go for walks, read the news, let yourself be amused by little things

I am (reverently, I hope) cursing the early church fathers. Every last one of them. Origen, Tertullian, Athanasius, take your pick. They've been fascinating company for the past few weeks, but as summer slips into all her barefoot glory I'd so much rather leave all this school and study behind. I have half a mind to throw Chrysostom against the wall and call it quits---but then I remember yesterday.

Yesterday came in one happy hour after another: the rush of exam adrenaline, lunch beside the newest frantic additions to the Duck Pond, an evening bike ride and a homemade dinner with all my windows open wide. I made pita chips that tasted like New Zealand, dolloped curried rice onto sauteed zucchini, sliced a lemon into my usual ice water. I walked to Center Street and back while the sun set and then marked up more of The Great Divorce before slipping into bed. The entire experience was at once spontaneous and completely planned; I finished everything that needed finishing and still had room for adventuring. Yesterday, everything seemed so remarkably simple.

In fact, I woke up this morning thinking that was ridiculous. Then: You know, today could be that good, too.

Yes, Dad, you are right. My sisters and I might roll our eyes, frustrated, every time you remind us that "you choose your attitude," but this weekend has been Exhibit A in your gallery of Life Lessons. Thursday, I chose tears in the face of a flat tire and midterm exams (and Dad, you laughed---to which I say, whole-heartedly, thank you.). Friday, I chose to memorise the properties of word formation with a song and while away my work hours in non-stop project mode. The effect was immediate and almost embarrassingly apparent; not only did my exams and workday pass quickly, but I was more social, more awake, more alive. I talked more and to more people than I probably have the entire week combined, chatting to random classmates, a young mother at the Duck Pond, the freckled boy at the Post Office. All day I fed off the energy of a single decision. "We are born for infinite happiness," C.S. Lewis reminded me as I headed to bed. "You can step out into it at any moment."

So today, instead of giving into the pressures of a midterm paper and an extra shift in the labs, I am trying for happiness again. I'm giving myself another hour with my apostolic mentors and then taking a break with paintbrush and a little robin's egg blue. My roommates have promised a thrifting trip tonight, and Kat's making her crazy-healthy chocolate chip cookies. Life is good.

What's your brand of happy?


{post title credit to kate nash ("a is for asthma"), + the beautiful ellesapelle who has changed my week, if not my life, for introducing me to her. good music is all kinds of heart-happy}

tilly-hoo! a crusade!

It has come to me; I have found my calling. To get The Tall Book of Make-Believe back in print. That such a collection, so wonderfully nursery-innocent and lovingly wrought, runs past a hundred dollars on eBay simply because you can't find it anywhere else is absolutely devastating.

But till Bad Mousie can make his way back to the press, I'm going to kickstart this crusade with my favorite pages from the book, a poem by Elizabeth Godley titled "The Little House."

And, as always: thanks, mum!


In a great big wood
in a great big tree
There's the nicest little house
that could possibly be.

There's a tiny little knocker
on the tiny little door;
And a tiny little carpet
on the tiny little floor;

There's a tiny little table,
and a tiny little bed,
And a tiny little pillow
for a tiny weeny head;

A tiny little blanket,
and a tiny little sheet,
And a tiny water bottle (hot)
for tiny little feet;

A tiny little eiderdown;
a tiny little chair;
And a tiny little kettle
for the owner (when he's there)

In a tiny little larder
there's a tiny thermos bottle
For a tiny little greedy man
who knows the Woods of Pottle.

There's a tiny little peg
for a tiny little hat,
And a tiny little dog
and a tiny, tiny cat.

If you've got a little house,
And you keep it spick and span,
Perhaps there'll come to live in it
A tiny little man.
You may not ever see him:
(He is extremely shy):
But if you find a crumpled sheet,
Or pins upon the window seat,
Or see the marks of tiny feet,
You'll know the reason why.

well, maybe there's some hope for this planet, after all

the host
stephenie meyer
. . . . . . . . . .
If you absolutely must read Stephenie Meyer's latest, a few tips:

1. Don't buy The Host from your University Bookstore. You will undoubtedly run into Writing Fellow friends of yours who will now take every opportunity to mock you for the rest of your life.

and

2. Once your flushed face is back to its normal shade, don't settle into read on the sloping west corner of the Arts Building. It may be delightfully sunny and wonderfully warm, but running into your Tall, Dark, & Handsome crush while fending off bodysnatchers isn't all that great for your library cred. You might have connected over Tolstoy, but that bridge is going to need a little reinforcement after such an encounter.

That being said (and hopefully done---don't say I didn't warn you), enjoy it. Because The Host is the same sort of crazy ride the Twilight series offer, plus a little bit more.

Without giving you any sort of outline, plotline, or endline, I will say this: The Host makes you think. Sure, Twilight's fun, and intriguing, but intellectual discussion ends somewhere around "Doesn't Edward just *dazzle* you?" and "I run with the wolves. Back off." Meyer's sci-fi, however, confronts you with a world where humans could be the bad guys, and the tipping point has you questioning some of the very basics of human nature. You may have to talk friends past the alien-invasion, two-souls-in-one-body thing, but in the end, you're going to have something to talk about, something to learn about.

Talking to a reporter this afternoon, we laughed at our shared first reaction---"Wait, Stephenie Meyer can write!"---and then had to admit it: the book deserves its place on library shelves. It's a compelling read, a mind-stretching adventure, and a well told tale. While certainly no Natasha and Pierre, Meyer's Jared and Melanie are worth the read, and even (it's true!) the blush.

you did what for how many jellybeans?!

I'm working in pretty much the most empty lab on campus and have seen all of two people the past three hours and Dashboard's Stolen is running on loop in my head and even though I have Alexander McCall Smith in my bag ("the literary equivalent of herbal tea and a cozy fire") I can't help but watch the clock, one second after the other.

A long Friday, to say the least.

Though I have spent a little more time with Matt + K, two kiwi characters I keep messing about with. I have no idea what they're doing, where they're going, or why. I didn't even give them names. But now Kaila speaks French and Matt's into Biology and apparently there's a Nell amid their friendship who I have yet to actually meet. Remember? How your writing teachers always warned you that you really had no control over your characters? When Bird by Bird predicted that plotline you never knew existed until it was nearly over? Those authors that laugh about the stories that waltz on in, uninvited, to every page-party you throw? Yeah, never believed it. Totally skeptical, actually. And then it happened to me.

And not just with these kiwis. Another page hosts Peter's thoughts, and after that comes a three-page dialogue between imagined friends labeled only "girl" and "girl two." The very first page of my ramblings opens with some unidentified boy who wears the same sweater he always wears. Or so it says.

Sometimes, this is incredibly cool. Most often, it's obnoxious. Aren't I supposed to have some idea of what I'm doing? Shouldn't I be allowed the smallest bit of control? My characters---my characters? Can I call them that?---quite literally make themselves at home in my words, pushing sentences about as necessary, kicking entire paragraphs out of the way, and rearranging episodes to their convenience. Yesterday I tried to talk K into a rugby game, but she'd have absolutely none of that. "Nell's there," she told me, one eyebrow raised. I scooted her toward the sideline, annoyed. "Are you kidding?" she asked. "Do you know anything? I said Nell! Nell!" She waved her arms then, rolled her eyes to fully acknowledge my idiocy, and stalked off. I closed the document in retaliation, swearing her off for an entire weekend.

And then, with today's minute hand nudging past the hour's half in an empty room, I got a little lonely. Just a visit, I told myself. Only a minute. I checked up with Peter first; the boy was fast asleep, just as I left him. On page fourteen Emily was deep in conversation with her sister, offering me a cup of tea with a wave of her hand. And Kaila? Just as obstinate as ever. I stared her down a paragraph or two, finally giving up with a sigh. Tomorrow, I thought, moving the cursor to the close. But I couldn't do it. The story's still open.

Right now, I'm just glad for the company.

: : : : : : : : : : :

We caught up with Daniel, Jenna, Johno and Hamish only ten minutes later; Jenna’d tripped a tree root and was insisting she’d broken an ankle to a doubtful Johno. Hamish looked mildly concerned from his perch on a low-slung tree branch, but Daniel was a good three meters down the trail, pretending to be patient.

“It’s not broken, Jenna. Honestly,” Johno said as we reached the clearing.

“Oh yeah? Whose ankle is this, John? Yours? No. Did you hear the crack? Are you feeling the pain? I don’t think so. Where’s Matt? He knows these things better than you. He’ll know. Matt? Matt?” Jenna was in one of her moods. She’ll take mountains for men anytime, but factor in the early rising and she’s not all fun.

“It’s not broken,” Matt said, standing over her. “Can you stand?” Jenna nodded, annoyed. “Good. Here, hand me your pack—yep, that’s right. Okay, is that weight better?” She nodded again. “Great, let’s go. Two more hours into this and we’ll only have three more hours to go!”

Jenna held onto my shoulder for support, limping a few paces before finding her rhythm. “Five more hours,” she whisper-laughed. “That boy’s no help at all.” I snorted, agreeing. Matt was completely in his element, and I certainly wasn’t going to play the kill-joy. He walked several strides ahead of us, joining Daniel with a punch to the shoulder. One arm swung exaggeratedly at his side, the other bent at the elbow and up around the straps of the two backpacks he was now carrying. He looked excited, a little sad. By tomorrow we’d be back in school, a long weekend of wilderness laid to rest. Give us a few more weeks, however, and we were done with school for good. The sudden acknowledgment of the fact caught me off-guard; I must’ve gasped out loud, because Jenna squeezed my shoulder. “You all right, K?” I nodded, repositioning my pack with a shrug. We both looked back to the boys, the four of them now laughing wildly at some joke—at Matt’s expense, most likely. I smiled when my suspicion was confirmed; Matt had turned around to roll his eyes at me, walking backwards a few paces before rejoining the laughter.

life lessons

Yes, they're pretty; sure, it's spring. But please, whatever your little green thumbs do, don't let them plant Bradford Pear trees. They smell like rancid Fancy Feast. While I do miss Mr. Knightley (my own dear fancy feline), I do not need to be reminded of his morning dish on every campus corner.

Whose idea was this? And are we going to suppose it's merely coincidence that these trees stink up the sidewalks outside both the business and the science sections of campus?