And tell me what’s inside.

Refresh my heart with truth

with truth, please, and do not lie.

Sing my soul to me

You know, you’d be the first.

Fulfill it with a melody,

Set a key, lift the confusion curse.

I know myself like the world,

Not fully but no stranger

Maybe, each other we can help

“Sharing’s life’s sweet necter.”

All this is nice to say,

But I wish for the thing to do,

To unite my heart and hands,

A clear thing to be; that’d be something new.

Weeding through thousands of options, you finally settle on a handful of colleges or universities to apply to. Here the trail through the valley becomes a trail of paper; tests, applications, essays, forms, pamphlets and brochures. Finally, the deadlines are met, if not on the very second.

Did I mention there is a canyon in this valley? Yes, you drop into it suddenly and find yourself waiting… in the dark. The future it seems will be decided on if the educating group will accept the learning individual.

During this dark waiting time, the high school student often thinks twice about going to college. “Is it going to be too hard? Will I fail? What if my roommate smells funny or hogs the bathroom or is the exact personality opposite? And worst of all, what will they do to the incoming freshman?”

As best as possible the poor, emotionally traumatized student ignores the doubts and focuses on finishing High school. Oh yeah, you’ll need that little piece of paper before stepping foot into a college classroom.

All the while, your parents mailbox has become your mailbox as colleges and universities you never heard of send you brochures and pamphlets by the dozens shouting “Pick us! Pick us!”

But at last, the first letter comes. You’re accepted! Hooray, you’re not a total failure! Then the second letter politely but firmly rejects you. Oh, the pain! But you say to your friends and family, “It makes deciding between the colleges easier. I really didn’t like that one anyway.”

Eventually, the trail will bump you back up on the grassy valley. All your little ducks are now in a row. You must pick between the remaining colleges.

Intro the visitations. Here you puddle jump. Yes, it rained while you were in the canyon. Dressed up for the occasion with clean notebook and sharpened pencil in hand, you take the campus tour. Then you meet with the heads of the departments and the students. “Gosh,” you say, “this one seems pretty good, everyone loves it here!”

The second visitation, you leave off your high heels, or tie, and realize besides a few minor differences, a campus is a campus no matter where it is.

The third one, if you happen to be so lucky, you arrive in sneakers and a t-shirt with three travel mugs of double-shot coffee. You no longer have rose-colored glasses. All professors are biased, and you can bet your high school cap and gown that the brainwashed students will give no help.

After the puddles, the trail splits in twenty-five directions. Each has its pros and cons. Most likely, every influential adult in your life is telling you something different. “Go for a state college, its cheaper.” “Private college has the best education.” “Stay close to home, relationships are important.” “Study abroad, become your true self.”

You shut off the noise and listen for that inner voice… which has gone on strike for the year, thank you very much.

You choose. And off you step with the final stroke of your signature on the enrollment form and you pray that you have not just sold your soul to the devil.

Looking back you see the valley. You see where you were and you have absolutely no clue where you are going. But still, your youthful dreams are optimistic.

Don’t worry, you have a back up plan! You can always transfer.

“So sorry! It was an accident really!” The someone helped me to my feet.

I wasn’t surprised to see my friend Stacey. Stacey can put clumsy to shame standing on one foot, which was probably how she bumped into me in the first place.

“Besides ruining my appetite for cereal, you didn’t hurt a thing,” I assured her.

We talked small talk and then she asked January’s most popular question. “What’s your new year’s resolution?”

I’m sure on the outside, my eyes glazed over. On the inside, I was busy rummaging through a dusty ol’ box labeled New Year in the attic of my brain. Amidst party favors, sparklers, and parade floats, I found not one resolution.

“Where’d you go, Sophy?” asked Stacey. “Actually, I don’t want to know.”

I resurfaced to the world of reality. “I don’t have any New Year’s Resolutions.”

Now we had one of those suddenly quiet moments where two people stare at each other, I with my completely normal face, and my friend with a completely baffled face.

The one with the baffled face broke the silence. “Everyone has them, its tradition! This year I have resolved to give up cooking.”

“That will definitely cut down on humanity’s gag rate.”

“And last year I quit exercising.”

“I remember exercising was quite the trendy resolution.”

“I was in rebellion.”

“Still are.”

“But I’ve gotten better.” She grinned. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, Stace, I’m having a hard enough time surviving life. I don’t feel like adding a silly New Year resolution.”

Stacey waved her hand dismissively, knocking over a cardboard case of batteries. “Its fun. Besides, no one keeps them.”

I caught the cardboard case and set it up again. “Then what’s the point?”

“Its tradition, like the knitted socks my grandma makes for me every Christmas and the cranberry sauce that no one eats at thanksgiving. Traditions aren’t supposed to be purposeful.”

“It would be grand if every year people made a resolution to do something better in their lives and kept it.”

Stacey sighed. “You mean, like keep my promise? For 365 days?”

“It only takes around 21 days for something to become a habit. If you don’t cook for three weeks, it will be such a habit you’ll have to cook for three more weeks to break it again.

Stacey squinted her eyes and looked at me sideways. “Say I crave chocolate tomorrow night and no one else is in the house and there’s no premade brownies? What do I do then?”

“Bump into me again tomorrow and I’ll have some tips for you.”

“It’s a deal. But what about your resolution?”

“My resolution is to hold you to yours!”

The next day, I gained another bruise as clumsy Stacey took my invitation literally. Here are the tips I gave Stacey.

Resolution Tips

1. Be realistic. Don’t set yourself up to fail.
2. Write them down. Seeing it on paper reaffirms the resolution.
3. Plan. A step-by-step strategy eases that scary feeling people get when thinking about the future.
4. Talk about it. The more people know about your resolution, the more motivation you have.
5. Beware the despair! Don’t give up. Even if you break your resolution, keep at it. It takes practice to accomplish anything.

Good luck all you New Year resoluters!

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The copy of Dimensions goes to Savanna of Indiana!

I am not your average teen. For one, I like sticking out in the crowd, not the typical annoyingly out-going person. I’m the one who answers rhetorical questions, interrupts frequently with sarcastic remarks, and spits out randomly philosophical questions during those peaceful lulls in conversations. Yep, you could no more keep my mouth shut than dry up Niagara Falls. I tried, really I did, and I turned so purple holding back that sarcastic comment that my friend thought I was chocking and decided it was an opportune moment to practice the Heimlich maneuver.

In addition to my well developed, but not too proper, verbal abilities, I have a high intolerance to clichés and predictabilities. I just want things to be excellent.

The combination of my intolerance, my sarcasm, and the inability to keep such sarcastic remarks to myself has alienated me from outings to the movie theatre. “Sorry Sophy,” my friend’s will say, “but we really want to finish the movie without you predicting the ending or making fun of plot improbabilities.”

My family doesn’t allow me to hold the remote anymore, which I think is completely undeserved. I only fast-forward the lovey, gag reflex-exercising moments. Like I said, I just want things to be excellent.

Lately, my new talent is wall painting. As oldest child in the house (my older siblings are graduated, employed, or married, and sometimes all three) my mom drafted me for the job of painting my ten-year-old sister’s room.

“Lovely,” I muttered to myself as I hauled our rickety green ladder up the stairs. With a little less grace than intended, I banged open the bedroom door with my elbow and nearly dropped the paint can on my foot.

“Look what the cat drug in.” Anna, my positive, encouraging little sister said as she looked up from braiding her doll’s hair.

“As opposed to what the dog dragged in, or an alligator, or a hippopotamus. Why is it always a cat?” Setting down the ladder, I kicked her toys out of the way to clear a spot for the tarp.

“People don’t have pet alligators.”

“We had a pet goose once. You’re gonna’ have to clear out or help.”

Not wanting to leave the fate of her room to her extremely responsible sibling, Anna grabbed a paint roller.

For three days we struggled with the room, trying to get the mango orange paint to cover evenly and stay off the white trim. All the while the music playlist kept hopping from epic movie soundtracks, my pick, to tweener bopping songs, Anna’s pick. Ah, the joys of sibling rivalries.

“Why do you like that stuff?” I asked.

Anna looked at me for a second and her orange paintbrush strayed off the wall and over the white floorboard. “Why do you like stupid soundtracks?”

I tossed her the wet rag. “Because they have skill and class, because they tell stories.”

“I think they stink.”

I responded with a completely mature gesture, I stuck out my tongue. “When you’re older you’ll realize what real music is.”

“Soundtracks are boring.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m done arguing with you.”

“No you’re not!”

And so we fought.

After the walls were finished, I banned my sister from touching another paintbrush. On the evening of the fourth day I fixed the edging and put the finishing touches to the vibrant boudoir.

Anna beamed. “This is excellent!”

I scanned the mostly white floorboards, and the unevenly coated orange walls.

Anna didn’t seem to notice the flaws. “Excellent with a capitol A!”

Have I mentioned my little sister isn’t a very good speller?

Ten-year-old kids don’t notice problems easily; they don’t even critique each other. At first I figured that undeveloped minds haven’t acquired a taste for excellence yet. But then it hit me that Anna was smiling and dancing around her newly decorated room while I stood with my arms crossed, getting paint on my shirt as I leaned forgetfully on the wet wall. Anna was the one who had the joy, the child-like wonder, and the excitement.

Pulling paint off the wall as I straightened, I gave my little sister a high five.

Yep, people make mistakes, and as long as there are humans to notice them, there will be problems. But there is more to me than the expectation of perfection. There is an abandoned joy, an undignified excitement for living, and a complete acceptance of who I am, mistakes and talents together. And that is excellent, excellent with a capitol A.

Good-bye for now,

Sophy