near the Vatican, Italy

cubed in silence

Since starting my job about a week ago, I've learned, among many important lessons, how to sit in silence for extended periods of time. This is an impressive feat for me -- I like to talk. A lot.

Let me clarify, I have absolutely no problems with periods of quiet. Like the silence you get when you're on a car ride and everyone's listening to the radio or watching the cars and scenery fly by. I like the quiet you get when you eat with someone and you're so hungry, three words of any sort just get in the way of the fork. I like being so comfortable with someone you can sit in silence next to each other and read a book. That silence isn't really silence to me. It's active quiet -- usually there's some sort of background noise, or some sort of shared appreciation of the void. You aren't partitioned by the silence.

This is the reason why I can't study in libraries, why I write best in cacophanous newsrooms, and why unless there's someone who absolutely needs quiet, quiet it shouldn't be. I actually think better when I have to tune things out. When it's already tuned out, when I'm surrounded by silence, that's when my mind starts to wander, my thoughts start to drift and ten minutes later I realize that I've lost track completely.

I'm currently working the most silent office I've ever been in. The floor is carpeted, the space too large and too spread out, and everyone is cubed.

I've been cubed in silence.

I'm learning to make do. I'm learning ways to be productive like everyone else while surrounded by two walls and no sound. I can't even hear the click of somone else's keyboard.

Then something strange happened yesterday, I looked to the bottom right corner of my screen and realized three hours had gone by. I was so busy, so focused despite the silence, that time had flown and the day was progressing.

Perhaps I was just focusing on the wrong thing?

fruity drinks

I just got back from a week of mommy-daughter time in the Caribbean on St. Maarten. There are a million and one stories to tell and pictures to come when our waterproof disposable camera is developed (yeah we wanted one that could get stolen and wet if the situations arose, only the wet part happened, luckily). The trip was fabulous, relaxation and tans were achieved. And to top it off, my mom drove on the British side of the road for a day in Anguilla without killing us both. A noble and admirable feat. I'm seriously not kidding about that, because I would have killed us both.

The beaches were absolutely fabulous and the company was, as always so wonderful. My mom, in case you don't know her, is an above excellent travel companion. I love her so much and am so thankful she was willing to travel with me -- Typhoid Travel Bethany. If you know me at all, which most of my readers do, you'll know that I'm incredibly cursed when it comes to the magical and mystical wonder that is air travel. I haven't been on a flight in probably four years that hasn't at least been delayed ten minutes. Nothing ever goes right for me. And it didn't this time either, but nothing so catastrophic that we didn't get there and back within a few hours of when we were supposed to.

But anyway, it was wonderful. If you haven't been to St. Maarten/St. Martin, I highly recommend it, though only if you stay anywhere other than the Flamingo Beach Resort. It was a hell hole. Not only did we have problems with our reservation before we even got there, but it continued on through the week. Check in began at 3 p.m., we arrived at 5 p.m. only to find our room wasn't ready. No biggie, we'll just go sit at the pool bar and have a fruity drink, our first in probably close to 100 during our trip. We came back at 5:30 to find that our room was ready, but that it was situated on the first floor with beach access, but that it was immediately behind the beach bar, which we would have to look through to see the beach. Awesome, I thought, when does it close? The answer was a civilized (to some, heresy to others) 10 p.m. No biggie yet again. We're easy, we're on vacation. The room was really nice, except that the beach bar was under construction along with the rest of the resort. Workers started sawing wood, painting buildings and cutting metal tubing outside our door starting at 7:15 a.m. OK, that one's a little bit more of a big deal. The last straw was when we came back from our day trip to Anguilla to find that the maid had left our door open. Big deal reached. Luckily, nothing was taken and it was an honest mistake -- she'd been called away and then just forgot to come back. But still, not cool. And the worst part, they didn't really do anything about it. Sorry. That's all we got, which was fine since nothing was taken, but still. Some free fruity drinks would have been nice at least. Oh well.

My dad and brother just wrapped up a week of racing our boat, Incommunicado, during Block Island Race Week. They came in fourth overall (PHRF 3) and did really well on Wednesday when they won twice. My brother was interviewed that afternoon for a daily video recap of the races. It was his 15th birthday. He comes in about halfway through the video if you're interested.

Oh and the most exciting thing of all, I start my job tomorrow. I'm the newest member of the communications team at the International Partnership for Microbicides. I'm a production assistant for the external relations department. It's a great organization, and an excellent cause -- they work in developing nations with pharmaceuticals to promote a medication that has been proven to prevent HIV in women. I'm super excited and ready to go, but that's another post that I've been rehuminating on for a while. It'll come soon.

That about wraps it up, sorry to be long winded.

we are all trees

So the concert was absolutely amazing. The cause is so inspiring, the musicians are so talented, the company was good, and the venue completely perfect for an acoustic set. The video below is what was played at the beginning of the concert. It features Zimbabwe Prime Minister Morgan Tsvangirai as he discusses the plight of his country and the importance of giving back to the global community by offering your support to causes locally. As Isabella Cannon, the incredible Elon benefactor would say, "Think globally, act locally."



Below is just one of many awesome moments. Still waiting for them to come out with a CD or DVD. This was pulled from YouTube and it isn't quite the whole song, but it's one of my favorites, and it was PHENOMENAL. To top it off, I was only about 10 rows behind the person filming and on the other side of the theater. There are a bunch more videos of this concert on YouTube -- check 'em out!

open letter to the Kennedy Center

Dear Kennedy Center,

Your online ticketing server sucks. I was fifth in line to get Dispatch tickets, when all of a sudden, I was 1,873rd. That is both insanely unfair and frustrating. Through some miracle, I was able to get through your phone system, and was placed on the line with Agent 81. Not only was she kind and understanding, but also managed to get me what I think were probably the last four tickets to the SOLD OUT show.

Please use this as a learning experience. I understand that the typical billings for your performing arts center usually do not draw such ravenous ticket seekers, however, in the event that your institution chooses to host someone like Dispatch in the future, please get your act together.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
Bethany Swanson

life in a nutshell

This week, I've ...

01. graduated from college.
02. moved back to Maryland, unpacked my life and squeezed it into too small of a space.
03. had many a meal with good friends who've gone unseen for far too long.
04. applied to a bunch of jobs.
05. seen "Kung Fu Panda," "Vicky Cristina Barcelona," the season finale of "Grey's Anatomy," and too many hours of TV.
06. mailed a few items that needed to be returned to their rightful owners after accidentally moving back to Maryland with me.
07. gone sailing.
08. had my first Dark and Stormy of the summer.
09. realized that my cat snores.
10. realized that my brother is now 14 and HUGE.
11. realized that I'm ready to start my life and be an adult.
12. realized that number 11 is impossible without a job.
13. realized that without my family and my friends I would be in a panicked state of hysteria constantly, rather than only occasionally.
14. started to understand that making decisions is only possible if there are choices to decide among.
15. come to really love lists.

Art Collections website

After nearly a year's worth of work, the Elon Art Collections website is finally up and running.

A little background on the project: As many of you know, I love art. As an art minor, I was required to take an art history class, and I fell in love -- a little too late. I wasn't able to double major or minor in art history, but I was able to take a few more classes. One of those classes led me to this project. A friend of mine in the class, Alaina Pineda, who is a brilliant art historian, has spent most of her Elon career working with the problematic Elon Art Collections. Like most people on campus, I'd never heard of it. It contains more than 650 works in seven different collections. It's under funded and under appreciated, but it has many gems and I realized that I might have the means to help it out.

My senior sem project (basically like a senior thesis) was born: I would make a website for the Elon Art Collections that would not only explain and explore the collections, but attempt to obviate their use as a teaching tool and a developmental priority. What that means in plain English -- Why it's important that we pay attention to it.

And so I was off. My friend the university photographer, Grant Halverson, graciously agreed to take the photos. Anyone who has ever tried to take a picture of a picture knows just how impossible it is. It's because of his work that I think the project turned out so well. And then I began building with Flash.

And nearly five months later, here it is:

http://org.elon.edu/arthistory/artcollection/home.html

Enjoy, show all your friends, and most importantly, if you go to Elon, any time you get to talk to an administrator, ask them about the collection and what they're doing to promote and support it.

weepies

I'm currently obsessed with this song, The World Spins Madly On, by The Weepies. I think it's just really beautiful. The lyrics are sad, and very melancholy -- but then it's been raining a lot lately. The video isn't the best, but open it up, minimize the browser and just listen.

rain.

It's raining. Again. Literally, for like the fifth or sixth time this week, and it's only Thursday.

Not only am I getting very, very tired of the rain, but I am also beginning to live in perpetual fear of it when it rains in the morning. I have an uncanny, Pavlovian response where my stomach clenches and my mind begins to race, It has eight days to learn how NOT to do this.

You see, Elon means "oak" in Hebrew, and so our lives here are tree themed. In fact, they pretty much revolve around trees. When you come to Elon, you get an acorn. When you graduate, you get an oak sapling to symbolize your maturity and growth. When you get old and start donating a lot of money, you join the Order of the Oak. Everything is acorn, squirrels (because they live in trees) and oaks. They're everywhere. And so, we hold our graduation ceremonies under those trees from which Elon derived its name and its essence.

Herein lies the source of my anxiety. It has not rained for graduation in 10 years. WHERE are those trees when I need to knock on them!! In fact, it hadn't rained on graduation for 25 years before that. Yeah, you read that right. We went 25 years, then one big, disastrous ceremony, which involved soaked grandmas, running makeup and then a fire alarm (yeah.) and now have gone 10 more. Needless to say, I'm absolutely TERRIFIED.

It sounds petty, but I want my Elon graduation. I'll still be an Elon graduate if I have to (knock on that oak again...) walk across the stage in Alumni Gym, but I won't have had the true Elon experience of sitting under those trees like I did four years ago.

So please. Find any wood, preferably oak, in your house and knock on it at least once or twice a day for me and all my fellow acorns who just want a sunny morning on May 23.

Thank you.

being launched

So here I am, a little less than a month from graduation and I'm beginning to feel the tug. Anyone who's waited for inevitable change (it sounds like an oxymoron, but it's not, trust me) knows what that feels like.

I'm sure it's similar to the feeling a pregnant woman has about 3 weeks before her due date -- there's still so much growing to do. But time is running out, and you're happy, because you're ready to go into the next stage of life, but you're also terrified. Will I be good at it? Can I do this?

And so, that slow tug back on the catapult begins. It's the pull on the bow strings before the release. The tension buzzes in the strings and the urge to let go is so strong, but the arrow will just fall from the ground without that extra tug at the end.

And so here I am. In that last little tug. My strings are tight and I'm buzzing pretty hard. I've got a lot to do between now and the end.

The string just gets tighter and tighter. The funny thing is, I know I'm going to make it a few more weeks before what I'm moving toward will actually become real. Like I said, there's other things to do first.

I've been reading a lot about Buddhism lately. One of the practices is present-mindedness, or being completely invested in the current. You can't focus on how far you want the arrow to fly, all you can do is focus on the tightening of the strings. If the strings are tight, then what happens happens.

And that's all I can do. Wait for the launch.

singing and dancing

This is basically incredible. You can't watch it without cracking a smile. I'm working on a project for a kinetic imaging class and I'm pulling dance sequences, and I came across this one and figured I'd share. The song is awesome, and it has a pretty good message.

Tom & Jerry with Gene Kelly
Uploaded by anabelasugarlee

a jaunty tilt

I think a little back story is necessary... Yesterday evening, I was enjoy a nice cold beverage as I did some work. I then proceeded to spill half of said beverage, which contained sugar (it was crystal light), on my laptop keyboard.

Freaking out, I quickly mopped it all up, laughing happily in the wonder and good fortune that my keyboard should function at all. It had started to dry when I realized there was a greater problem.

My keys are sticking. Not just a little oops, here or there. We're talking like intense, it's hard to push them down, sticking.

So I get some water, a paper towel, a cotton ball and a Q-tip. All manner of sizes of wiping materials, I wasn't sure what I was going to need, you see. And I start cleaning the top of the computer, thinking that the problem is that the sides are sticking to the base board. But I don't think I can really get at the source, because my keys aren't the kind that come off. At least not that I've figured out. This generally solves some of the problem, but they're definitely still sticky. Ugh.

Fast forward to today, 5 p.m. after consulting with my computer savvy friend, I've been told that the keys can come off, but to remove them at my own risk, as some times they can be very tricky to get back on. All I heard is that they come off. They come off!!

Anyone who knows me knows that if there's the possibility of making something cleaner than it is at the moment, I will take it. I like things clean, I like things not-sticky. And so darn it, if I can make this keyboard not sticky, you better believe I'm going to try.

A quick Google search explains ways of cleaning keyboards without removing keys... yeah yeah yeah. Nope. I scroll down to the good part, "How to clean keyboard after removing keys." Jackpot.

I turn off the computer, unplug it and take out the battery. I'm really not looking to be electrocuted, especially with my roommate in L.A. and no one around to hear me scream... After I flip it back over, I start scanning for keys that are basically unused, something that if I can't for some reason reattach, it's not the end of the world. It's like using whatever new cleaning product on a spot behind the door. It's the guinea pig. The test subject, as it were.

Behold, the "Application Key." I didn't even know that's what it was called, I had to look it up. Anyway, I had read that the best way to get the little buggers off was to use a small screwdriver. Enter, my finger.

So I start working at it and realize that there are these two little plastic thingies that toggle together, almost like a seesaw, it's called the key retainer. (that website was useless, btw.) And it hooks in to the baseboard and the key top. Anyway, the key top just snaps off.

Awesome. This is easy. I can do this.

[Note to reader, next time I say that, slap me.]

I pull off the application key and lo and behold. Gross. There is so much crap on my keyboard! I'm appalled and decide it's time to really clean this sucker. I'm going to go row by row, pull off my keys and make it sparkle.

I pop the application key back on, and start with Q, W, E, R, T and Y. All come off and go back on with ease. And so I start with A, S, D, F, G and H. I get the first five off and on with no problem, and then there's H. It figures it should be H, because I then entered keyboard hell.

The key retainer came off with the H. Yeah, that's right. It came right off. Um. Oh. My. Gosh.

Insert panicked expletive here.

And so I pull off Y, to make space, and start trying to slide the retainer back into it's four metal prong-like holders.

It will not go.

I try, and I try and I try. I can get the bottom, or the two prongs closest to me to go in, but the top prong has some how expanded since leaving its home. It's a lot like that scene from Friends when Ross wears the leather pants and he goes to the bathroom, takes them off, and his legs swell and he can't get them back on.... but yeah, this is plastic. This should work. But no.

So, I take the little retainer apart. Bad idea. Ten minutes later and I finally get it back together. And I try to shove it in again. And again and again.

You get to a point, where you begin to understand that trying is just not going to work anymore.

At this point I'm frantic. I have broken my keyboard. It will not be clean. It will not be sparkly. It will not be not-sticky. If I can't use my H key. It does not matter.

And so. Resigned to the fact that I'm just going to have to make due, I shove the bottom prongs into their holders and hold my breath as I snap the H back into place. It goes. Breath out. I turn the computer on, and the H works. It now sits at a jaunty tilt and my finger catches on it occasionally on the way back up. But, it works, and that's really all that matters right now.

And so, children, the moral of story is this: If your keyboard works, and it's just a little sticky, it's OK. Leave it alone. Or you'll end up with a tilted H key like me and a computer keyboard that is still sticky.

remember to breath

We're getting down to the wire. Roughly 40 days and counting until the end. Marathoners call it hitting the wall -- you just don't want to go anymore, but you have to. You have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and just keep running.

I've hit the wall. Hard. What's that saying: Senioritis, we're too lazy to find a cure.

Yeah. But see, I don't have the luxury of doing nothing. I have a To Do list the length of Route 40 just for things to finish for school alone, forget finding a job, and planning to move home.

I've been taking a yoga class, and one of the things our professor always tell us is to remember to breath. I've started having to tell myself to breath in and out during my daily activities.

I don't think I've ever been so happy and yet so terrified for something to come to an end.

accomplishment

I finally finished my online portfolio. I'm incredibly proud of it.

Take a look!

learning to be alone

"Will you be OK?" she asked as I left their apartment to go to my own empty one.

"Oh yeah, I'll be fine," I responded, I know I can be alone and be OK.

I'm not sure why, but I used to hate being alone. I would always call someone, anyone, to avoid the silence of solitude. I'm an extrovert by nature, conversation and people keep me going. I'll always feel happier with others than without them, but since going to college, I've learned the value of spending time with myself and my thoughts.

I've encountered an odd situation this week -- every single person who I would consider a good friend or acquaintance at Elon, who I would feel willing to call to spend time with, is away on spring break. I came back early from our week at the beach because my best friend here had to be back to present at a conference in Georgia. Her roommates, my other great friends, are away at a concert in the southern part of the state. My friend Lesley is in Maryland. Mandy and Olivia, Florida. My roommate, on a cruise in the Caribbean. And the list goes on, leaving me to myself. Alone.

Someone asked me a few days ago, what's one thing outside of your coursework that you have learned while at school? My response: I've learned to love being alone. I think when you spend 24 hours a day in a dorm for two years, then 4 months in a tiny flat with 7 other women, then in a busy apartment building, in a newspaper office... when you're constantly surrounded by people, even the most extraordinary extrovert would find themselves seeking some silence.

And so I've learned to value those hours when my roommate is at meetings. Or when I have to take that 15 minute walk across campus to work. Or when no one is free to go grocery shopping.

I think it all really started when I was in London. I liked to take walks around the city by myself. Don't worry, it was only ever during the day. But I found that I would walk slower, thinking about the things I was seeing, the people I was passing, the smells I was smelling. I wasn't distracted by someone asking me about my internship, or complaining about a paper to be written for our class. I could take it all in. I could absorb.

I've learned that my mind can be stimulated by the world itself, without others, that thoughts themselves can be loud enough. And that it's OK to enjoy moments of calm or evenings filled not by the voices of others, but by the tapping of my fingers on my computer keys or the scribblings of a pen on paper.

Maybe it's all part of growing up, knowing that you can survive the quiet. But not only survive it, learn to revel in it.

friends in action

My girlfriends took me out last night for my birthday. We went to a new restaurant in Elon called 116 Oak, which if you live in the area, is fabulous, affordable and has a great atmosphere. Thanks girls, you are some of the sweetest, most beautiful and intelligent women I know. I love you all very much. A few friends weren't able to make it because of geographical issues, and they were heartily missed. You know who you are.

It's been a crazy year for me, filled with lots of happiness, sadness, changes and constants. The year to come won't be any different, but I feel so lucky to have people who I love, who love me, who I know will be there through it all.



(L to R) Kiersten, Ashley, Kim, Colleen, me, Christen and Lesley. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm short, I was the only one in flats other than Colleen, but she's 5'11" anyway...

I'd like to just say that in watch us below, none of us had consumed more than a glass of wine -- this is just how we roll. Video care of Colleen.

argh.

It's just been one of those weeks. Here's hoping that next week will be better.

changing hands.

It was in a baggie in a box for more than 50 years.
Stars and stripes mingling with mothballs and cedar smells.
Covered by blankets and keepsakes, sweaters and nightgowns.
Forgotten at the bottom of the box.
She rescued the cloth, placing it in another box, this one with a window, so we could see the pride in the colors.
The cloth of a war long gone, for a man long dead.
It had sat draped on top of his box, covering his body,
that he bore to foreign lands to save us all.

Folded by warriors and into another's hands it had gone,
And then into the bag,
Into the box,
For more than 50 years.
Until we brought it out.
Unrolled, not unfurled.
To see the sun and feel the wind, but never again to blow in it.
We unrolled to count the holes and the stars,
48 stars in all, more holes.

Passed to another's hands and onto another box, covering another body
that was carried all over the earth.
Another warrior.
More lands seen by those closed eyes,
More stories told,
Wars fought,
Children loved,
Life lived.

It covered this body and then passed hands again,
Folded again in the spring warmth.
Folded with painstaking care and presented to a son, uncle, father, brother, grandpa.
48 stars in all, more holes.
To go onto a mantle, as far from a box as possible.
For how long?
Until another box is needed.
Or until the holes consume it.

bubbles everywhere.

I'm always surprised by life's little quirks, that most of the time, you get exactly what you need when you really need it.

Today, it came in the form of bubbles.

I was sitting in my room, working on a proposal for a project I'm going to be working on for a design class, when all of a sudden:

"Hey, Bethany?" When something is wrong, it's always a question.

"Hey, Bethany," she said again, "I think we have a problem."

"What kind of problem," my 'mom' voice and instincts starting to kick in.

"There's something wrong with our dishwasher."

"OK, like what sort of something?"

"It's leaking."

I get up and walk out of my room, past the breakfast bar and around the corner into our kitchen where I'm confronted with bubbles. Lots of bubbles. I launch into action. I quickly turn off the dishwasher, which as I stood there for 1/2 a second was churning out more and more suds. And then I open the door.

Bubbles. It was filled with bubbles.

And then, it happened. I laughed. Harder than I've laughed in about a week. You see, my grandfather died on Friday, and laughing has been exactly the opposite of what I've been doing since then. I looked at Colleen, standing, staring at the overflowing meringue that was our kitchen, I just couldn't help myself.

"Hey." When you're embarrassed, it's never a question.

"I'm sorry," I managed to blurt out between chuckles. "I promise you, I'm not laughing at you, just the way it looks, it's ridiculous. Everyone does this once. Did you use the dish detergent or dish soap?"

"Um..."

I reached into the cupboard and compared the bottles. "Did you use this one, or this one?" She pointed to the orange bottle, the dish soap, and it clicked for her.

We spent the next 15 minutes elbow deep in bubbles, laughing as we contorted our bodies so we could reach the back of the dishwasher. Cursing our neighbors who aren't awake at 11 a.m. on Sunday to lend us a mop, which of course, we've never needed in two years until the last three months we live together.

So we mopped and bailed with paper towels, sponges and dish rags, plastic bowls and "I'm 21 Today!" cups until the dishwasher was as empty as it could be. We started it again, putting all the dirty dishes back in, and not 10 minutes later did the problem begin again. We'll need another angle of attack -- Colleen's decided we should just let the bubbles subside and then wipe away the residue. We'll see, right?

My grandpa always said, if you can't laugh at yourself, then something's wrong. Something has been wrong the last few days, and laughter has really been limited. I think it was his way of reminding me that things are OK. That this is what he wanted. It's hard, but laughing helps. Bubbles help.

you are what you carry

With every change in season, I dump out my purse, clean out all the random movie stubs, receipts, gum wrappers and spiral peppermint candies. It's a ritual I've had since I started carrying a purse, really, and I love the memories you uncover when doing it. More than that, I do it to purge any unnecessary weight that I might end up carrying around, because ladies, let's admit it, those things can get damn heavy! And isn't it always the way that you end up carrying other peoples (ahem, boys) baggage?

In my recent dump and ditch, I started thinking about what the things in my bag say about me. What are my "essentials," the things I always have on me? Other than the obvious keys, wallet and cell phone... Infer what you'd like, but here's my list:

1. Either Carmex or Burt's Bees chapstick -- I picked up my chapstick obsession from one of my best friends. He was never without a stick, and now, neither am I.
   
2. Mirror -- to avoid things stuck in the teeth, to hunt down stray, pokey eyelashes, look under cars (you laugh, but it's come in handy...) or in the off-chance I get stranded on a desert island, hail a passing search and rescue plane.
   
3. Pen -- I'm a journalist, 'nough said.
4. Mints -- because I have a constant fear of bad breath.
5. iPod -- even though I'm not one of those people who is always plugged in, I just like knowing it's there.
6. Lotion -- usually a travel size one, preferably with a slight fragrance to freshen up and soften my mits.
   
7. Camera -- Like I said, I'm a journalist. Also, it's a habit I picked up when I was in London, you never know when there'll be a photo opportunity.
   
8. Flash drive -- I started carrying one of these when I was an intern at a newspaper in Graham. I liked knowing that I wouldn't have to email things to myself every night if I wanted to continue working. And, it always has things like my resume stored away in a file, just in case.

That's about it for my bag. I know guys have pocket equivalents for my treasure trove. I had a friend who at the end of the day would take off his pants to sleep, but leaving the stuff in his pockets. It's safe there, he always said. The next morning, would put on different pants but just scoop out all the stuff from his dirty pants' pockets and transfer it all to the fresh pair of pants.

So my question to you, dear readers, what do you haul around?

i hate winnepeg

I've recently rekindled a friendship with an ex-boyfriend. He was a very big part of my life for about four years, he was my everything. He was with me through many firsts, through most of college and was my best friend through ups and downs and everything in between.

When things dissolved between us, as things eventually do with high school to college romances, there was a void in my life that I couldn't fill. I had a new guy, a new life and a new perspective, but I missed him. When we were both finally to a point where our friendship could resume, I think both of us felt that troublesome void finally ebb, finally feel a little less empty. He's my friend again, and I'm so very glad he's in my life.

But this isn't really about him specifically, well it is, but isn't at the same time. You see, he was always really into music. Always providing me with new material for my auditory discoveries. He's since changed a little, as we all do, and the relationship is a little reversed now. He taught me to love music, to want to hear more, to find more that I loved -- never question, just enjoy.

But a few weeks ago, he gave me the name of a song, One Great City! by a band called the Weakerthans. I pulled up YouTube to listen, and I was surprised when I knew the song. I'd heard it before. Another guy, one not too long ago, had played it for me on his guitar. I'd lay there on his couch listening, quietly smiling at how cute he was, and how odd the lyrics were. The song was one I hadn't known, and I had asked who it was by, fully intending to look it up when I'd left and gone back to my other life, hundreds of miles away from him.

As I sat at my computer, all of a sudden my worlds collided, and I realized in that moment, listening to this beautifully written song about the monotony of life and the artful grace in its quirks, that everything is connected. That no matter how much I like to think I know myself, things like this moment throw me for a loop. I realized that everything builds on everything else, that as much control as I think I have -- there's another factor. These men were connected, not only through a love of this song, (I've always had a "type," and sometimes it's more obvious than others...) but through me and who I am.

I've always been one to believe that every person who comes into your life leaves a mark and changes you. It may not be a profound change, but it's there.

It amazes me how music, like smells, are incredible memory triggers. Even now as I write this, I'm listening to this song, singing along to its lyrics about a grungy city in Canada, I'm transported briefly to his couch in Massachusetts, then memories start to mingle, I'm in Iowa, in the car surrounded by snow. In the field under the tree...

the saga continues

"Have a seat," they always say, "and let us take a look at what we've got going on here."

They lean the chair back and tell you to open wide. They stick the little mirrored circle in your mouth to take a closer look. They're faces scrunch as they peer into an abyss littered with white stalactites.

"Hmm, OK, well we've got a little problem here."

That's the way it has always seemed to go for me. Genetics blessed me with a pretty rotten set of teeth. They're not actually rotten, just in the wrong places. I've been to orthodontists, dentists and oral surgeons since I was about 11 years old. And it hasn't ended yet.

My tally: Two rounds of braces totaling 5 years, 13 tooth extractions including both front teeth and one adult tooth, and a round of oral surgery to expose a tooth on its side so it could be righted by braces. Two years from now, we'll be able to add two additional extractions, another set of braces and another bout of oral surgery to that list.

I'm not complaining, well, maybe I am a little bit, but I just find it completely insane that some kids never even wear braces and I've dealt with all this. Perhaps orthodontia needs kids like me to keep them in business. For every braceless face, there's the girl with a lifetime subscription.

I'm currently facing another four months of braces at the fabulous age of 22. These orthodontic nightmares will most likely accompany me through my job search and probably into the work place. I'm not exactly vain, sure I wax my eyebrows and I've had my nails done, but I like to look nice, and I think first impressions are really important. I look somewhere between 16 and 18 anyway, add braces and I'm done for.

But it's inevitable. It has to be done. As I was whining to my friend yesterday he told me, take a few days, be pissed off about it and then move on. He's always been good at stuff like that -- for the most part he knows how to let things slide off of him. I don't see him wearing braces at 22, but you know.

So here they come. Ready or not. The self-esteem will probably take a momentary hit, but I'm pretty sure this is just another lesson in endurance. It's about learning to live with what's put in front of me. I've been thinking a lot about fate recently -- chock it up to the fact that I'm graduating, but I actually think about it a lot. Maybe we're meant to endure certain hardships, they help us grow, they help us learn, they shape who we are.

I know, I know. They're just braces. But to me, they're a little more than that. I know it could always be worse. I know that, believe me, I know that. But I can't help but feel a little duped by my gene pool. To me, they're just another notch on a time line of annoyance in a mouth that's always been a problem. The saga continues.

first of the lasts

Since I can remember, the first day of school has always been accompanied with excitement and a little anxiety -- Will my teacher be nice? Will I know people in my class? What if I forget my schedule or get lost?

But this first day of school is particularly jarring: Tomorrow is the last first day of school I will ever have.

I love school, I always have. I'm a good student, call me a priss, a goody-goody, whatever. But I like to learn. I like the process of school, I like the adrenaline you get when you take a test, and then again when it's being handed back by the teacher. I like going home and talking about the things you learned, the things that blow your mind because you could have never imagined that they were true. I like buying school supplies, I love the smell of fresh notebook paper and I think I'm vaguely obsessive when it comes to buying day planners.

But never again. Not unless I go to grad school, which won't be happening any time soon. And not until my children, should I have them, pack up their backpacks and head to school will that first day of class be important again.

I've been trying not to think a lot about the number of lasts that are about to start cascading down on my life. It seems so incredible that I'm here, finally, staring at only four months left in a place I've called home for four years. A place where I've both found and lost any number of things, clothing, friends, love, my sense of self.

I often like to think about the road not taken, about the way things could have ended up but didn't. What if I had gone to Boston University like I so desperately wanted to? What if I had never met Olivia, Mandy, Ryan, Bryan, Colleen, Kiersten and all of the other people I see as so necessary to my life, that I love so deeply. What if I had chosen differently?

One thing is for sure, regardless of where I was, I'd probably still be feeling this same ache, knowing that goodbyes are coming. Lasts are inevitable. But so are beginnings. I've never been good with change -- McKenzie always says we're ducks in a row kind of girls -- we like everything in order. I like to know where I'm going, how I'm going to get there and what it'll look like when I finally arrive. But life's not like that. I don't know where I'm going, I don't know what I'm doing. And it's scary. But I sort of like it.

My professor over this past winter term (my last winter term) told us every so often to buckle our seatbelts, grab the oxygen if needed and prepare for a bumpy ride.

It's going to be a bumpy few months, but I think it's going to be ride of a lifetime.

...Anyone know where I can get an oxygen tank to have on hand?

a blog of a different color

So if you're a regular viewer, you'll notice a change in color. I decided to shake things up a bit, change the design of the page -- let me know how you like it.

The original photo was taken by my dear friend Alex Neff during a photo shoot last summer for her portfolio.

Thanks for all your support of the years. Please keep reading!

b.

just wow.

I wish I could say something original and profound. But I can't think of anything that hasn't been said already to describe the warmth I felt sitting on my couch, watching snow fall out my window, listening to Barack Obama become president.

I'm hopeful for tomorrow. I feel proud. I feel excited.

As I looked at the sea of heads on television that stretched for miles, I was overcome. I watched as millions of people, like me, welled up with tears in their eyes at the enormity and beauty of the history unfolding in front of our eyes. The thought that I couldn't shake: Only in America.

So yeah, wow. Just wow.

That's all for now.

circles

I really like circles.

I can't explain why, but I just really like them. I like the fluidity and the motion of their shape, and I like the symbolism of the never-ending form. I really like circles.

Since I'm a writer and an artist, I find myself thinking about things like circles. It sounds really strange, but I can't help it.

I've been taking yoga classes, which are helping me ground myself in my thoughts and my feelings -- discovering and understanding the way that my body moves and the way that we often think: in circles. An idea will pop into your head, you think on it, then move on to the next thing, then to the next thing, and then to the next thing. But then it dawns on you -- I've forgotten where I started. And you go back. You complete the circle, using the the things that you've thought in the interim as a prompt, a way to more fully understand the first thing.

When you learn to draw a person, most of us learned the circle method. We are, according to elementary art principles, just a bunch of circles. Sometimes ovals, but circles stacked and connected to create our form.

My grandfather has been very ill recently. He has congestive heart failure and was placed in a hospice facility about a week ago. I was telling someone about it and they said to me, not indignantly, but actually rather surprised, that I seem really very OK with it all. I'm not, actually, OK with everything, but the more I've thought about this, the more I'm beginning to accept that this is all just part of the circle. I hate the cliche -- the circle of life -- but I think, like all cliches, it exists because there is something of a fragment of truth to its meaning: You're born, you live, you die. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. We're not meant to stick around forever, and I find something strangely comforting knowing that we live and die because we are meant to, not as some universal vengeance being taken on the living. Death is hard on the living, I've said that before, but mostly because it forces us to confront our own mortality, which I'm not going to lie, is absolutely terrifying. But why? Why is it so scary for us if that's what we're meant to do eventually? Maybe because living is the only thing we know how to do. These are all still thoughts in process... I'd like to know what you all think too.

But circles. Layers upon layers of circles. Life is about circles, days, weeks, months, years. The organization appeals to me and comforts my sensibilities. Such big ideas for a Thursday morning...