whitney dziurawiec

There is something about sweatshirted, ponytailed Friday nights sipping orange juice in a coffee mug, doing homework in a post sickness-fighting nap oblivion because the weekend is threatening to be just as busy as the whirlwind week before it. I'm not sure what that something is, but I've read 3.5 of the four chapters I am supposed to read and threw my book down in a decided moment of rebellion: That's it I'm going to blog. Which was a big accomplishment for me, because this whole week I used my waterfall of activities as my perfect excuse to not write about what was mostly on my heart, because the things that were on my heart were...kind of embarrassing. Stuff I didn't exactly want to reveal to the entire world, but I knew that was the exact reason why I needed to reveal it. Christians have struggles we like to share, and ones we don't reveal, either because they make us look really bad, or they are so subtle we aren't even aware of them. Well God ma...

I stood staring at the empty coffee pot for a good two minutes before entering the classroom. No, no. NO. They didn't make coffee this morning. A voice that my imagination associated with a very attractive man's told me not to go. Go back to bed, Whitney. It isn't worth it. Philosophy of Christian Music ISN'T WORTH IT.  I fled the temptation Joseph-style, ignored the voice, and walked in, proud of my impeccable responsibility. Within minutes, I was desperately doodling drawings of Native Americans punishing baby seals for sneaking licks of their ice cream, and a camel's vocal concert for an audience of clocks, conducted by a bear and accompanied by a carrot playing the violin. Anything to keep my eyelids open. My half-shut eyes glanced up at the clock 9:08 am. An hour and twelve minutes left of this war with my eyeballs. I was weighing the various methods to keep myself awake as my eyes started crossing and my professor doubled, then tripled in front of me. He ...

I got caught between Summer and Fall's loud argument on my run today, as the summer sun singed my skin and the fall breeze tousled my hair. Summer is like that crazy aunt who won't leave when the party is clearly over. And the entire universe is getting sick of pleasantries and manners. Fall is about to take its predecessor's spotlight, and I was running through the midst of the awkward and marvelous conversation. And I don't like confrontation, but something about saying one final good-bye to heat and sweat, while simultaneously greeting the fall's cool temperatures was nothing like the usual disagreements I generally ignore. So I ran through the seasons' quarrel and John Piper was getting passionate. I smiled as the pain my stomach from the numerous potato chips I regretfully consumed the night before while camping subsided. I smiled because my miles to go were dwindling. I smiled because Fall was clearly winning this dispute I was caught between. I smiled ...

I have a Music History test tomorrow. I have a formal to plan. A musical to try out for (stop laughing). And all I can do is think about my various and contradicting dreams, both realistic and embarrassingly unattainable. Go to Boston. Be a cast member on Saturday Night Live. Have a rule made because of me. See someone come to know Jesus. Dye my hair red. Burn my choir dress. Be a missionary to Africa. Be a missionary with my husband and family to a suburban neighborhood and its hurting middle-class families. Get a tattoo (crap this is starting to sound like a walk to remember). Dance on the dock of a lake, music optional. Clothes also optional. Have a Christmas wedding, complete with bells. And trees. And snow. And deep, seductive reds. And a Christmas dance party. Do a World Race. Live barefoot. Play the drums. Be a children's choir conductor. Eat cheese in the Eiffel Tower. See the Loch Ness Monster. Run a marathon. Write a book. On s...

There is this one line of my Bach Fugue that I dread each time I play. And, though only six measures long, it has made me re-think my major basically every time I play it. It is like tax season. It has given me that same depressing feeling I get the day after Christmas. It's like that terrible blind date you're dreading but your friends are making you go on. It's like laundry day. the middle line. I'd rather bite my own fingers off. This is me attempting to play it. Let's all thank God my senior recital is six months away. Weren't you SO glad when it was over? Did you even make it through the whole thing? I'm not offended if you didn't. I hope that I got you to hate those six measures with the same passion I have. Anyways. I'm in love with blogs. Facebook is too stupid and I'm over Twitter and I've become addicted to other people's blogs. You should blog. Yes, you. And tell me about it so I can read it. I don't care w...