Exceedingly vs. Excessively

Ok, proof number 83457 that Latin is super useful in today's world: It is the originator of today's blog post. Thank you, Latin, for yet another reason to scoff in people's faces when they say that I shouldn't take you because you have no purpose.

That being said, a Latin vocab word for my homework today was nimis. It has two very different meanings depending on its context. One is exceedingly. Exceedingly tends to have a good context. I am exceedingly intelligent, he has exceedingly good hair, and you are exceedingly awesome for reading this blog post. The other meaning is excessively. Noooot so great. I am excessively intelligent, he has excessive hair, and you can't read my blog excessively because you can never have too much of it. ;)

I had never pondered that these two very different words can actually represent the same exact quantity. The only difference is a person's perspective. That begs the question: Can there be too much of a good thing? Should we always look to exceed, or should we try to cut off excess?

We'll use pragmatism as an example. I am known as being a very realistic person. I'm the one who often can be quoted as saying, "We don't have the budget for that" or "Hey look, this way is a lot more feasible." I am grounded; I live by my means and not by my ideals. Looking at it in terms of financial and personal security, you might consider me exceedingly pragmatic.

Other side: I'm an absolute nay-sayer. If you have a great idea, I'll cut you down before you even get to your action plan. And as much as I hate to say it, I'll cut myself down before I even get to my action plan. There are so many dreams that never made it past the buzzing of my self-set "Let's get real here" alarm clock. I am excessively pragmatic.

The same argument can be made for many values: hard work, friendliness, passion. Should we try to set ourselves above the crowd by being exceedingly anything? Or should we always work to maintain a balanced, non-excessive existence? It's a hard question to answer.

The moment has come. Why hello there, college!

It's really hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that this is actually happening. 

Tomorrow. 1:00 PM. Drive to North Platte, NE. Stay the night in a hotel.

Saturday. 8:00 AM. Drive to Cedar Rapids, IA.

Sunday. 1:00 PM. Move in to college.

Just like that, I'm here, and I'm gone. The journey can now be summed up into just three lines.

I remember thinking about this day when I was little. My sister Amanda, being 8 years older than I, moved to college when I was a 4th-grader. I cried and cried at the thought of her leaving. To me, things would never really be the same. She would never complain about Mom waking her up on a Saturday morning again. She would never be home when I got an A+ on my math test. (Although, this is math we're talking about. A- seems more likely.) ;) Sure, she would be home for Christmas and summers, but she would never really be home again. Within a few years, I knew she would probably get married and have kids. (Sure enough, I now have a fantastic brother-in-law and an adorable nephew.)

I have a wonderful relationship with my sister, but it's not the same relationship I had when she lived at home. It's not any worse - just different. She's an adult now. She has responsibilities. She no longer fights with me over who gets the "captain's chair" in the van. She calls me to hurriedly catch up while grocery shopping or driving to work.

Now, I am in Amanda's position on that day, and I see both perspectives. The truth be told, if there is an emotional saturation scale, I've reached the peak. I go from sheer excitement to tears in about 20 seconds flat. I have no idea what to expect. I have no idea what people will think of me, if I'm really capable of college-level work, or if I can handle the five-flights-of-stairs trek to my dorm room every day. What if my roommate gets annoyed at the fact that I snooze my alarm too much? What if I can't kick the senioritis that I seemed to have let invade me last year? What if I lose my toothbrush and no one will drive me to Target? The questions plague me.

At the same time is this overwhelming feeling of adventure. I'm finally about to be on my own. I get to make my own decisions. I get to decide my own curfew. I get to pick my schedule. If I don't want to wake up until 10 AM, I don't have to! (Now, watch me get stuck in an 8 AM class.) From here on out, I set my own standards. Rolling down the car window, feeling the wind along my face, playing my favorite song because I'm the only passenger now. Freedom.

If there was a little 4th grade Angela watching me, she would consider how my relationships will never be the same. I will always be Cañon City born, raised, and proud, but I will probably never live here again. (Not totally excluding the possibility, just considering the likelihood.) My mom will never wake me up for school when I oversleep. I'll never attend a tiger football game as a student. I'm an adult now. I have responsibilities. I'll probably have a husband and kids in a few years (as in, at least 4. I'm in no hurry for that one). I'll be the one calling Amanda to catch up while grocery shopping or driving to work.

This whole experience is a lot like finishing a good book. You wait so anxiously for that last page when everything finally comes together. All that hard work in high school, all those stupid college entrance essays, all the money you spent on Princeton Review ACT and AP books. But when the last page finally comes, it's a little bittersweet. You liked that book so much, and you'll never be able to read it for the first time again. You'll never be able to be drop your jaw in shock or giggle with happiness at its plot line. You just know that reading that book was a great experience, and now, you can start on the next one.

Tomorrow. 1:00 PM. The next - and the best - novel begins. Time to close this 0-18 years old book, and open that first page of college and adulthood.

Wish me luck.

Bdajhfjwjek

See title above to understand the current state of my brain.

So much to think about, to process, and to understand. I put it off, shove it in the back of the filing cabinet I have called a brain, try to forget it all in the ocean of things to do, places to go, and people to see. Well, this ship (or filing cabinet?) is quickly sinking.

A filing cabinet in an ocean is a very interesting situation. First of all, why is it there in the first place? What wise guy decides that he is going to take all of his important documents, all those "Perfect Attendance - Except One Day" awards, and all those carefully-used minutes trying to fit that last file, meticulously labeled "Ye-Z," into the overstuffed cabinet and shove it into the ocean without a care in the world? Or was it a hard decision to make?

Alright, you know what, forget that analogy. This is why you should never wait this long between writing. Your ideas all start mixing together into this jumbled mess of files and books and sharks and muffins. (That is where the next idea I had was headed.)

Ok, Angela, get to the heart of this. I am terrified of my own thoughts.

I feel like I can never get away from them. Like every second of the day, they are stealthily hovering over me, reminding me of this or that or the other that doesn't even really matter in the grand scheme of things. They remind me of that look someone gave me earlier that was probably just a result of having eaten too many chocolate-covered cherries that morning, but maybe not... Or of how I have summer writing exercises to do before I head off to the big bad world of college that I don't at all feel in a position to complete.

Let's run with that last idea. I, Angela Kettle, the girl who talks about "loving writing" and "wanting to be a writer" and how "writing is the heart of life," do not feel capable of writing.

Writing is such an interesting concept. Fine arts in general is. First of all, most people who succeed at it are just a little bit crazy. Edgar Allen Poe and Vincent Van Gogh come to mind. Maybe you have to be a little crazy to understand the world - or at least to make it bearable. Without creativity, life is just a string of numbers or of cells dividing and re-dividing and re-dividing again. That may be considered life, but is it?

For me, life is seeing the smile on my 1-year old puppy's face when I come home from work - even though some might say that dogs don't smile. Or going with my future roommate to IKEA, more just to play around and buy cinnamon rolls than to actually shop. Or even just sitting on my porch right as the sun sets, thinking about how much I want a porch swing when I get my own house. And how I should have put on bug spray. When I describe "my life" to my grandchildren someday, that's how I want to explain it.

And yet, I feel so bogged down with this whole idea of the life I'm living. It just feels so forced and routine. Every day, I wake up at the same time, I eat the same breakfast, I turn on the same Pandora station, I go to the same workplace, I use the same interview formula, I go home at the same time... everything is always the same.

And at the same time (you see what I did there?), I feel like maybe I should get used to that. In 4 years I'll graduate college. I'll get a job. And even in a job like journalism where you are out exploring the world, it's still all the same process. Make initial calls, get story, make video, edit video, do write-up, publish. I have more freedom in my job than most people could ever hope for, and yet I still feel like I am going a little insane from it. I still feel like I can't WRITE when I come home at the end of the day because I can't FEEL. I can't experience the world around me even though I am technically experiencing it firsthand. I feel like there is this glass wall between me and the world. I can see it, I can even hear it and smell it... but I can't FEEL it. I can't gather my experiences and reflect on them and see the connectedness of them to everything else.

Which is exactly why I don't feel equipped to do these summer writing exercises. It would be a petty attempt at a string of words. Although it would be my words, it wouldn't be my writing. My words come from my brain, my writing comes from my heart.

And it begs the question for me: Am I ever going to be happy as an adult? No matter that new things are happening everyday, especially in a career like journalism, I can't see myself going to the same place every day and doing the same thing.

The only way I can really see myself as being happy is by just being. Waking up when I want, going for an afternoon walk, watching the kids across the street play soccer. Drinking a cup of tea, reflecting on if Freud actually had a point about that whole psychosis thing. Reading a book, having a conversation with the author in a local coffee shop.And the occasional African safari.

That's how I want my life to be... and that's how people become homeless.

And there is just this huge part of me that screams, "Make it all stop! Slow down! I don't want to be an adult! I don't want responsibilities and jobs and money and all this adult-like stuff!"

I don't know that a career and a routine is ever what I will want. Because I feel like when that's what I have, this is what I get. A jumbled mess of ideas. Bdajhfjwjek.

Things just don't feel right when I can't write.

How do you make a living while still having a life? That's the question I need to figure out.

To Do... or Not to Do?

I don't really know where this blog post is going, so bear with me. I am currently sitting in Coyote's Coffee Den, sipping some hazelnut joe and doing homework... or trying to. Homework is a little difficult when a) you can't do your Spanish because about half of it requires that you talk to your computer, and you refuse to look like an absolutely crazy person in the middle of a public place b) your book is sitting on your kitchen table and c) you need people to email you your assignments before you can do diddly squat. Ah, the aroma of productivity.

Aye, there's the rub! (Alright, I'll stop with the Hamlet references now.) What is productivity? This has been a lingering question for the duration of my senior year. Balancing a full course load, a social life, an extracurricular career, a college plan, and... dare I say it... a little alone time proves to be challenging. What's more valuable: studying for an important test during lunch or going to Alfonso's with friends, all of whom won't be around next year? Should I participate in as many activities as possible before I lose the chance, or should I enjoy the spring weather before the clouds come? Decisions...

Before, the answer was easy. Through junior year, I was one of those nerdy kids who spent every second of my life on school. I spent lunch in the library, carried my trig book around always, and felt disappointed in myself for anything less than a 100%.

Then, I got this little thing called a life.

After a bad break-up, I found myself in a place of vulnerability. I couldn't eat - I couldn't sleep - heck, I couldn't even do my homework. It was then that I realized just how valuable a friend can be.

I've always been one of those super independent people who thrives on completing tasks all by myself. Asking for help is embarrassing and unnecessary. Luckily for me, though, I didn't have to ask for help when I needed it the most. The people who cared about me (despite my loner tendencies) surrounded me, forcing me to come to movie nights when I "wasn't up to it" and bringing me Ben and Jerry's and a box of tissues at the faintest sob. They carried the weight with me, tolerating my roller-coaster of emotions. They were there for me.

Since then, I want to do everything I possibly can to spend time with these incredible people. Each one of them is so precious and gifted. I would be stupid to let a moment slip by without creating priceless memories.

This year, I've let school slip by the wayside a little more. I still get all A's, and I'll still graduate valedictorian in a few weeks (pending I can shoo away this stupid senioritis). I've realized, though, what I really value in life - and that's the people who made these accomplishments a reality when I couldn't do it by myself anymore.

Spending time with them - that's true productivity.

Daniel

Today, my heart is heavy as I ache for the company of someone, yet I know that it is unattainable. My dear friend Daniel passed away yesterday.

Words cannot describe this emotion. I can't fathom how to write anything in this post that isn't just a jumbled mess of silly letters that can never bring to justice who he was... and who he always will be. The spirit of my community is broken today, as we mourn the loss of someone who has influenced us to the core of our being.

He was doing what he loved - performing for God. Daniel was part of a Master's Commission Program in the Netherlands. Recently, he had been exploring other parts of Europe as well. He was so excited when he first signed up for the program. He told me about it when we sat next together in Anatomy class. "Angela, I don't think I'm going to University of Washington anymore, and I don't feel like the Navy is right either. But my sister told me about this really great program where I can lead worship throughout Europe." Fast forward to almost a year from that little chat. A few weeks ago, he told me of his travels to Rome and of his purchase of gummy bears (his favorite) in Vienna. Yesterday, he was in Moldova, a small country squished between Ukraine and Romania. Moldova, like most of eastern Europe, is third-world.

After not feeling well for several days, Daniel's body was found lifeless in the shower. The cause is thought to be carbon monoxide poisoning. Moldova, because of its poor state, isn't always up to date in meeting standards for living.

He built a beautiful life over 19 years, and a quick shower took it away from us in a matter of minutes.

But the legacy he built in that short time can never be torn down - not by flood nor fire nor even poisoning.

Daniel was the absolute epitome of talent and humility - a combination that not many people can come by. He moved us all from the first note of any song. He was the star of every show, but he never needed the solo to shine. His genuine smile and open countenance did that all on its own. And when he didn't get to be the leading man, he never complained. He never thought himself better than others... although we all know he was better than any of us. He truly had the voice of an angel.

I had the privilege of knowing Daniel very personally. He graced us with his presence at my church, where we sang together often. Oh boy, was he a character. He hated cheese because he had a bad experience with the moldy kind when he was little. In Colorado Springs, he drove into the shoulder lane and drove past the rush-hour traffic so we could make it to the Mill on time. He played the drum set like a pro the first time he ever tried it. He was awesome in Anatomy class, but he had the hardest time ever dissecting the pig because he was too tedious to dig into it. He had personality bulging almost as big as his muscles, which he freely admitted, "It's just because I'm Honduran. We naturally have big muscles."

He was one of the best confidants I have ever had. The questions I could ask no one, I could ask Daniel. He took an interest in what I had to say every time, usually followed by a good piece of advice. He spoke with kindness but with truth, and he always ended with, "Angela, I'll be keeping you and this situation in my prayers. Keep me updated."

I got to go to lunch with him one last time when he was home during Christmas (a God-sent surprise visit). He bought my lunch and we just sat in his bulky Ford Explorer by the Duck Park, relaying our experiences. I told him all about my flighty plans for college, and he just told me that whatever I did, I would be great. It always meant a lot to hear it from Daniel... if anyone would be great at anything, it would be him. He told me all about Amsterdam. How he thought Dutch was a really ugly language, but he loved talking to the people there. How he enjoyed the constant rain. How citizens of the Netherlands were so true to themselves and never put out by trivial things. How he was disappointed that he couldn't talk to more girls because of strict program rules. What a flirt. He was the biggest charmer I've ever known, but never would he think to take advantage of it.

The last part of the conversation will keep me going during this sad time. Daniel told me that he finally thought he was learning to love others unconditionally. He's always been a perfectionist, so he naturally had lots of pet peeves. He told me he was finally experiencing true, deep, genuine love for others, regardless of their humanity. It's no wonder he couldn't stay with us on Earth any longer.

His love was beyond human.

Daniel, you will always be missed. Gone, but never forgotten. You are home now, in the perfect love that you so freely gave to others.

Thank you.

Three Years

Three years.

Three years of waking up Saturday after Saturday at 4:30 AM to compete in Original Oratory. Three years of looking like a complete idiot practicing gestures in the mirror. Three years of scouring ballots, searching for any tidbit of information that could help me be better.

Three years of trophies, team dinners, and congratulatory smiles. Three years of "You're going places!" and "Just wait until you take this piece to state!"

Three years of wanting more than anything to qualify for nationals... and three years of bawling my eyes out behind the deserted vending machines when it didn't happen.

Today, as a high school senior, I said goodbye to my dream of qualifying for nationals. While it may be trivial in the long run, it still hurt like none other. It made me want to tear all my ballots, throw away all my medals, and tell myself I am simply not good enough. And when that stage passed, it made me want to blame it on other people, mainly my judges.

Dear judges (these are sole opinions of Angela and in no way are meant to be taken personally):

1) Original Oratory is supposed to be... original. Talking about discrimination doesn't quite cut it.

2) It is not interp. Once the speaker starts sword fighting himself, it's gone too far.

3) It is not extemp. I don't need 7 cited, dated sources. That's why they have file boxes and I don't.

4) When you write on my ballot "Great job! You're an awesome speaker! Reach for the stars!" and then give me a 5, I can't help but feel like you're bipolar.

5) Are you even listening to me?

6) Yes, I am at 9:41. Now could you watch me finish my conclusion before you tune out? The stopwatch can count the time for you...

7) Are you even listening to me??

8) It's called the Oratory Formation. Back center, left, right, center, forward. Just because the other competitors don't know the Bible of Oratory doesn't mean I should be counted down for not moving enough.

9) Don't write "No pop culture examples" on my ballot when I talk about both Charlie Sheen AND Kim Kardashian! WINNING!

10) Are you even LISTENING to me???

Alright, so maybe I overreacted a tiny bit. After all, my judges are older than me, smarter than me, and overall less biased than I am. They see a bigger picture than I do.

But where do I fit in that picture? Am I forever destined to be the "almost qualifier" girl? Do I really just suck at public speaking and no one has bothered to tell me?

Questions flood my mind about the incident, and I know they will for a long time. I don't understand how I can win tourney after tourney and fail at the times when it counts the most. I don't understand how OOs that I see as having no substance can beat me. I don't understand why I can't win.

But what does winning mean anyway? One of the OOs I've heard countless times this season has forever engrained this line into my head: "You, and only you, have the power to make yourself a winner." Is it true, though? Can I be a winner when I feel so crummy? Can I be a winner when after three years of hard work, I have no national qualifier plaque?

I choose to say yes. I choose to see opportunities for what they are - a forever replenishing source. I choose to recognize the skills I've gained over the trophies I haven't. I choose to use my loss to my advantage: Losing is a beautiful concept because it opens the door wide open for improvement. For goal-setting, for another chance, at a different time, to succeed.

Maybe my judges were right. Maybe the other orators were more creative, more expressive, more passionate, or more logical than I. Maybe they were better than me.

And I'm ok with that.

Here's to the next three years.

It's January 1st, and while the whole world is celebrating the arrival of 2012, I am celebrating something else - the completion of my college applications. Thank goodness.


The process of college admissions has been one of the most strenuous I have ever experienced. You would think it would be simpler; after all, I've done all the work through my high school career, right? Possibly, but college applications have this incredible way of making the hours I spent draining my brain to learn trig, days I spent coordinating student council events, and lunches I spent in meeting after meeting seem completely insignificant.


I come from a small town with an even smaller school budget. My high school has done everything possible to ensure I obtain the highest education possible, but we can't exactly boast dozens of AP classes or extracurricular activities. This becomes a major inadequacy when I'm applying to colleges like Northwestern.


Oh, Northwestern. What a battle I've had. It's been my dream school since sophomore year, but my qualifications hardly seem enough to get in. Take my 29 ACT (the "almost good enough" score) with my measly two AP classes, and I feel a little ridiculous sending my app in.


I was convinced a week ago that I wasn't going to send it. I convinced myself that the dream was deferred; maybe I'd try for grad school. But as my best friend knows me better than I do myself, she threatened me within an inch of my life that I had to at least give it a shot. I groaned and agreed that I would write the extra essay that night, but my ego still screeched with a fear of embarassment and failure.


Then, I had a bit of an epiphany. Applying to NU is not about getting in. Of course I would be delighted if I did, but it's so much more. It's a testament to the fact that I believe in myself - my hard work and my ability to succeed. Even if it doesn't come through on paper, I know that I can survive this crazy-hard world called college, no matter how difficult the courses. My app is my personal reminder that I AM worthy.


In the end, it's not going to matter what that decision letter says. I'll probably cry a little and immerse myself in I Love Lucy reruns and Blue Bell ice cream. But after the tears dry, I'll know that the decision is not a step back, but a stride forward. Because on this journey to success, the first step is "I CAN."


Hello college, wherever you end up being... I'm ready for ya.