Sometimes it's hard for me to relate to family history. (Who am I kidding? Sometimes is code for 99.9% of the time.) But this makes absolutely no sense. I relish other people's history. I'm getting a degree in the study of history for crying out loud. Why not my own family? People who I should connect to on a deeper level? I have no idea.
But, I have had a breakthrough.
I'm not related to Emmeline B. Wells. But. That's not the point right now. The point is that this famous Mormon woman, when it comes right down to it, was just a hard-working LDS mother. Reading the pages of her diary for one of my history classes, I am overwhelmed by the balance she developed between civic involvement and a total devotion to her faith and her family. I am in awe of what she did and how simple and humble her journal is.
I'm not related to Emmeline B. Wells. But. I am related to many others who came across the plains and shaped modern Utah. Sometimes I take their stories for granted. But, in their own way, my ancestors are just as important as Emmeline because they to lived their religion and were willing to sacrifice whatever was necessary to do so. But, to me, they are more important than Emmeline; because they are related to me.
I may think that I can be a part of the legacy of Emmeline B. Wells because I am an LDS woman who wants to be a good wife and mother, but to also make a difference in the world. But it is more important for me to be a part of the legacy of my ancestors, because I already am a part of their family legacy. I have the responsibility, the obligation, to be worthy of that legacy.
A few years ago it was said that we were going to "raise the bar" on standards. Raise the bar? I can only hope to attain the level of Emmeline or any other early Utah settlers of Utah, including my family, who stand as remarkable examples of power, spirit, and love that I hope one day to emulate.
Sometimes it's hard for me to relate to family history. But not today.
Showing posts with label Écrire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Écrire. Show all posts
Friday, February 3, 2012
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
We've Moved!
So blogs are the thing. One must have a blog. But, Emily, you have a blog. True. But, I have it on the wrong website. Wordpress is sooo a few years ago. So, here I am on blogger. Now my blog will have a cuter background--and really that's what life is all about anyway.
So, all of my updates can now be found here. (I have to spell it out for inquiring minds who want to know.) But, consider this your warning: I will not post that often. Honestly, life can only get more boring after four months in London. Fact of life.
Just be aware: the proverbial "We've Moved" sign is in the window and we hope to continue to receive your business at our new shop location.
--The Management
So, all of my updates can now be found here. (I have to spell it out for inquiring minds who want to know.) But, consider this your warning: I will not post that often. Honestly, life can only get more boring after four months in London. Fact of life.
Just be aware: the proverbial "We've Moved" sign is in the window and we hope to continue to receive your business at our new shop location.
--The Management
Monday, January 24, 2011
Major Findings
“I can’t believe this! Who would have thought that I would be an Art History major? I didn’t even know that major existed. And now I am one. I’m so excited! You know, Art History majors don’t just have to know the art, they learn about the history and the culture too, and I love that stuff.” Mom just sat there nodding her head as I continued to ramble. I had thought the most difficult decision I would make would be which college to attend. But, once I had settled on BYU, I had no idea that it would be even more difficult to pick a major. Part of me thought a teacher, another part of me thought something history related, the crazy part of me wanted to go into music. I finally had landed on Art History. I liked history and I had really enjoyed my art history class in high school. It all seemed to be working out.
“That is not art!” I looked up from my reading to see my roommate looking over at the picture I was studying. I glanced back down; it was an image of Improvisation 28 by Wassily Kandinsky, a key painting from the German Expressionist movement known as the Blue Riders. This movement helped pave the way towards abstract expressionism. I love this painting.
“Sure it is. He’s demonstrating his feelings through paint. It doesn’t have to look like anything; it’s just supposed to evoke emotions.”
“That is not art. And nothing that you say will convince me that it is art.” I can’t find the words to articulate what I am feeling. Of course it’s art. Kandinsky was revolutionary in his use of oil paint on a canvas. His ideas were incredibly innovative and influential for years to come. These are great ideas, and I could write a fantastic essay on them, but I cannot express the words currently in my head verbally to my roommate. I actually start to wonder if it is art, or if I just say that it is because that is what I am supposed to do as an Art History major.
“What’s your major?”
“Art History.”
“Wow! What do you want to do?”
“I don’t really know actually.” The conversation is always the same. People are impressed by my major, at least they seem to be, and then they ask what I plan on doing with that degree. I could work in a museum, or teach at a university. I like teaching so that would probably be my first choice.
Even as I try to rationalize my chosen field of study, I have a sinking feeling in my gut every time I think about it. Is this really the direction I want to take the rest of my life in? I like my art history classes, but I’m not overjoyed with them like I was this summer. This major doesn’t seem to be taking me anywhere and I don’t feel like I am enjoying myself as much as I should. I let the conversation around me continue without my input, not sure what to think anymore.
“Hey Mom, I love fourth graders.”
“Really? Well, that’s good to hear. So, I take it that you like it?”
“Yes! Volunteering at Wasatch is the best. I love watching when their understanding kicks in and they know how to solve the problem. It’s the best feeling.” This semester I decided to participate in a tutoring program where BYU students work at the local public schools, helping teachers and students. Every Friday morning I work with fourth graders during their math hour. I have never been so happy or comfortable.
“What can I do for you?”
“I want to change my major.”
“Alright, you came to the right place. If you’ll just fill out this form for me, we can get started.” My arms feel almost weightless as I reach for the paper and pen the student advisor at the McKay Education Building is handing to me. Hesitantly, I record my personal information, sign my name, and hand back the paper. A few clicks on a computer and I am no longer an Art History major. My focus of study is now Elementary Education.
Walking back across campus I feel no relief about changing my major. In fact, I feel the same gut wrenching sensation I used to have when I thought about Art History being my major. Shouldn’t I feel different? Mom told me that all I talked about when I was little was teaching elementary school. If this was what I was meant to do, why did I feel so unsure? No matter how much I prayed, the unsettling feeling would not go away.
Walking out of class, I turned to the last page of my bluebook and read what the TA had written about my test: “97% Great job! You should be an Art History major!” Smiling at the irony, I began to head back to my dorm. As I walked away, it occurred to me that I had felt no hesitation in brushing off the TA’s comment. Yes, I did truly enjoy art history; but, at the same time, I had no problem reminding myself that it was no longer my major.
It may have not come in a flash of lightning, but I had an epiphany: I was in the right major. Switching late in the semester means that I may not get into all the right classes for winter semester, but I know now that I am on the right path. All that praying and worrying over what I should study has finally been replaced by the assurance that I am in the right place, working towards the right goal. That is the best kind of realization, one that is the result of much pondering and prayer; it’s the best kind of epiphany.
Side Note: Since writing the above I have had another epiphany. Yes, education is the answer, but of the high school variety. Current major: History Education. Stay tuned for further updates. This decision is too important to make only once.
••••
“Sure it is. He’s demonstrating his feelings through paint. It doesn’t have to look like anything; it’s just supposed to evoke emotions.”
“That is not art. And nothing that you say will convince me that it is art.” I can’t find the words to articulate what I am feeling. Of course it’s art. Kandinsky was revolutionary in his use of oil paint on a canvas. His ideas were incredibly innovative and influential for years to come. These are great ideas, and I could write a fantastic essay on them, but I cannot express the words currently in my head verbally to my roommate. I actually start to wonder if it is art, or if I just say that it is because that is what I am supposed to do as an Art History major.
••••
“Art History.”
“Wow! What do you want to do?”
“I don’t really know actually.” The conversation is always the same. People are impressed by my major, at least they seem to be, and then they ask what I plan on doing with that degree. I could work in a museum, or teach at a university. I like teaching so that would probably be my first choice.
Even as I try to rationalize my chosen field of study, I have a sinking feeling in my gut every time I think about it. Is this really the direction I want to take the rest of my life in? I like my art history classes, but I’m not overjoyed with them like I was this summer. This major doesn’t seem to be taking me anywhere and I don’t feel like I am enjoying myself as much as I should. I let the conversation around me continue without my input, not sure what to think anymore.
••••
“Really? Well, that’s good to hear. So, I take it that you like it?”
“Yes! Volunteering at Wasatch is the best. I love watching when their understanding kicks in and they know how to solve the problem. It’s the best feeling.” This semester I decided to participate in a tutoring program where BYU students work at the local public schools, helping teachers and students. Every Friday morning I work with fourth graders during their math hour. I have never been so happy or comfortable.
••••
“I want to change my major.”
“Alright, you came to the right place. If you’ll just fill out this form for me, we can get started.” My arms feel almost weightless as I reach for the paper and pen the student advisor at the McKay Education Building is handing to me. Hesitantly, I record my personal information, sign my name, and hand back the paper. A few clicks on a computer and I am no longer an Art History major. My focus of study is now Elementary Education.
Walking back across campus I feel no relief about changing my major. In fact, I feel the same gut wrenching sensation I used to have when I thought about Art History being my major. Shouldn’t I feel different? Mom told me that all I talked about when I was little was teaching elementary school. If this was what I was meant to do, why did I feel so unsure? No matter how much I prayed, the unsettling feeling would not go away.
••••
It may have not come in a flash of lightning, but I had an epiphany: I was in the right major. Switching late in the semester means that I may not get into all the right classes for winter semester, but I know now that I am on the right path. All that praying and worrying over what I should study has finally been replaced by the assurance that I am in the right place, working towards the right goal. That is the best kind of realization, one that is the result of much pondering and prayer; it’s the best kind of epiphany.
Side Note: Since writing the above I have had another epiphany. Yes, education is the answer, but of the high school variety. Current major: History Education. Stay tuned for further updates. This decision is too important to make only once.
Towards Perfection
I wouldn’t be aware of it for a few more minutes, but my tongue was sticking out. As I carefully crafted letter after letter I was determined to write just as well as Mom had. For a four-year-old, learning to read and write usually isn’t a priority, but I had always been interested in books and had already been reading for a year. I had convinced Mom that it was time for me to learn to write too, and because I was the only child at that point, I got my wish. Now I was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging my legs and intently focusing on creating the perfect “m.” With my brow furrowed and my tongue still on display for the entire world to see, I continued to move my pencil across the page.
“Good. Now do a whole row just like that.” Mom got up from the table and returned to cleaning the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my paper. This was a make or break moment; I had to be able to write the perfect letter without Mom’s help. The graphite tip of my number two pencil brushed the paper as I drew in a deep breath. Carefully I pulled my arm towards my body, creating the first line of the “m.” Good, just like the last one. My entire body shifted back and forth as I completed each line of what I knew would be the perfect letter. Finally, confident in my abilities as the best writer I had ever known, I blazed through the entire line, feeling that each “m” was more grandiose and excellent than the one before. Triumphant at the end of the row, I tossed my pencil to the side and rushed to bring Mom back to the table, eager to show off the fruits of her fine teaching and my exquisite talent.
I clambered back onto the chair, shoving my paper into her hands. As Mom sat down, I looked on at first with excitement, than with dismay; suddenly I could only see imperfection. Looking along the row, each “m” catalogued further deteriorations in my writing technique. Suddenly my disappointment became worry; what would Mom say? I had just explained how well I had done and then handed her a paper full of nothing but mistakes. This was it. I would never learn to write now. Mom placed her finger on the first “m” I had painstakingly created.
“This one is very good Emily. I like your nice straight lines.” I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Sure, that one had been a labor of love, but what about the rest. My sloppy work was painfully obvious below the careful letters Mom had provided as examples. “But, with the rest of these I’m sure you could do better. Make them look more like the first one.” I scrunched up my face, submissively receiving her words along with the paper, which she handed to me as she rose to return to the kitchen. I was about to release slow, steady streams of tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I knew better. I concentrated on carefully erasing every mark I had scratched across the paper, working backwards across the line. The methodical work of removing my scrawled attempts at the letter “m” helped me to regain control of my breathing and I stopped feeling the need to cry.
It was time to begin again. This time each letter had concentration and effort behind it. At long last, the row was done. Instead of bustling immediately into the kitchen, I took the time to look back over my work. Occasionally I would discover a crooked line or an arch too large for the rest of the letter and work to correct it. After another few minutes of careful work and observation, I deemed my efforts worthy of display to Mom. Calmly I walked into the kitchen and explained that I was prepared to show what I felt to be quality work.
Sitting and watching her eyes quietly scan my writing, I again felt a sinking feeling. From this angle, even more mistakes were presenting themselves. Would I never write as well as her? Mom returned the paper to the empty stretch of table in front of me, between my pencil and eraser. I looked down, feeling as downcast as I ever had, knowing that I was about to be instructed to try again.
“I like how much better you did this time, Emily. You showed some real improvement. Someday you’ll be able to write very well.” Giving me a quick hug, Mom returned to the kitchen. I just sat there in shock. Convinced that on her most recent trip into the dining room Mom had lost a good portion of her sanity, I looked again at the paper.
The longer I looked, the more I came to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed to be. Certainly I had a long way to go before I achieved the lyrical handwriting I wished for, but in a matter of minutes I had improved. As I moved to the next row, I still carefully formed each segment of the “m” as if it were a work of art. But, now each letter appeared to become a work of art and not just the imitation of one. Shining through the imperfections was a love of writing. The energetic frenzy of a few minutes ago had been replaced by a love for accurately creating letters, rather than mass-producing them.
Even now there are times when I get caught up in what I am doing and carry myself over the edge so that I crash down into defeat, realizing that I have overstepped my bounds and fallen short of my expectations at the same time. There are times when I believe I have created works of art from how I craft the written word, only to find that as I read back through my work, I have greatly deceived myself. However, with each successive draft my clarity and imagery slowly improves. My first writings have grown into papers I am proud to call my own, and while there is always room for improvement, I can recognize my growth and continue to strive for improvements I know I am capable of.
“Good. Now do a whole row just like that.” Mom got up from the table and returned to cleaning the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my paper. This was a make or break moment; I had to be able to write the perfect letter without Mom’s help. The graphite tip of my number two pencil brushed the paper as I drew in a deep breath. Carefully I pulled my arm towards my body, creating the first line of the “m.” Good, just like the last one. My entire body shifted back and forth as I completed each line of what I knew would be the perfect letter. Finally, confident in my abilities as the best writer I had ever known, I blazed through the entire line, feeling that each “m” was more grandiose and excellent than the one before. Triumphant at the end of the row, I tossed my pencil to the side and rushed to bring Mom back to the table, eager to show off the fruits of her fine teaching and my exquisite talent.
I clambered back onto the chair, shoving my paper into her hands. As Mom sat down, I looked on at first with excitement, than with dismay; suddenly I could only see imperfection. Looking along the row, each “m” catalogued further deteriorations in my writing technique. Suddenly my disappointment became worry; what would Mom say? I had just explained how well I had done and then handed her a paper full of nothing but mistakes. This was it. I would never learn to write now. Mom placed her finger on the first “m” I had painstakingly created.
“This one is very good Emily. I like your nice straight lines.” I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Sure, that one had been a labor of love, but what about the rest. My sloppy work was painfully obvious below the careful letters Mom had provided as examples. “But, with the rest of these I’m sure you could do better. Make them look more like the first one.” I scrunched up my face, submissively receiving her words along with the paper, which she handed to me as she rose to return to the kitchen. I was about to release slow, steady streams of tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I knew better. I concentrated on carefully erasing every mark I had scratched across the paper, working backwards across the line. The methodical work of removing my scrawled attempts at the letter “m” helped me to regain control of my breathing and I stopped feeling the need to cry.
It was time to begin again. This time each letter had concentration and effort behind it. At long last, the row was done. Instead of bustling immediately into the kitchen, I took the time to look back over my work. Occasionally I would discover a crooked line or an arch too large for the rest of the letter and work to correct it. After another few minutes of careful work and observation, I deemed my efforts worthy of display to Mom. Calmly I walked into the kitchen and explained that I was prepared to show what I felt to be quality work.
Sitting and watching her eyes quietly scan my writing, I again felt a sinking feeling. From this angle, even more mistakes were presenting themselves. Would I never write as well as her? Mom returned the paper to the empty stretch of table in front of me, between my pencil and eraser. I looked down, feeling as downcast as I ever had, knowing that I was about to be instructed to try again.
“I like how much better you did this time, Emily. You showed some real improvement. Someday you’ll be able to write very well.” Giving me a quick hug, Mom returned to the kitchen. I just sat there in shock. Convinced that on her most recent trip into the dining room Mom had lost a good portion of her sanity, I looked again at the paper.
The longer I looked, the more I came to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed to be. Certainly I had a long way to go before I achieved the lyrical handwriting I wished for, but in a matter of minutes I had improved. As I moved to the next row, I still carefully formed each segment of the “m” as if it were a work of art. But, now each letter appeared to become a work of art and not just the imitation of one. Shining through the imperfections was a love of writing. The energetic frenzy of a few minutes ago had been replaced by a love for accurately creating letters, rather than mass-producing them.
Even now there are times when I get caught up in what I am doing and carry myself over the edge so that I crash down into defeat, realizing that I have overstepped my bounds and fallen short of my expectations at the same time. There are times when I believe I have created works of art from how I craft the written word, only to find that as I read back through my work, I have greatly deceived myself. However, with each successive draft my clarity and imagery slowly improves. My first writings have grown into papers I am proud to call my own, and while there is always room for improvement, I can recognize my growth and continue to strive for improvements I know I am capable of.
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