I finally finished my online portfolio. I'm incredibly proud of it.
Take a look!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
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.
"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.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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:
So my question to you, dear readers, what do you haul around?
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:
- 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.
- 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.
- Pen -- I'm a journalist, 'nough said.
- Mints -- because I have a constant fear of bad breath.
- iPod -- even though I'm not one of those people who is always plugged in, I just like knowing it's there.
- Lotion -- usually a travel size one, preferably with a slight fragrance to freshen up and soften my mits.
- 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.
- 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.
So my question to you, dear readers, what do you haul around?
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