Leave it Fast

A personal essay by Kate Blatter

“Comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love” -Song of Solomon 2:5

Photo by Michele Blackwell on Unsplash

My favorite fruit to eat is an orange, but you’ll never hear me say that out loud. I was born and raised in the state that produces the most apples in the nation, so for emotional reasons apples will always be my favorite. Although it's probably strange to base your favorite fruit on emotional reasons rather than tangible, palatable ones, in a way I think I have the same relationship with apples that other people have with their state’s sports team. I picture someone showing up to work on a Monday morning and saying, “Did you know the Seattle Seahawks won yesterday??” and I hear echoes of myself proudly saying, “Did you know Washington State University created a new breed of apples??” as if anyone would care as much about Cosmic Crisp apples as someone whose roots are planted firmly in Washington soil. 

The Language of Art

A personal essay by Ashley Hayes

“There are two distinct languages. There is the verbal, which separates people… and there is the visual that is understood by everybody.” - Yaacov Agam.

They used to say I’d be the next Picasso. I wasn’t actually an exceptionally good artist - adults just tend to say cliche things like that when any kid has an ounce of prospective talent in them. Although I had no desire to be anything like Picasso - no one’s face actually looks like that Picasso, come on - comments like that really made me proud, maybe even a bit too proud. Now, I might not have appreciated Picasso's work, but I wish I would have realized earlier that at least his work had something to say; at least it made me feel something (even if it was a feeling of disgust). My doodles of Disney characters and my abysmal block lettering couldn’t make anyone feel anything, even if they were especially good for someone my age.

Ritual

A personal essay by Sara McOmber

The actions I do every day—those mundane, repetitive tasks—create a life not of meaningless routine, but of accumulated, beautiful experiences.


All my life, I’ve been terrified of mediocrity. Failure, though scary, is not nearly as devastating as the
idea that I’ll be just average—someone that people meet and immediately forget. What could be worse than living out a simple life and then passing on, the world not any different for your having lived in it? This fear has led me to a disdain of routine. I’ve believed that days filled with the same actions couldn’t possibly add up to a unique or noteworthy life. If each day is the same, how could my life be special?

And a lot of what I do each day is the same.