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I was so happy when it came.

The first snow invoked a sense of disbelief-

Could this be happening?

Was this really mine?

Was the snow here to stay, just for me?

The first flurries sent chills of curiosity, intrigue, and hope down my spine.

I spent all my time playing with it.

I snuggled into its cold embrace,

Lying there for hours, glad that I had finally found a home.

The snow made me feel clean, worthwhile, fresh.

It invigorated me, made me want to go, do, see, feel-

to love.

The fingers of cold air slithered into my lungs, invaded my body,

became a part of me in ways I hadn’t imagined.

Sometimes the cold frost prickled my skin, causing the pain of frozen flesh-

But the euphoria was worth the pain.

I was happy-

Until spring came.

I tried to hold on to the snow, I tried to keep it by my side-

Don’t leave me so soon! I miss you.

But the snow had already melted.

I naively thought that it would stay forever, that the promises of its white blanket would cover me always.

But I knew spring had to come.

I had known it all along.

Having chosen to ignore it, the inevitable shock was amplified tenfold and rattled my bones.

I was knocked to the ground, the air left my lungs, and I wept.

I wept for the companionship that I had lost.

Slowly, a warmth started to penetrate my body.

The sun had come out to comfort me,

sending beams of light to dance across my back,

Reminding me.

I looked up, gathered my forlorn limbs into a semblence of a skeleton,

and drug my weary body onto my feet.

I felt a warm breeze tease my hair and caress my face,

Whispering words of hope.

A smile crept across my face, slowly but surely erupting into a grin of elation.

Yes, winter was over. Yes, the snow had left me.

But it would return. One day in the fall I would feel the cold breeze again,

and remember.

Today, it is spring. Today, I will hope.

Today I am free.

Free to embrace the hope of summer and create my own reality.

Free to stop relying on the cold, steely determination of winter,

Relying on the sweeping course of mother nature that takes no detour for no man

To show me the way that I should go.

So, now, the snow is gone. And part of me mourns its passing.

It was a good winter.

But it will snow again. And, for now, I get to enjoy running free through the fields of tall grasses,

feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face,

and live.





I was bored on the drive home, so I decided to draw my family members in all their cartoony glory! Oh the fun you can have with a touch screen. Which MacBooks don’t have. Just saying.

This is my father. He’s a former preacher, now carpenter, who loves to do Sudoku and study the weather.

This is my mother. She is a professor in developmental reading and just got off of a sabbatical. She is very musically talented, and never tires of giving her opinion.

This is my brother. He is a computer science major who is hoping to start Grad school in the fall. He’s ridiculously good at the saxophone, and is very intelligent in math related things.

This is me. I’m obsessed with Canada and penguins. I love to play the clarinet, and my favorite color is purple.

SIDENOTE: I discovered that my grandmother and I have very similar long, wool black coats. I’m not entirely sure if this scares me or diminishes the coolness of my coat…

Why does going to university suddenly render me scared silly of driving a motor vehicle?

I mean, I love driving. When I was at home, I would always be the designated driver. No, not in the sense of sitting around while all my friends get drunk and me being bored in the corner and then me having to drive them home at the risk of them vomiting all over the inside of my pristine car. I mean it in the sense that whenever we wanted to go anywhere, I was just assumed to be the responsible one who would drive us while my friends pushed my ridiculously large hazard button that glowed red and was apparently irresistible to anyone who rode in my passenger’s seat. I loved speeding down the highway with my windows down and blaring “Good Life” by OneRepublic, and got way too excited for long drives by myself. I did not for one second doubt my driving skills, and was fairly confident in my abilities, especially considering the fact that my 1990 Mazda 323 was  a stick shift. Automatics were a piece of cake.

Then I go to university. And I discover that apparently my driving skills were left behind in the states, along with my doll and beanie baby collections. I first found this out after living here a couple weeks. Kenya and I went for a Starbucks run, and before we got in the car to drive home, she asked me if I would like to drive. All of a sudden, it feels like a rock dropped into the bottom of my stomach, and I start to feel all queasy. But intellectually I knew I loved driving, and that I was a good driver. I shook off my doubt, and convinced myself that I was fine. I know how to drive, I drove all the time. No need to freak out.

So I get behind the wheel, and I can’t shake this crazy sense of horror that I have. But I drive anyway. It felt so weird. Maybe it was because Kenya’s car was so different than my little Mazda, but still. I’d driven automatics before. For some reason, I felt like I had my permit again, and I had just started driving. Like somehow all the rules had changed and driving in Canada would be way different than the states and I would screw up and kill everyone and AH! When I first started driving, I would freak out every time a car came past me in the opposite lane, every single time. “Oh shit oh shit Oh Shit OH SHIT… *car zooms past with tons of space between us and nothing bad happens* Phew.” Every time. That’s how I felt when driving in Canada, after having had my license for 2 1/2 years. It was very disconcerting.

However, I got back to Grebel without killing anyone. Which is always a success in my book. The next time I drove was a different story. Kenya was eating cotton candy, so she had me drive to her apartment. I got behind the wheel, and the sense of uneasiness started to build up again. My muscles tensed and I climbed into the driver’s seat, jaw clenched and stomach jumping around like a little kid with a brand new pogo stick.

All went fine, until I heard a siren. I didn’t know where it was coming from, and having grown up near a fire station and hearing sirens almost every day, sirens don’t alarm me nearly as much as they should. All of a sudden, I approached the intersection, and I saw the ambulance. But I saw it a little late. I slammed on my brakes, then realized that I wouldn’t stop in time and it would have be more beneficial if I sped through the intersection. But by that point, I had already slowed down to a near stop. Freaking out and thinking that I was going to ironically get killed by an ambulance, I yelled “SHIT!!!!,” slammed on the gas, and zoomed out of the intersection. I had effectively done the absolute worst driving possible in that situation, slowing down to an almost stop and then hightailing it out of there, effectively blocking the intersection. Way to go me.

And I haven’t managed to shake this feeling! Even though I know I can drive, I feel like I’m 16 again and can’t tell the clutch from the brake. Sigh. Will I ever regain my driving confidence? I sure hope so…

So, as many of you probably know, this Thursday is the day that many of us have been waiting for- the night that the first part of the 7th Harry Potter movie comes out. I personally am going to that midnight showing and am super excited for it! In anticipation of this long awaited night, we watched the 6th Harry Potter movie last night. And this made me realize something very interesting- I’m Harry Potter!

Now there is no You-Know-Who in my life and I’m not an orphan, but there are eerie similarities. For instance, most of his life, Harry grew up feeling like he didn’t quite belong in the muggle world. Well… this brings to mind a certain little American girl who had an obsession with Canada to the extent that she bought Canadian apparel and absolutely loathed the United States in which she lived. She would give anything to move up North. Hence, the muggle world is America and the wizarding world is Canada!

Now this girl suddenly heard of a wonderful school in Canada called Conrad Grebel. She instantly knew that this is where she belonged, and was so excited to be there. The instant she arrived in that awesome building, she knew she was home. Just like Harry, she had finally found her true home. She dreads the holidays like the plague, knowing that she will have to return to the muggle world from whence she came. While other kids await the golden days of summer with eager minds, she wishes the days would slow down until she could barely sense them passing.

Like Harry, she has two really good friends. She has a same-sex friend, Kenya, who is a bit of a jock and is incredibly loyal, and an opposite sex friend, who is ridiculously, insanely smart. And she loves them to death and doesn’t know what she would do without them. Her trio and Harry’s trio are ridiculously similar.

Like Harry, she is thrust into a new world that is similar to the old one, but still full of slang to learn, new money to figure out, and new places to discover. It may not be actually magical, but it feels magical to her.

Though, wait, hold on a second, maybe I don’t like this comparison. Harry is a bit of an emo hormone crazed prat. He thinks no one understands him because he’s special, and that he needs to go it alone. He has so much wizarding angst. And he can be kind of a jerk. In fact, I don’t think I want to be associated with him at all! He’s not actually that great of a guy, and all of his success is based on pure luck and chance.

Ok, nevermind. Scratch all that. I’m not Harry Potter. Thank goodness.

…But can I still pretend that I’m magic?

Geese. Does anyone really like them? Is there anyone in the world who looks at a goose and says “there is an elegant, stately, beautiful, graceful animal that I completely admire?”

No. No one. Because geese are annoying birds that poop everywhere and have a brain the size of my thumb. And that obnoxious honking! Good gracious. I’m not sure why it’s illegal to shoot them dead, I’m pretty sure no one would miss them. I’ll bet that anyone who argues for the preservation of geese does not see them on a daily basis.

So I was walking back from class the other day, and I got this overwhelming urge to punt a goose. Just all out kick that thing into oblivion. Thankfully for the geese, I was able to rein in my aggression.

As I walked in the middle of the flock trying to control my impulses, a goose started to walk across the path, where I was walking. And  it hissed at me! That stupid lump of feathers walked into my clear path, then had the balls to say that I was the trespasser and hiss at me! The nerve!

I mean, come on goose. I obviously weight at least 8 times as much as you do. I’m far more intelligent; I’m attending University for goodness sake. I’m well equiped with hard shoes and have strong muscles. And yet you, with your puny wings and thin fragile little neck and hollow bones and your creepy little goose eyes, think that you could possible threaten me? As if.

I would win in a fight any day. I’d stare that goose straight in the eyes, throw up my arms, let out a menacing hiss, bare my teeth, and tear that feathered fowl limb from limb.

But I simply passed by, glaring at the hostile goose as I stalked away. Until next time, sir goose. I will give you this one warning: the next time you challenge me, prepare to meet your maker.

Today I saw something that I don’t see everyday. Two squirrels in a deadly battle. On the front patio. As I sat at breakfast with a table full of acquaintance-friends, munching on my daily bowl of multi-grain cheerios, I pondered these two squirrels. What could they be fighting about? Perhaps the one squirrel had simply stolen the other’s nuts. Perhaps there was a voluptuous lady squirrel that they both had their beady little eyes on. Perhaps they had joined a squirrel version of fight club to spice up their mundane lives of nut-gathering; squirrels need to feel alive too!

But then the obvious hit me- the squirrels were different colors! One had fur of a steely gray hue, and the other possessed a silky black black fur coat. Here in Canada, apparently squirrels come indifferent colors; back home we only had the common gray squirrel. Clearly, these Canadian squirrels were racist! They had not been able to settle their racial differences in a peaceful manner, so they resorted to sheer violence!

I was appalled! Since I am majoring in Peace and Conflict studies, I knew I had to do something- this would be perfect field work to put on my resume! If animals can’t even get over their racial differences, however will us blundering humans manage to get it right?

So I stepped out onto the patio in the brisk October Canadian morning, and attempted to grab the squirrels. However, if you have ever seen a squirrel, you know that they run fairly quickly and would be hard to catch. I can only imagine how humorous it must have looked to the people inside the caf to see two racist dueling squirrels being chased by a silly American girl, still sleepy from having just woken up, dressed in her pajamas, and yelling profanities.

But eventually my efforts were rewarded; the squirrels were too involved in their racial dispute to notice me sneaking up behind them, using a left over decorative corn stalk as cover. I grabbed them both by the scruff of their necks, and glared at them. “Now just what is your problem?” I inquired, quite irritably.

Unfortunately, squirrels don’t speak English. So I tried again- “Porque Uds. (I didn’t want to offend them, they could be my elders for all I know) se pelean?” But these were not Spanish squirrels either. They simply stared at me for a few moments, than started struggling and waving their tiny squirrel hands all about in a quite irritated manner. The gray one then proceeded to bite me, and I let out a yelp and unintentionally flung the squirrels into the nearby tree.

Success! The squirrels were now knocked unconscious, therefore their fight had stopped. Emily saves the day yet again. Quite proud of myself, I sauntered back into the caf, to the horrified looks of all the environmental majors. “It’s only 9:15, and already I’ve done a great thing for this world,” I thought smugly to myself. Let the day begin.

So here I am. Doing something I swore I never would- writing a blog. Blogs are for lame people who want to rant about their lives; no one actually wants to read them. No one would actually waste their precious time reading about my life. They have lives of their own. Occasionally there are funny blogs that are insightful and well written, but most are just cries for attention. So I guess this is me, saying HEY WORLD, HERE I AM!

If you’re bothering to read this, you might want to know who I am. Well, basically, I’m an unpatriotic American who’s going to University in Canada to study peace and conflict studies, wants to become fluent in Spanish, is an avid Mennonite, has a perverted mind, plays clarinet, and loves to bake. I know that most of those things aren’t really cohesive, but I’m not exactly a cohesive person.

So here I am. First term of university. Trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing. What entertains me the most is finding out Canadian-isms, such as take a note, write an exam, marks, washroom, keener, university, smarties and rockets, the grading system, sketch, writing an exam, lip chap, pop, and more. I can’t wait to go home and start rattling off Canadian slang to the bewilderment of my poor American friends. But goodness knows I won’t be seeing them anytime soon.

Oh, and another thing; I’m completely logical. Like a robot. Or, at least, that’s what I want to make myself believe. If it weren’t for freaking hormones and a boy who I always happen to follow walking up the stairs who wears slim, very flattering pantss, I’d be fantastic. And the fact that my brain picks out his voice from across the room, completely incongruous with my logical decision to ignore him. Even though I recognize him as ridiculously immature and annoying. And taken. Damn emotions.

But yea, the majority of my life is spent shoving emotions down, or trying to justify their existence mentally. It’s a fun life let me tell you. But I don’t really know how else to live, so this is how it’s gonna be. And I’m completely happy with it. I mean, who wants to run around being controlled by things as temperamental and fleeting as emotions? Yea they may feel good for a while, but they’re usually completely wrong and foolish. They’re overrated. And they’ve gotten me into way too much trouble before.

What day is it again?

July 2018
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The Dusty Archives of my Mind

‎"If I went through life by myself, I'd waste a lot of my time wandering around in the wrong direction"