Resolutions

Too often, the new year is simply a renewal of old habits; we forget that resolutions and good intentions are for more than paving roads. The new year does not mark an end or a beginning. Time has no divisions to mark its passage. Life comes in a continuum, and each year is simply another chance to get it right.

We could choose the weight. We could choose the being a little kinder, the personal improvement of reading more, the measured pace of all those activities we started and never finished--the quiet resolve to finally tackle those goals that seem to always land in tomorrow. These are all tempting. But after the magnitude of new classes, new books, new responsibilities, absent friends, and faraway family--we are sometimes dwarfed in the magnitude of survival--just getting through.

Pithy doesn't want to simply pass 2010. We want to master the lessons, do ALL the reading (even though, let's face it, sometimes life reads like a textbook); we want to originate ripples and inspire others to get it--hoping in the process to get it ourselves.

We resolve to:

Read to a child.
Watch a sunrise.
Laugh at ourselves.
Send a real letter.
Put on clothes straight from the drier.
Incorporate absquatulate into our vocabulary.
Learn to let it bend before it breaks.
Acknowledge that God is in control.

There are times that are cold, and cutting and empty, times when the spring of new beginnings seems like a distant dream. Those rhythms in life are natural events. They weave into one another as day follows night, bringing, not messages of hope or fear, but messages of how things are. We resolve to use this time to cultivate and create, to nurture our world and give birth to new ideas and ventures--to contribute to flourishing and abundance, seeing life in full bloom, energized and expanding.

There are no new beginnings, only new endings.

Closures

The two days before the year slides to its finish hold a complex brew of sentiments. Last night, I was heady with optimism, as a friend and I raised our glasses in a joint wish to seize our visions for the future. Then, this morning, I was barely ready to let a sentence go. How do you close one door and then so soon open another? How do you wrap things up and then prepare to leap again? The mind exhausts itself with such gymnastics. The cocoon of winter is deceptive, solstice nudging us away from sleep. And so the only thing to do is let the body fall and rise, each breath its own small victory, an unbending promise, the truest kind of faith.

Maya Stein

We Almost There Cont Cont Cont.

And finally...our number one endurance...

Poopy Tom
Ya know what? On second thought, perhaps it's best we just leave that one there...

And--WE MADE IT! HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYBODY! We are accepting gifts and party invitaions...

We Almost There Cont Cont.

Cookie Stealer
How to translate this ecstasy into words? "She" sits in the middle of the floor, smack in the center of the walkway--Indian-style on her coat. It's jazz night--we are in the living room at the student center. Her body illustrates the music--a Dr. Seuss illustration. A group of "woo!" girls park next to her--a safe distance away. They sport a grocery bag from Lin's. "Her" eyes alight on the package of cookies that are slowly unveiled from the bag. Each woo girl daintily takes one. As the cookies are about to be returned to their resting place, she bursts out, "Kai have some?" "Sure," the cookies are extended--she takes the remaining cookies from that side of the tray--seven or eight. The evening progresses as Pithy watches cookie girl--literally "in another place"--eat and boogie. Soon, round one of cookies has been consumed, cookie girl flops to the floor, stretching her arm to span the distance to the prize--her shirt riding up. Woo girl spares herself the awkwardness and pretends not to notice. Cookie stealer cannot quite reach--she shimmies over the floor--at last! Eureka! Taking five or six, she spring back as if to be less noticeable. Cookie crumbs drop. Cookie stealer stands and arranges her coat to cover the mess. She lays down, flat on her back, her shirt riding again, a look of pure contentment spread over her face. Pithy definitely needs some of those cookies...

The following two slots require an apology to our gentle readers beforehand. We felt violated too.

I Am Fifty Going on Seventeen
She must be fifty at least, this woman in Prudie's drawing class. Not the good kind of fifty--the kind of too much cigarettes, alcohol, and unhealthy body image. It takes a lot to make a fifty-year-old like this. As if to mitigate her loud and insensitive personality, Fifty dresses to display the wares--give the world a 'lil summin summin. She has shoehorned herself into a white tube shirt--thanks to gravity and butter--over which she wears a full button shirt tied at the waist. When she sits, oh word!, BOING! (sorry, it had to be said)--the tube retracts with lightening speed, rolling itself up. Pithy will stop pre-described the exposed state. Suffice it to say, that whole "I am fifty going on sixteen waiting for life to start" didn't work in the Sound of Music, and it doesn't work for you.

The Crack of Dawn
It is synchronized. 10:05 every other morning. Prudie and Jerry unassumingly move from their first class to the library or the Smith center. Their phone buzzes. They reach in to their pockets--Yay! someone is thinking about us... They unlock the keypad and press view message. Their synchronized expulsion of disgust fills the air. Tom!--eeww! The caption: Good Morning. The photo: the same crack that sits in front of him every other morning. All the old jokes apply--their cup runneth o'er, peek-a-boo, the sunrise...Prudie and Jerry, yet again, decide to skip breakfast.

We Almost There Cont.

Harry Potter
Expeliarmus! Now, Pithy is as anti-Twilight as the next person...and the first knock-off Harry was quite charming. *British accent* "Look, it's Harry Potter!" A nice little hearkening back to our youth. But then the fourth, the twelfth, the eighteenth, and the casting spells at the sidewalk--the ever-present reminder that the theater department is truly from ANOTHER PLANET. In our not so humble opinion, Pithy suggests that we need...well, less crazy people.

Lady Gaga
GenEd studies are particularly taxing for Jerry. Humans like to feel safe--secure, in control of their environments. This is why we choose majors and place around ourselves others who, through the same interests, act in predictable patterns--the Universe has declared it so. GenEd classes mess with this decree of the Universe. They are an amalgam of every walk of life--Nursing students, Math students, Music students, English students, Art students, Education students....theater students. Settling into Spanish oral exams, Jerry dons his usual querulous expression and watches. The assignment was simple--construct a situation that discusses several celebrities; you can use a talk show if you like. Perky girls gravitate towards each other on such assignments--and said perky group is currently presenting. Let me stress--there are FIVE girls in this group. FIVE FIVE FIVE. This then begs the question, "Why, when there are FIVE girls in this group, was the only guy nominated to play the role of Lady Gaga?" Lady Gaga! Does this offense know no bounds? If you were wondering, yes those feathers, and that wig, and that halter top, and those stilettos, and the tramp tattoo covering your back (yes we can see it) make you look like a total !@#$...

Feet Painting
Prudie is in this class called Arts Retrospective. It explores the development of the various art forms. However, SUU is sooo cutting edge its students pioneer their own art forms. One such form, captures our number six slot. The group moves to the front of class--"We are reenacting a episode of Laugh it Up, and plan to conduct the entire presentation in bare feet--running in paint on butcher paper. We hypothesize a piece of unspeakably beautiful art will be the result. BRILLIANT!" The professors present dubious expressions and possible catastrophes. These are waived off--"We brought a tarp!" They commence to squirt--not delicately spread--SQUIRT the paint bottles, like ketchup and mustard, all over the precariously covered floor. The presentation consists of running around a cardboard wall--on a super slick surface...Prudie sits back as this can only mean one thing. Sure enough, a particularly mobile girl (the voice of the group, in fact) rounds the corner and (let me see if I can spell this Ipicturedthatgoingsodifferentlyinmymind moment)--shwshwshwshloooophmph! She lands in a perfect impression of a dogsled. In a flash of paint--like something from that nineties remake of Peter Pan--she uprights herself, to discover there has been no provision made to remove the group's wet feet to their shoes. Brain over. Insert coin.

Coming Up: Cookie Stealer, 50 Going On..., and The Crack of Dawn

We Almost There

It is December...Pithy prepares to embrace the spectacularness that is the Holidays. When ranking College student's most favorite things--Christmas holidays is at the top...second only to the awesomeness that is the summer holidays. We are so ready that we will do ANYthing to get there. No seriously, ANTHING. As a testament, we commence a recap of the memorable worsts we have since endured in our sprint to the finish line of finals' end.

The Garage Door
Let me paint a picture. Cedar is cold. Very cold. In form, our garage door does not like this. Prudie and Jerry deal with its dislike. Prudie has the single remote opener, and she and Jerry ride together in the mornings. Jerry gets in position, Prudie presses the open button, and Jerry helps the frozen door open enough to let the car out. This is inconvenient, but manageable. Pithy's extreme exasperation comes, not from this situation, but rather from the one that follows two hours later. Prudie and Jerry try to find in their hearts some bit of compassion, some ember of empathy for Tom's predicament of tackling the door singlehandedly, but two words douse our fragile flame: ten o'clock. Because they know Tom is well-rested and up for the challenge (as well as having had the time for breakfast, and morning news, and a copy of War and Peace) Jerry and Prudence opt to revel in the simple pleasure of the this picture: Tom pressing the open button on the wall and running across the garage to catch the door before it freezes to a halt, being too slow, and getting to try again...and again.

Snuggie
"This has to be the creepiest commercial ever made," Tom says as the advertisement for Snuggies begins yet again. "Seriously, it looks like they are being embalmed or something. Who would ever wear one? I think I would rather go with a whale's idea of insulation." This conversation continues through many avenues--cocoons, oversized vegetables, telly-tubbies, how the name sounds like a diaper--and Pithy has soon established Snuggies as the number one fashion faux pas--except for maybe white cotton knee socks with leather crocs. "Seriously WHO would wear one?" Apparently a girl in Prudie's Art Retro class...

Breakfast Girl
The beginning of each semester (especially fall) provides many opportunities for upperclassman to look at the newbs and, with an air of ethereal superiority, comment about how wonderful it is to no longer be a freshman. This may seem callous--a denial of their roots. And yet, upon seeing breakfast girl in Music Theory, Jerry finds a moment for prayer and reflection: "Thank You, God for seeing fit to make me a Junior..." She comes to class five minutes early and begins her preparations for morning meal. At nine (the beginning of class) she pounces--peanut butter and celery, yogurt, a suspicious container of fruitcoctail and oatmeal?--her desk covered in crumbs, the air filled with the unpleasant smell of food too early in the morning, and the crunch crunch of stringy celery. Perhaps this should be forgiven, I mean, a girl's gotta eat right? We let you judge, internets--as you watch her pull out a hair brush...be careful--it's right next to her deodorant.

Coming up: Harry Potter, Lady Gaga, and Feet Painting

Not Lauging

Some people think they are just so damn funny...

Good Things

I cannot teach you how to pray in words. God listens not to your words save when He Himself utters them through your lips. And I cannot teach you the prayer of the seas and the forests and the mountains. But you who are born of the mountains and the forests and the seas can find their prayer in your heart, And if you but listen in the stillness of the night you shall hear them saying in silence,

"Our God, who art our winged self, it is thy will in us that willeth. It is thy desire in us that desireth. It is thy urge in us that would turn our nights, which are thine, into days which are thine also. We cannot ask thee for aught, for thou knowest our needs before they are born in us: Thou art our need; and in giving us more of thyself thou givest us all."
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Pithy will go out of our way to step on a crunchy leaf. It crackles underfoot, and we say thankyou for the childish delight that takes some sting out of the passing summer. We notice how our list of gratefuls has changed with us. As kids, we rested in the comfortable security of family, the quiet joy of imagination and the assured consistency. Each cold afternoon snuggled with a warm book, and cocoa was the surest recipe for a smile. Thanksgiving meant a day of turkey, orange rolls, cleaning--being together. We were grateful to those who filled our Christmas stockings, sometimes forgetting to thank God for filling our stockings with legs.

These days we actively focus our gratitude. Acknowledging that the hardest arithmetic to master is that of counting blessings, we work on our simple thankyous. It's not snowing right now. Facebook provides means of chatting--even when we are only ten feet apart. There is just enough toilet paper on the role. I got the last piece of lunch meat and someone left five dollars worth of gas in the car. I get the "sweet spot" in the parking lot at school before my eight o clock. Children's smiles still make us smile. That, despite it all, we still know that God will be there to help us get through to Christmas.

At times our internal light goes out. We rely on those around us to rekindle us with a little spark of their own. This year, we have cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lit our flame.

We remind ourselves that if the only prayer we ever said was that of "thank you"--that would be enough, hoping also to remember that saying the words is the easy part. The highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them--each breath drawn a reminder of how preciously fragile is our next.

"Thou hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, - a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart whose pulse may be Thy praise."
George Herbert

3:26

Sometimes we lose. Life--the world, and everything--presses in. Struggling like an underwater swimmer, we kick towards the surface, only to have it remain stationary, teasing just beyond our grasp. We become immune to these forces, eventually starved for air and numb. Many get stuck here in this halfway place--that tenuous balance that teeters on the edge of complete uproot. It becomes second nature and soon evolves into the real.

Jerry often walks home--thirty minutes of reflection to study fellow tight rope walkers. Some seem to say "I...can't --- breathe...."--their eyes clouded as they keep to their side of the walk. So many bodies moving in the unconscious orbits of their lives. Alienation widens the sidewalk--we move on.

Sometimes we lose. But sometimes, one or two break the surface. The car passes and I see the driver. Windows up, radio up, she sings--smiling. She probably doesn't sound good--the notes stretching the limits of her accountant abilities. But for the 3:26 of the music, she breathes in the simple freedom nostalgic of childhood--where we just go for it. We go for the cookie, we dance because we can't help it, we pick the booger, we don't laugh--we giggle, we remember to slow down and love someone.

We move on. The song finishes and we sink back to that place where we laugh at those who sing, where those who dance look funny, and we are safe in our isolation. We settle in to wait for the next moment where our guard weakens, where we can shore the 3:26 against our ruin.

They call me...

So, the dryer pretends it's a magician--in a Woody-Allen, garage-hobby kinda way. This puff began as Tom's sock, but, as is apt to happen with semi-professionals, something went terribly wrong. BTW, this black magic is the result of ONE batch of practically-clean-made-out-of-only-the-tightest-fibers clothes. Our task was to remove this testament to don'ttrythisathome in one piece and preserve it for you, internets. Your job, to offer the best tagline for our photos. Begin!