“So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they're busy doing things they think are important. This is because they're chasing the wrong things. The way you get meaning into your life is to devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.”-- Morrie Schwartz
Ever since my return to the states, it's been unbelievably difficult to even fathom writing a blog. I'm pretty sure nothing my future holds for me will be as adventurous or monumental as "studying" abroad (there, I admit it- you don't actually study) had been.
However, as I returned to my sweet, humble roots of the best fly-over state there is (ok, bias), I've discovered how wonderful it truly is to be able to appreciate every single second of each day- whether or not you're floating in a gondola down a Venice canal, or simply just walking home listening to the hum of the nighttime bugs as you watch the flicker of a firefly glimmer past.
Because the excitement of my European days have come to an end, and I was all too suddenly left with an abundance of time on my hands, I decided to dig through my dad's bookshelf/Marine Corp Self-Shrine (ugh) in hopes of discovering something to fulfill my less-than invigorating days with. After moving around a few things, I picked up a book that looked interesting. Honestly, I picked it up because it had less than 200 pages and I figured that wouldn't be too ambitious- and I had recognized the title, Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom. I remember a few of my friends reading it years ago, (I was a wanna-be athlete with "no time" to free-read back in grade school- that's my excuse for waiting so long, ok?) and I figured it was about time I do something more productive than watch an absurd amount of Snapped marathons on Oxygen.
What I wasn't prepared for was the emotional commitment I was about to make. After recently finishing up The Fault in our Stars, by John Green, and having to physically force myself to choke back tears because apparently people get uncomfortable when you uncontrollably sob on a plane (unfair, Because it's Civil Rights, This is the 90s), I should have been prepared with another box of tissues. But I wasn't, which was a pretty regrettable decision considering I just soaked my pillow with a stream of heavy-steady tears. I've cried reading books and watching movies before, and no doubt I'll cry in the future (June 6th will be a nightmare), but while I was turning the final pages of this book, one trickle of a tear instantly lead to yet another uncontrollable flow of sobs, muffled only by the enclosed walls of my room.
For starters, if you haven't read this book, don't wait any longer. I had no idea that 198 pages could literally change my outlook on life and simply just pause and appreciate all the little things I have taken for granted. In a two sentence synopsis, an old college professor and his former student rekindle their friendship after the professor is diagnosed with ALS. In something of an unofficial "final thesis", the student takes his greatest lesson to date from his teacher: how to live, even when you're dying.
Mitch Albom, the former student, is a journalist with a way of making Morrie's words almost physically come to life, as if they were dancing on the page as you read them--not that the off-paper Morrie needed any added color to his bubbly character. It's inspiring to see the relationship between these men grow with each visit and lesson, all the while watching a self-evulation come to boil about what's really important in our time spent above ground: money? fame? career? According to Morrie, the only thing that makes a man rich is simply, love.
One of the most influential, inspirational and moving books I have ever read, and I can't wait to share it with the rest of the world (Even if I am years behind the curve on this one).
I'm pretty lucky to have my "own" Morrie in Mr. Scott Jespersen. A man who has celebrated my triumphs and mourned my tragedies with me since 8th grade. Whether we celebrate the memories of the past, or remember the lives of those we have lost, he's always up for sharing a Bruegger's Bagel with me in the teacher's break room. I dedicate this to you, Mr. J, you have played an unparalleled part in the development of my character and the encouragement of my dreams. You are one of the most influential people I have in my life, and I am beyond thankful to have had a seat in your classroom.
Ever since my return to the states, it's been unbelievably difficult to even fathom writing a blog. I'm pretty sure nothing my future holds for me will be as adventurous or monumental as "studying" abroad (there, I admit it- you don't actually study) had been.
However, as I returned to my sweet, humble roots of the best fly-over state there is (ok, bias), I've discovered how wonderful it truly is to be able to appreciate every single second of each day- whether or not you're floating in a gondola down a Venice canal, or simply just walking home listening to the hum of the nighttime bugs as you watch the flicker of a firefly glimmer past.
Because the excitement of my European days have come to an end, and I was all too suddenly left with an abundance of time on my hands, I decided to dig through my dad's bookshelf/Marine Corp Self-Shrine (ugh) in hopes of discovering something to fulfill my less-than invigorating days with. After moving around a few things, I picked up a book that looked interesting. Honestly, I picked it up because it had less than 200 pages and I figured that wouldn't be too ambitious- and I had recognized the title, Tuesdays with Morrie, by Mitch Albom. I remember a few of my friends reading it years ago, (I was a wanna-be athlete with "no time" to free-read back in grade school- that's my excuse for waiting so long, ok?) and I figured it was about time I do something more productive than watch an absurd amount of Snapped marathons on Oxygen.
What I wasn't prepared for was the emotional commitment I was about to make. After recently finishing up The Fault in our Stars, by John Green, and having to physically force myself to choke back tears because apparently people get uncomfortable when you uncontrollably sob on a plane (unfair, Because it's Civil Rights, This is the 90s), I should have been prepared with another box of tissues. But I wasn't, which was a pretty regrettable decision considering I just soaked my pillow with a stream of heavy-steady tears. I've cried reading books and watching movies before, and no doubt I'll cry in the future (June 6th will be a nightmare), but while I was turning the final pages of this book, one trickle of a tear instantly lead to yet another uncontrollable flow of sobs, muffled only by the enclosed walls of my room.
For starters, if you haven't read this book, don't wait any longer. I had no idea that 198 pages could literally change my outlook on life and simply just pause and appreciate all the little things I have taken for granted. In a two sentence synopsis, an old college professor and his former student rekindle their friendship after the professor is diagnosed with ALS. In something of an unofficial "final thesis", the student takes his greatest lesson to date from his teacher: how to live, even when you're dying.
Mitch Albom, the former student, is a journalist with a way of making Morrie's words almost physically come to life, as if they were dancing on the page as you read them--not that the off-paper Morrie needed any added color to his bubbly character. It's inspiring to see the relationship between these men grow with each visit and lesson, all the while watching a self-evulation come to boil about what's really important in our time spent above ground: money? fame? career? According to Morrie, the only thing that makes a man rich is simply, love.
One of the most influential, inspirational and moving books I have ever read, and I can't wait to share it with the rest of the world (Even if I am years behind the curve on this one).
I'm pretty lucky to have my "own" Morrie in Mr. Scott Jespersen. A man who has celebrated my triumphs and mourned my tragedies with me since 8th grade. Whether we celebrate the memories of the past, or remember the lives of those we have lost, he's always up for sharing a Bruegger's Bagel with me in the teacher's break room. I dedicate this to you, Mr. J, you have played an unparalleled part in the development of my character and the encouragement of my dreams. You are one of the most influential people I have in my life, and I am beyond thankful to have had a seat in your classroom.
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