Reliving the Dream

I used to be in an amazing choir. 

Singing with The Capella of Calvin College was arguably one of the most defining aspects of my undergraduate experience, heck, my life in general. Most of the friends that I still keep in touch with from college sang with me in this amazing choir, sharing the ups and downs that come with participating in an elite musical ensemble. I learned a great deal from my esteemed conductor, whom I consider a mentor and a beloved friend, not only about making music but about living a life of humility, grace, and passion. And I was blessed to travel the world with these friends, competing on the international stage in Europe!

If you aren't catching on, I'll spell it out for you: I loved my time with Capella.

Tonight I had the opportunity to see them perform, and my love for the choir was rekindled once again. A friend and fellow former member of the choir drove down to Demotte, Indiana with me to see the choristers give an afternoon concert, and our 60-minute drive was well rewarded. 

The first half of the program was a delight. However, I was even more excited to hear the second half because the choir was singing a piece that we had performed two years ago in France, a personal favorite of mine. Watching those young people sing brought back countless memories. I could almost see myself standing in their places, surrounded by all my friends as in years past. I sighed, a sense of melancholy coming over me with the knowledge that I would never again have the opportunity to sing with this choir. However, I was still smiling when our conductor walked to the microphone to introduce my favorite piece, but I was utterly floored to hear the words that came out of his mouth.

To my astonishment, he extended an invitation to my friend and I to come up and sing the piece with the choir, even going so far as to announce our names from the stage! My jaw dropped, and I immediately lost all ability to produce saliva. Already a nice shade of pink, I managed to make my way up to the front and find a place at the end of a row without falling over. My legs were like jell-o, I was starting to sweat, and I couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. And to top it all off, I was breaking the number one rule of singing: I had gum in my mouth. Perfect, just perfect.

 The girl next to me opened her music, but I didn't even look at it. My eyes were glued to my conductor because I WAS TERRIFIED. Sure, I could have sung the piece in my sleep, but when I opened my mouth to come in with the first entrance, no sound came out. Not even a peep. I was still so completely unprepared to sing, so out of practice, so unused to the thrill of performing that my voice rebelled for a brief moment in pure protest.

"Ok, Self." I thought, trying to keep the panic from my face. "You've done this a million times. Just sing. This is SO not a big deal."

"Uh, It is TOO a big deal!" my Self replied. "It's been two long years, honey. Are you sure you've still got it?"

"Yes, I've still got it!" I boasted to my skeptical Self. "I'll show you, too. Just as soon as my voice decides to cooperate."

Thankfully, my hesitation only lasted a moment, and I was able to sing the piece with gusto and emotion, reliving so many glorious moments in the process. My conductor smiled at me wryly as we sang, probably just as surprised as I was that I could produce any quality sound after two long years away from his tutelage. But (as always) the end of the piece came too quickly, and I found myself back in my seat, breathless and sweating. 

After the concert I fully intended to scold him for throwing us such a curveball, but when I finally got to talk to him, all I could do was thank him over and over for the opportunity to sing for him again. His reply: 

"Wow! I can't believe you've still got it!"

Neither can I, Dr. Navarro. Neither can I.

She's BAAAACK!

It's true, I have rejoined the land of the living (and the land of the blogging, for that matter).

I took my boards this past weekend, and while I have absolutely no idea how that whole thing will turn out "pass-wise," it feels great to have that weight off of my shoulders. The fact that I was at school, hunched over a desk, trying my darndest to remember obscure trivia about the human body for 10 hours may or may not have left me dazed, sore, and unable to feel my right index finger. For the life of me, I can't figure out what day it's supposed to be. It's amazing how the complete loss of a weekend can screw with your brain. It's been a time-warp kinda week.

In other news, we had a midterm exam on Wednesday. Yes, you read that correctly. The week after boards my jerk-face professor gave us a midterm. And just so you know, "jerk-face" is the very nicest name that I heard him called at school on Wednesday morning.

NEVERTHELESS, this too did pass. (No word yet on if I passed the midterm, but you catch my drift)

To continue the random nature of this post, I am taking an exercise class. And this is not just any exercise class. It's ZUMBA. 

Those of you who know what Zumba is are already laughing, for the mental image of yours truly participating in said activity is certainly hilarious, if not slightly disturbing. I assure you, I am just as awkward and uncoordinated as you imagine.

For those of you who do not know what Zumba is, let me try to help you picture this phenomenon. Think of the most painfully clumsy contestant on Dancing With The Stars (over age 40), dress her in yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, throw on some Ricky Martin and try to teach her how to dance like J-Lo. That's Zumba, folks.

The truly funny part about this situation is that I didn't think it would be difficult. Honestly, I was expecting to waltz in there, one of the youngest, hippest kids at the park district, and shake my groove thing like a pro. FALSEHOOD, my friends. UTTER LIES. The moment the music started, it was as if the upper and lower halves of my body decided to sever all connections and go off in their own directions. I could barely follow the steps, much less coordinate my shoulders and arms with the instructor. I have a great sense of rhythm, really, I do. But this took every ounce of focus I possess just to make sure I wasn't going to elbow my neighbor in the face with my flailing and stumbling. All that, plus I was out of breath, sweating, and trying not to laugh out loud with my friends at the ABSOLUTELY RIDICULOUS picture we made.

Samba? Reggeton? Cha-Cha? I can barely polka. Who was I kidding? 

Our fabulous instructor assures us that we'll get better, that it's just about having fun and getting exercise, but I'm not going to quit my day job. All you dancers out there, brava. I hope you get the credit you're due, because this little girl sends you props upon props. 

"The most wasted of all days is one without laughter" ~ e e cummings

Attaining Perspective

So sorry that I've not been keeping up with this blog lately, but I'm up to my eyeballs in studying at the moment. I'll admit to feeling a range of emotions this past week: frustration, anxiety, boredom, and even a touch of despair. Sometimes I feel utterly and completely overwhelmed by the tasks set before me, and sometimes I wonder if it will be worth it in the end. But when I find myself plagued by doubts, I turn to this song, and it gives me comfort and perspective. Here are the lyrics, but I highly recommend taking a listen. It's sung by the phenomenal Brian Stokes Mitchell, written by Stephen Schwartz for the movie "Prince of Egypt."

A single thread in a tapestry
Through its color brightly shine
Can never see its purpose
In the pattern of the grand design

And the stone that sits on the very top
Of the mountain's mighty face
Does it think it's more important
Than the stones that form the base?

So how can you see what your life is worth
Or where your value lies?
You can never see through the eyes of man
You must look at your life

Look at your life through heaven's eyes

A lake of gold in the desert sand
Is less than a cool fresh spring
And to one lost sheep, a shepherd boy
Is greater than the richest king
If a man lose ev'rything he owns
Has he truly lost his worth?
Or is it the beginning 
Of a new and brighter birth?

So how do you measure the worth of a man
In wealth or strength or size?
In how much he gained or how much he gave?
The answer will come
The answer will come to him who tries
To look at his life through heaven's eyes

And that's why we share all we have with you
Though there's little to be found
When all you've got is nothing
There's a lot to go around

No life can escape being blown about
By the winds of change and chance
And though you never know all the steps
You must learn to join the dance
You must learn to join the dance

So how do you judge what a man is worth
By what he builds or buys?
You can never see with your eyes on earth
Look through heaven's eyes
Look at your life
Look at your life
Look at your life through heaven's eyes

Shame on me.

I have a confession to make. 

Tonight, in a moment of weakness (ok, several moments), I fell off the wagon. 

At the beginning of last week I determined that the only way for me to stay sane through the rest of this term was to focus on healthy living. Inspired by my Yogi tea bag, I was determined to "eat right, walk right, and talk to myself right" every day so that my stress level would be kept as low as humanly possible through boards, moving, and finals. 

And I've been pleasantly surprised by the results. Sure, sometimes I feel like one giant ball of anxiety, but for the most part I have been able to keep my head on straight and my blood pressure within normal limits. 

But tonight, I just couldn't take it. Having spent the whole day in class, I was not looking forward to another night spent at my desk. Especially because awaiting me on that desk was a fat stack of Biochemistry notes. I loathe Biochem, mostly because it doesn't come naturally to me, so the painstaking process of re-memorizing enzymes and pathways and vitamins (and God knows what other bits of trivia I'd managed to completely forget) filled me with a deep dread. 

Nonetheless, 7:30pm found me studying away dutifully, only pausing to grumble under my breath every few minutes. I could feel the mix of terror and rage building as I stared at pages of information that I should know but only vaguely remember, and began to mentally search for something, anything, to soothe my irritated psyche. That's when it hit me: 

Ben and Jerry's. 

My lofty goals and ambitious ideals forgotten instantly, I put down my highlighters and threw on a sweatshirt, braving the cold, damp Chicago air to Jewel-Osco. To my great delight, the pints of deliciousness were even on sale. The stars had aligned, and my fate was clear. I could do nothing but accept this as a divine sign... and so I bought two. One for Janna, one for me. 

Do I regret my decision? Not really. Do I feel guilty? Naturally. I was raised in the Christian Reformed Church. We specialize in feeling guilty. But it didn't stop me from enjoying the delicious scoop of half brownie, half cookie dough ice cream that made me feel that everything was right in the world, if only for a moment. It didn't stop me from enjoying the second scoop, either. And I'm sure that tomorrow night I will enjoy another scoop just as much.

Of course I'll be eating nothing but veggies for the next three days just to counteract the caloric content of my indulgence, but right now it seems worth the sacrifice.  

P.S. Those of you who know me will appreciate the irony of this statement, considering how much I hate gender stereotyping, but sometimes I'm such a girl. 

The "Jeanius"

In case you weren't aware, Gap is going green. 

From March 5-14th, Gap stores have been promoting recycling... of your old denim! The deal goes like this: bring in any old pair of jeans, any brand, and receive 30% off your purchase of a new pair. Those faded, ripped, holey duds are transformed into cotton housing insulation and donated to needy families in the community while you strut your stuff in a nice, new pair.

So tonight Janna and I grabbed our outdated and overworn scraps of denim and went to hunt down a deal. Both of us wear our clothes til they are threadbare, especially jeans, and the two pair that I alternate between have been looking especially tired lately. It was time. 

However, the scene that met us at Gap was a bit intimidating. There were at least 10 styles of jeans to choose from, all in varying shades of indigo and varying stages of distress. Why stores feel the need to mutilate their jeans before selling them is beyond me, but that's a whole different issue that we won't get into here. 

Trying not to be overwhelmed, we picked through the stacks, looking for the size and style that we hoped would best suit us, bringing armloads back to the fitting rooms. As a side note, fitting rooms are pretty close to my own personal hell. There, I said it. Moving on. 

Next comes the part where both of us put on a pair, show each other, and try to appraise them without injuring each other's self-esteem. The first few I tried were failures, but after a few changes I found a pair that I liked. They were my usual size, similar to the other pairs of jeans I own, and acceptable in the mirror. I emerged, as did Janna, and she showed me the pair that she liked. We agreed with each other's choices, but found minor issues with each pair. Mine were a little shorter than I liked, and hers were too loose in the waist.

This is where things got interesting.

As we stood in the hallway of the fitting rooms, the "Jeanius" walked up. At that point I did not realize that this Gap employee was a magician in disguise, so when he approached I didn't pay him any more attention than I normally do a fitting room attendant. His appearance (and, er, flamboyance) should have tipped me off right away, for he was sporting skinny black jeans, a white v-neck shirt, several bracelets, and very fashion-forward sneakers. He asked us if we were finding everything alright, and we nodded, but the look he gave us from over the rims of his über hip glasses made it obvious that we were not alright. 

Declaring that we needed an impromptu fitting session, he addressed Janna's issues first. After a brief interview, analysis of her current jeans, and discussion of options, he disappeared for mere seconds, returning with two pair of jeans in hand for her to try. Not only were they the right color and style, but they were several sizes smaller than the jeans she had previously tried. The amazing thing: they were perfect. They were flattering, comfortable, and fit so much better than the ones we had picked. 

Having succeeded with Janna, the "Jeanius" turned to me. I could see the gears in his head turning as he scrutinized me, not in a mean-spirited or judgmental way, but as if he was performing a complicated surgical procedure and needed the entirety of his concentration to get me out alive. Finally, he suggested the same style of jeans that Janna had tried. 

"Here, Kate. I think I have a pair in my fitting room." Janna said, rooting around in the pile. "Oh, they're not your size."

"I bet you could wear those." the "Jeanius" interjected, and I rolled my eyes.

"No way I'm getting into them." I muttered, but I obediently closed the door, preparing myself for the worst. You already know what happened next, don't you? They were PERFECT. Perfect, I tell you, and 3 sizes smaller than I'd been wearing before. Trust me, I checked the tag several times, just to make sure it wasn't a mistake.

"It's a miracle!" I cried, twirling to show Janna. 

"I know! Me too!" she replied, flaunting her own amazing new jeans. "I swear, I have no idea where he got these. They are definitely not on the shelf."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he created them out of thin air. Like a Genie!" I marveled.

"Yeah! A Jean-ie!" she said, and we both cracked up. But seriously. He could've been. 

We were still in a state of shock when the "Jeanius" was ringing up our purchases, but he just smiled, telling us how many customers end up with ill-fitting pants because they think they know their size. 

I'm pretty sure it was his nice way of saying "I told you so."

In other, very uninteresting news, I have been studying my life away. That is all. 

Told you it was uninteresting. 

A day in the life...

6:45am~ my alarm goes off. I blindly grope around until I'm able to grab my phone and shut off the offensive beeping. I go back to sleep.

7:00am~ alarm goes off again. I turn it off again. I go back to sleep.

8:00am~ I wake up, this time in tears, due to a vivid and heart-wrenching dream. Does this only happen to me? I think my morning/dozing dreams are the most potent, and I often wake myself up because I'm crying. Rarely can I remember what was so sad, which is probably a good thing. Tell me I'm not the only one, please. 

8:30am~ in the middle of my morning walk/run I realize that the song "Survivor" by Destiny's Child is the only reason I'm still putting one foot in front of the other. That and the horror of swimsuit season, approaching with terrifying speed.

10:45am~ in class, wondering why I'm listening to my professor read powerpoint slides instead of studying for boards. Oh yeah, it's that pesky conscience's fault. Blerg.

12:04pm~ sitting in front of the heater at home, eating lunch, and watching a video clip of Apolo Ohno's interview at the local Chicago news station from that morning. I notice that his voice is much lower than usual, he sounds congested, and he looks tired. I consider tweeting my "professional" recommendation (Vitamin C, Echinacea, and Monolaurin) for that imminent head-cold, but then I remember that I deleted my twitter account... and more importantly WHY I deleted it.

2:21pm~ more class. More droning by my professor. More facebook stalking.

4:00pm~ free at last, I zip over to Trader Joe's for some groceries. I once again resist the urge to purchase a bouquet of flowers. Putting them right by the entrance of the store like that should be illegal. 

4:18pm~ I have already consumed half a bag of trail mix by the time I reach home. 

5:00pm~ I find that dinner is scheduled for 6:30, which makes me happy because I can now justify my previous snack attack. My life is full of delusions. 

6:30pm~ Just me and a bowl of "dinner concoction" in my room (all I know is it involved orzo, broccoli, canned toamatos, and ground beef). Highlighter, board exam review notes, and panic.

8:23pm~ I emerge from my hermit-cave of a bedroom, staggering and bleary eyed, to fill up my mug of tea. I wonder what the rest of the world has been doing for the past three hours before deciding it doesn't really matter. There is no world. There is only my desk and my book. And my highlighters. 

9:56pm~ In my frenzy to review for boards, I have neglected my assignment that's due for tomorrow afternoon's class. This realization is accompanied by a physical jolt of adrenaline, which causes my teeth to clench, my heart to jump, and my traps to knot up into little angry trigger points. Don't you just hate that feeling? It's almost like being pinched, or like getting an electric shock, or being ambushed by your little brother who is hiding in a dark closet. I know this well, believe me.

10:12pm~ I fold up the laundry I'd forgotten in the dryer, contemplating what it would be like to have a maid, or a personal assistant, or both. I determine that my clothes would be a lot less wrinkly and I would never run out of shampoo again. After this thought, I remember that I'm too much of a control freak to make proper use of a personal assistant and instead decide to hire a chauffeur instead. When I'm rich and famous, that is. What would you rather have? Any other ideas? I know you've thought about it. Don't be shy.

11:17pm~ In my bed, wearing my pj's and glasses, I wrap up this blog post with an interesting, if not surprisingly pertinent quote:

"The unexamined life is not worth living" - Socrates

Foodish Thoughts

I'm not usually a fruit person. I mean, it's not the first thing I reach for when I'm hungry. It is a rare occasion indeed when I crave fruit. Chocolate, yes. Oranges, never.

That said, I've been on a fruit salad kick lately. It's just one of those magical things where you take a mish-mash of otherwise uninteresting food, cut it up, stir it in a bowl, and suddenly it's an amazing culinary masterpiece. Chefs throughout history have taken advantage of this kitchen hocus-pocus to make eating interesting, fun, enjoyable, and DELICIOUS. And I have been tricking people into thinking I'm a good cook for years by doing just the same thing.

Take, for example, tonight's Bible study potluck. 

I remembered approximately 2 hours before the event that I'd promised to bring a dish to pass. Mind you, this epiphany came just before I was about to take a midterm exam. I think of the craziest stuff right before tests. 

Obviously I began to panic a little. Not about the test, but about the potluck. At this point in my life I'm much more frightened by my peers' critiquing taste-buds than my professor's red pen. Judge me as you will, I'm just speakin' the truth here, folks.

My anxiety, dulled for the half hour I spent filling in bubbles on my test paper, returned in full strength as I exited the classroom. What was I going to make, considering I only had one short hour? 

And then it was as if I heard the very voice of God booming over the clatter of recipes swirling madly around my frantic brain:

"FRUIT SALAD!"

It was an epiphany, and just in the nick of time, for my mind had already begun wandering down the shameful path of store-bought bean dip and a 2-liter of Diet Coke. (shudder)

Bopping over to Jewel-Osco, I selected (practically at random) several otherwise boring types of fruit, and upon my arrival home chopped them into bite-sized chunks and tossed them into a bowl. What emerged from this utter chaos was a sight to behold: pieces of golden nectarine nestled next to bright staccato kiwi, delicate pear offset by bold raspberries, the entire composition dotted here and there by plump blueberries... it was a work of art. 

And the thing about fruit salad is that 1 + 1 does NOT equal 2 in the taste department. A stupid peach thrown together with a handful of dumb blackberries miraculously multiplies the "wow factor" of each individual fruit by 10! So when the girls in my Bible study group dug into my 30-second fruit conglomeration, the result was the same as if I'd spent all day creating my dish. They couldn't get enough! 

"For some reason, the fruit is especially good." One of the more perceptive ladies commented, her opinion seconded by "mmm's" of approval from the rest of the group. 

"Well, it's fresh!" I said modestly, not wanting to lead anyone to believe it actually took skill to create a yummy fruit salad. Because that would be lying. And everyone knows it's not a good idea to lie at Bible study. 

Besides, technically fruit salad was God's idea, not mine.

Just call me "Lame-sauce Kate"

Friday night rolls around every week, or so I've noticed.

At least I've noticed that my calendar says FRI above the date, which leads me to believe thusly. 

That said, for me there is absolutely nothing else that distinguishes a Friday night from any other night of my week. Sure, I don't have class the next day, but that doesn't affect my schedule much, considering I spend most of my Saturday hunched over my desk, studying til I'm blue in the face. Make that purple. 

But tonight, oh, tonight was different. I went ALL OUT.

It started with the list I'd written on the back of my hand. It read: 

Print Extremities Notes

Trader Joe's

Sunglasses

Pens

I pondered my options as I left class for the afternoon. I'd already printed notes, so I walked right on past the library. I didn't really feel inclined to grocery shop, so I ignored that item too. But I did notice myself squinting on the sunny trek toward my car, and suddenly had a brilliant inspiration. 

I would go to TARGET.

A spring in my step, I hustled to my car, cranked up some tunes and sped away from school toward the land of endless possibilities, otherwise known as Target. I smiled to myself, thinking,

"Nice work, Self! You're going for an outing on a Friday afternoon! You deserve this, and it's going to be great."

And it was. 

I browsed to my heart's content, ending up with an armful of items at the cash register instead of the two things on my "hand-list." This always happens at Target.

Whistling a merry tune, I strolled back out to my car with a bag full of goodies: three pairs of socks, new yoga pants, a pack of gum, highlighters, pens (a 3-pack each of colored and black), and sunglasses. All was well with the world. 

Upon my arrival back at the homestead, I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sytsma would be gone for the evening, so I was on my own for dinner. Figuring that I was on a roll with my fun Friday night, I walked over to the nearby Emperor's Kitchen, scoring a small order of cashew chicken in less than 10 minutes. This I enjoyed while flipping thru channels (and sitting in front of the heater), happy as a clam. 

Of course, after dinner things rapidly took a turn toward the mundane as I spent the next 4 hours studying such topics as Osteochondritis Dessicans and the Open/Closed chain kinetics of the hip joint. But for a brief, shining moment, I had a fun Friday night. 

And if I really think about it, sometimes its nights like these that make me thankful to be a student. Sure, many of my working friends are probably out on the town, meeting new people and letting loose because they have a whole weekend of nothingness ahead of them. But somehow that pales in comparison to the simple pleasures of my somewhat-boring Friday night. Who else besides a poor graduate student can truly cherish a half-hour spent wandering the aisles of Target, or a 5 dollar box of rice and veggies? Being one who is easily annoyed by cliches, I still can't deny the fact that sometimes the little things in life are the best. The everyday grind makes that brief moment of "out-of-the-ordinary" shine like a pearl in a sea of pebbles. 

Maybe it is lame-sauce. Maybe my life is every bit as uninteresting as popular culture would have me believe. Maybe I'm growing more and more boring by the minute. 

But I kinda doubt it. 

Emotions: study of a student

Last night:

This morning:

After several hours of studying:

Again a bit later:

Finally:

Woe is me. Woe, I say. Woe.

Scratch that. Reverse it.

As a correction to my previous post, I actually don't have a twitter account. 

I'm trying to forget the whole thing ever happened.

My first reason for saying goodbye to twitter was the failure of the most important feature; the part where you search for other twitter users that you know. This annoyed me almost to the point of hysterics.

Secondly, but perhaps more importantly, I had my account open for exactly 48 hours and it was already taking over my life. In all seriousness, folks, twitter is a dangerous, time-sucking monster that wants to steal your soul. 

I am ashamed to admit that I actually believed I could handle another social networking site in my life, but boy was I wrong. Not only did I find myself updating my status every time I turned on my computer, but I started responding to other people's tweets like it was going out of style. 

The extra-tricky thing about twitter is the fact that you begin to believe the celebrities and corporations whom you "follow" actually read what you tweet. Shortly after this, you begin to believe that they actually CARE what you tweet. And it's all downhill into a sad world of dark delusions from there. 

Thankfully, I was able to free myself from the quicksand that is twitter before I was out of reach of the solid tree branch called REALITY. But it was a close one. 

I'll stick with facebook for now. At least until school is done and I can afford an iphone. :)

In other news, after an evening of frantic study I still don't speak very good "Pharmacoleese" but, gosh durn it, I'm gonna fake it til I make it!