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So I know that I have a lot of Med, Nursing, Biology, Health, Kinesiology, etc. students who read this blog, and I have a question for you:
What effect does sugar and/or chocolate have on mood? I have the vaguest layman’s idea of it, but I’m curious about the technical, chemical process, and/or studies that have been done, and/or controversies about it 
. Please still weigh in, even if someone’s said it before. I want to hear all of your opinions and learning!
And don’t tell me to Google it (you tech-savvy bunch!). I want to hear what you have to say 
One of the most inspiring courses I ever took was Victorian Poetry with Professor John North. I transcribed more sound bytes in the margins of my notes for that class than I did for any other. This is a man who loves God and who loves poetry, two of the loves of my own life, and so to listen to him speak several times a week was an incredible gift.
I remember attempting to describe this course to my friends. Professor North is an older gentleman who has had many experiences and who has seen much in his life. His students are privileged to hear of his experiences in his classes, and we are even more privileged to be able to listen to the wisdom that he has gleaned from his years on earth. Attending his class was like entering his living room. He invited us in and began speaking, and though he spoke of poetry, he could not help but give us knowledge greater than simply what the poet was trying to say.
Poetry, he says, is a way for us to “read experiences that are like our own, that we can identify with, that affirm ourselves.”
We discussed some of my favourite poets in this class – Tennyson, Hopkins, Arnold, Browning – and through each step of the course, we could see the above-quoted theme carrying through. While discussing Tennyson’s In Memorium and explaining to us why this poem was so popular when first published, North said,
Tennyson explores grief and put into words for people for the first time their internal worlds and emotions.
In Memorium was a poem that Tennyson wrote over the course of twenty years as he mourned the loss of his best friend. We all have these experiences and these “internal worlds and emotions”, but most of us cannot put words to them. With this poem, Tennyson took something that was incredibly well-experienced, but very rarely expressed (that is, grief), and finally put it to words. Poetry touches the ineffable.
After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
~Aldous Huxley
I would class poetry with music.
I found Professor North’s class to be an incredibly healing one. Through his class, he carried us into the very depths of the poem, often to the core of our souls, inviting us to examine what we found there, and to actually feel the emotions that we carried within us. It wasn’t that he was not content with a surface-level analysis of a poem; it was that remaining on the surface never even occurred to him. He is a man deeply in love with his wife, passionate about his God, and incredibly moved by the pieces he reads, and all of this came through in his lectures.
Poetry gives shape and a voice to our internal world; it affirms us, we are less alone.
The excitement in Hopkins is that his world makes sense. The problem is that oftentimes our world just doesn’t make sense. When the dark sonnets come, we can see that he has made sense in the non-sense. Despite the darkness, there is joy.
Poetry gives us an insight into other people’s hearts and minds, and into our own. It gives all of that shape, brings form out of chaos. We can understand what we never understood before, and through another’s writing, we realize it is true. It is satisfying both to have words for it, and to realize that someone else feels the way that we do. It takes the loneliness out of life.
It’s hard to fight with evil, but consider the consequence of not fighting with evil.
Evil cannot exist on its own; by definition, it is a perversion of good.
Even evil is under God’s authority.
[Poetry helps us to] accept the potential of the future, without rejecting the beauty of the past.
Poetry says far more than the poet knows he or she is saying.
Poetry is so powerful that it affects us to the core, even if we don’t know why.
We often only need to see something or hear something and we are transformed.
Be aware that you can’t study literature without being changed inside, in spite of yourself.
(the above all taken during Professor North’s Fall ‘07 Victorian Poetry class)
Dr. Gary Draper was an excellent professor of mine. From what I understand, this past was his last year before retirement. This is what one student had to say about him:
Dr Draper has a one of a kind personality and truly enjoys what he is teaching. It is up to the students if they want to join him in his wonderful world of english or not. He is a hard marker which makes one really feel as if they are earning something in university. Awesome sense of humour and helpful to the fullest.
I’ve always loved writing. From the time I was old enough to hold a pen, I wrote, even before I could form letters. I’ve been telling stories on paper for as long as I could remember, and all of my old notebooks (when they don’t contain the silly “Dear Diary” scribbles of young girls) hold short stories and story ideas. I have easily an entire box of writing on paper, and a lot more in electronic form, but this professor was the first “outsider” (someone who wasn’t family or a close friend) who recognized me as a writer.
The very first class I walked into in my first term of my first year of University was his, and I still remember his opening speech. He walked up to the board and wrote “PLEASURE” in big letters across it, and then turned to us saying that this was why he wanted us to read. Not to analyze it, not to glean some truth from the text (although he hoped we would be able to do that, too). His primary goal in what we were reading was that we would enjoy it. It was a breath of fresh air, because that, after all, is why writers write. There are many who write to make a point, and who have all sorts of hidden messages and meanings, but primarily, writers write to put words to their emotions, and bring enjoyment to their audiences. As an avid reader and an even more avid writer, hearing these sentiments expressed by this professor assured me that it was going to be an excellent term.
I went on to take two more classes from him, and I enjoyed all three, even the Canadian literature class (coming eventually ), and most of the material we covered. And through his courses, I became a better writer, mostly because he came to expect it of me. I didn’t even realize that he did. I just remember speaking up in class, which I had never done before. His classes were often discussion style. He would take our opinions and ideas and pursue them further, pushing us, seeing what we could come up with. He seemed to learn almost as much as we did in a term, and his appreciation for our contributions encouraged me to contribute more.
The next year, I went to speak with him about a scholarship writing contest. It took him a moment to recall who I was. He asked my name and what class I took with him, and immediately recognition came.
“That’s right!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I certainly do remember you. It’s funny, as soon as I saw you, my first thought was ’she’s a writer’.”
He recognized the distinctness of my narrative voice, and in an assignment where we were given creative license to choose our own topic, I attempted to rewrite the ending of a narrative poem we were studying. He complimented my efforts, but said he had hoped to see more of an adoption of the original author’s tone. I spoke with him after class, and said that I had tried. I complained that I had found it very difficult to silence my own voice.
He said, “Yes, I can understand that. You have a very strong narrative voice.”
High compliments for a writer.
Anyway, the long and short of this post is to say that Gary Draper was an excellent professor; I haven’t spoken with anyone who didn’t enjoy a class with him, and I would highly recommend attending any lecture he might give in the future.
I could write about being done. But I don’t really want to. I could write about the harried packing and goodbyes of yesterday morning. But I don’t really want to. I could write about how strange it is trying to bring myself to understand that I am never moving back to that place and never living with those people again. But I’d really rather not.
What I would like to write about is the chaos my room in my parents’ house is in. Every year, I pack up the things from that room that I believe I’ll need to take with me to school. Throughout the school year, I add to what I’ve taken each time I visit home. By the end of the year, yes, I have an awful lot more than what I began with, but I did bring it all from the same bedroom. Upon arriving home, I realize that there is absolutely no space in my room to house all of the things that I am attempting to force it to hold. I do not understand how this works. I empty a bookshelf to take with me, but on returning home, there is not nearly enough room for all the books I have. Do I really purchase that many books while away? Do textbooks really take up that much room? Do I really forget how packed all of the storage spaces in my room are every time I come home?
One thing I will say about goodbyes is this: all of the friends I have made in these past four years have made an impact on me. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without their love and care, their jokes and silliness, their earnest attention, their unexpected passions, their desire to pursue a deeper faith. I have been encouraged and inspired and incredibly blessed. As I was driving home, that is all I could think about my time in that place. I have been so blessed. I never would have imagined the friendships I have made. They have–you have–all exceeded my expectations and my greatest hopes for the kinds of people I would meet there. I will miss everyone very much. But I am glad for the opportunities we have had to touch each other’s lives and for the grace to see God working in those connections. No matter how small, one life touching another cannot help but make a difference. Love and blessings. Numbers 6:24-26.
It’s slowly starting to sink in.
We had our term end banquet last night. The residence where I used to live holds one every term, just after classes end and a few days before exams begin. It is always a lot of fun: a good excuse to get all dolled up, a delicious meal, speeches and thank-you’s, dessert, a talent show and a dance to finish things off. It’s a Mennonite residence (this, not this) and so the evening begins with a chapel service. It really hit during that service. The chaplain asked some graduating students to share something of their faith journeys during their time associated with the residence, and two of those students are very good friends of mine. Both speeches were delightful to listen to, but one hit close to home especially. He is currently one of my neighbours and I think we’re both at the same place as far as graduating goes. We’ve both lived as a part of this residence community for our whole undergrad, our friends are almost all mutual friends, and we’re both preparing to say goodbye to a place and a community that has become a family to us. I appreciate the chapel services because they allow for private reflection through corporate worship. In those reflections, I realized how much I am going to miss this place and these people.
The rest of the night was delightful. At the dance, I realized that my swing technique has improved since I first learned. A better indication of the grasp I am developing of dancing is that I realize, despite the improvement, how horrid my technique actually is… The technique class I sat in for this past weekend probably assisted that realization
I also have a lot of wonderful pictures from before and during the events of the night. I don’t think I’ve ever taken that many pictures at a term end banquet before.
Afterward (12:30 or 1:00am), we went back to the guys’ apartment and sat up talking and… *cough*watching YouTube videos*cough*… until 2 or 3 in the morning.
And now it is back to routine. It’s so strange to have that ending, that good bye, but to still have two weeks before actually leaving. (Only two weeks? Really?)
1 essay, 3 exams and several dozen goodbyes…
I feel the need to justify my choice of title, for it sounds to me more melancholy than I intend. I chose it because of the poetic, if somewhat cliché, nature of it.
My convocation ceremony is in a week.
Well, it isn’t the university convocation – I won’t be receiving my diploma – but it is a smaller ceremony with the residence I lived at in my first and second years (the residence that the apartment building I am currently living in is associated with). It will be a smaller ceremony, and each of the graduating students will say a very short sound byte of what their plans are for the future. It’s on my mind because some friends were asking when and where it was. If you’re a friend and would like to come but don’t know the details, send me a note and I’ll get them to you.
The past couple of weeks have felt a little strange. We’ve started reverting to first year in our behaviours; that is, playing cards on a regular basis, going out for ice cream or dinner, staying up late watching movies – all of those things that we stopped doing as the routine shifted more to schoolwork and household management. It’s been good, though, to get back to the fun, random things we used to do.
I was talking with another friend of mine who is graduating as well, and we agreed that a good balance was going to be difficult to find for the next couple of weeks. As much as we would like to study to do well on our exams, we also want to spend these next weeks with our friends, doing all of this random stuff.
It took all term, but I think with my speech, things are slowly starting to sink in. As much as it is the start of something new and (hopefully) exciting, it is also the end of something good, something that is going to be dearly missed.
I finished my presentation today. Which means I have 3 essays and 3 exams to go. I was talking with a friend and he said it sounded like a lot of work, but truly, this is the “easiest” term that I’ve had to contend with. Well, at least the term with the least amount of work. My exams are all at the end of the exam period, meaning I have two or three weeks to review my notes and catch up on any reading I’ve fallen behind on. The essays are all clustered, too, but they are, as far as I can tell, topics that I am interested in, so they should be fun to write.
I’ve realized that I actually don’t mind making presentations. In fact, I kind of like it. Strange.
On the topic of presentations, the dean of students at the residence where I used to live asked me to speak at a weekly supper the community has. There is always a speaker (or someone playing music or something along those lines) and there is always a good meal, and at the end of each year, the dean asks two or three of the graduating students to be the speaker for the last supper.
I guess what helps in the liking of presentations is that I don’t really get nervous. I don’t get nervous hardly at all leading up to the presentation. However, almost as soon as I get up there, I get nervous. My hands start shaking such that I am grateful of a podium on which to put whatever papers I may have. Or if I don’t get nervous, half-way through I start evaluating my own presentation: “oh, you said that too quickly”, “you put the emphasis on the wrong syllable”, “oh man, I wonder if people are finding this boring”, etc. The “boring” question almost always comes up. By the time I present, I’ve gone through the material so many times that I’ve forgotten why it captivated me. The good thing to remember is that, for the people listening, this is new material, so whatever wonder I may have lost in the topic due to familiarity hasn’t necessarily been lost in the audience. Hopefully it goes well.
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