Pep talk #1.

Dear friend,

If tomorrow finds you tired, afraid, on the brink of surrender,

If you're tempted to finally give in, give up, go home --

I would urge you to remember what's kept you holding on so long.

String the reasons onto a chain and wear them.

Braid them into your hair.

Stir them into your coffee in the morning,

Sing them to your nephew,

Paint them big and bright on your walls

And hang in there.

[DON'T GIVE UP THE SHIP!]

Ten Reasons I Get Up in the Morning

Here's Why.

1. I might have the chance to make someone’s day.
2. College is expensive; if I'm going to pay for it, I'm going to go.
3. The world outside my room is beautiful.
4. There’s no one to talk to in my bed.
5. I want to see what new Lord of the Rings graffiti has appeared on campus overnight.
6. I’d rather stare at people than my ceiling.
7. A coffee or short jog will boost my energy better than a half hour of pressing “snooze.”
8. I want to do my hair and makeup and smile at everyone on the bus.
9. I have a new joke that’s dying to be told.
10. Life is about the journey, and unless my bed leaps up and carries me out the window, I’m not likely to have one in it. (That would be cool, though.)

The One About the Mollusk

My friend Ash tells the best stories.

Recorded on one of the many lovely Carolina beaches we visited during spring break 2011.

The Ukulele Experiment

There's something to be said for making music with another person.

I've played the clarinet -- loose interpretation of the word -- for eight years. In that time I've sat with my share of ensembles: our school's symphonic band, District, JanFest, pep band, marching band(s), on and on, right up to my present involvement with UGA's Redcoats. It's been fun and has taught me to read music, to use my ears, and to practice.

Practice. The dreaded p-word. It's never been my favorite pastime. Oh, the clarinet sounds beautiful when it's handled correctly, yes, and there's a certain satisfaction to be had when you finally nail something difficult, but I can't say practicing ever came naturally to me. I did it when I had to, for as long as I had to, and then I moved on to something else.

Fast forward to January 2011. My friend Rebecca and I are sitting on her bed, chitchatting. She brings me up to speed on classes, family, our mutual friends -- and her wedding plans for next year. Their theme is Hawaiian, and they want someone to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow/Wonderful World" on the ukulele at their reception. Have I heard the song?

I have. (I'm quite familiar because we played an arrangement of it for the homecoming court in high school.) What's more, I tell her, I've been toying with the idea of picking up the uke; if she wants me to, I'll learn it for the wedding. This is a bit of a stretch -- the thought had crossed my mind maybe twice, for about ten seconds cumulative -- but Rebecca is delighted, and I've warmed up to the idea by the time she "hires" me, all smiles.

Becca doesn't know what a gift she's given me. I adore the ukulele. It's been three months, and while I'm by no means great at it (yet), I'm sure enjoying the learning process. I spent the first three days of spring break playing it in the sunshine. Sometime during day two, I realized that I've memorized the basic progressions in "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." On the third day, I played it for Mom, Ita, and my grandmother without any major slip ups. I call that progress!

Yesterday my friends Tristan, Jenn, Brooke, Kassie, and Virginia came to visit. Tristan and I played guitar and ukulele in the driveway while everyone sang -- "Hallelujah" and "Here Comes the Sun," a little Deathcab and "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad" and Becca's song to finish. Tristan, a music major and talented guitarist, was able to teach me a simplified version of "Dueling Banjos." If no other extraordinary thing happens to me in 2011, that will still have made my year.

At the end, Tristan jokingly congratulated me on my first "jam session." I laughed.

But it was.

And it was fantastic.

Here's to trying new things!

The awesome photos belong to Brooke. She performed all the magic; I just played with the colors. Thanks, pal!

There's a Beatles Song About This.

I once knew a boy that was very good at holding hands.

He wasn't much of a conversationalist. He had more pride than virtue and you could see his ego through his teeth when he smiled.

This friend of mine liked to talk about himself. He spoke at length about things he'd done, what he wanted to do, and who he'd dated -- oh, names and durations and problems, this and that, ad nauseum. Thirty minutes into our first date, I was stuffing my mouth desperately with orange chicken to stop the flow of vapid "Oh yeah(s)?" and "Oh(s)" and "Cool(s)."

But then we left. We walked through the cold, still parts of North Campus. The gardens. The fountain. We sat beneath the stars and in a quiet moment he took my hand.

Wow.

It's difficult to explain what that was like. Warm, I guess, from my fingers to my feet. I didn't gasp or jump, though it surprised me. I don't think I even looked up. For that moment, when we weren't talking or even looking at each other, I was happy. I thought, I could love this person. Maybe he could love me. It could work.

It couldn't, though. I knew that ten minutes later when we left for home and he opened his mouth again. We got together twice more and gave it a brave attempt, but no cleverness or nice hair or mix CD could change the fact that we were a poor match.

So that's that. It's done, and I'm not upset about it. Rather than the cliche broken heart, my almost-beau has left me with a puzzle. What is it in my nature that so desires that particular sort of attention? What's so great about holding hands? My little sisters hold my hands; I can hold my own hand; a strangers could do it as well as any friend. What about that simple contact is so crucial that for its sake I would ignore a lack of chemistry, intellectual compatibility, wit? If Mr. Mouth had held my hand more and said less on our third date, we'd very likely have had a fourth. Maybe a fifth. Maybe we'd have gone on like that, muddling through stilted conversations and treasuring our silent handholding and the other purely physical (but not romantic) aspects of one another's company. Maybe we'd have dated and people would've asked me what I liked about my boyfriend, and I'd have floundered and come up empty and said, "Oh, everything, I guess," and felt false.

Tell me, where's the sense in that?

Pants vs. Not Pants: a Tutorial

On Love and Marshmallows

Rainy weather makes me sappy. I can't help it. I'm walking around in the cold, soaked to my knees, hair a frizzy mess, makeup running, and I'm thinking, God, the world is just so beautiful.

Do you have someone to share your umbrella with? A friend, a sister, a love? I rejoice for you. There's just not much out there that can beat smiles and secrets exchanged beneath an umbrella.

If there's anything that comes close, though, it's got to be hot chocolate. On days like this, I like to have friends over so that I may ply them with (soy) hot chocolate and marshmallows -- lots of marshmallows. I'm talking overflowing, have-to-eat-a-few-of-the-dry-top-ones excess. (I've always felt that you can tell a lot about how much someone loves you by how many marshmallows they put in your cocoa; nobody, to my knowledge, has ever picked up on this. I'm holding out hope that it will happen someday.)

2011 is capital 'd' Different. I've felt it in myriad forms and fashions lately, but it comes down to this: I will no longer skimp on my marshmallows for the sake of fear or doubt. I will rather love to the fullest, to incorrigible excess, and smilingly accept the consequences.

Good, better, best.

1:15 AM.

Awake, alone in the room (nothing unusual there).

Couldn't quite fall asleep. Couldn't stop thinking. Have tried all the usual tricks -- counting, music, pillow over head, lights on, lights off -- to no effect. Sometimes there's nothing for it.

In five hours I must be up for work. If I'm not too wobbly, I will talk them into giving me an extra shift. Something safe, like dishes.

1:15 AM.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong, but I'm awake, writing "it will get better" in different colors. Makes me wonder who I'm trying to convince.

If you're not going to talk to me in real life, I'd appreciate it if you stayed out of my dreams.

I am reading (reading what?) on a couch (what couch?) in a room I have never actually been in. A fire burns nearby. I am alone but not lonely; in lieu of people, a good book can make fine company.

You come in. I’m not sure how, because as far as I can tell the room I’ve never actually been in doesn’t have any doors -- which may be why I haven’t been in it. You slip something into my book and sit at the other end of the couch. It’s a long couch. It grows longer when I glance up at you, but even from a distance, I see your smile.

What have you brought for me? Ah. A letter. The letter. This must be the one that I waited and waited for.

I don’t open it. I am content to hold it while I read, to share the large couch with you in companionable silence. Too bad.

I should like to know what it said.

A Spot of Temperance

Yesterday had an awful lot of drinking in it. That seems to be the activity of choice at my house: drink too much, complain of the consequences of drinking too much, make a mess, neglect dinner, that sort of thing. My three-year-old sister enjoys free run of the house at such times and gets into all sorts of good mischief. (She's still learning to use the "big girl potty," and at one point, I came across an abandoned pair of panties in the hall. You can perhaps imagine why they were abandoned.)

If there's one good thing I can say about all this, it's that witnessing what is done/said during such parties and what is suffered after have thoroughly cured me of any desire to drink. In terms of temperance, I fall somewhere between the Eighteenth Amendment and Southern Baptists... only I don't care if you want to dance.

Okay. Since I couldn't muster much of an anecdote, here's a picture. It's the first in a series of illustrated idioms, which were inspired by a late-night conversation I had with Roommate. I have played the idiom recall game at inappropriate moments ever since: at work, in bed, during tests, in the shower. Don't start, or you'll be trapped in it forever.

(Happy 2011.)