I love statistics. Correction. I love statistics that don't require me to use a TI-83 calculator and the bell curve. I took a statistics class one summer as a general math credit. The class lasted for about three hours twice a week. It was torture. I don't remember much about the class. I'm drifting away from my point though. I love statistics because. . . well, because they let me know how many people read my blog on a daily/weekly basis. Even when I'm not posting anything, people are still reading it! I guess that's a good thing. I often wonder what they find interesting, or if they even read a whole post.
Anyways. I don't write much because. . . well, because I'm lazy.
I have decided to take a break from Facebook. I'd been toying with the idea for awhile, but finally went through with it. I have been Facebook-free since Thursday morning. I still have to use it for work, but I have deactivated my personal account. Yeah, I am definitely going through withdrawals. Mostly when I am bored at work or in the evening. It is a needed break though. The big reason it took me so long to deactivate it was that I use it to communicate with friends who live far away. But I also spent hours on it, just sifting through my news feed and bouncing from one profile to the next. I want to use my time better. I don't like having an addiction, but that's what Facebook had become for me. I know many people who are addicted to Facebook/their smartphone, but refuse to see that they are. Whatever. My goal is to stay away from it for at least a month.
Well, this post is more of a time for me to ramble. Maybe I'll post more now that I don't have Facebook to suck up all of my free time. Maybe I won't.
I've been playing soccer a bit recently. I love sports. I love playing with guys too because for some reason it's assumed that girls can't play well. I like to crush that notion with a few flicks of my left foot. Yeah, I fall down sometimes and I miss the ball too, but there's always a feeling of inner satisfaction when I make a steal or assist a goal.
I think this is a good time to insert a cliche side note. Life is filled with ups and downs, but what is it that everyone says? Oh, that it's not about falling down, it's about getting back on your feet after the fall. I think sometimes I feel like I'm sort of floating in mid-air between the ground (a fall) and getting back on my feet. Picture a slow motion soccer replay of a bicycle kick-- that's how I imagine myself. I feel like my life isn't bad enough to equate it with a fall, but I don't have a clear idea of where I'm headed or what I'm doing, so I wouldn't say that I'm standing strongly on my two feet either.
I should get back to work. Should. . .
Monday, August 8, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom
I recently returned from a trip to Europe which, I must say, is a continent with too much to see and enough culture and history to stick its tongue out at the United States. I won't continue with that thought.
I have wanted to visit Spain for a long time, and I was finally able to do so on this trip. Unfortunately I only made it to Barcelona and Madrid, but I was still impressed. Barcelona is beautiful! I love the fact that there are mountains AND the ocean, as well as an abundance of art, both old and new. Two days was not enough time to even scrape the surface of this precious city. I will be back.
After Barcelona, I spent a day in Madrid visiting a dear friend that I hadn't seen in 13 years. It was there that I saw some paintings that inspired me: flamenco dancers. I really wanted to see a live performance, but alas, I didn't have enough time. However, the city is full of souvenir shops overstocked with fans and flamenco regalia. That settled it. The paintings were too big to take home, but I was determined to make my own. Yesterday I started looking for images, as well as watching a few videos, to help me make a better painting. So, here's a more artsy end to my blog.
Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom
Her hands curl intricately, following the rich notes of the melody. A bright light highlights her scarlet dress and a yellow silk scarf pinned to her waist seeks to free itself as she twirls. An unseen guitarist plucks violently at the strings of his instrument, providing her with the rhythm she craves as she storms across the stage. Her shoes thump and tap, thump and tap, echoing into the darkest shadows of the room. Yet in all of the calculated commotion, she's dancing, nay, fighting for freedom. Smiles die on her proud cheekbones and fail to flutter across her boldly painted red lips. A new moon of stage light glows in her hair, it's perfect semi-circle mimicked in the exquisite arch of her back.
Flamenco. A dance and genre of music that originated in the southern Spanish region of Andalusia in the 18th century. A dance of rigidity dominated by exact steps and precise movements; however, underneath the costumes and pretentious routines, there is a profound liberty of expression, an internal and external fight for control of ones body. Dancers must escape the rules of time and social conventions, of unwanted emotions, yet as they seek this liberty, their inner joy must remain masked and solemn. Despite their struggle to maintain this facade, a triumphant glimmer occasionally rushes through the cracks in a defiant display. Flamenco has a soul of structured beauty, with the heart of a rebel. This is probably why gypsies were so influential in its development.
Close your eyes. You sit breathlessly in the dark bowels of the large room. You hear her steps thunder closer, closer. You catch a whiff of her perfume and feel the air move as her arms scream wildly in anticipation of the close of the dance. You long to open your eyes, to see her haughty expression, but you find you cannot pry them open. You feel trapped. A desire to run outside overwhelms you and you try to yell, but the sounds fail to leave your parched lips. It feels like a nightmare. You begin to move your feet to the notes of the insistent guitar, succumbing to this feeling of helplessness. You move them faster, and suddenly, an inner strength surges through your muscles, leaping along the sinews and bubbling through your veins. You, my friend, begin to dance, immersed for a second in her plight. You suddenly understand her struggle, and you make it your own. Freedom is just a few notes away.
-HK
I have wanted to visit Spain for a long time, and I was finally able to do so on this trip. Unfortunately I only made it to Barcelona and Madrid, but I was still impressed. Barcelona is beautiful! I love the fact that there are mountains AND the ocean, as well as an abundance of art, both old and new. Two days was not enough time to even scrape the surface of this precious city. I will be back.
After Barcelona, I spent a day in Madrid visiting a dear friend that I hadn't seen in 13 years. It was there that I saw some paintings that inspired me: flamenco dancers. I really wanted to see a live performance, but alas, I didn't have enough time. However, the city is full of souvenir shops overstocked with fans and flamenco regalia. That settled it. The paintings were too big to take home, but I was determined to make my own. Yesterday I started looking for images, as well as watching a few videos, to help me make a better painting. So, here's a more artsy end to my blog.
Flamenco: The Fight of Freedom
Her hands curl intricately, following the rich notes of the melody. A bright light highlights her scarlet dress and a yellow silk scarf pinned to her waist seeks to free itself as she twirls. An unseen guitarist plucks violently at the strings of his instrument, providing her with the rhythm she craves as she storms across the stage. Her shoes thump and tap, thump and tap, echoing into the darkest shadows of the room. Yet in all of the calculated commotion, she's dancing, nay, fighting for freedom. Smiles die on her proud cheekbones and fail to flutter across her boldly painted red lips. A new moon of stage light glows in her hair, it's perfect semi-circle mimicked in the exquisite arch of her back.
Flamenco. A dance and genre of music that originated in the southern Spanish region of Andalusia in the 18th century. A dance of rigidity dominated by exact steps and precise movements; however, underneath the costumes and pretentious routines, there is a profound liberty of expression, an internal and external fight for control of ones body. Dancers must escape the rules of time and social conventions, of unwanted emotions, yet as they seek this liberty, their inner joy must remain masked and solemn. Despite their struggle to maintain this facade, a triumphant glimmer occasionally rushes through the cracks in a defiant display. Flamenco has a soul of structured beauty, with the heart of a rebel. This is probably why gypsies were so influential in its development.
Close your eyes. You sit breathlessly in the dark bowels of the large room. You hear her steps thunder closer, closer. You catch a whiff of her perfume and feel the air move as her arms scream wildly in anticipation of the close of the dance. You long to open your eyes, to see her haughty expression, but you find you cannot pry them open. You feel trapped. A desire to run outside overwhelms you and you try to yell, but the sounds fail to leave your parched lips. It feels like a nightmare. You begin to move your feet to the notes of the insistent guitar, succumbing to this feeling of helplessness. You move them faster, and suddenly, an inner strength surges through your muscles, leaping along the sinews and bubbling through your veins. You, my friend, begin to dance, immersed for a second in her plight. You suddenly understand her struggle, and you make it your own. Freedom is just a few notes away.
-HK
Monday, April 11, 2011
Die Katze ist unter dem Bett
I have three favorite words in German:
Katze (cat)
Zeitung (newspaper)
. . .
I thought there was a third. . . and I believe there is, but at this early hour of the morning I can't quite seem to remember it.
Regardless. I like German! I never thought I would say that. That is like saying "I like sweaty socks" or "My favorite food is moldy bread." Yeah, like, unthinkable. Yet, I do. It's proof you can change your opinion of something/someone if you give it/them half a chance. I've been trying to practice German each day for at least 30 minutes. Sometimes it's quite exasperating. Rosetta Stone is great, but you don't get an explanation for anything. . . you just repeat, repeat, repeat. . . which is why it works apparently. Practice makes perfect.
The past few days have been simply lovely. I love sunshine. I love the smell it wrenches from the spring flowers. I love the way it seeps into my pores. This morning (Monday) was made slightly more bearable as I walked outside for work and breathed in the luxurious and intoxicating scent of sun.
A new week. The same responsibilities. Yet so much to be thankful for.
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.
Psalm 143:8
Katze (cat)
Zeitung (newspaper)
. . .
I thought there was a third. . . and I believe there is, but at this early hour of the morning I can't quite seem to remember it.
Regardless. I like German! I never thought I would say that. That is like saying "I like sweaty socks" or "My favorite food is moldy bread." Yeah, like, unthinkable. Yet, I do. It's proof you can change your opinion of something/someone if you give it/them half a chance. I've been trying to practice German each day for at least 30 minutes. Sometimes it's quite exasperating. Rosetta Stone is great, but you don't get an explanation for anything. . . you just repeat, repeat, repeat. . . which is why it works apparently. Practice makes perfect.
The past few days have been simply lovely. I love sunshine. I love the smell it wrenches from the spring flowers. I love the way it seeps into my pores. This morning (Monday) was made slightly more bearable as I walked outside for work and breathed in the luxurious and intoxicating scent of sun.
A new week. The same responsibilities. Yet so much to be thankful for.
Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul.
Psalm 143:8
Friday, March 11, 2011
Temblor 24
I remember the time when. . .
Oh, but there are so many times I remember. They're probably not meaningful to most people, but to me they represent 24 years of living.
I remember my first kitty, who survived many moves and a truck accident.
I remember burning my arm while making tortillas when I was 4.
I remember trips to England to see my grandparents.
I remember pleading with my Dad to let me paint my ceiling purple (to go with my pink walls and carpet).
I remember how I used to put carrot shreds on my teeth for "braces" (and then one day I had to get the "real" ones. . . not so glamorous after all, despite the exciting chance to change the band color each month).
I remember when I couldn't wait to be a teenager.
I remember being a teenager, and realizing it wasn't quite as amazing as I'd always thought it would be.
I remember my best friend's barn burning down.
I remember my first day at school. Eighth grade. I had braces (the real ones) and I was so shy I barely talked to anyone at recess.
I remember high school crushes.
I remember arriving at college with high expectations.
I remember the distinct desire to stay, but graduation came too quickly.
I remember arriving in Honduras, the heat and newness were overwhelming.
I remember sleeping in my closet for a few nights in my first apartment until I could find a bed.
I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated talking to a friend.
And now, as I write this. . . minutes are passing and tomorrow I will remember writing this blog. Sunday I will turn 24. So many memories crowd my head; boring and ordinary memories for most, yet for me, they are beautiful reminders of how God has blessed my life.
There are so many insightful quotes about life. . . I wanted to end with one.
Only a life lived for others is a life worth while.
|Albert Einstein|
May this be my motto. Whether I live for another day or until I turn 90, may each day be lived for others.
Happy birthday to me. I'm thankful for the life I've been given, and I feel blessed to wake up each morning. Suffering and pain abound (Japan's 8.9 earthquake and tsunamis are a fresh reminder of life's fragility), yet I'm alive.
Oh, but there are so many times I remember. They're probably not meaningful to most people, but to me they represent 24 years of living.
I remember my first kitty, who survived many moves and a truck accident.
I remember burning my arm while making tortillas when I was 4.
I remember trips to England to see my grandparents.
I remember pleading with my Dad to let me paint my ceiling purple (to go with my pink walls and carpet).
I remember how I used to put carrot shreds on my teeth for "braces" (and then one day I had to get the "real" ones. . . not so glamorous after all, despite the exciting chance to change the band color each month).
I remember when I couldn't wait to be a teenager.
I remember being a teenager, and realizing it wasn't quite as amazing as I'd always thought it would be.
I remember my best friend's barn burning down.
I remember my first day at school. Eighth grade. I had braces (the real ones) and I was so shy I barely talked to anyone at recess.
I remember high school crushes.
I remember arriving at college with high expectations.
I remember the distinct desire to stay, but graduation came too quickly.
I remember arriving in Honduras, the heat and newness were overwhelming.
I remember sleeping in my closet for a few nights in my first apartment until I could find a bed.
I remember the butterflies in my stomach as I anticipated talking to a friend.
And now, as I write this. . . minutes are passing and tomorrow I will remember writing this blog. Sunday I will turn 24. So many memories crowd my head; boring and ordinary memories for most, yet for me, they are beautiful reminders of how God has blessed my life.
There are so many insightful quotes about life. . . I wanted to end with one.
Only a life lived for others is a life worth while.
|Albert Einstein|
May this be my motto. Whether I live for another day or until I turn 90, may each day be lived for others.
Happy birthday to me. I'm thankful for the life I've been given, and I feel blessed to wake up each morning. Suffering and pain abound (Japan's 8.9 earthquake and tsunamis are a fresh reminder of life's fragility), yet I'm alive.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
And Then You. . .
How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down
I'm supposed to be editing an article for work. I haven't blogged for awhile. My knee hurts. I think I did something to it playing tennis yesterday.
I think I have an attention disorder. Seriously. I can't read a page without staring off for a few minutes to think. I can't edit a paragraph without finding a different song to listen to. I can't start a project and finish it, before starting a different one. I can't sit for long periods of time and focus on what's going on around me. A lot of the time I'm in my own world of ideas and thoughts, even when someone's talking to me. Who do I blame? What do I blame? Was I always like this? I'd like to think it's a recent development. You know, I think it's Facebook's fault. Facebook fueled Egyptian frustrations and helped overthrow their leader. That seems positive, despite the casualties. Has Facebook done anything positive for me?
I think it's destroying my brain cells. Actually as I was writing this sentence I checked Facebook.
Help! Why is my attention span so short? Why am I always thinking about tomorrow and not living today? Why am I a dreamer, but not a doer? The late-afternoon sunlight is seeping through the office window. I'll be going home soon. My evening will pass like so many others.
How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down
And how my thoughts they let me down
I'm supposed to be editing an article for work. I haven't blogged for awhile. My knee hurts. I think I did something to it playing tennis yesterday.
I think I have an attention disorder. Seriously. I can't read a page without staring off for a few minutes to think. I can't edit a paragraph without finding a different song to listen to. I can't start a project and finish it, before starting a different one. I can't sit for long periods of time and focus on what's going on around me. A lot of the time I'm in my own world of ideas and thoughts, even when someone's talking to me. Who do I blame? What do I blame? Was I always like this? I'd like to think it's a recent development. You know, I think it's Facebook's fault. Facebook fueled Egyptian frustrations and helped overthrow their leader. That seems positive, despite the casualties. Has Facebook done anything positive for me?
I think it's destroying my brain cells. Actually as I was writing this sentence I checked Facebook.
Help! Why is my attention span so short? Why am I always thinking about tomorrow and not living today? Why am I a dreamer, but not a doer? The late-afternoon sunlight is seeping through the office window. I'll be going home soon. My evening will pass like so many others.
How my thoughts they spin me 'round
And how my thoughts they let me down
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sell Fish
A bitter winter wind claws at my face. Flighty snowflakes float through early morning sunbeams. I trudge up the steep hill to work, my lungs straining under the weight of icy air. Due to Monday's snowstorm, our hill is too slick to drive on, which means I have to park at the bottom. As my feet, cocooned inside soft black boots, stumble over the slippery slope, I muse about a world away, a world removed. Somewhere someone has lost a home to flooding (Australia). Somewhere a baby is dying of malnutrition (Africa, India, etc.) Somewhere a woman is being raped (Haiti).
Oblivious? Read the headlines. Yet in all the pain, there is hope. There are stories of people who forget themselves, forget to be selfish, who remind us what it really means to live/and die.
What's my biggest problem today? Not parking at the bottom of the hill. My biggest problem is forgetting myself. I'm not selling fish, but I am selfish.
www.edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/01/13/flood.teenager/index.html?hpt=C1
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
Oblivious? Read the headlines. Yet in all the pain, there is hope. There are stories of people who forget themselves, forget to be selfish, who remind us what it really means to live/and die.
What's my biggest problem today? Not parking at the bottom of the hill. My biggest problem is forgetting myself. I'm not selling fish, but I am selfish.
www.edition.cnn.com/2011/WORLD/asiapcf/01/13/flood.teenager/index.html?hpt=C1
Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13
Love Letters
This is a response to my last blog. It is written by someone much wiser than I. And, due to its simplistic truth, I have decided to share it here.
". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'
Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"
Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)
". . .Perhaps your definition of love letters is too limited – what about the crumpled, grubby fingered letter from Elias, complete with cookie crumbs? What about the BOXES of love letters you brought back from Honduras? What about love letters from parents? From niece and nephews… 'Hannah, I’m a wreck without you!'
Perhaps your book can explore the theme .. what is love? .. What is a love letter?.. what are the most precious expressions of love I have experienced?.. what individuals have I met who have exemplified true love?"
Thank you Mom for putting things in perspective :)
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Palabras on Paper
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?
No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?
No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde
-Jarabe de Palo
I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.
What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.
I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.
A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.
I have special paper, but no book.
si quiero hablar contigo
no me salen las palabras?
No sé que hacer para decirte
que eres como una carta
que me falta por abrir
¿Qué hacer para explicarte
que no encuentro las palabras
que había escrito para tí?
No sé que hacer para explicarte
que tú eres como un libro
que no supe escribir
con palabras de amor,
con palabras que no mienten
con palabras que se esconden
y que nunca sabré donde
-Jarabe de Palo
I'm stuck. I'm supposed to start writing a book, but nothing's coming to me.
No sé que hacer para explicarte que tú eres como un libro que no supe escribir. . . I know what he's talking about! The memories are there inside my head, but putting them on paper is a different story. Get it? A different story? Maybe what's inside my head isn't meant to be written down. Maybe what makes the story so special is that only I know it. It's mine to tell, or not to tell.
What about paper? It's not special until someone graces it with a fluid flourish of paint or ink. Suddenly, that insignificant piece of paper is special. We frame it, treasure it, store it away, put it on display. What's the difference between a receipt and a love letter? They're both just pieces of paper. . . aren't they? One's a record of money spent, the other a record of feelings revealed. One goes in the trash can and the other. . . well, you get the idea.
I'm afraid I've dealt with more receipts than love letters.
A piece of paper is nothing more than paper until it's covered with feeling. A book is just a figment of the imagination until it's brought to life on paper.
I have special paper, but no book.
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