Unhistoric acts.

I recently finished a book by George Eliot called Middlemarch. George Eliot had been recommended to me by a friend who loved Daniel Deronda. So when I found myself perusing my German friend's bookshelf in search for something to read while traveling the European countryside (:sigh:), I picked out the book described by Virginia Woolf as "one of the few English novels written for grown-up people." Yes, I just finished. Yes, it's been 9 months.

It took me awhile to get through because I didn't think the story was very captivating -- grown-up people books rarely are -- I kept reading, though, because I liked the author. I thought she had such interesting insight into human nature and the character of life. Take this, for example:

"Many souls in their young nudity are tumbled out among incongruities and left to 'find their feet' among them, while their elders go about their business. Some discouragement, some faintness of heart at the new real future which replaces the imaginary, is not unusual, and we do not expect people to be deeply moved by what is not unusual. That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency, has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence."

Mmm, delicious...but why am I dedicating a post to this book about which I feel so seemingly tepid? Because the last 60 pages of Middlemarch launched it into my top 5. Shocking, no? I thought so too.

I will try to explain.

This book is mostly about two characters, full of ardent potential, who strive to achieve greatness...and fail...sort of. The main character, Dorothea Brooke, is a wonderfully ideal and noble creature. "She yearned towards the perfect Right, that it might make a throne within her, and rule her errant will. 'What should I do -- how should I act now, this very day if I could clutch my own pain, and compel it to silence!'" she asks.

The climax of the book for me occurred as Dorothea committed a sublime, "self-subduing act of fellowship." She acted out of compassion and a sense of right, laying aside her wounded heart in order to spare others pain. She did not live an epic life. Her name was not heralded among martyrs and heroines. She was a failed Antigone, "foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness trembled off and were dispersed among hindrances, instead of centering in some long-recognizable deed."

"Her finely-touched spirit had still its fine issues, though they were not widely visible. Her full nature, like that river of which Cyrus broke the strength, spent itself in channels which had no great name on the earth."

Every once in awhile I want my life to be heroic. Historic. I want to change the world. But for me, like Dorothea, there will be no "constant unfolding of far-resonant action; perhaps only a life of mistakes." I do not expect my name to be trumpeted from rooftops or my life to be ideal or admirable. But I do hope that somewhere along the chalky white outline of my bumbling life I will have made a measurable difference to someone around me. That my memory will be held dear by those who really knew me.

There were some who considered Dorothea's life a tragedy, a waste of divine efficaciousness, and it would have been if it wasn't so nobly human. I wrote a post a couple years ago about a song someone performed in church. I want my life to be that song and this book and her character -- imperfect, but moving. The wonderful thing about Dorothea was that, "The effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts."

And that's what I'm depending on, too.

I (build) robots.

For NerdFest 2011, also known as the university's Design Day, I was required to build a robot for my Mechatronics class. The basic requirements were that it had to be controlled remotely and that it must be able to grab a ball and put it in a basket. The designs were really quite varied. Some opted to shoot the ball, some used a vacuum to pick the ball up, one team made a small elevator lift, and another team hooked up two measuring tapes to the basket so that wherever the ball was picked up it could be immediately sent along this track to the basket. Pretty ingenious...when it worked.

I have a 70-something-year old teacher who is known for asking, "What's the best kind of engineer?" The answer -- a lazy one. So in the spirit of the legendary Larry DeVries, my team opted for something simple.

We attached a tupperware container, split down the middle, to the end of a rotatable arm. The tupperware could open and close and the arm would rotate back to dump the ball in the basket. Simple, right?

It was also BEDAZZLED -- not my idea, though I fully supported it.

It turns out this design ended up being the most successful. Our robot was among the top 4 scoring robots out of 36 teams. The top two robots were based on the same idea as ours...they were just better. We made it to the 3rd round where we lost because our driver choked. Choked! When pseudo-victory was within our grasp!

Unfortunately, the 1st place robot outscored everyone by about 10 baskets so there wasn't actually much of a chance to come out on top. Overachievers. For building a robot with tupperware as one of its major components, I'd say we did pretty well.

And now? Back to doing problems like this:

A weekend with Dad.

This last weekend my dad flew out to run the SLC half marathon with my sister and my cousin. The night before the race we went out for a late night carbo load at IHOP. I was tempted to get this:

Mmmmm...breakfast AND lunch!

The next morning I went out to see if I could catch a few action photos. What I got was this (mile 7):

Your guess is as good as mine...

My dad finished the race and I stole his medal so I could get a massage. Thanks, Dad!

Er, well...that's not actually true. I waited in line for a massage...I wanted a massage...I did run a little bit...plus, I had a polypro shirt on. I looked like a runner. Minus the sandals. Anyway, I didn't do it. I felt bad taking the spot away from an actual runner. I also didn't want to have to chit chat about the race. "So, how did it go?" "It was great! Didn't even break a sweat...!"

My dad was so worn out I thought it was the perfect time to lure him to the Apple Store for this:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am now the proud owner of a Macbook Pro...plus a wireless printer.

So, Dad...you coming out next year?

Getting older.

I find it difficult to keep track of the passage of time. Sure I'm getting older, yes things are happening, but time is like this amorphous enigma housed in an illusory-scented intangible. It's true, I can no longer put my socks on the way I used to -- I can't bend that much anymore. Pretty soon I'll have to heave myself out of chairs and fall slowly into them. Other than that, though, not much has changed. I don't really look different (I don't, ok?) and every year kind of seems the same...just like my bedroom, which hasn't changed since I moved in as a fresh college grad. Spiderman poster and all.

This isn't generally an issue, except when I need to confirm that I am, in fact, myself and not a better looking impostor. One day I called the IRS for information on my taxes, and they asked me where I worked in 2008. Um...I'm sorry, when? I couldn't think of any answers...so we accidentally got cut off...oops. Bye!

The solution?

Babies.

People need to have more babies. They're like living clocks. My trip to Greece was pretty epic but it's not continually getting older before my eyes so I have no idea how long ago it was. I find myself looking at my friends who are having babies and second babies and thinking, "Wow, it's really been a year?" Or 2 or 18. It's a great measuring tool!

My little brother is graduating from high school this summer. This is a picture from when he was born:

We were all really excited...

Yes, I'm the one on the right. Kathryn, the sibling next to me, is the one getting married. Crrrrrazy. Off to college, Jamesy. Off to woo girls. Off to conquer the world.

And now, I have my own little drooling timepiece. Well...kind of. On September 2 I became a god-aunt. I don't care what her parents say, she's even named after me.

Meet Nora Jane Alene:

That was at about 2 1/2 months. Here she is at 7:

Babies, babies, babies!

There...now you can consider this an official blog.

Everything is about to change.

The end of an era has come. In 4 months time my family, as I know it, will be gone -- changed forever by the face of one who doesn't yet belong.

My sister is engaged.

I am the second oldest of 8 unmarried kids and have often wondered how a newcomer would change our family dynamics. Naturally, I'm skeptical...and maybe a little protective of this family I adore so much. I'm trying to be open and supportive, but mostly I feel like this:

You can't have her.

Yes, yes, I am happy for her. Of course I am. Theoretically I can't wait until we're all married. In practice, however, I don't like the idea of having to share her with anyone else's family. Not at all. Call me selfish but bears eat beets. It's the truth.

Admittedly, it's also a little strange to think that my 19-year-old sister knows more about love and successful relationships than I, in my recently budding 28-year-old-ness, have had the opportunity to learn. But don't think that I'm struggling with some ummarried-older-sister complex. Or an overuse-of-hyphens complex. I always knew it would happen this way.

So three cheers for Kathryn! Three cheers for officially becoming an aunt someday! (I'm getting tired of scavenging other people's children, you see.) Three cheers for another James in the family! (I will really need to figure out how to pluralize that name... Your James or our James? Both James'sss''ss's's'sss's.) And...three cheers for me! (This blog isn't about anyone else, after all.)