yard saling

i could be wrong, but i feel like the concept of a yard sale is purely American in its origin. let me just put all my used crap on my lawn and hope that some schmo wants to buy it is about as shameful as our other contribution to civilization, fast food. however this past saturday, I succumbed to the idea that one person's trash is another's treasure. then again, my stuff wasn't all trash, claimed my craigslist ad on Friday: "I'm not just selling junk people, I will be living out of a suitcase for a year, this stuff has got to go." so armed with pre-priced stickers and lots of small change, i sat outside from 7am to noon, watching people hem and haw over my belongings. Scott, those bike tubes sold in about 2 seconds. other hot items were any sort of jewelry, my John Williams CD, and the Nana and Bumba nesting tables...which I did NOT sell, but turned down a dozen times. all of my patrons were very friendly, with their good mornings and chit chat about the weather, and did not try to bargain prices too much. they ranged from little old ladies that could barely make it up my front step to young hipsters looking for cheap clothing and music. my last sale of a crate and barrel vase for five dollars rounded my earnings off at $100, which goes straight into my savings account for next summer's adventure. as a yard sale novice, i am pretty pleased with its success and if i come upon another time in my life when i want to rid myself of possessions, i may do it again.

cleaning house

It began with photos. I needed to begin the daunting task of perusing, disposing and organizing....my life. I would start with one corner of my room. To the right was my desk, which after two weeks and six exams, I did not feel like nearing. To the left, my bookcase, which although dusty, was seemingly neat. Atop it sat a bamboo box full of photos in disarray and I was aware of at least two other boxes filled to the brim with photos. Perfect. A stroll down memory lane is better than a trudge through tax returns. But it only began with photos. It soon became physical therapy binders, then toiletries and medicines expired in 2006, winter clothes not touched in the last two winters, CDs I'm almost ashamed to own...and yes Stephanie Shield Silvia Stout continued to take the garbage out.

Finally, I was back to square one: my desk. I first tackled a neon orange file folder, definitely from my UVA era, stuffed to the brim of not closing. I continued my purge of useless papers, including the Welcome to Bank of America folder from 2000. Shoved in the back I found a thick stack of papers and exams from previous schooling, obviously of which I was proud. Motor Learning Project: The Effects of Knowledge of Results on Rehabilitation Exercises. Wow. When we began this semester's Neuro Rehabilitation course with a section on motor learning, I vaguely remembered that I had taken an entire semester of that dreadful topic in college. I must have blocked out most of the experience. C+???? And I kept this?? I can only surmise that the class was challenging, not like a hard run on a humid day, more like pulling the splinters off a porcupine. Or that at one point in my life, I was ok with this average (gasp) grade. I laughed as I read in my own words the differences between intrinsic and extrinsic feedback. But I nearly hit the floor when I read, "However, studies have shown that although frequent and instantaneous KR enhances immediate performance, it is detrimental to long-term retention of a motor skill." Wasn't I just memorizing that (yet again) this past January? I think I may need a few more lessons on retention. I decided that, although according to my current standards that grade was certainly unacceptable, for some reason I kept it, and it stays. Next: A comparison of the Enzyme Alkaline Phosphatase and a Mutant Using Michaelis-Menten Kinetics, jigga-what??? Again, the 76% circled in red was at that point a grade to be proud of. But my experience in Bio Lab in my first semester at UVA is forever burned in my brain as one of the hardest courses of my life. Keep. Finally, a test from athletic training, 93%. That's more like it. The last group was a selection of tests from my Advanced Orthopedic Assessment course in grad school, taught by the renown Mike Gross, PT, PhD. The first test response began with the effects of lower limb amputation... I learned that? Before PT school? Enough to answer a question about it? Pressure ulcers? I didn't think these thoughts had been in my brain before last year. I also found the scoring sheet for the class's practical examination, where I had to perform an entire lower quarter assessment, 2 Mulligan techniques, and neural tensioning tests. Yes, I had remembered learning this material, but a practical examination?? No recollection. This puts two years of stress and pressure to get 95s on every written and practical examination into a little bit of perspective. I find it hard to believe that I will ever forget the nerves I felt preparing for my wound care practical, and how defeated I felt when my sterile field oh so gently grazed the non-sterile cart. Or how I had to fight back tears at the end of my final Rehab practical in the Nursing School because I thought I had done so poorly. Surely I must have felt this before facing Mike Gross. Surely. But now it is not even a distant memory, its no memory at all.

Over the past two years, I've been consoled and have consoled others during pre-exam stress that grades really don't matter, that you will never remember your grade on some insignificant test. Turns out, its true.

Sin Dirección

A few people have asked if I am going to write about my experiences in southwest Virginia this summer, especially with the news of my future two-bedroom trailer abode. I was hesitant, but since I am facing the beginning of an entire year without roots, I decided this may be an adventure worth telling. Thanks to mom for inspiring the title for this blog, which fit perfectly with an idea I had earlier today. I was chatting with my friend Percy from Perú and was explaining to him that I would be moving around for the next year. To say without an address in Spanish is "sin dirección," but I realized that this may give a false impression. Although I may be wandering physically, I don't think I have ever been a girl without direction.