Penny.

When I was seven, my family got a new puppy. We got precious little Shetland Sheepdog (also known as a Sheltie) and named her Penny Starlight Bennett. "Penny" because she was the color of a shiny new penny, "Starlight" because she had a white star on her forehead, and "Bennett" because she was the newest member of our family.

That dog was something else. Since she was a sheepdog, she had a compulsive urge to herd things. Trees, people, cars... Danger was not in her vocabulary. It always frightened us when she would get out of our yard because she went straight for the cars. But she was so full of life! When she was inside the house and could not actively chase cars or trees, she would sneak into the living room (which was highly off limits for her) and watch the cars go by. We only half-heartedly scolded her for being there. She was meticulously trained not to go in any area of the house which was carpeted, a rule which she generally maintained unless there was a thunder storm or someone was vacuuming. Her barking drove us crazy and she shed more fur than you would believe, but we loved that dog within an inch of her life.

Penny was a part of all of our memories. She was there on Christmas and always received her fair share of presents (her favorite gift was the contraband ham-bone that my grandmother always brought). My grandfather affectionately referred to her as "Penelope". She joined us on every Thanksgiving day for our annual family hike...

For spring break in my sophomore year of high school my family went to Alaska. A few days into our trip we were much distressed when we received a call that Penny had had a stroke which had paralyzed her. The vet recommended putting her to sleep, but we said to wait for us to get home so that we could tell her goodbye. The next day, however, we got another call. Penny had died on her own... We were devastated. This was the day that we went snowmobiling, and all I can remember is the pain of having my tears freezing on my face as we sped through the stunning Alaskan landscape.

Though we eternally complained about the shrillness of her bark, we loved Penny more than any of us could say. She really was a member of the family. She was the member of the family that never argued back. She was always there when you needed a shoulder to cry on. She always ready to celebrate with you. She loved us all unconditionally.

The Key.

Gestures of love appear in all forms, shapes, and sizes... And they appear everywhere in every culture.

Though I steer clear of watching even the smallest amount of TV, the last couple of years I have nursed an addiction to The Office. In the season two episode entitled "Valentines Day", there is a classic example of a great gesture of love. Dwight finds himself in a conundrum and asks Pam for advice on what to give his girlfriend for Valentines Day. Pam has been struggling all day because her fiancee has sent her nothing while Phyllis has received a plethora of bouquets, chocolates, and teddy bears... When Dwight asks for advice, the following interchange ensues:

Pam: Well, sometimes the gift is really about the gesture, you know, like what it means instead of what it is.

Dwight: You mean, like a ham?

Pam: No. Not like a ham. It's about doing something so that the person knows that you really care about her. That you remember her.

Dwight: Okay, I get it. That's great. Okay, shut up.

Dwight proceeds to get Angela a copy of the key to his apartment as a gesture of affection. Though the key is the tiniest of gifts, the implications of the key are monumental.

It's the thought that counts.

Simple Economics.

The story of the Ik tribe in Uganda frightens me. Is it truly possible to evolve in a way in which you no longer feel emotion? 

Ackerman's description of the Ik in A Natural History of Love is chilling: "After only three generations of drought and starvation, the Ik became hostile, selfish, mean. They had abandoned love along with other so-called virtues because they could not afford them. It was simple economics." And even after the drought had ended the Ik were incapable of regaining emotion... I don't want to believe that it is possible to lose the ability to feel emotions and love.

I have no evidence for the following claim, but I want to think that it is more a case of losing the ability to express emotion than a case of actually losing emotion itself. In her assessment of the tribe, Ackerman mentions that when they made eye contact with each other they would look away in embarrassment. Embarrassment is an emotion. I think that this instinct is a subtle indication of the emotions that are being stifled inside. Somewhere buried deep inside I would like to think that the Ik still feel emotions.

But maybe I just look for the best in people.

Trapeze Artist.

Love is a dangerous thing. It seems to require a denial of all human instincts. Personally, I always want to protect my heart from harm and therefore I put up walls and guards to keep myself safe... But as C.S. Lewis reminds us, to love is to be vulnerable. 

Ackerman describes the terrifying feeling of love: "He is like a trapeze artist swinging out over an abyss; ultimately he gives up hope of finding another pair of hands waiting to catch him, and he just lets go." It goes against all of our rational mind, but love asks us to jump blindly and hope that we are met halfway.

Love requires sacrifice on a multitude of levels. It is a scary thing to let go and fall into the abyss, but this sacrifice of personal welfare and safety is the pinnacle act of love. We must be vulnerable in order to truly love.

Pathetique.

It is true that Beethoven's piano sonatas have a singular effect on the heart. The yearning and intensity embodied in the music can wrench any lovesick heart. In A Natural History of Love, Diane Ackerman describes the beauty of Beethoven: "No composer personified the passion of the age better than Beethoven, a tempestuous and defiant man who wrote avant-garde music full of majesty and organized alarm. Hampered by the rigors of traditional music, he fed his own anger, heartache, and struggle into his work. Expressing so much feeling would have been impossible in shopworn musical terms, so he invented a new vocabulary, one richer and more volatile, one closer to pure emotion... As the old rules crumbled, Beethoven's music became even more personal, alive with suffering and intensely human."

I have played my fair share of Beethoven. In high school I learned movements of both Pathetique and Moonlight. The first movement of Moonlight Sonata is one of the most satisfying pieces to play while wallowing in misery. I greatly enjoy closing my eyes while playing Moonlight and simply stewing in Beethoven's despair. In contrast, the first movement of the Pathetique personifies the anger and frustration brought on by passion. It is highly therapeutic to bang away on the piano in the form of the Pathetique.

Gritted Teeth.

"Inspiration usually comes during work, rather than before it."

-- Madeline L'Engle

I was particularly struck by the truth in Madeline L'Engle's assertion. It is true in life as it is true in writing: it is choice to write a paper, to cook dinner, to exercise, to love someone well... All of these are highly rewarding but often require gritting of one's teeth. The worthwhile things in life are rarely easy. If you have to tie yourself to your chair to write, then do it. Inspiration rarely strikes like a bolt of lightning.

Often at the beginning of a task the future seems insurmountable and hopeless, but it is a choice to commence chipping away at the issue. Inspiration will come with the methodical production of a paper as one sits glued to the keyboard.

And anyways, it's okay to have shitty first drafts.

The Gift of a Quilt.

Meg Buzzi's account of her grandfather's poignant letters which covered a thirty year span of the family's story remind me of my grandmother's quilts. Nanny has been quilting as long as she can remember. Her mother, my great-grandmother, taught her to quilt when she was a little girl. Quilting is a tradition that was passed down from her mother, her mother's mother, her mother's mother's mother, etc. Accordingly, Nanny taught me to quilt when I was a little girl. Granted, I never made more than a couple squares, but I learned and appreciated the craft.

Quilting is one of the most time consuming activities that my grandmother engages in (second only to cooking, I would guess), and it is also one of the most selfless activities. She spends hours, days, weeks, and months producing beautifully intricate quilts and then consequently gives away the item which has so absorbed her energy.

A few years ago Nanny called all of the grandchildren into the living room on Christmas day. We were amazed by the sight that met our eyes: the couches, chairs, and walls were covered in quilts, each one uniquely exquisite.

"Pick one!" She said.

We excitedly ran about an examined our options. Somehow, miraculously, each grandchild got their first choice. I was soon the proud owner of the "Grandmother's Fan" quilt, which I sleep under to this day. Nanny's gift to the grandchildren provided a treasure for every single grandchild that created a link to her and a reminder of home.

Mbita.

Last summer I was lucky enough to travel to Kenya. While I was there I helped out at a school for orphans and taught bible and art classes. I also was involved in ministries for widows of the town that I was in, which is called Mbita.

The experience was life changing (cliche as that statement is). I was swept off my feet by the unique culture as I spent time with the beautiful women and children of Kenya. One of the most exciting things was the way that I was able to be companionable with people from a culture so contrasting to my own.

Handily for me, English is one of the national languages of Kenya. Therefore all of the children speak English (because their school classes are conducted in English), and many of the women speak English as well. However, it was interesting to see how one word can have different connotations, meanings, or uses in different cultures. My favorite example of this phenomenon is the use of the phrase "How are you?". We Americans ask "How are you?" and expect at least a polite answer of "fine", but Kenyans tend to use "How are you?" as a greeting that does not require a response. In Mbita, "How are you?" is interchangable with "Hi!" or "Hello". When we happened to drive past a group of children we would be met with a cheerful chorus of "How are you! How are you!!!".

The key to relating to the idiosyncrasies of the language of another culture is to listen, identify the differences, and then act accordingly. Kenyans say: "Hello-how-are-you!" so I say "Hello-how-are-you!" right back to them. Kenyans love to shake your hand for an awkwardly long amount of time, so I shake back for an equally awkwardly long amount of time.

Blair.

One of my dearest friends is known for being the best at asking questions. She always asks the most engaging questions and instigates interesting conversation. Her inquiries are never attacking but merely a probing of people and a discovering of what makes them come alive. I say this with no exaggeration: she is the easiest person to talk to in my acquaintance.

She has taught me several things about conversation. Even though it may seem awkward to keep on asking questions at first, if you persist you will eventually hit on something to draw a person out of their shell. Why? She has observed that all people like talking about themselves. You just have to ask the right question - and sometimes it takes a couple of tries to find that right question that will get them going. The trick to finding it is listening.

Questioning is an art.

Listening is an art.

The more time I have spent with her the more I have developed in my own abilities as a questioner and a listener. Conversing with others is a skill which must be carefully developed and honed in order to master the art. The cliche rings true: practice makes perfect. 

Soy Chai.

As I sit on the porch of Bongo Java reading about a sense of place, I suddenly realize the truth to this idea in regards to my experience at the coffee shop.

Let me preface myself: I am addicted to Bongo. When I haven't been here for a couple of days, I miss the people, the tastes, the smells, etc. I have spent an ungodly amount of time and money here, but I don't grudge a single second or a single penny.

That being said, as I look around I realize that I have literally sat at every single table in this coffee shop multiple times. As I look at each table memories come flooding back of the different

experiences I've had at each table. I can clearly see the faces of friends as we conversed, laughed, did homework, and I drank copious amounts of soy chai, which I always get in a mug (I don't drink coffee, therefore it is more than somewhat ironic that I so love a coffee shop). I can remember countless afternoons spent on the porch enjoying beautiful weather and good company, and a plethora of evenings spent inside immersed in homework. Due to the extravagant amounts of time I have spent here, I feel completely at home in this place. With my investment in Bongo, I have made it my own: I have a sense of place and ownership here. I am an insider. I am a regular.

Burnt Sienna.

As a painter, I have acquired a heightened sensitivity to color. Every time I paint I strive to capture precise colors while mixing my paints. As I have progressed into forming my own individual technique and style, I have developed a growing addiction to certain colors. 

Specifically, my favorite paint color to mix into my palette is burnt sienna. I have nursed a serious addiction to burnt sienna. I love the effect of mixing it into every color. Whether it is a rich black or a sky blue, there are few colors in my paintings that do not include at least a touch of burnt sienna. I think that this obsession has formed due to my attraction to earth tones. Whenever I mix a color I subconsciously desire an earthy, vintage effect from my mixing. Burnt sienna typically produces this look. I have discovered my attraction to this certain effect and consequently employ my use of burnt sienna over and over again.

I suppose this devotion to a color merely once again proves me to be a creature of habit. I enjoy routine and when I find something I like I tend to be staunchly loyal. I'm often that girl that keeps on ordering the same dish over and over again at a restaurant instead of branching out and trying the other delicious options.

ba-BUM.

The rhythm of the human heartbeat has a singularly soothing effect. It is the first sound that babies encounter while in the womb, and from that point on the familiar iambs of ba-BUM, ba-BUM, ba-BUM produces a uniquely peaceful sensation. Because of the fundamental familiarity of this rhythm, there no other sound that is more satisfying than an iamb. It is for this reason that we are so attracted to and satisfied by iambic poetry. It just comes naturally for us to talk and hear in ba-BUM's.

Poetry often captures this satisfying rhythm. Whether or not you understand the meaning of the poem, the sound of a Shakespearian sonnet is arguably one of the most aesthetically pleasing sounds in the world. The pristine iambic pentameter, the three quatrains following a perfect ABAB CDCD EFEF rhyme scheme, and the couplet with the GG rhyme scheme create a satisfying and harmonious effect. Consider and read aloud Shakespeare's Sonnet 73:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed whereon it must expire

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Even if you do not understand what the poet is trying to say, one cannot help but feel contented by the rhythm and rhyme of the sonnet.

On the subject of aesthetically pleasing sound in poetry, I recently read T.S. Eliot's "Preludes" and was particularly struck by his use of onomatopoeia to create images. For example, in the first verse he utilizes "s"-plus-a-consonant sounds to produce the noise of the swirling wind on a blustery night:

The winter evening settles down

With smell of steaks in passageways.

Six o'clock.

The burnt-out ends of smoky days.

And now a gusty shower wraps

The grimy scraps

Of withered leaves about your feet

And newspapers from vacant lots;

The showers beat

On broken blinds and chimney-pots,

And at the corner of the street

A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.

And then the lighting of the lamps.

Poetry employs sound to delight its audience. Whether it is through the rhythm of a heartbeat or onomatopoeia of the wind, these poems achieve a uniquely satisfying effect to the human ear.

Mary-Kate and Ashley.

The idea that everyone reads differently because of their unique life experiences reminds me of what it is like to be a twin.

Yes, I have an identical twin sister named Sarah Beth. When people learn this fact about me one of the first questions they ask is: "What's it like to be a twin?", closely followed by: "Can you read each others' minds?"

The answer to the former question: I don't know the difference. I only know what it is like to be a twin. For the entirety of my twenty years I have had someone in my life that looks just like me and shares my birthday. To be a twin brings a unique set of blessings and challenges. The gift of being a twin is that you can always have your best friend with you. Whether it was in ballet class or taking the SAT, Sarah Beth has always been the ally at my side. And what are the challenges of having a twin? Well, due to us doing everything together, people constantly compare us. We had to work hard not to build an unhealthy competitive relationship as we both strove to excel in the same fields.

The answer to the latter question: Yes and no. I don't believe there is a supernatural connection that allows us to read each others' minds, but because we have had very similar life experiences our minds tend to work the same way... Therefore we can usually guess what the other is thinking. It's only logical.

An important step in the life of a twin is individuation. It is particularly hard for us to find our own unique voice because we are acutely aware that there is someone in the world with whom we share our very DNA. As a twin I intensely identify with writers who are constantly seeking to find their individual voice. Whether it is dyeing our hair different colors or going to different colleges, twins find ways to separate ourselves from each other and learn to be our true selves.

Moderation.

"Moderation in everything, even moderation."

My mother taught me this little quote when I was a child and I refer back to it in all aspects of life. When it comes to food, I attempt to eat in moderate healthy portions, but simultaneously I allow myself to indulge my cravings - in moderation, of course. I don't allow myself to feel guilty for these indulgences because if I overdo it, my body feels the effects. Through experience I choose to avoid binging on sweets and meats, and because I know how those foods will affect me it is no sacrifice to forego a few small pleasures.

The ill effects of the luxurious choices of the Romans only emphasizes the wisdom of moderation. It is only logical that Christianity began to place a taboo on overindulgence. Granted, they took it too far when they began to associate pleasure with damnation. This extreme attitude is merely the age-old legalistic stumbling block of the church... But they had a point: the outrageous feasting of the Romans boded little health. The Christians attempted to become the antithesis of the Romans, but they might have done better to strive for a balance.

We do not have cravings and pleasures for no reason. Humans are created to enjoy the fruits of the earth and therefore it is perfectly fine for us to occasionally binge on Sunchips or indulge in a box of chocolates. The trick is to find moderation in everything, even moderation.

Gourmandizing.

Taste is the one sense that most affects our physical appearance. Americans, in particular, are prone to succumb to our taste buds' cravings, which tend to be for the most unhealthy foods (like a Big Mac from McDonald's... Supersize). Our lack of self-control allows taste to dominate our appearance by leading to obesity. We plan intense exercise routines around the holidays in order to be able to fully enjoy a glass of boiled custard, an extra cookie, or second helpings of Christmas dinner. We have a sensuous lack of control when it comes to food. At all costs we desire to satisfy the cravings of taste.

It is interesting how we all seem to have a weak spot for sweets but must develop a taste for things such as wine or vegetables. In her chapter on taste, Ackerman explains that taste buds weaken over time, which accounts for our changes in taste. This phenomenon of the taste buds slowly wearing out is the reason that children so greatly enjoy candy: "Children adore sweets partly because the tips of their tongues, more sensitive to sugar, haven't yet been blunted by years of gourmandizing or trying to eat hot soup before it cools." Therefore pediatricians have lollipops for their patients and grandmothers stow peppermints in their purse when babysitting.

Due to health benefits, my parents have in the last year cut back on their intake of meats and animal by-products. As I was living at home over the summer, I adopted their new eating habits. At first I craved meat or yogurt, but I soon acclimated to the meals that centered around fruits and vegetables. When I came back to school I continued in this type of diet because I quickly noticed the positive effects. Though I still sometimes enjoyed animal by-products, the partial elimination of meats and milk from my diet soon became an easier decision. It is no longer a hard choice for me: meat no longer appeals to me. My taste buds have changed with my dietary choices. I am

pretty revolted by a triple stack cheeseburger from a certain pigtailed redhead...

Enjoy Your Flight.

The concept of "Field Writing" (keeping a stream-of-conscious-style journal and then revising to produce studies of subcultures, places, or events)reminds me of why I adore going to the airport. 

Allow me to explain this connection. Every time I step foot in the airport, my mind instantly goes wild with all of the opportunities for people-watching. I absolutely love the feel of the airport. Any time one of my friends needs a ride to the airport I jump at the opportunity. There is ample room for the imagination whilst people-watching at the airport: should I sentimentally watch the soldier be reunited with his wife and children? Or would I rather watch the nonchalant business man who can go through security in record time? Perhaps I should keep tabs on the wealthy old lady struggling with her matching set of Louis Vuitton suitcases that weigh 50 each. All of these observations would be prime material for field writing. The airport is a singular place in the way it allows for so many different subcultures to be briefly juxtapositioned together.

Speaking of subcultures, I have recently been pondering the structures and dynamics of subcultures. This fascination preceded from an article I read for my Intro to Sociology class. The article, by Velliquette and Murray, is entitled "The New Tattoo Subculture" and suggests that subcultures are undetectably divided into two groups. The first group is comprised of the people who become a part of a subculture because of self expression. The second group is composed of those who join the subculture merely because they want to be cool by association. Essentially, the two groups are the genuine and the striving. After reading this article I have been attempting to analyze the subcultures surrounding me. This week my field writing notebook would be filled with questions of "Does she really want a tattoo or does she just think it will make her look cool? Does he really like wearing those tight jeans or does he just want to fit in at Belmont?"

I have a sudden urge to do a field writing exercise on the subculture of the scarf-wearing, Bongo-Java-coffee-drinking, skinny-jeans-wearing, guitar-playing Belmont kid.

A Glad Bag of Ramen.

I distinctly remember the night in 3rd grade when I had to stick my hand in a large black trash bag to touch its slimy contents at some otherwise unmemorable church function. I was horrified and terrified by the oozing substance which met my nervous fingers. Instantly my stomach turned as my mind's eye went wild. Was I touching the bowels of a fish? Maybe just a batch of rotten food? Or, worst, perhaps the slippery matter was in fact gray matter - a human brain? Surely my Sunday school teacher hadn't put a person's brain in a Glad bag! Moments later, the lights were flipped on to reveal that the sickening substance which had struck such fear to my heart was nothing more than a handful of well-cooked spaghetti noodles. This supposedly ingenious learning tool was designed to enable children to face their fears. However, for me the experience only heightened my awareness of touch's ability to stimulate my sensitive imagination.

In her chapter on touch, Ackerman describes her adventures in the Touch Dome in San Francisco. Her trip through the Exploratorium seems comparable to my encounter with the trash bag of ramen. Blindly plunging through darkness, hands passing over normal objects that become hostile in the pitch black, and blundering into cubby holes... All of these elements seem terrifying while the lights are extinguished, but illumination decimates the preposterous anxieties. Ackerman observes that some of her fellow explorers experienced attacks of shrieks and claustrophobia as a result of the inability to see and identify the objects that they were touching.

We humans have a great dependence on touch, but we want it to be augmented by the other senses. We don't want to touch something unless we can see it. In A Wrinkle in Time, Madeleine L'Engle devises a species that does not have eyes and therefore uses touch to "see". These creatures are forced to use touch to identify everything in their world. They don't miss sight because they don't know the difference. To these beings the fear of reaching my hand in a trash bag would be a completely foreign notion. Our culture has developed a fear of touching anything out of the ordinary. The only people who touch weird things are the maniacs who go on Survivor. Although I have absolutely no desire to be one of those maniacs, I have recently made a step towards overcoming my skittishness about touch by kissing a giraffe while in Kenya.

Blisters.

Appropriately enough, I first had the pleasure of reading Anne Lamott's "Shitty First Drafts" in my First-Year Writing class at Belmont.

And, also appropriately, I had the same reaction today that I did two and a half years ago. My first question was: "Who is the author who can sit down and write perfectly on the first draft, and how can I be like her?" I suppose this reaction suggests some amount of laziness on my part for wanting to be able to skip ahead and avoid the first draft stage. Forgive me my impatience: I am an American, after all, and therefore prone to an addiction to efficiency.

My methods for counteracting this lethargic tendency are scattered, at best, but I often remind myself of the lessons I learned in my ballet days. Please indulge the following lines about my history in the art... I was intensely involved in ballet from the age of nine until I was nineteen. You would think that after a full decade of sweat, blisters, and sore muscles I would have perfected the art. And yet I still had to take ballet class six days a week and attend endless rehearsals. In the summers I attended elite intensive ballet schools in Boston and Seattle in hopes of further honing my skills. While all of these experiences were wonderful

on many levels, there were also many exceedingly painful moments. More often than not I was tired and injured. Many days I was forced to wrap my toes in layers of tape and second skin (a burn relief substance that proved very helpful in protecting blisters) in hopes of preventing the formation of any more blisters while dancing in my pointe shoes. Despite all the pain, the feeling of being en pointe was completely worth it. My point (pun intended) is: the same is true in ballet as is true in writing. Blisters are the "shitty first drafts" of ballet. I endured them and ended up in the picture to the right.

Moral of my rambling: "shitty first drafts" are absolutely necessary to achieve a graceful and worthy finished product. It is impossible to produce a polished piece of prose or poetry unless you are willing to withstand some blisters along the way.

Coco Chanel Mademoiselle.

I have spent the last several days being acutely aware of every smell that comes my way. After reading sixty pages on the unique and understated attributes of smell, I have found myself analyzing each scent as it assaults me, soothes me, warms me, or sickens me. For me, one of the most interesting observations made by Diane Ackerman in A Natural History of the Senses was her comment on the power of smells to revitalize memories. She suggests that smells possess a remarkable power: "Unlike the other senses, smell needs no interpreter. The effect is immediate and undiluted by language, thought, or translation. A smell can be overwhelmingly nostalgic because it triggers powerful images and emotions before we have time to edit them" (page 11). Upon absorbing this idea, I quickly realized the truth to Ackerman's assertion as I almost immediately began thinking of smells that are associated with certain memories of mine. 

For example, no matter where I am I can recognize the smell of Bongo Java coffee and immediately images of pleasant afternoons spent with friends are brought to mind. The smell of ginger cookies conjure memories of a dear friend's house, while the scent of my own perfume reminds me of my mother taking me to Dillard's to buy my first bottle of Coco Chanel Mademoiselle. A whiff of a good friend's cologne instantly brings his face to my mind, and the sterile smell of a chemistry lab reminds me of my father... Seeing as I have waxed eloquent with examples of how certain smells are associated with certain memories, I believe that Ackerman knows what she is talking about.

The Tortoise and the Hare.

As an avid reader, I have developed many reading habits over the years. In particular, I have lately begun to notice my tendency to always read in what I call "fiction mode". 

Allow me to explain this phenomenon. As a child I voraciously made my way through everything from The Chronicles of Narnia to all of the Nancy Drew mysteries, and I soon developed a knack for speed-reading. I could blaze through any book I was given. The problem soon became that I read so fast that I couldn't slow down enough to gain the comprehension that is necessary in an academic setting. I began to blur my "fiction mode" of reading with my "academic mode" of reading. In high school I learned that speeding my way through The Great Gatsby or Dante's Inferno might be enough to pass a reading quiz but it was not enough to enter into the class discussion. This realization set me on a quest to develop multiple modes of reading. When I am reading for pleasure I allow myself to fall back into "fiction mode", but when reading for school I force myself to slow down into "academic mode". On my own time I can read at the rate of the hare and speed towards the finish line, but for class I must confine myself to being the tortoise... Slow and steady wins the better grade.

Another downfall of my speed-reading is that when I fly through a book I am likely to miss out on appreciating the satisfaction of a well-written sentence or the pleasure of a beautiful description. For example, one of my favorite books on my shelf right now is Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis. This gem of a book contains a

compelling plot which slyly tempts me to slip into "fiction mode", but both the implications of the story and Lewis's eloquent narration require a tortoise-style read for full enjoyment and comprehension. Though I allow myself to be drawn in and rapt up in the narrative, I keep a bit of myself aware of slowing down to enjoy the experience.

All of this rambling to say that my goal for the semester is to continue in my separation of "fiction mode" and "academic mode".

Also, everyone needs to read Till We Have Faces.