short, possibly reckless, break

It is snowing. No big shock. It's knee deep and still coming. Very big shock. It's gorgeous, perilous, freezing, stark. Icicles of death grip the edge of the roof, waiting for unsuspecting victims to pass by....

School continues - study groups are regularly on the schedule, weather permitting. My brain is being forced to process knowledge sloooooowly, much to my chagrin. This brain of mine prefers to whirl around at a rapid pace, glancing at new information, stowing it away, perhaps to be looked at, perhaps not.

My sister removed at least part of my mental block with a Bucer's mocha (oh hail the chocolatiness), but the clock's hands are still ticking and the week is still looming ahead.

Bray imparted this bit of wisdom my last lesson - you aren't doing this for yourself, you are doing it for the people listening. That goes for more than just music performance. What we're learning here at NSA isn't simply facts and smartness for our own brains. We're learning this stuff so we can turn around and give it to the people around us.

so we finish week 2, and stare down the throat of week 3...

Random classmate 1: So have you noticed that the work load this term seems lighter?

Random classmate 2: Yeah, I even went out at got a job. It's really nice.

Me (utter, complete disbelief): Are you out of your minds? Reaches for ibuprofen and looks askance at the piles of Greek homework.

Apparently the load this term is a bit lighter. If you discount Greek, that is. And you ignore the fact that I've spent every spare moment possible sleeping to fight off a mystery bug who's main claim to fame is sapping its victims of any and all energy. I've been living off of caffeine and and unusually high amount of sleep - 11:15 pm average crash time, getting up at 6, with naps scattered hither and yon, even though it meant falling asleep over my book in Machen classroom, surrounded by my studiously studying classmates. Wednesday night I surrendered to the virus, chucked Greek homework out the window, and got an unprecedented eleven hours of sleep. Yes, eleven hours. Then woke up, and worked on Greek. A lot of Greek. And then more Greek the next day, then passed my Greek quiz. And tomorrow, first thing on my list? More Greek.

This should be fun.

brush with death

The chill in the air was echoed by the crisp leaves that fluttered by our feet – mine shod in battered boots, his in neatly hammered iron. Due to genetically crappy feet, Monty was lame. Again. To my impatient 14 year old self, this was getting old. The romance of having my own horse was giving way to the reality of equine frailty.

We finished our prescribed 20 minute walk around the arena and headed to the only available pasture. There were actually three pastures on the property, but if I didn’t keep up on the constant fence repair, this was the only one left. It wasn’t the best arrangement; Monty, Sunny, and Brio, the resident Andalusian stud, had to share it on a rotating basis, but we made do with what we had.

With a last pat, I stood on my tip toes to unbuckle Monty’s halter. I heard the vague thud of gate against fence, a shout and hoof beats against packed, winter earth. I turned to see the magnificence of a stallion intent on the kill – head low, ears flattened, teeth bared, eyes blazing with pure hatred. Every fiber in his being had been screaming for this moment. In one smooth motion he was upon us, his graceful beauty horrendous as he lunged for Monty’s jugular. Stunned, I felt the lead rope burn through my hands as Monty rose to escape. The sharp snap of teeth hitting empty air rang in my ears and suddenly I realized I had to get out of there. Fast.

All signs of lameness vanished. Monty was defending himself for all he was worth. He fishtailed, swapped ends and threw his entire weight against the enraged grey whirlwind. Too late, I found myself trapped in the vise of slow motion, seeing but not feeling the weight of 1200 pounds of horseflesh careening over backwards, pinning me to the ground. To my amazed delight, I found a lovely dapple grey flank near my face. I lay there and admired it. Had my arms not been so tightly wedged, I could have stroked the soft hairs. The crushing weight jerked time up to speed as Brio rolled back to gather himself. Every small motion was huge. I could hear frantic shouting, and felt a pair of hands under my shoulders, felt grass give way as I was dragged to safety, saw a whirl of grey and brown as the battle moved on.

so i retired my cat last week.....

Gmail, my e-mail provider, has an interesting feature in that it presents you with ads that correspond to the content of your e-mail. It can be rather creepy, but also rather hysterical at times. Check this beauty out:

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http://www.palm-meow.com/index.html

elephant for breakfast

So begins the new year and the second half of our sophomore year.

Enter Greek. According to Mr. Schwant, our most noble instructor, it will be like eating gravel at first but then, ah, but then *sigh of sheer ecstasy* you will be speaking the language that captivated them all. Although I have to squint a bit and take care not to loose my spot, I, along with my classmates, am reading in a new alphabet. Soon we will be speaking a language that sounds strikingly unlike our own.

The rest of our classes can be summed up in a very wise saying passed down from generation to generation:

The eating of an elephant can only be achieved by taking the first bite, then the second, then the third.... until it is gone.

manifesto

As my poor roommate well knows, I'm slightly obsessed with hair. My hair, your hair, his hair, her hair. Say you met someone who's name you can't remember and you tell me what their hair is like: I will tell you who they are.

This obsession stems from my inability to understand the hair that grows from my own head. It grants me the favor of being there, while not so politely asking me to let it be to do as it pleases. To grow fast or slow, to curl or be straight or just go in all directions at once at it's own discretion. And quite frankly, I got sick of it.

So I devised a plan to slowly bring it under control while it thinks that it has the final say so.

After senior pictures were taken, I marched into a salon, sat down and said, "cut it off." "

"How short?"

"Really short. So I can spike the back."

.

"Ok."

So it came off. Mom looked like she wanted to cry, Dad said I could sue for damages, my own sisters didn't recognize me, and I was forced to learn how to use mascara so I wouldn't be mistaken for my long lost twin brother who actually doesn't exist. Somehow I learned how to take care of really short hair. Gel works really well, so does blow drying it with your head upside down, providing you don't get dizzy and fall over in the process. Cute clips, bobby pins as it gets longer, etc. I cut it off mid-January and it looked great until around June.

My sister, wise as always, informed me that having extremely short hair would not be appropriate for NSA, which I would be entering in August, so I grit my teeth and let it continue growing. Since then I have kept it longer, but it always ends up getting bobbed sooner or later, no matter how hard I try to keep my hands off it.

.

You see, the thing with longer hair is that you have to do something with it. You can't just roll out of bed, run your fingers through it and be out the door in 15 minutes. You have to blow dry it, decide how to style it, style it, hope it stays up, fix it halfway through the day and hope to high heavens that it behaves. Bad hair days aren't a joke. They are a reality.

.

To combat bad hair days you have blow dryers (complete with a diffuser for curly hair), curling irons of various widths, flat irons, hot rollers, and aisles and aisles of hair products in brightly colored containers promising instant hair miracles. What these bottles and canisters and hair appliances don't tell you is that you need skill to apply them. Which I really don't have. I have all the tools, but I also have two left hands.

.

Learning how to use those tools has been a perilous endeavor. I distinctly remember getting an inch by one inch burn on my forehead the first time I attempted to use a curling iron. Using a blow dryer resulted in something akin to a drunken bird's nest perched upon my head. Learning how to use a flat iron was a little easier, but still brought it's own angst and had the side effect of my going board straight every. single. day.

.

So I began spying on other peoples hair. The sincerest form of flattery is copying, right? I have flattered nearly every girl I know, and even a couple guys. (I had short hair at one time, remember?) I've started asking questions, I've begged people to teach me what they know, I've spent hours parked with my boarding mom while she taught me the finer points of wielding a curling iron without burning yourself.

.

My latest endeavor was to make head bands out of sweet fabric scraps I've been saving. I think I may have gained mastery over my bangs, although I'm pondering the possibility of hairspray that has some sort of invisible cement as it's main ingredient. The hairdryer is slowly bending to my will, and the flat iron has realized that it can do more than stick straight.

.

Maybe I'm on to something here.

one short week

and I'm back in Moscow, back at NSA, back in class, back with my nose in the books. Hopefully what I've done over break will be somewhat helpful - read some theology and history, and have started working on Greek. 

And, not to mention, back watching everyone I know paring up. Good heavens. I think it's an epidemic. Every time I turn around someone has gotten married, just got engaged, or started dating/courting. What is the world coming to? At the rate things are going, I'm going to be the only single person I know. *wipes brow and surveys the horizon with a stunned shock* 

Heh, last year when I came home for break, Christopher, the son of one of my friends at the barn, asked if I had a boyfriend yet. I told him that all my boy friends lived in the Tri-Cities, had brown eyes, fuzzy faces, and had four legs. It took him a moment to realize I meant the horses. 

short hair is always a good thing

Yes, it's blury. I'm sorry. But it's all I have at the moment. I think it has already grown an inch since this shot, or maybe it just seems that way because I normally flip the ends out (meaning = looks longer).

In the background you see my mom and grandma talking on the phone with Rachel, who's down in Bogota, Columbia.