an overdue update.

I haven't posted in a long while. A decent excuse would take all day. To be short and sweet: medical school has cut out a large portion of my blog writing time.

But today, I've decided that histology could wait a damn minute while I post an update.  And just a forewarning: this is going to be scatter brained. It's hard to sum up three months in a couple paragraphs.

First: I passed anatomy. Grateful for the experience, but I never want to live it again.  The gut wrenching (literally), life-taker-over, study-unspeakable-body-parts-'til 4 AM class is over. All I can say is: Thank. God.

Now I'm in my 3rd unit of Biology of Cells & Tissues, and I've enjoyed it thus far. I like biology.  Just do.  I like being able to read a piece of text and regurgitate a good portion of it back to you. I like reading what I've read before (many thanks to undergrad professors). I like slices of guiltless free time, and BCT has allowed me that time... I've watched movies, read a book for leisure, spent quality family time, shadowed a couple physicians, and I've thrown back a couple beers with classmates. It's been nice.

Medical school, after figuring out how to play the game a little better, has done pretty wonderful things for my sanity. Opposite to what you'd expect, I know. I'll back this up with a short anecdote:

Today I went for a check-up (nothing major) at our family medicine clinic, and one of the first questions she asked was if I was a med student. A very clinically relevant question. After that, several of the questions asked were along the lines of:

How much stress would you say you're under?

Do you ever get weepy?

Do you have body aches?

Now I won't pretend to be a physician, but these were all questions that, for the most part, if answered 'yes,' or 'a lot,' point to depression.  Questions that are completely understandable, and she was right for asking.  For God's sake, the day before we started med school, a psychiatrist spoke to our class. And by spoke, I mean he gave us the number for a suicide hotline and told us that we have five free therapy sessions available whenever we need them. So yeah, the physician asked  me relevant questions.

But the truth is this: I'm happier now than I've ever been before. A steady happy.  I'm at peace - a state of peace that I didn't really ever find in undergrad. For once, when my life gets rocky, I can pinpoint what's causing it, and I can fix it.  If I'm cranky, I take a nap. If I'm worried about grades, I study out the anxiety. I'm not depressed, and for the first time in a good while, I honestly couldn't answer 'yes' to any one of those questions. 

Medical school has given me security ...a routine. I have just enough free time to keep me sane, but not enough to drive me crazy.  And even more importantly, I've been forcibly taught to genuinely appreciate whatever bit of free time I get. To genuinely appreciate a shopping trip with an old friend... going to the movies with classmates... a good laugh... a weekend with my family.... an opportunity to write a blog post.

consolation for a fool

Note: I wrote this post in the first 2 weeks of medical school, and my outlook has much changed since.  I actually (and surprisingly) enjoy it very much now -- now that I've figured out how to balance my time more wisely, and study more efficiently.  I wasn't going to post this - because I didn't want to give the impression that I still felt this way. After speaking about it over dinner with a dear friend - a dear friend who reads my blog - last night however, I've become convinced that I could post it without leaving that impression. So here it goes:

I'm worse than a New Year's resolution.  Really though.

A couple posts ago (or, should I say, a couple 1,000 pages of medical texts ago), I wrote about how my primary goal would be to stay happy in medical school.  As long as I was passing, I was fine.  No need to gun through this.  No need to lose hours of sleep in order to crawl my way up in the class rankings.

Well, breaking news:  turns out, in medical school, people lose hours of sleep just trying to keep up.  Screw skipping naps to blow the curve..... skip the nap to skim by.  I shit you not.

I've lost a lot of sleep.  I've cried 2 and a half (or maybe more?) times.  I've questioned myself.  So yeah, that New Year's resolution about staying happy? Like any good American, broke it 6 days in.

Somewhere between the 40 pound backpack, pouring vinegar and baking soda into my washing machine (along side fabric softener and normal detergent) to rid the formaldehyde stink from my scrubs, the forgetting of how to draw the brachial plexus, trying to find an empty spot in my datebook so I could go get toilet paper, and the double shots of espresso; I cried.  And I cried really fucking hard.

The worst part about the tears? I couldn't figure out what was causing them.  Sure, you know, it's depressing when you suddenly don't have time to go get toilet paper from the store.  And it's a weird feeling to spend your time studying about how precious and fragile our backs are, all the while your own damn backpack weighs well over the healthy limit. It's rough --- but I've been in similar (though less extreme) predicaments before, and I've dealt with it relatively better than this.  So, as per usual, I called my dad -- my own personal Atticus Finch.

At first, I was hesitant to let him know that anything was wrong.  I don't know if I've said this before, but I'm a grown ass woman.  As our conversation dwindled down, however, the act became a little harder to follow through with than anticipated.  He tried to say good night to me, and my eyes started filling up with pools of real tears and a giant egg grew in my throat.  The type of egg that hatches into sobs the minute you try to speak.  So I tried to whisper something like, "I miss you." And then yeah, my act was caput. 

I spilled everything to him.  The backpack, the toilet paper, the feelings of intellectual inadequacy, the lack of sleep, the everything.

He asked what upset me the most, and I told him that above everything else, I felt alone.  Alone in that I felt like everyone else in my class was so much smarter than me. Everyone but me had time. Everyone else was on top of their game, and I felt like I was two weeks behind for the first practice.... I told him that maybe -- just maybe, if I knew that someone else felt the way I did -- like maybe that they were struggling too, I'd feel better. I wouldn't feel so alone.

He sat quietly on the other line for a while, and then spoke up....

"Mal de muchos, consuelo de tontos (pendejos)"

My mom will kill me for saying this, but I don't speak spanish too well.  I've got my curse words down, but everything else is a little ....unrefined. So naturally, all I picked up from what he said was 'pendejo.'

"Dad..." (doing the laugh sob laugh thing), "did you really just call me a pendejo?"  

Turns out he didn't.  Or kind of didn't. His advice came from a spanish proverb --- but his meaning varies a bit from what Google has to say about it.

It means that the misery of many is a fool's best consolation. 

This is where the "kind of didn't call me a pendejo" comes in.  Yes, I'm the fool in the proverb, but no, he didn't mean that I was a fool.  He meant that - in some circumstances in life (particularly the ones in which you're doing all you can in order to not need consolation), the only thing you can do is to look to others.  All I could do to feel better was to talk to my classmates - who were busting their asses as much as I am - and learn that they too, were miserable.

I didn't take his advice lightly. 

SO... on Monday morning whenever a classmate asked how I was doing, I answered truthfully.  Something like, "shitty. I studied all weekend, and I still feel like I'm 2 weeks behind."

The response I received was just how my father said it would be.... consoling.  It turned out that my classmates (or most of them at least) felt the same way.  I wasn't alone.

 I was one fool studying medicine with a bunch of other fools. Fools whose backpacks were too heavy, who were forgetting the brachial plexus, who were desperately experimenting with how to get eau de formaldehyde out of their scrubs.... Fools who had trouble finding time to buy toilet paper too.

a brief message on staying busy.

I like being occupied... and pre-occupied.  Call me hard to please, but I can't stand being left alone to my own thoughts or own little creative activities. Not for too long. I need something more. I like having a full schedule that occupies my time, and then some.

Medical school has filled that schedule --- fulfilled that need.

Sure, I've gotten a little sad at times. Cried a couple times (the post about this will come later).  Thought for a couple of hours that I was giving up my 20s for good, and more days than not, I probably wouldn't get to see the afternoon sun.  Thought I'd be stuck in a lab.. or a hospital.. or a library... and when I'd finally get to go outside before nightfall, I'd have grey hair and I'd still be single, but I'd have an MD to my name. And really, those things might actually be true..

But I've begun to accept it all, and I've come out of it for the better.  I learned something.  

I appreciate the sun more when I don't always get to see her.

I appreciate my free time more when it doesn't come around too often.

When there's a reason to laugh now, I cock my head back and take full advantage.  And when I have time to listen to music, I belt out the words along with it.  I appreciate those opportunities... Sure, before I appreciated them, but not as much.  

There's a reason why it's called gross.

Before I say anything, I want to make it clear that under no circumstance whatsoever will I disclaim any information about the sex of, details of, or anything along those lines about the cadaver.  I am very appreciative to the men and women who have donated their bodies so that we may become well-educated in what is the foundation of our medical careers, and I whole-heartedly respect anyone who plans to do the same one day. This post is simply about my reaction to my lab experience, and nothing further.

I wondered if I'd faint today.  After all, my track record isn't the best.  I've gotten overheated, dizzy, woozy, vision-going-into-a-pin-point, elephant-sitting-on-your-chest over less climactic events.  I surprised myself today though.  We completed step #1 (turning over the cadaver), I walked away, gagged four times, started getting teary-eyed (partially because of the gagging, mostly because I wanted to cry), and then walked back to my lab partners.  All four of them looked pretty concerned.  One of them offered me a bucket, and another promised that he'd catch me if I fainted.  I decided then and there that there wouldn't be any fainting... Momma didn't raise a pansy ass.

The importance (for me anyway) in being an -ISH.

This weekend, my big sister warned me that I was about to enter the land of Type A personalities. A secret that, as a Type A-***ISH*** personality myself, I had already figured out.

I'd really like to think of myself as a mixture between the two of them.

There's the A in me that stresses over grades, forgets to sleep or eat if my study time forgets to allow me, and will kill you if you touch a highlighter to my notes.  I don't like talkers in no-talking zones at the library, and I've been known to do something about it.  I'll delete my facebook if there's an exam in the near future. I stress. I work hard.  But.... there's a but to this:

There are some things --- some stressors, that I could genuinely give a rat's ass about.  Like, for example, when my class argued (for what seemed like a kajillion hours) about whether to use "I" or "we" for our class oath we had to recite yesterday.  The oath is important -- and I get that, but I'm not going to get heated over a pronoun. Or, when Jimmy (the gunner I wrote about in my last post) politely asked if we could make the oath more "succinct and concise," and another of my classmates straight up yelled at him for "not taking it seriously enough," I couldn't help but laugh.  But those are just two examples---- two of many more that I could choose from.

The B in me enjoys relaxing on my back porch with buddies, a good beer, and barbeque. The B in me laughs it off when Type A's take themselves too seriously. The B in me doesn't give a shit about pronouns unless we're sitting in an English class.  It's the B in me that shaped my recently found approach to handling medical school: get shit done, but more importantly: stay happy.

I don't want to be depressed.  I don't care if I'm not #1 in my class...... or #30...... or if I'm #100. As long as I'm passing, I'll be a happy girl.  And if I do get higher grades than passing, well then bravo for me. I know that stress will be inevitable, but I'd like to keep the stress related to studying ---- and nothing else.  Which means no stressing about grades because they are no better than passing and no stressing over pro-nouns... I don't want to cross over to the wholly type A side.... I'm happy at the ISH side with Jimmy where we belong.

stress relief for the stressers

One of my favorite peers (and everyone's favorite gunner*), Jimmy, asked me about my garden a couple months ago.  The conversation went something like this:

"So is your garden supposed to serve as a stress reliever for while you're in medical school?"

"Yes, what's yours going to be?"

"....beer."

He's that type of guy.  I appreciate his honesty --- and the fact that he can blow curves out of the water but is still willing to enjoy adult beverages with you on the weekends.  But back to the point.

cuttin' the cord.

My mother and I have had a lot of trouble getting along lately. 

The lack of getting along part, however, has nothing to do with the typical mother-daughter arguments. Or at least, they're atypical by my definition of the word.  They have nothing to do with embarrassing dances in public or missing Sunday mass or dating rebels who drive motorcycles.  It's not that.  I wouldn't bore you with that. What we have here is a classic example of the motherly anxiety associated with the youngest of chicks (bu-dum-cha) ready to fly the coop.

Her argument: you're too young

My argument: I'm a grown ass woman

flying again

My sister and I have always had a very special relationship with my Grandmother.  The hands you see holding the leash in the picture to the left, after all, belong to her.  Come to think of it, a lot of who I am belongs to her...

Now that Grandma Roo is 95, Veronica* and I have found it even more difficult to decline any of her requests.  If she asks us to take a trip to the gas station at 9 AM for lottery tickets, we oblige.  When she signals a hand gesture for more wine, we pour (as long as my mother is not in the near vicinity).  When she asks us to dance in public places, we throw our self-consciousness away, and boogie.  And when she asked me to write this post, I picked up a pencil. 

It seems like a billion years ago that a family of birds moved onto our back patio.  In reality, their move-in was a couple months ago.  My dad was still walking around healthily, my mom had no broken bones, and my grandmother was still in a wheel chair after her recent hip fracture.  A lot has changed since then.  As you may be well aware, a lot of things happening in a little bit of time can turn a fortnight into a light-year.  So the birds moved in about a billion years ago.

Ode to Dr. T

In the beginning of the semester, we read "The Mappist" by Barry Lopez. Our assignment after having read was to make maps of our own.  But not 2D road maps.  Maps of our daily activities, our lives, our whatever.  This is my final map for the class:

33°33'60''N, 101°52'25''W

The past month or so, I've been doing a lot of reflecting. At first, trying to sum up my past four years in college was more of a bummer to me than anything, and I spent a lot of time upset about it.  I couldn't help but question myself. Should I have gone out more? Maybe I was too conservative with my time. Did I spend too much of it face down in a biology book? Too many times I felt my insides all screaming in unison, "YES.. you wasted your time. And it's gone now. Gone, gone, gone."

But then I got to thinking more about the whole thing.  My parents didn't raise me to live any which way normally. They just didn't. So why in hell would I beat myself up because I didn't (for the most part) have the "normal" college experience? 

And then I reckoned further.

...Maybe it's more important - if I'm going to spend so much time reflecting anyway - that I look instead at who I was when I began college, and who I am now. Let's forget about the part that's supposed to be spent dying your hair pink for a week or canoodling with frat guys or protesting something just to say you did. Let's forget about what society deems the stereotypical middle part... the "college" experience.

So I did a little forgetting, and a little remembering. Instead of looking at anything I may have missed out on, I'm choosing to remember the transition I've made in college. From what I know, to my hobbies, to how I feel about life in general. The remembering part was my inspiration for writing this post; my final assignment for my Fieldcraft class. 

33°34'6''N, 101°52'41''W

We leave our nests and come to college with a hundred bazillion different stories.  For some of us, we've never been away from our parents for longer than whatever time summer camp lasts.  Some of us choose a college that's down the street from home, and some are 20 hours away.  I was in the middle of all of those stories. I was 10 hours from home (including food, fill-ups and wrong turns) and I was a summer camp go-er.  But, regardless of how far we are from home, the truth to coming to college is that we leave behind our nests.  We leave behind our parents in hopes that whatever knowledge they've helped us stuff into the back of our vehicles will suffice.  It's time to learn on our own -- whether we fly from that nest or hit the ground, however, is  not so black and white.  As much as I hate admitting that there are shades of grey: there are shades of grey when it comes to flying.

My first two years at this school were grey.  I survived on my own, I did well in classes, but I spent a good deal of time unhappy.  My mother wasn't there to remind me every time I frowned to go outside, and my dad wasn't there to walk down the dark hallways of the biology basement to remind me to stop taking myself so damn seriously.  Beginning college meant an overload of in-classroom learning, but the cease (for the most part) of the little life lessons and pointers my parents spent the previous 18 years showering me with.  Don't get me wrong, I wasn't completely miserable, but being 10 hours away from home sort of left a void.  It wasn't until I began taking Dr. T's classes that I found a remedy to it all.  While I know that this post is supposed to be about our Fieldcraft course, it's hard for me to make sense of anything without incorporating Dr. T's lessons outside of this class.  The lessons continuously blend together.

N33° 34.786', W101° 52.5281'

I remember my very first day in Dr. T's landscapes class vividly.  I walked in, sat down, and the professor sitting in front of me wore circular rimmed glasses and a sport jacket--- the stereotypical professor.  Shortly after, Dr. T walked into the room -- apparently there had been a mishap with the classroom numbers -- he was not my professor for the semester... she was.  She looked like a professor, but I soon learned that she was in no way stereotypical.

 We met in a classroom, but she promptly explained to us that our classes would be most often held outdoors - as goes for all of her classes.  Learning happens outside a classroom?  I didn't realize such an opportunity existed outside of Junction, TX.  But I was wrong, and I was appreciative for it. When she first mentioned the rule, I remember thinking to myself, "my God. This woman is a straight up hippy." Hippy or not I couldn't put a finger on it exactly, but I knew that she reminded me of someone.

Latitude: 33.54611  /  Longitude: -101.818314

On one occasion very early in the semester, I mis-read Dr. T's blog.  I read her post for another class, and thought we'd be meeting by the English building that day.  I even printed out the damn post because I was so concerned about going to the right spot.  Come 2 o'clock, I was the only one there.  Maybe everyone's just late today. Wrong.  Around 2:15, the panic began.  It was before the days of the savvy iphone, so I hauled ass to the library computer lab to figure out where I went wrong.  Sure enough, our class was supposed to meet at Urbanovsky park.  It was 2:30 by then, and I was hyperventilating.  At the time (senior year changed my goody two shoes routine a bit), being late was worse than the idea of death for me.  I contemplated sparing myself the trauma of getting yelled at for showing up so late, but skipping was just as painful.  I showed up to class expecting Dr. T to scourge me with embarrassment, but I was seriously and pleasantly mistaken.  She genuinely believed me (or did a hell of a job acting like it) and told me that I wasn't an idiot.  Not a whole lot of people in this world can calm me down once I get into my freak out sessions, so naturally I was surprised when my breathing pattern quickly returned to normal.  I've watched Dr. T treat plenty of students the same way in the past three classes I've had with her. It never gets old to me.. It's just unusual for a professor (from what I've seen) to trust a student, and if they do trust them, it's unusual to expend any more energy comforting them outside of simply believing them.  She's the exception to the rule.

As part of the class, we'd need a bike.  Well, I had one. It was my mom's from God knows when.  I honestly don't even know what it was doing in my apartment besides collecting dust.  Smith* had two flat tires, a partially existent seat, and 1/2 of its brakes missing. I think it's safe to say, however, that I was in worse shape than Smith.... I mean, I couldn't possibly go out in public on a bicycle.  The idea terrified me.

But, I sucked it up.

We spent the rest of the semester riding our bikes to various locations all over Lubbock: parks, local coffee shops, downtown, students' favorite places on campus, and then at one point we traveled (via vehicle because of the distance) to the Haute Goat Creamery for a tour.  We read. A lot. And we wrote.  Tech's landscape architect even gave us a whole lecture on his thought processes behind the landscape design around our student union building.  We used our brains in ways I hadn't used mine in too long a while.  We weren't asked whether we agreed with an idea or liked a landscape; we were asked why.  We had to use our brains to formulate an opinion, and then explain it. For the first time in my college career, I was learning lessons similar to the ones my parents had taught me before I left the nest.  I was riding in the car with my mother while she explained to me the little bits of knowledge textbooks don't provide.  

At some point during the semester while trying to figure out what it was about the class I enjoyed so much, I realized that the person Dr. T reminded me of was my mother.  A west-Texas, liberal PhD version of my turquoise sporting, knowledge spewing, outdoor loving hippy of a mother.  I enjoyed the class because my mother's lessons didn't feel 10 hours away anymore: they were every Thursday from 2 to 4:50 PM.

Two years later, the seeds that the Landscapes class planted within me continue to grow.  I'll never think the same way about the SUB's landscape, a coffee shop, or cheese the same way again.  I now appreciate a lawn covered in concrete.  I get excited as I drive past farmer's markets that I didn't know existed before the class.  I ride my bike.

Latitude: 33.582488  /  Longitude: -101.879611

I knew after landscapes that my lessons from Dr. T were not finished.  I wasn't done learning, so I enrolled in Current Readings in NHH.  The class focused on reading and writing primarily.  We met in small groups weekly and workshopped our papers together. The idea of sharing my writing with anyone outside of the comfort of my loved ones terrified me.  I spent a good deal of my life taking critique in gymnastics, but writing was different.  It was more personal. I didn't like the thought of 3 other college students and Dr. T ripping apart something so personal to me. I didn't like the thought of having to write so much at all. But like so many other inferences I've made, I was wrong.  In the workshops, we started with positives, and moved on to room for improvements.  We were all equals in the classroom (AKA the grassy area outside the Honor's college), and all of our writing abilities grew in unison with each other.  We were constructive.  We respected each other's stories and we became friends. I learned that writing and editing is not something to cringe over, but to enjoy.

I learned that for too many years of my life, there was a whole stress-relieving hobby of mine that I was missing out on. And here I am today.  I find myself writing all the time - whether it's posted somewhere or not.  

Latitude: 33.56656  /  Longitude: -101.815399

This semester in Fieldcraft I'd have to say, has been my favorite learning experience of them all. The class was certainly the most off-beat of any of my classes with Dr. T. But, I have to go out on a limb and say that Dr. T's comfort zone is the word off-beat, and everyone knows that we all flourish within our comfort zones.  

We spent our first classroom experience on an excursion through the back alleys of the Tech Terrace neighborhood.  For what, you ask?  Bird watching.  We checked out binoculars, learned how to use them, and walked around identifying birds.

I personally had never really given much thought to the whole bird thing --- I never really thought to look up into the trees instead of the 5'4'' height in my immediate forward glance.  Nevertheless, I skeptically tagged behind and listened on that first day of class.  We learned about trash birds (the ones who aren't supposed to be here), how cool the great-tailed grackle really is (they're iridescent) and how a savvy birder conducts herself (soft voices, wear caps to look less predacious, and no sharp movements).  It was all a whole 'nother world for me, and I honestly wasn't quite sure how I felt about it.

The first couple classes I spent somewhat bored.  Turns out it's no fun to sit through birding when you don't know a burrowing owl from a blue jay (I exaggerate). So, the next week I made a pact with myself and Dr. T (so that she'd hold me to it): I would learn all of the current winter birds in Lubbock by the next week's class.  A somewhat daunting task, but I was excited for the challenge.  I spent the next week toting my color-coated-86-winterbird-bird book everywhere--- including my sorority house.  I got teased a lot for it, but the end result was worth it. The next week we met at a cemetery to go birding, and I experienced giz* for the first time.  Mountain bluebird. End of story. I was delightfully hooked.

Ever since then, my walks across campus have been much more enjoyable.  I search up into the trees as I walk looking for an opportunity for giz.  While I know that I probably come off as bat-shit crazy to passer by-ers and I've definitely tripped a couple times in the process (relax mom, nothing serious), I can honestly say that birding is an addiction.... a newfound hobby. 

As part of the whole bird experience, we learned about Lesser Prairie Chickens.  Because I owned chickens as a child, I couldn't help but feeling connected to the birds sentimentally before even learning about them.  Because of their declining population, they're the under-dogs of the birding world, and under-dogs are my favorite. They have a bag full of problems when it comes to the source of their decrease in population: their kind doesn't do well with man-made structures, farming, or livestock... In other words, their kind doesn't do well in Texas or New Mexico--- the states that make up the majority of their native land. Like every other bit of knowledge we gain from doctor T that even gives a whiff of "text-book," she throws us outside to dabble in it.  Nothing stays 2D in her class --- not even a lek of prairie chickens that only come out at 5 AM in an area that's at a minimum of 1.5 hours away.

Latitude: 33.678635  /  Longitude: -103.340009

Owning up to her reputation, she took our class to the Lesser Prairie Chicken Festival for a weekend in April to carry out a service project/watch the birds perform their mating ritual.  The service project included us marking fences so that the birds wouldn't get caught while attempting to escape predators; an unfortunately common occurrence.  The mating ritual?  Can't be done justice by anything I have to say... the only way to really know would be to go see it for yourself next April (Oklahoma LPF or New Mexico LPCF) I can say, however, there are certain noises in my head that will always be reminiscent to me of the prairie chicken mating dance.

My beef with wildflowers.

I never really liked flowers. Call me crazy, but it's true.  For the longest time, I thought I simply disliked them in a dating sense- as in a don't-ever-get-me-flowers-because-anything-that-dies-within-a-couple-days-isn't-worth the money type of way. But I've found (especially after having spent the past 2 weeks observing and attempting to identify them) that it's not just that.

I just don't like 'em.

The truth is: they all look so damn frail. Their true identity is always a, "maybe it's this, but it could be.." And half the time they don't smell too great.

The truth: all three of those qualities bug me. 

For starters, I like to look at something sturdy - not something that's missing petals because the wind blew too hard.  I guess you could say that the way I feel about botany is the way I feel about most all things in life: I like firm handshakes, well-grounded people, strong coffee, black tea, waterproof mascara and non-wilted petals. I just do. I feel like all the flowers we saw at the LLL were either missing half their petals or looked like a sorority girl the morning after senior formal. And then she ran a marathon. Like I said, I don't like it.

And then there's the whole identity crisis thing. Dr. T told us that sometimes she'll come out to the LLL with her botanist friends and they'll get into these long arguments about species identification.  Long arguments? In the biology classes I grew up in, we presented our points and then someone conceded. As in there was a right answer, and if it wasn't wholly evident, then the species was probably a hybrid. But nevertheless, there were no maybes. It was this or this: end of story.  Our class went back and forth arguing about whether a flower was a scarlet mallow or an orange mallow.  Naturally I look towards the professor for her final judgment.. You can imagine how horrified I was when she said something along the lines of the answer being arguable. Arguable? Yeah no, that word is associated with grey in my mind, and I'm more of a black and white typa girl.

A flower whose name I never figured out:

Don't judge me on this last point (although I know it's superficial), but when I smell a wildflower, I expect a happy scent. That was not the case with the flowers. You can blame my generation for my false expectations and superficiality.. We've been raised on Bath & Body Works. We expect a juniper breeze or white fresh cotton linen or floral tropical breeze scents when we put a flower to our noses... the ones that sound as pretty (albeit cheesy) as they smell.  You can imagine my surprise when I was trying to identify a member of the Aster family and the description was, "bitterly aromatic." For some reason I don't feel like that's a scent BBW covers... call me superficial, but skunks are meant to smell bad --- flowers are meant to smell like... well.. flowers.

a scarlet mallow... or was it an orange mallow?

backstage passes at the museum.

Two Wednesdays ago, our class met at the backdoor of the Ranching Heritage Center for a tour of the bird collection led by Dr. McIntyre (the bird curator/biology professor). She started by showing us through a room filled with all kinds of mice specimens, and then led us to the beetle room. 

Yes, beetle room.

I have an intense fear of clusters of little things (a cluster of beetles would be a great example), but thanks to Dr. Hamilton's forensic entomology* class, the beetle collection wasn't a surprise to me.  We had learned in her class that museums use dermestids (skin beetles) in order to clean skeletons of any remaining gunk or soft tissue.  To see, however, her lesson on the skin beetle's usage up close and personal was another lesson of its own. The room was guarded by a double door, smelled terrible, and I have never seen so many damn clusters of beetles in my life. Yuck. Cool, but yuck.  Apparently, if a couple of the dermestids get free into the museum, they can wipe out whole collections with their insatiable hunger. So that was interesting.

Another interesting part of the tour was Dr. McIntyre's explanation of the museum's genetic library.  I had known that the biology department at Texas Tech has a library of herps* and tarantulas, but I didn't know that it went any further than that.  Apparently, the museum also has a genetic library for birds and rodents as well.  Genetic libraries are useful for species identification through looking at the specific sequence of DNA each specimen has and comparing it to other members of the species on record.  Neat stuff.

**forensic entomology: the use of insects to solve crimes --- most often in cases of murder. One of my favorite classes in undergrad.  

**herps: herpetology: the study of reptiles and amphibians.  If you take the course, you shout, "HERP!" anytime you spot like a frog or lizard or snake.... and then you go catch it if it's a friend of jack. 

Bird Skinning.

Either I've been behind in the educational part of this blog, or I've just gotten a lot of education in the past couple weeks. Maybe a combination.

A couple weeks ago,  Dr. Nancy McIntyre was kind enough to open her lab to us to watch her teach her students how to skin and stuff birds.  As the bird curator for the Ranching Heritage Center, Dr. McIntyre skins birds to put on collection at the museum for educational purposes.

All of the birds, of course, have died of natural or unjust causes and are given to Dr. McIntyre to use for the bird collections.  So, one Friday after my organic evolution class, a fellow biology student and I headed up to her lab to check it out. When we showed up to her lab, she was directing a group of students in skinning all different owls from the area (barn, great-horned, burrowing, etc).  

The lab was pretty neat--- like nothing I've seen before in my 4 years of biology at Tech.  Everyone had their own bird, and Dr. M would just walk around the room teaching and guiding her students. It was fun to watch them learn --- especially since most of them were first time skinners. To give you a glimpse of the procedure: she takes out all of the soft organs*, leaves the muscles in the wings, and fills them with what looked like corn meal.  Compared to other dissections I've seen, the whole process looked relatively not-messy.  

I like the idea of her involving students in helping fix up the birds to be put on collection.  While I sadly can't say that I've ever gotten to take one of Dr. McIntyre's classes, I recognize her teaching style-- and it's one that I like.  She uses hands on projects to teach the students, and her projects involve students with something bigger than the class: the project is not only useful to the course, but to the community as well.  You see, if done right, the birds can last for more than a hundred years. If you think about it, that's 100 years of education using the very bird that one of the students in her classroom preserved. I enjoy the idea that Dr. McIntyre's lesson I got to witness that Friday in lab will continue for many years to come.

the librarian goes scandalous.

A couple months ago, a friend of mine, Elizabeth, asked if I would be willing to give her my dimensions for a fly-fishing outfit -- since I'm a fly-fisherwoman and all (novice though I may be).  She needed to make the outfit for her senior project, and so I agreed to help.  So, over the course of the semester I stopped by her house to stand there awkwardly while she took measurements of regions I didn't know existed. Soon enough - her beautiful outfit came together.  At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to wear the outfit on the runway for her spring-senior fashion show. I agreed.

I already found it humorous that anyone would ask me - a whopping 5 feet and 3 (and a half) inches tall, weighing in at a good 3 twinkies over what I should - to walk on a runway, but I obliged.  So, this week I happily attended the first "fitting" for the show.

I was the shortest "model" there.

Definitely had eaten the most twinkies out of any of them.

AND I felt like a garden gnome. In a valley. Between very tall mountains.

But, I was okay.  While most of the models strutted around half-naked in between the multiple outfits they were asked to wear, I sneaked into a yarn closet to change into the fly fishing gear.  I wasn't upset that I was the only model in the room without visible collar bones, and I was honestly kind of grateful for it --- I mean I didn't have to worry about being asked to model anyone's outfits. I mean I'd get to leave early.

And then it happened. 

A girl came up to me and asked me if I was a model.  I think my reply was something along the lines of, "mrrrrrnooooooshyessssskindofffbutnotreally."  She asked me if I would try on a dress she had designed.  I couldn't say no.. I mean, leave early or not leave early: I was flattered, and I was interested to know what type of dress she would need me for.  I was curious. Maybe something for a plus-sized model.

But I was Wrong: it's a pleather, "rocker", halter top, skin tight cocktail dress.  I went into the closet (of course) to try it on, and I was quite positive that it wasn't going to fit over my junk, and I was right.  My chest looked like 5 pounds of sugar stuffed into a one pound sack.  After vocalizing the issue, another modest model who was in the closet with me piped in, "maybe you should take your bra off."  Wait. What? Surely not. Oh no. We wear bras with cardigans. We wear bras in public. It's only right, right? If you're thinking, "yes," then I appreciate your conservative values.  However, those conservative values are now in the trash - because I unhooked the damn thing, watched the cups of my conservativeness fall to floor and zipped up the dress.

Now I'm no prude--- I've worn my fair share of risque things. Granted, that was in high school. But, as time has gone by, I guess you could say that I've made progress that's opposite to what's normal for a college student: I've gotten conservative (in terms of clothing at least).  I do not wear heels (unless they're an inch high and closed toe), I wear cardigans with everything, and I've received comments ranging anywhere from "you look like a Sunday school teacher," to "I've never seen you without 4 layers of clothing on," to "college librarians wear less."  There are exceptions, but for the most part: I keep my "goodies" covered. I leave a lot of room for the imagination.

Anywho, I walked out of the closet in the dress.  The designer loved it, and the professor approved.  There was talk of me wearing a blue wig, carrying a guitar, and black knee-high high heeled boots with smoky eye-shadow.  I couldn't help but laugh to myself---- the day before my roommate had asked if I had a Cosmo to borrow, and then conceded she'd have more luck asking Chewy for one ---- and now these people were talking about me wearing sex-appeal. 

I guess we can chalk this experience down as that liberal transition thing every college girl undergos before she graduates.  Granted, I always that those experiences included tongue piercings or tattoos or other things I do not wish to say aloud (or type), but whatever. This counts.

So now, this Saturday, I will be walking the runway twice: once in fly-fishing gear and Chacos, the next in a black pleather glove with 4 inch heels. See you there.

The before:

Elizabeth McKnight's wonderfully comfortable fly fishing gear (don't you love the pastels?!) Thanks to Catherine for taking this!

Rebecca's lovely dress. (Thanks to Catherine for taking this)

bathtub psychics

I guess I realized that I was a practical psychic in the bathtub a couple years ago.  I didn't have any plans, but something told me I should shave my legs anyway... Naturally being the heathen I am, I didn't listen to my inkling -- only to get a phone call later in the day demanding that I showed up somewhere in a dress.  I kicked myself in the pants for not listening, and swore to myself I would never go out in public with stubble if it were avoidable again.

The inkling still comes back from time to time... but it's always been reserved for similar situations: I'll get the inkling, shave my legs, and then something happens like the bipolarity that is Lubbock weather will take a turn the next morning --- and it'll be just warm enough for me to wear shorts.   I originally thought my psychic ability was only reserved for embarrassing leg stubble... until this weekend.

I had spent all Friday stressing about these damn medical forms that were due Saturday, April 10.  Come Saturday, I finally finished them - but my job was only half done -- they still were not in the hands of the medical school.  I decided that my best bet would be to deliver them to the school personally, so I stapled the forms, and headed off toward the door.  And then I had an inkling.  Something in me demanded that I go back and grab an envelope. I thought to myself, "oh of course - maybe the secretary won't want loose forms and she'll ask me to put them in something." So, I grabbed an envelope, and headed to the door again.  Just as I was turning the knob, the inkling came back. I felt urged to go back to my office and grab a stamp.  I agreed to myself, "oh sure, might as well put some stamps in my satchel just in case I need them one day."     So that's what I did, and I headed off toward the medical school.

When I got there, after having spent 30 minutes walking through the med school labyrinth, I found the office I needed.  It was locked. No way in, no how, no whatever. Feeling a little panicked, I left the building.  I decided that I would instead go to the post office and have the letter over-nighted.  I figured they probably wouldn't get it until Monday, but they would see that I made an earnest attempt to get it in on time.  I high-fived myself for the good idea and drove over to the post office.  I understand if you're currently thinking to yourself something along the lines of, "idiot, the post office is closed Saturday." Because yeah, I walked up to the building to find the doors locked.

My innate response to situations like this is to call my mother and ask her what to do.  I flipped through my purse for my phone, and EUREKA! There was the envelope and stamp that my bathtub psychic ability told me to grab!  I shoved everything in there, labeled it, stamped it, went to the post office box to find that my letter could still be mailed locally that day, and sent the forms off.  I was a little shocked at how perfectly it all worked out.

So now I'm thinking that my psychic ability has begun to stop prejudicing against everything except for embarrassing leg hair warnings.  While I don't plan on joining any psychic hotlines anytime soon (although I'm sure their abilities are about as juvenile as mine are), I think I'll start listening to my little inklings more often. 

Disclaimer: this is not to say that my legs are always shaved in shorts.  Even bath tub psychics get lazy... judge me. 

i think this makes us tree huggers...

The past two weeks, my fieldcraft class had the pleasure of doing a little community service for the LLL*. Our job was to plant native species of trees in designated areas all over the site. Now I've used a shovel before, but I've certainly never planted a real tree ---- I was right in guessing that it would be an interesting first experience.

Within minutes of beginning planting, I could already tell that the day might be a battle of the sexes. For starters, the learning tree --- the one the class all helped to bury, was actually planted by all of the men in the class.  As it is at a cocktail party, the women congregated off to one side, and the men to another (in this case: the side where dirt was being hardily shoveled). But the women-sitting-around-chatting while the men showed off their testosterone with fire-rakes and shovels was quickly dissolved.  We split off into groups, and it was every student for themselves after that.

My tree planting group was the self-named, "Girls Team" and we were a pretty efficient bunch of diggers and buriers.  Our mascot, Nic, tilled up the soil for us, we dug in, he tilled a little more, we dug again, fit the tree in, covered it up, made a dirt halo surrounding it, and then watered the hell out of our new Hack or Soapberry tree.  We were a pretty mean group of tree planters for a Girls Team.. and Nic. Our efficiency, however, would not have been possible without sarcasm, "That's What She Said" jokes, and Nic's angelic serenading abilities for fuel.  We worked hard and played hard.

On another note, I would just like to say how much I enjoyed one of our professor's reasons for why we should be enthusiastic about planting trees for the LLL.  She brought up the point that one day many years from now we could come back with our children and show them the trees we planted.  I like this idea.  Mainly because I kind of like the sound of having a family and raising children in this area.  Planting the trees was almost symbolic in a way of getting used to the idea of raising a family here ---- I like the idea of putting roots into the soil of west Texas... of planting myself here and growing.  I wouldn't mind coming back to the LLL one day to introduce my family to where my roots were first planted.

** LLL - Lubbock Lake Landmark

my sorority.

I spent a lot of time today thinking about my sorority and how far we've come.  Before I explain though, I feel like I should clear the air about why I joined in the first place.  Going to Tech was a huge transition for me-- I had left the town I was born and raised in to come here. This meant leaving literally every important part of my life 9 hours southeast of Lubbock: my family, my dog, the Gulf of Mexico, and my lifelong friends.  Other than my sister, who was just as big of a stranger to the area (she had just transferred from a school in Boston the semester before), I was alone here.  Rushing meant that I could make new friends before school started, and that was exactly what I wanted.

So, without having a clue about any of the sororities or their reputations, I rushed. Every sorority house had their own way of asking why I did, but my reply was always the same: "I like to stay busy, and I like having friends. Figured this was the best way to do that." A sorority who liked my answer extended a bid to me, and I quickly found my niche. By the first day of school, I had a newfound friend in every class. And by the end of the semester, I had succeeded in staying true to my answer for why I joined.  I had flown halfway across the nation for a sorority conference, I had attended literally every single philanthropy and sisterhood event our sorority held, and I had more than two handfuls of great friends.

But that's not why I'm writing this.  I'm grateful for all of the above, but three years have past, and there's more to this story than just me.

My sorority and my relationship with it have changed a lot throughout the years.  It's changed both for the good and bad-- as anything in life does.  My attendance has fluctuated back and forth from perfect, to not-so-perfect, to somewhere in between the two.  I've grown up, and I've made additional friends outside of the organization. There were semesters when I swore off wearing their t-shirts, and semesters when I came to school decked out, every day, from head to toe in sorority-wear.  I think you get the picture though-- things changed. Being a senior, however, has made me reflect on the accumulation of improvements this sorority has seen over the years. I think that our newest leadership does a good job in reflecting those improvements.  

Our new council* really seem to have their heads on straight.  They work together and with the rest of the sorority.  They listen to girls' concerns, and take action. They've encouraged girls to take their studies seriously--- they award good grades on exams and projects, and they've even set up academic tutors for girls who are struggling.  They've made it a point to stress the importance of our philanthropy work by having the people affected speak to us about the difference we've made. The rule that requires us to become involved in organizations outside the sorority is now enforced. The seniors, who are busy studying for their 4000 level classes and looking for jobs, are continually reminded in action and in word how much our sorority supports us.  The council genuinely wants the girls to excel as individuals -- whether it is through our studies, our involvement with the community and university, or in our careers.

I'm by no means saying that our councils in the past have lacked qualities like this -- quite the opposite actually-- every council has had a hand in building us to the level we are now. But ---for the first time, I see these qualities across the board.  I think about my sorority now and see an organization dedicated to the bettering of its members in every way possible.  I'm proud of what my organization has become.

Our new chaplain (a member of PC '09) has started a program in which she sends a weekly email to the members with her thoughts, quotations and bible verses.  The idea that her office has been transformed into one dedicated to encouraging self-reflection and spreading good is a an example of how I feel about the improvements reflected through the leadership in my sorority.  Our leadership makes me proud.  Here are a couple little thoughtful excerpts from her emails to demonstrate my point:

Remember that our friends are a reflection of who we are. As 5th grade as it sounds, we are who we hang out with. Surround yourself with the people who impact your life in the most positive way possible.

A woman who knows how to have a good time is remembered, but a woman who is valued for her intelligence is respected. Use education to create ideas and mold experiences for you. Be smart about the decisions you make, even the impulsive ones. As Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "the main part of the intellectual education is not the acquisition of facts, but learning how to make facts live."

Take the time to tell those who truly mean something to you how blessed you are to have them in your life. Write them a letter instead of a facebook message, call them instead of text them and show them [what] they mean to you.

In the words of Audrey Hepburn, "For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone."  We are all wonderful and beautiful in our own way! It is our job to show that beauty not at the surface, but in acts of kindness, thoughtful considerations and good works.

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! - Oliver Wendell Holmes

"No, dear brothers and sisters, I am still not all I should be, but I am focusing all my energies on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven."
Philippians 3: 13-14

*council: president, vice president, secretary, etc.

*PC: pledge class

an unlikely friendship: the bra burner and the sorority girl.

Last summer I took herpetology in Junction, TX for a Maymester.  After having spent the whole semester before that with my nose in an MCAT study book, I can't tell you what a life-altering experience the class was.

I loved it.  Not only did I love the content and challenge of the course - swimming in rivers to catch turtles or water snakes and roaming around ranches pulling up rocks to look for snakes and lizards, but because of the people I met there too.  I got to know my fellow classmates better after a couple days in the class than people I've known my whole life.  Something about Junction strips away initial hesitations about making friends, and challenges the students to get to know each other.  Sure I recognized plenty of the people from having spent three years with them in other biology and chemistry courses, but for the first time, I learned their names. For the first time, we actually spoke to each other.  Junction does that.

One friendship (there were plenty of great ones) I made in the class was with a PhD student named Jenny.  Our friendship kind of defines how Junction brings students together.  We laugh about it now, but we both agree that we were an unlikely match.  Although I think that her rendition of this story is much more entertaining than mine, I'll go ahead and tell it.

When I first met Jenny, all I saw was an earth-hippy bra-burner with Jesus sandals.  She thought that I was an obnoxious sorority girl.  She expected to have a lot in common with another Jesus sandal wearer in the class whose father is a famous river canoer.  I honestly felt like I was kind of the odd man out.

Everyone in the class seemed so nature-esque. They all had these fancy headlamps that they had used before, they could tell you what type of bullfrog was chirping, they loved to get outside and canoe down the river and they all were no strangers to potato rakes*.  I, however, was not this nature savvy. My headlamp had been purchased the day our class started at an Academy outside of Junction, I always thought it was crickets who made that chirping noise, and I thought a potato rake had to do with gardening potatoes.  I mean I was a girl scout, but these people were on a whole 'nother level.

It wasn't until our class took a field trip to a nature conservatory in Oasis, TX that I felt like a began to find my place in the class. Jenny's expected bff* was starting arguments amongst the group, and everyone was pretty damn exhausted from it all.  Jenny, being the confrontation solver/avoider that I soon learned she was, mentioned that she was gonna go herpin' in the natural spring with her snorkel gear.  I naturally jumped on the opportunity to join.

The two of us headed down to the spring. No sorority t-shirts, hippy sandals or headlamps, just bathing suits.  We left our stereotypes and pre-conceived notions back in the cabin. I think it was then that for the first time, we had a real conversation.  Not just about the nature girl turned drama queen of the class, but about life, the prehistoric looking catfish in the water, and the art of snorkeling.  We both learned how much we had in common. An unlikely duo. We spent the rest of the class confiding in each other, sharing what we wanted to do when we grew up, and what our lives were like outside of our world in Junction.

At one point while road herping*, I remember Jenny asking what my hobbies were outside of studying-- a question I hadn't been asked since sometime before my life turned into one big MCAT study session.  Someone saw what they thought was a herp, we stopped, jumped out of the car, and when we got back in the van I told her that I really wasn't sure if I had any real hobbies.

Now that the class has ended, Jenny and I continue to keep in touch.  She taught me to change the tires on my bicycle, introduced me to the first Friday Art Trail in Lubbock, and she consistently helps me add things to my list of hobbies.  We set aside time in our schedules for weekly dates at Triple J's for locally brewed beer tastings and we regularly study/talk biology at J&B together --- I consider her one of my closest friends.

It's funny to me that without Junction, our friendship probably would not have been ignited.  While I don't think Jenny has any intention of joining my sorority anytime soon (or ever), I've picked up a couple earthy characteristics from her. And yes, I now wear Jesus sandals.

                     Jenny and I in our Chacos at the First Friday Art Trail




*potato rakes: the rakes that we used in the class to turn over rocks and pick up snakes.
*bff: best friend forever
*herpin': looking for amphibians and reptiles to catch
*road herping: riding in a truck or van looking for amphibians and reptiles to catch on the road.  Road herping includes a lot of frequent and abrupt stops, Chinese fire drills, and green faces for those who suffer from car-sickness.

Jenny and I on the zoo fieldtrip snuggling with a lion family. One of the last days of the class.







                                                                              

"I wish I was the weather, you'd bring me up in conversation forever."

Yesterday afternoon in class at the Lubbock Lake Landmark, we learned about the weather. The goal for our professor was that we would be able to look at the whether conditions (clouds, wind, temperature etc.) and know how to predict the weather the next day.  So, in order to give my prediction, I feel like it's important that I note what I actually knew about the weather up until yesterday in class:

Before lightning strikes you, your hair gets really static-y.
The cows lie down in pastures if it's gonna rain that day.
If the sky is green looking, there's probably gonna be hail.
Some people can smell the rain coming... my mom being one of those.
The weather channel lies sometimes.
In kindergarten, you were the coolest if you got to be the weather kid for that week. I was never the coolest.
If I wear a white t-shirt to school that day, it'll probably rain.
If I bring my laptop to school that day, then it'll probably rain.
If I wear a white t-shirt AND bring my laptop in my backpack that day, hold on to your umbrellas because a downpour is on its way.

So.. needless to say - my knowledge was limited, and, to be truthful, it still kinda is.  Not that my professor did a bad job of explaining it, but because weather is sorta like how some people consider math. I just don't get it. I know how to check the weather online, and that's about it.

But here's what I learned in a very simplified way:
 cumulous clouds are the cotton ball lookin' ones. They usually follow a cold front and mean warm weather is on its way.

cumulonimbus are the towering stormy looking cotton balls with a flat bottom side. This is kind of the middle man cloud --- when the Barometric pressure had dropped before but now it's rising or vice versa.
cirrus clouds are the ones that are light, wispy, and look like fish scales high up in the sky and they are NOT at the end of cold fronts.

So to do my prediction, for today, here's what the weather looked like yesterday afternoon:
Cold. Like 50 F
Lots of cumulous clouds.
Some cirrus clouds.
Some cumulonimbus clouds.
Normal wind around 22 MPH
Wind gusts coming from the NW that made you feel like you were in one of the scenes from Wizard of Oz... to be more specific, right before Dorothy gets knocked out by a shutter that's going crazy in the wind. After walking three miles in the Wizard of Oz weather, I can relate.

From what it looked like yesterday, I'd say that the cold front had already hit, and was about to pack up and leave town.  There were some cirrus, so it wasn't completely packed, but it was getting close.  So, I'd say that today the front is leaving and that it will be warmer and there will be lighter winds.

When I walked outside to let Chewy out this morning, it was pretty damn cold still, so I'd say that the cold front hasn't left yet and we could probably expect a lot of cumulous clouds later in the morning.


Also, I would just like to thank my classmates who lent me a jacket, cardigan and socks whenever we realized that our professor was not kidding about going outside yesterday despite the weather:

List makin'

Before I came to college, I was somewhat disorganized. By somewhat, I mean that I didn't own a planner, and my backpack held a hurricane of papers.  Because I didn't own a planner, I usually showed up to what I had to with reminders from friends, and I usually found out about exams in the minutes soon before they took place. And, to be perfectly honest, my backpack only experienced a good clean out whenever my very brave math teacher would sit me down and force me to go through my papers (crumbled, stained and old though they were) and organize them into three ring binders (thanks KC). The LK in me was still slightly present.

Things have since changed. I have a planner that holds biblical value to me, I have binders and I am a list maker.  I make a new list at least once a day.

The lists can include anything - from household chores, to questions I need to ask people, to homework assignments that need to get done, to just about anything.  By making them, I rarely miss a beat. While I enjoy the success that has come from making them, my favorite part about the whole process is in the scratching off. Anyone who makes lists knows the feeling of relief in putting a big red line across a finished product. And that's why I'm writing this post.

I was thinking about what I do with all of those scratched-off lists.  They seem to end up in jacket pockets, in the washing machine, under the mats of my car or at the bottom of my backpack.  If I died tomorrow, the person in charge of cleaning out my belongings would think I was nuts--they would find half scratched off lists all over the damn place.

The truth to why they end up in unsavory places is because I don't throw them away.  I'm done with them, but I just can't get rid of them. I enjoy finding them.  I enjoy reminding myself that I do actually get stuff done.  So, I've decided, that with my new house will come a new system: I am designating a spot for these lists. A real spot. I'm now putting finished lists in a bag by my back door. So now, if I need a reminder of how I actually do get stuff done or I just want to entertain myself, I don't have to go rummaging through old oatmeal boxes or under my bed to find one. I will know exactly where they are:

When I finished using the shampoos that came in this bag, I couldn't make myself dispose of it because of the quotation on it.  I feel like the quotation is fitting for a bag that is carrying all of my scratched off priority life lists.

If you've never been a list-maker, I suggest you try it. I kid you not --- the feeling of relief that comes with scratching off the least enjoyable of priorities transforms them into something worthwhile.

a little piece of history

We spend a lot of class time at the Lubbock Lake Landmark.  The truth is - I didn't even know that it existed until the class began.  An even sadder truth would be that I didn't realize how important the piece of land was until last week in class.  Turns out that our classroom is a little piece of history. Did I say little? I meant huge:

In terms of history in America, there are 5 known time periods, beginning with the Clovis civilization.  What makes the LLL a big deal is that it was inhabited by humans during all 5... the only known place in America who can use that little tidbit as their claim to fame.  But, I guess what I find even more enjoyable about the place is its present day story--an irregular fairy-tale in the making.

You see, the LLL has fallen victim to all kinds of hate.  It's been pumped, depleted, driven on, dog-walked, and pretty much anything else that's bad for nature business you can think of.  Let's just say that the people who done it wrong, knew not what they were doing.  Until preservation of the LLL began around 10 years ago, it was chock full of Mesquite* and Salt Cedar.  Any and all water was sucked dry, and native plants were nowhere to be found. The LLL was a dry forest where prairie should've been.

The present is what makes up the fairy-tale part.  Now that people have discovered that the LLL is kind of a big deal, funding has been pumping into the property little by little, and restoration has begun.  The LLL crew practices prescriptive burning.  Mesquites have been plucked out by the fire, native seeds underground have been germinating, water is returning, and the prairie is finding her way back home to the LLL slowly but surely. Switch grasses, western wheat grasses, Hackberries, and black willows are all finding a new breath of life with each non-native ash juniper, Siberian elm, kochia, Russian thistle or salt cedar that disappears through the restorative processes.  It's not that she's completely unpacked her bags, but the prairie is indeed on the path towards happily ever after. Next week, our class is partaking in a service project to help the LLL crew help the prairie continue to find her happy ending.

prescribed burning at the LLL (photo taken by and borrowed with permission from Matthew McEwen)

One of my favorite parts about our university's honors program is that we sit outside to learn.  Or, if our lesson is taught in a classroom, we later go out into the world to meet what we've learned in 3-dimensions.  Or, we simply learn about the outdoors, outdoors. Having a classroom in the LLL encompasses all three into one.  We walk around the LLL's paths while learning about prairie dog calls.  We learn the importance of the prairie and its conservation/preservation in a LLL classroom, and then we're dismissed to walk out of the doors and meet our lesson for the day face-to-face.  We learn about history, on a piece of history.  In our courses, our education is not simply a fairy-tale we learn about in text-books -- we open the doors to the world, the fairy-tale becomes reality, and we get our feet dirty in it.

*Mesquite: native to the prairie, but forests of it are not.