New Year, New Resolutions

        Hi everyone – I hope you’re all having a relaxing break and happy holidays! I truly can’t believe that 2016 is starting in just a few days. 2016 is a big year for me, a year full of nagging unknowns, bittersweet ends, and exciting-yet-scary beginnings. In 2016, like many seniors, I will find out what schools have accepted me, graduate from high school, leave the house I’ve lived in for 18 years, and begin my freshman year of college. In the past few days, I’ve had time to contemplate the year to come…and I’ve realized that, in light of all these crazy changes, I feel happy, sad, nervous, impatient, and excited – all at once.

        My mind can’t stop swirling with questions – where will I be this fall? Who will I meet? What will I study? What will I learn? How will I succeed? How will I fail? What will scare me? What will I embrace? Will I be homesick? Will I find myself, or will I feel lost? Where will I live? (Will I like the food?) Will I embrace my independence, or will I feel overwhelmed?

        Rationally, I know that there is no possible way to find answers to these questions until I am actually in college, living my life, going to class, and finding my niche. I also know that, the more I think about all of these great big question marks, the more worried and unsure I feel.

        Somehow, I need to stop this internal dialogue of worry and self-doubt. To distract myself and reprioritize my concerns, I’ve decided to make a few New Year’s resolutions (not the most original idea ever, but tried and true for a reason, right?). So here’s my brief list of resolutions – hopefully, they’ll inspire you, too, whether you’re a freshman (just trying to safely make it through your first year of high school) or a seasoned senior (still facing the scariness of the future that lies beyond that June 12th graduation) …

2016 RESOLUTIONS

Live in the moment by:

1.     Trying something new every month – it’s too easy to be trapped in the unendingly repetitive high school routine; before I leave, I want to be able to look back and remember some awesome new things I tried in my own city, which, sadly, I have not explored enough in my 18 years (ideas: kayaking on one of the three rivers, Klavon’s ice cream sundaes in the strip district, biking downtown, etc.)

2.     Cooking more – I love to cook and bake, but I don’t have (or don’t always make) time to cook as often as I would like. However, no matter how busy I am next semester, I want to make more dinners, to try out crazy new recipes (and to invent my own recipes) for my family and friends. After all, there’s something incredibly inspiring about transforming fresh ingredients into dishes that can brighten people’s days.

3.     Writing (for fun) more – This past fall, I feel like all I did was write…but mostly only college essays and English research papers. Not that there is anything wrong with this type of writing, but, somehow, it doesn’t have the same enjoyable effect as sitting down with a blank sheet of paper and a pencil. Hopefully, I’ll be able to accomplish this goal with my creative comp class next semester! But I need to remind myself that it’s important to take time to do things I love, like writing, even if they’re not “for a grade.”

I wish you all a fantastic 2016 (and I’m so thankful for all of the awesome Tapestry stuff we accomplished in 2015)!

~ Sophie

Christmas Through the Houses

        My childhood has been a blur of different countries, states, houses, schools and friends. My family has moved a lot, partly because of my dad’s job, and partly because my parents really enjoy moving and seeing different parts of the world.

Not an accurate representation of our apartment.

        The 1st House: Not technically a house. This was an apartment in Toronto, Canada, where I lived for the first six months of my life. From what I know, there was never a Christmas tree in this apartment, or very many decorations — my dad was a student in university, and my mom was the mother of a very demanding toddler, and a premature wittle baby (me). However, I believe this house still counts, because Christmas is not defined by the decorations (of which were scarce), Christmas tree (or lack thereof), or even the fireplace (or lack thereof). It is defined by the family and the love.

An image I found online.

        The 2nd House: Like the first house, this was technically an apartment. In Wisconsin. I remember these Christmases vividly. Our tiny, cramped apartment could not fit a large coniferous tree, but my ever-resourceful mother managed to get a little fake decorated tree, maybe 1 foot tall, set atop the countertop. On Christmas morning we unwrapped Barbies, train stations, and many, many books. This apartment also contained our first fireplace. It was a small affair. In it, we burned newspaper and small pre-cut pieces of wood. My parents sat around it after sending us to bed. One incident has provided endless laughter: One Christmas eve, I stormed out of my room, tears streaming down my face. I worried that my parents would forget to put out the fire and Santa would get hurt.

Captures the gist of the year's Christmas tree.

        The 3rd House: Our first real house. Still no “real” Christmas tree, but my mother’s improvisation more than made up for it. The Christmases in this house were some of the best. We decorated the tree, baked cookies, and celebrated with close friends. The tree in our house was a beautiful little three-foot-tall coniferous shrub sitting in a pot, on a really tall planter. We hung miniature baubles (perfectly in proportion with our tiny tree) and a string of multicolored lights. This began the years of Christmas cookie baking as well. If any of you can remember, Easy Bake was a trend in our childhood, and one I so desperately wanted to be a part of. My mom refused to let me cook baked goods with a “glorified lightbulb” and insisted that anything I wanted to make I could do in the “big girl oven”. Needless to say, there was no Easy Bake under the Christmas shrub that year.

Still not an actual picture of our Christmas tree.

        The 4th House: The fourth House was in sunny Florida in a lovely suburb town. This was the year we were to get our first... real Christmas tree, even though Florida is more known for its palm trees than its Christmas trees. So this actually marked the year we got our first fake Christmas tree from Home Depot. My family was super into Christmas decorations that year… we had a designated tree corner and two sets of Christmas decorations: one set red and green, and another with a silver and blue. Every year, we alternated between those. We also had two mantles to decorate above the fireplace. We bought stockings, stocking hangers that depicted Rudolph and Santa, strings of lights for our mantle, and wreaths with berries for the door. The first Christmas in the house, our stockings were stuffed with Rudolph shaped chocolates, light up bouncy balls, and fun erasers, but the tree skirt remained completely bare. Our real presents were annual passes to Disney world that my dad had left in his pocket. All in all, our first traditional American Christmas was a hit.

Over three stories tall? Basically accurate.
Renee used a LOT of paper.

        The 5th House: The fifth house is here in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We moved over Christmas break, so we had to unpack beds, boxes, and more boxes. Our Christmas presents were new coats, thermal shirts, warm boots, gloves, and woolen socks. It was one of the coldest winters in Pittsburgh, and we Floridians came unprepared. It was a busy winter break, but I was extremely disappointed that our family didn’t have a beautiful tree to light up and decorate. My mother didn’t come to the rescue this time, but my best friend Renee did. She gave me a box covered in duct tape and pictures of us, containing a letter and a hand drawn Christmas tree with the caption: “Since you couldn’t have one this year.” It's still the best tree, by far.

First Slam I've Written in a While

So hey! Sorry this is late, I had accidentally assume because we only had a post per week that we had the week to do that post, my bad! 

Well here it is a new poem I wrote for astronomy about the sun. I really liked writing and how it turned out. Also, excuse my sentence structure, phrasing, grammar, punctuation, and all that jazz because it's a slam, and when I write slam poems I just kinda let if flow and shape it to how I want it read....if that makes sense....

It's titled "Astronomical Royalty."

Enjoy!

~

From helios of the greeks

to apollo of the romans

to amaterasu of ancient japan

to hepa, who comes from hittite religion

and ra out of ancient egypt

The sun has been the god and the goddess that rose each day

that brought light upon darkness without fail

that heated the earth for good weather and a prosperous growing season

that kept the earth in line

Its pull carries us, along with the other planets, through our orbits without fail

and keeps us from colliding in one giant mess of explosive tragedy,

that even from 92.96 million miles away, wraps us in warmth like nothing else

With a waistband of 2 million 713 thousand 406 miles, the sun retains 99.86% of the solar system’s total mass.

Large and in charge, the sun is our solar system’s top dog.

The corona,

literally meaning “the crown” in latin,

sits atop our sun’s atmosphere declaring it king above all and to all

And though a great ball of burning chemical reactions that creates heat so unimaginable all we have to represent it are numbers,

our great star cares for her planets like a mother swaddles her children

Its great gravitational pull holds us in orbit around her as we are swung into ellipses

And as it treats us with warmth and brightness,

our sun’s power is still a force only true fools would reckon with

100 billion tons of dynamite detonated

every

single

second

would only just match the intensity of our solar monarch.

Sunspots and solar flares keep our observations fresh

bright flashes and dark spots that we’re still learning about give us more insight into our emperor with each new discovery

and remind us that our solar sultan is no stagnant anything

but so much more

And to think

we used to think

that we

were at the center of the universe

but it was aristarchus, who was first to say

not us,

but the bright bulb that lit up the entire world

was what we circled,

What we ran a ring around,

What we embraced

And like so many civilizations

ancient and not

that placed their sun upon a pedestal

higher than any mortal ruler

we bow our heads at the astronomical royalty beyond our atmosphere

The Sun

It's one of millions of stars out there

but one in a million

to us

and the star closest to our hearts,

literally.

~

Eighth Grade

It’s my birthday. It’s first period. I walk into art class. George and I are joking about our current art project: drawing a bowl of fruit. And “fruit”, of course, means painted wood in the shape of a fruit. George grabs a pear from one of the bowls and tosses to me. I try to catch it, but I can’t because I’m holding my gigantic Language Arts binder (so I won’t have to stop by my locker afterwards), and it bounces off my leg.

I pick it up. “Go long!”

We toss the pear back and forth for a while until Mr. Guest tells us to stop. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like us.

Teresa Whittemore calls me over.

“Guess what?” she says.

I refuse to be played. Instead, I stare inquisitively at her. It goes on for about five seconds, but she’s still waiting for me to ask what.

I give in. “What?”

She pulls out Snuggly Puppy Pillow Pet from behind her back and gives it to me.

“Oh my God. ” My eyes grow really wide. Suddenly, I can’t think, can’t breathe. I crush her in a bear hug and start jumping up and down in pure, unadulterated joy. That’s exactly what I wanted for my birthday. “That’s exactly what I wanted for my birthday!” She smiles back at me. I think I’m broken, because now all I can say is “Whaaaat! What! Whaaaaaaat!” over and over again. I’m freaking out. I start shaking my wrists. 

The bell rings. I try to leave the class with dignity, but I’m so excited I sprint out the door. I don’t even know where I’m going anymore. Should I just go straight to Language Arts? Is there enough time to do a victory lap around the school? How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? Suddenly, my foot catches on the edge of someone’s locker, and I crash to the ground. My binder explodes on the floor, sending papers everywhere. But at least I landed on my Pillow Pet.

This is the exact make and model. Teresa Whittemore is awesome.

Ballet

Like most other high school seniors, college essays have recently been a part of my life. Along with applications, portfolios, class work, work, club responsibilities, and dance, I haven’t really had the time to come up with a super creative and original blog post. Instead, you get to see my common app essay about failure and learning from failure! Amazing, I know. So, without further ado, here it is. (Be warned: there are lots of ballet terms aka French words.)

~ ~ ~

“Alright. We’ll do: Five, six, preparation, seven, eight. Sissonne, sissonne, sissonne land in arabesque, pas de bourrée. Glissade, assemblé. Glissade, assemblé to the left. And then the other way. Good? We’ll do it one at a time.”

My eyes widen, and I can feel pressure behind them as I try not to lose it in the middle of the dance studio. I’ve been dancing again for less than year; I know only the basics, and anything away from the barre sends my heart racing.

One at a time, each girl does the combination across the floor, every one looking flawless to my untrained eyes. When my turn comes, I mess up immediately.

“Will you do it with her?” the teacher asks the best dancer in the room. She does, but even with the help I can barely stumble through. Once we’re back against the wall, I ask her how long she has been dancing. “Eleven years,” she replies.

Later that night, in the safety of my home, I mull this over. She’s been dancing for eleven years, I think. I’ve been dancing for less than one. By comparing myself to the other more skilled and more trained dancers, of course I felt that I had failed. But when compared simply to my own abilities? I had worked as hard as I could to learn the combinations quickly, to pick up steps I didn’t know, and to make any corrections to technique and form that I could.

The next week, I went back, even more determined to do well. I promised myself that I wouldn’t hold myself up to the standards of others. Did I live up to this promise completely? Not entirely, no. But I tried. I tried to think only about my dancing, and I tried to make my dancing better, and I tried to have fun. I began to shrug and laugh off my mistakes. You’re new, I told myself whenever I butchered a step. You’re allowed to mess up.

 “From the corner. It’ll go: tombé, pas de bourré, glissade, assemblé. Balancé, balancé. Piqué turn, piqué turn, chaîné, chaîné, and pose. Good?”

I nod and mark the combination with the other dancers. I’ve been dancing for three years now; I know more than just the basics, and I’m comfortable being away from the barre. Even with three years of experience, though, my pirouettes are frequently terrible. I sometimes do a grand jeté when I should be doing a saut de chat. I don’t have my splits. And my turn out is not great. But. I have excellent feet. I can remember combinations. I move gracefully. And I try.

Talking Too Much

Last month, I conducted a little experiment and asked some of my friends and family to describe me in one word. Seven out of the eight individuals I asked chose words that described how talkative I am. I won’t claim that I was surprised, but I was a bit annoyed by the results. I have to have other traits. Then again, when I think about it, my babbling mouth has caused me some trouble in the past.

    It all started in kindergarten when I first learned that I could not always talk when I pleased. That was one of the hardest discoveries I’ve ever made. Before entering school, I could speak whenever I wanted, but those were not the rules of Kerr Elementary. Our class used the red, yellow, and green light system, and if I remember correctly I was put on the red light a little over twenty times. I really did not care about what the teacher was saying, so I just talked over her. When it was time to nap, I only ever wanted to talk about the cool shapes and patterns that we made earlier in the day. It turned out that we were essentially forced to sleep during that time, so that would also bring me from a yellow to red light. From what I can recall, kindergarten was when I really started to get in trouble for my talkative nature.

    About five years later, I was sent to the time out room for getting into an argument with my teacher. I couldn’t tell remember what we were arguing about, but it was most likely something very insignificant. I was very adamant to prove my point, but my teacher was not very pleased to be arguing with an eleven year old. Needless to say, writing an apology letter to my teacher really taught me to bite my tongue.

I still struggle with this in high school. There have been countless times in which I wanted to tell someone that they have never been more incorrect, but I’ve learned that sometimes people don’t want to hear my opinion. However, there are times when I still talk too much, and that still gets me into trouble to this day. 

My Hair Has Deceived Me

When I reflect and reminisce on my past hairstyles, though I not often do, a pressing question that seems to flood my mind: will any hairstyle stand the test of time? I’ve watched as my hair changed from a cute curly top to a typical-high-school-girl style, and all the abhorrent styles in between. Each time, I seem to remember thinking my hair actually looked good, though I now see I was fooled by a huge act of deceit.

Stage one, I was Shirley Temple. You may think you know what she looks like, with her springy curls and dancing ringlets, but you’re wrong; I was Shirley Temple, or at least I should have been. For every befuddling, bouncing bit of hair on Shirley Temple’s head, I had twice the befuddling, and twice the bouncy bit right on top of my head.
 

Stage two, I was a poodle. Some might call me curly top, or refer to my hair as “that mop on your head,” but it was all the same to me. I was no longer the image of that dancing singing sensation, I was a composite of frizzy, puffy, and overwhelmed. My own hair was out to get me, and it barely even hung past my chin.

Stage three, I was mistaken to be a boy. When my dad was given the freedom to cut my hair for me-- meaning he took the liberty to do it himself no matter what anyone else said-- he discovered he was not meant to be a barber, at my expense. My hair was short and thin and lacking in so many voluminous ways, because now my beautiful curls were taken from me.

Stage four is what most would call a “half-Shirley”, because although I’d like to pretend my cute stage lasted forever, I know that it actually deteriorated as I got older. Thankfully, I still had a “half-Shirley” left on the first day of Pre-Kindergarten, because I don’t think it was my dashing charm that first wowed my teachers. I thank my hair for my generous treatment that year.

Stage five was the Great Depression. From first grade to seventh grade, my hair fell flat. The curls were feeling too heavy to bounce back up, so instead they hung with droopy arches and burdened excitement. No haircut would ease the turmoil. No braid, pigtail, or headband could put an end to the overwhelming hopelessness. It was hard to tell if we’d ever get out of our slump, my hair and I, but we found a light at the end of the tunnel.

          Stage six, I discovered that short hair isn’t for everyone. Short hair certainly wasn’t for me, despite the thirteen years I spent trying to convince myself that short hair was a good look for me. I often contemplated telling people I was Medusa, just so they wouldn’t look at me. I’ve gained some valuable insight from my middle school hair extravaganza; always tell the barber to cut off less hair than you actually want cut. They struggle with the concept of specific inches.

Stage seven, I figured out the key to my never-ending puzzle of hair. Maybe it was the new-school adrenaline pumping through my veins, or maybe I finally had some sense knocked into me, but I made the important discovery during freshman year. My hair needs to stay long. After fourteen years of uncertainty, good fortune, and shame, I finally just let my hair grow, and in turn, my contentedness too. My hair finally hung with purpose and poise. The frizz and the bouncing manifest itself in tamed curls. It was time for a comeback.

          Stage eight continues to surprise me every day. Each morning is like waking up on Christmas day to see all of the presents under the tree. However, I never know if I’m going to end up opening the big box from my parents, that is exactly the right size to fit the gift I wanted, or the little box from my Great Aunt I’ve never heard of before, who lives on a farm in Nebraska. Sometimes my hair is just how I want it to be, but sometimes I end up with messes and situations I’ve never encountered before. It’s a confusing ride with my hair, but I can’t really get off, unless I decide to go Lindsay Lohan on the whole mess, but even I know that that is a point of no return. No matter what horrendous or despicable stages I encounter, it never seems to last very long, though, so I just hope that in the mean time my hair doesn’t do anything too hideous, destructive, or unbearable.