blank canvas.

I looove the first day of school. it was snowy and what I would normally term as miserable. but today I was not miserable. I was soooo glad to be back. the first day of winter semester feels so crisp. and I know it is mostly the bitter cold biting my un-stockinged toes that leaves me feeling crispened, but it's also the clean slate. it's a new year, a new semester. the snow is quiet and pure white--a blank canvas. the cliche lends itself freely to my day.

I pointed out, and Mere agreed, that everyone was making eye contact today. the 2 of us waltzed around the bookstore, chatting and avoiding the snowstorm while we made eye contact with attractive and eligible young men. a new semester not only brings with it new classes, new books, and new friends, but new prospects.

people term BYU a 'meat market.' which is a hasty generalization, but a true one. the way I see it, people are always buying meat. but at the meat market, no one is embarrassed about it. so yes. by the end of the day I was intentionally making eye contact with the hooded, Converse-wearing blond who passed me in the library. go cougs.

and I embraced the snow today. it really wasn't that bad. I think driving in it is what makes me nervous. I know driving in it makes me nervous. I just didn't mind walking in it at all today. but we'll see if my self-diagnosis of SAD holds true this winter.

my first day was pretty great. except for the angst my major is causing me (I have 2 majors and a minor. major 1 - Communications: Print Journalism. major 2 - American Studies. minor - International Development). the major causing me pure joy is major 2, American Studies. but the major causing me to roll my eyes and rub my forehead and sigh really loudly in class is major 1, Print Journalism. seriously.

I was pretty set on majoring in Violin Performance while I was in high school. after all, BYU gave me a scholarship for playing. but I had studied with some BYU violin people and wasn't into it. so I auditioned at Utah State. they graciously accepted me and I was going to be there. but as my mom and I drove from Logan through Provo, I just decided--I want to go to BYU. so I decided I was going to do violin my way, singing Defying Gravity helped me believe I could. and I can't really remember when, but I decided not to pursue music. that's a heartbreak we can talk about some time later.

but I decided to write. to be a journalist. to be the words in the Atlantic Monthly my parents subscribed to, or the voice above the static on NPR, or the column torn out of Newsweek. I've been pretty happy about it--like fairly excited and really quite pleased. and it fit well with who I am. the major is unique, probably about 30 people per class. when I tell people my major, I usually get a positive response--with the occasional, "oh I guess someone has to do that."

but as I took the pre-requisites and applied and got accepted and orientationed, it didn't sit well. and today, oh today. I was assigned a story. a story! I am currently taking the class that requires 7 scheduled hours, and a minimum of 2 stories per week. not to mention they are all published in the university newspaper. the situation should make me happy--seeing as it is a semester-long taste of what I have designated myself to do for the rest of my life. but it doesn't.

I just don't know what I am doing. really. I need counseling.

what made me happy was American Heritage. was my American Humanities class. was my World Religions class. not my Reporting class. my Journalism professors were dry and bitter. I'm sure they're great people--real experienced journalists as they were so quick to inform us. but they are not who I want to be. I want to be my fellow A HTG ta's. I want to be the professors I TA for. I want to be animated and funny and passionate and not cut any corners. not short change myself.

I want to help people. that is my number one piece of knowledge. and I was pretty sure I wanted to help people by exposing social ills and investigating corrupt institutions. but now I am just not sure. it's not what I want. it's not what I want.

and I keep returning to the same processes that I endured when deciding against Violin Performance. I couldn't give it up. I didn't want someone else doing my thing, especially if I wasn't doing it. and I wanted it for myself too. I loved music. it was a huge part of me--something I'd invested a huge portion of myself into. something I wept over and joyed in. but ultimately, I had to choose to spectate. to be a patron, not a participant.

am I to do the same with journalism? after all, my parents--who I gained a love of journalism from in the first place--subscribe to the Atlantic and Newsweek and NPR and This American Life and everything in between. can I be a patron of the news? can I watch someone else be the next generation of Jacob A. Riis's and Bob Woodward's--the reporters I want to be?

I'm afraid my canvas isn't blank. why am I so keen on one that is? the new year gives me the illusion that I am blank. but I am not. there is a lot of mess on my canvas and I'm just wondering if I'll ever be able to be one that's decent. I don't know what I want to paint on mine--and the disarray of colors that is already splashed on it has mystified me.