I love romance.
I am that sappy, soft-hearted girl who swoons over Hallmark movies and loves to guess the occasion upon seeing a man carrying a bouquet of flowers. Helping orchestrate my roommate's proposal filled me with so much joy that you'd think I was the one being proposed to, and whenever wedding or engagement photos pop up on Facebook, I just get all fuzzy and warm inside. I just love love.
I've been this way since childhood. I remember playing Barbies with my friends and being unnaturally concerned that Barbie and Ken were going to have a happily ever after. And when Ken dolls were in short supply, you'd better believe I snatched one up as fast as possible to avoid the unthinkable fate of my Barbie ending up a lonely spinster with a pink, sequin-studded dress. The mere thought filled me with horror.
And despite all that, I think it's time I shed my identity as a hopeless romantic. I've been called that time and time again, and, on many occasions, I've slapped myself with that particular moniker without giving it a second thought. But now that I really think about it, the term hopeless romantic is rather negative. I don't like it, because it seems to imply that being a romantic is a cause that is without hope. It implies that romance will never be what I want it to be.
And I reject that. You can call me idealistic or naive all you want, but from here on out, I want to be known as a hopeful romantic. Because I believe in romance.
Let's get a few things straight: when I saw that I believe in romance, I don't mean that I believe in the happy sunshine, rainbows and unicorns and cupcakes with sprinkles version of romance that movies and books throw at us. Do I enjoy indulging in a completely unrealistic, fluffy romcom? Yes, sirree. But do I actually think that's what romance is? Absolutely not.
True romance—the romance that I believe in and that I hope to have someday—isn't about meet-cutes and killer dresses and picture perfect plot lines. Real romance is full of stumbling blocks and stepping stones and compromise and care. Real romance is choosing to fall in love more each day and being sympathetic to the humanness in your partner.
I'm certainly no expert in romance, and I'm more than likely completely ill-equipped to be telling anybody anything about what romance is. But even though I'm young and inexperienced in the romance department, I've been surrounded by ideal examples of romance, even if the moments I've witnessed will never grace the big screen.
I believe in romance because I've never heard my parents speak an unkind word to one another and because my dad always makes sure to find my mom first thing when he comes home from work so he can kiss her hello and because when my father lost his job, my mom stopped buying bread and started making it from scratch.
I see romance in the way that my maternal grandmother selflessly aids my frail grandfather, whose health is deteriorating and who is in need of more and more assistance as the days and weeks go on. She serves him without complaint or seeking pity, and I don't know what's more romantic than that.
I believe in romance each time I see the young father in my ward take their squirmy toddler from his wife so that she can focus on church without having to constantly track the movements of an active, curious, and unbelievably adorable little girl. And I believe in romance whenever the wife speaks about her family, and you just know that her husband and baby are her entire world.
I see romance in the way that my sister-in-law works hard at a job that doesn't represent true passion so that she can support my brother while he is getting a degree in a field he's passionate about and in the fact that she was willing to move to the Arctic tundra of Michigan so that he could follow his dreams.
Romance isn't flowers and boxes of chocolates and extravagant dates. Romance is bringing Gatorade and soup when your girlfriend has food poisoning and can't move without becoming incredibly nauseated. It's the small acts of service, the selflessness, the sacrifice for the greater good. Romance is trusting another person with your deepest feelings and letting yourself be vulnerable. It's knowing when to speak reassuring words, when to listen, and when to simply sit in silence and just enjoy being together. It's loving each other on our best days and worst days and days in between.
That's what romance is to me. And I believe in that.
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label thoughts. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Saturday, March 28, 2015
understanding ophelia
This semester, I find myself once again trudging through one of Shakespeare's most famous tragedies—Hamlet. This is my third time being assigned this particular play, and upon learning I would be required to read it again, I was a little deflated. I'm not the biggest fan of Shakespeare, to be completely honest, and, in the past, I've struggled quite a bit with this particular play in large part because of Ophelia.
Oh, Ophelia. I've always viewed her as weak, spineless, and a titch whiny. I like strong female characters, and Ophelia has never fit that mold for me. When I mentioned to a friend that we had been reading Hamlet out loud in class, and he asked if I was reading the part of Ophelia, for a few seconds I was tempted to be genuinely offended. I didn't want to be associated with Ophelia, even if the only reason he asked was because she was the only female character whose name he could remember. (And to be fair, Gertrude is the only other lady in the play, and I care for her even less.)
My perceptions of Ophelia have been in part due to the person teaching the play. The first time I read Hamlet, I was being taught by an individual who, in my personal opinion, had no business teaching Shakespeare (or much of anything literary, for that matter). And the second time, it was taught by a staunch Ophelia-hater. In that class, our discussions about Ophelia often veered in the direction of Shang chastising his rag tag army in Mulan ("you're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot, and you haven't got a clue"). Naturally that did nothing to endear Ophelia to me.
But this time around, my experiences with Hamlet have been different. This time, I'm not reading the play for a literature class. Rather, it's for an Early Modern English class, so our biggest focus in reading is really digging deep into the text to uncover the original meaning of the text and identifying characteristics from the EME period. I first thought this practice would be sterile and formulaic; I thought my experience would be restricted to only vocabulary and sentence structure and rhetorical devices. But I was wrong. A closer reading of Hamlet has helped me understand the characters—particularly Ophelia—in a way I never have before. This deep reading paired with the guidance of a professor who is deeply sympathetic to Ophelia has completely altered my perspectives of one of Shakespeare's most famous leading ladies.
Ophelia isn't weak. She's not whiny. She's not an airhead who is incapable of forming her own thoughts.
Ophelia is trapped. She's scared. She's been stripped of power due to her position in society. She's in love with a man she cannot have and who has suddenly begun to act as though he hates her. She's torn between two commandments—Thou shalt not bear false witness and Honor thy father and thy mother—and she can't keep both. Ophelia is sweet, thoughtful, and Christ-like. Even in the midst of one of Hamlet's tirades against her (with her father and the king listening in, no less), she offers prayer. And she doesn't just pray—she prays for Hamlet, the man who is insulting her and forcing her away. In her next encounter with Hamlet—the one in which he is insulting, demeaning, raunchy, and flat out inappropriate—she conducts herself with an enviable level of grace and poise. To put it in the language of the current century, Ophelia is a boss.
Walking home from class on Tuesday, I found myself pondering my newly sympathetic feelings toward Ophelia. And as ridiculous as it may sound, I felt guilty for having judged Ophelia so harshly in the past. Because while Ophelia is a fictional character who doesn't really exist, in that moment she represented all the people I've come in contact with who I didn't take the time to understand and who I unfairly judged in part due to the opinions of others.
There is Ophelia in all of us, meaning that we may all come across as something less than what we are. We all have quirks, nuances, and idiosyncrasies that can lead others to misunderstand or underestimate us. We all deserve time and consideration to be put into understanding us, and none of us deserves to be written off as weak or worthless. Many of us are victims of circumstance, just as Shakespeare's Ophelia is. Many of us are trying our very hardest to do what's right even when everything is working against us. We secretly forgive those who are unkind to us, we hold onto our faith, and we love deeply.
I am Ophelia. You are Ophelia. We are ALL Ophelia. And because of this, we all know what it feels like to be judged and mistreated and underestimated and disliked. So I reckon it's time that we all take a strand and do something about it. When the Ophelia in your friend comes out, don't give up on him or her. Listen, and try to understand.
I certainly don't want to miss out on what could be an amazing friendship or opportunity for growth because I couldn't look past the Ophelia in somebody. Even now I'm a little disheartened thinking about all the friendships I may have already ended before they began due to my inability to look past an initial impression of a person or an introduction from a biased critic.
The original title of this post was "Forgiving Ophelia." But as I pondered and wrote and rewrote, I realized that the fault didn't lie with Ophelia at all. I had nothing to forgive. The fault was within me, and so I gave myself a slap on the wrist, amended the title, and considered what I wanted to change
I want to see the good in people more easily. I want to give second chances and third chances and fourth chances. I want to give the benefit of the doubt, assume the best, and love without hesitation.
I want to understand Ophelia.
Oh, Ophelia. I've always viewed her as weak, spineless, and a titch whiny. I like strong female characters, and Ophelia has never fit that mold for me. When I mentioned to a friend that we had been reading Hamlet out loud in class, and he asked if I was reading the part of Ophelia, for a few seconds I was tempted to be genuinely offended. I didn't want to be associated with Ophelia, even if the only reason he asked was because she was the only female character whose name he could remember. (And to be fair, Gertrude is the only other lady in the play, and I care for her even less.)
My perceptions of Ophelia have been in part due to the person teaching the play. The first time I read Hamlet, I was being taught by an individual who, in my personal opinion, had no business teaching Shakespeare (or much of anything literary, for that matter). And the second time, it was taught by a staunch Ophelia-hater. In that class, our discussions about Ophelia often veered in the direction of Shang chastising his rag tag army in Mulan ("you're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot, and you haven't got a clue"). Naturally that did nothing to endear Ophelia to me.
But this time around, my experiences with Hamlet have been different. This time, I'm not reading the play for a literature class. Rather, it's for an Early Modern English class, so our biggest focus in reading is really digging deep into the text to uncover the original meaning of the text and identifying characteristics from the EME period. I first thought this practice would be sterile and formulaic; I thought my experience would be restricted to only vocabulary and sentence structure and rhetorical devices. But I was wrong. A closer reading of Hamlet has helped me understand the characters—particularly Ophelia—in a way I never have before. This deep reading paired with the guidance of a professor who is deeply sympathetic to Ophelia has completely altered my perspectives of one of Shakespeare's most famous leading ladies.
Ophelia isn't weak. She's not whiny. She's not an airhead who is incapable of forming her own thoughts.
Ophelia is trapped. She's scared. She's been stripped of power due to her position in society. She's in love with a man she cannot have and who has suddenly begun to act as though he hates her. She's torn between two commandments—Thou shalt not bear false witness and Honor thy father and thy mother—and she can't keep both. Ophelia is sweet, thoughtful, and Christ-like. Even in the midst of one of Hamlet's tirades against her (with her father and the king listening in, no less), she offers prayer. And she doesn't just pray—she prays for Hamlet, the man who is insulting her and forcing her away. In her next encounter with Hamlet—the one in which he is insulting, demeaning, raunchy, and flat out inappropriate—she conducts herself with an enviable level of grace and poise. To put it in the language of the current century, Ophelia is a boss.
Walking home from class on Tuesday, I found myself pondering my newly sympathetic feelings toward Ophelia. And as ridiculous as it may sound, I felt guilty for having judged Ophelia so harshly in the past. Because while Ophelia is a fictional character who doesn't really exist, in that moment she represented all the people I've come in contact with who I didn't take the time to understand and who I unfairly judged in part due to the opinions of others.
There is Ophelia in all of us, meaning that we may all come across as something less than what we are. We all have quirks, nuances, and idiosyncrasies that can lead others to misunderstand or underestimate us. We all deserve time and consideration to be put into understanding us, and none of us deserves to be written off as weak or worthless. Many of us are victims of circumstance, just as Shakespeare's Ophelia is. Many of us are trying our very hardest to do what's right even when everything is working against us. We secretly forgive those who are unkind to us, we hold onto our faith, and we love deeply.
I am Ophelia. You are Ophelia. We are ALL Ophelia. And because of this, we all know what it feels like to be judged and mistreated and underestimated and disliked. So I reckon it's time that we all take a strand and do something about it. When the Ophelia in your friend comes out, don't give up on him or her. Listen, and try to understand.
I certainly don't want to miss out on what could be an amazing friendship or opportunity for growth because I couldn't look past the Ophelia in somebody. Even now I'm a little disheartened thinking about all the friendships I may have already ended before they began due to my inability to look past an initial impression of a person or an introduction from a biased critic.
The original title of this post was "Forgiving Ophelia." But as I pondered and wrote and rewrote, I realized that the fault didn't lie with Ophelia at all. I had nothing to forgive. The fault was within me, and so I gave myself a slap on the wrist, amended the title, and considered what I wanted to change
I want to see the good in people more easily. I want to give second chances and third chances and fourth chances. I want to give the benefit of the doubt, assume the best, and love without hesitation.
I want to understand Ophelia.
Friday, February 13, 2015
to act
In my younger years, I fancied myself a bit of a budding actor. This all kicked off in the fifth grade when I landed the coveted role of Mrs. Claus in the annual fifth grade Christmas musical. This was also, coincidentally, the high point of my "acting career."
I dabbled with speech and drama my first year of middle school. At some point—I genuinely don't remember how old I was when this occurred—I attended a week-long drama day camp at a local park whose pinnacle was a cheesy little production of The Tortoise and the Hare (or some fable-y type play) put on for our parents. In high school I had a teeny, tiny role in the drama department's less-than-sub-par performance of Inherit the Wind. (Having sat through many rehearsals, I can vouch that it is a very boring play. But the rights to the play were free, and we needed very few costumes/props, and we were a brand new school with zero money.)
It was at that point that I realized I am far too uptight, introverted, and resistant to let loose for the theater. And that was okay.
But whether I (or anybody else for that matter) ever perform on a stage or behind a camera, we are all actors. We all act. My good friend Merriam-Webster (sorry not sorry to be that person) states quite simply that the word act means "the doing of a thing" or "the process of doing." It doesn't get much clearer than that, folks. We all act.
The scriptures state that because Christ redeemed us, people are "free forever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves and not to be acted upon." (2 Nephi 2:26) The whole concept of acting versus being acted upon has been one on my mind lately, mostly, I think, because I'm trying to take more control of my life and my actions.
It's really easy for me to let life happen to me, if that makes sense. I'm one to get frustrated about a situation but not do anything to fix it. I tend to stick to the sidelines and let other people do the acting. This is true to the extent that my good friend and I have a running joke that my memoir should be called Life in the Sidelines. In short, I'm really, really good at being acted upon.
And that's really, really bad, which is why I'm fighting my natural tendency to let life happen. I don't want to look back someday and wonder what would have happened if I just did more instead of letting things happen. And if that's not motivation enough, all I have to do is remember that one of the reasons Christ suffered and died for me is so that I could have the freedom and the power to make my own choices and choose my own actions. If He was willing to suffer and bleed and die for that, then I think it's worth making acting for myself a priority.
My campaign against can't is one of my steps to becoming an agent in my life instead of a bystander. Eliminating as much self-doubt as I can and granting myself the opportunity to try (and maybe fail) is in itself a way that I'm consciously choosing to act instead of being acted upon.
To be honest, the very things that made me unfit for the stage (especially the introvertedness) are the same things that make taking charge and acting very difficult for me. Even when I know exactly what I want, trying to find the courage to act—to do something about it—is often a very long, anxiety-ridden process. But it's something I'm working on, one wobbly baby step at a time. And when I say baby steps, I really mean baby steps—some of the "challenges" I've tackled lately include approaching a stranger to have a casual conversation, signing up for a 10K, and inviting an acquaintance-but-not-quite-friend over to a movie night.
And as much as I hatehatehate change, I know it's time for some pretty major ones. I'm at a point on the road of life that has alternate roads branching off in countless directions—I have so many options to learn and grown and change that will all be wasted if I don't take some responsibility and control of my life.
The time to be acted upon is passed, and the time to act is upon me. So I guess I'm going to have to buck up, and taking some wise pearls of wisdom from Nike, just do it.
Introvertedness, anxiety, and uptightness, and all.
I dabbled with speech and drama my first year of middle school. At some point—I genuinely don't remember how old I was when this occurred—I attended a week-long drama day camp at a local park whose pinnacle was a cheesy little production of The Tortoise and the Hare (or some fable-y type play) put on for our parents. In high school I had a teeny, tiny role in the drama department's less-than-sub-par performance of Inherit the Wind. (Having sat through many rehearsals, I can vouch that it is a very boring play. But the rights to the play were free, and we needed very few costumes/props, and we were a brand new school with zero money.)
It was at that point that I realized I am far too uptight, introverted, and resistant to let loose for the theater. And that was okay.
But whether I (or anybody else for that matter) ever perform on a stage or behind a camera, we are all actors. We all act. My good friend Merriam-Webster (sorry not sorry to be that person) states quite simply that the word act means "the doing of a thing" or "the process of doing." It doesn't get much clearer than that, folks. We all act.
The scriptures state that because Christ redeemed us, people are "free forever, knowing good from evil; to act for themselves and not to be acted upon." (2 Nephi 2:26) The whole concept of acting versus being acted upon has been one on my mind lately, mostly, I think, because I'm trying to take more control of my life and my actions.
It's really easy for me to let life happen to me, if that makes sense. I'm one to get frustrated about a situation but not do anything to fix it. I tend to stick to the sidelines and let other people do the acting. This is true to the extent that my good friend and I have a running joke that my memoir should be called Life in the Sidelines. In short, I'm really, really good at being acted upon.
And that's really, really bad, which is why I'm fighting my natural tendency to let life happen. I don't want to look back someday and wonder what would have happened if I just did more instead of letting things happen. And if that's not motivation enough, all I have to do is remember that one of the reasons Christ suffered and died for me is so that I could have the freedom and the power to make my own choices and choose my own actions. If He was willing to suffer and bleed and die for that, then I think it's worth making acting for myself a priority.
My campaign against can't is one of my steps to becoming an agent in my life instead of a bystander. Eliminating as much self-doubt as I can and granting myself the opportunity to try (and maybe fail) is in itself a way that I'm consciously choosing to act instead of being acted upon.
To be honest, the very things that made me unfit for the stage (especially the introvertedness) are the same things that make taking charge and acting very difficult for me. Even when I know exactly what I want, trying to find the courage to act—to do something about it—is often a very long, anxiety-ridden process. But it's something I'm working on, one wobbly baby step at a time. And when I say baby steps, I really mean baby steps—some of the "challenges" I've tackled lately include approaching a stranger to have a casual conversation, signing up for a 10K, and inviting an acquaintance-but-not-quite-friend over to a movie night.
And as much as I hatehatehate change, I know it's time for some pretty major ones. I'm at a point on the road of life that has alternate roads branching off in countless directions—I have so many options to learn and grown and change that will all be wasted if I don't take some responsibility and control of my life.
The time to be acted upon is passed, and the time to act is upon me. So I guess I'm going to have to buck up, and taking some wise pearls of wisdom from Nike, just do it.
Introvertedness, anxiety, and uptightness, and all.
Monday, February 9, 2015
can't
Spend a few minutes in a grammar, usage, or editing class, and you'd better believe you're going to get at least one pretty little lecture about the difference between can and may.
Can, they'll tell you, means that you are able to do something. ("I can ride a bike.")
May, on the other hand, indicates permission or possibility. ("You may do that."/ "It may happen.")
At this point prescriptivists get all high and mighty about maintaining "proper" usage and descriptivists go on a cranky rampage about how language changes and prescriptivists should just unwad their panties and join the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake.
And though I'm a good little ELang major and have taken grammar, usage, and editing classes galore and have heard the soap box rants about linguistic purity and the grumbles about letting English evolve (all while remaining uncharacteristically neutral about the issue, I might add), I think that when it comes to my own life and abilities, I just can't seem to get the hang of what each word truly means.
(Yes, I'm aware that I correctly used can in the previous sentence.)
You see, I've spent a good portion (say, twenty-two years or so) of my life doubting my abilities, my talents, and my potential. In short, I've been telling myself that I can't over and over and over again.
I can't run.
I can't be outgoing.
I can't meet new people without insane amounts of trepidation and anxiety.
I can't dance.
I can't leave the safe little Provo bubble I've grown accustomed to.
I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.
But I can. With hard work and faith, I can do all those things. (Except dance. I really am hopeless in that department.)
When I tell myself that I can't do something, what I'm unconsciously doing is denying myself permission to try. I'm telling myself that I may not run—I'm not allowed to create that habit. I may not be outgoing—that possibility is in fact an impossibility. And on and on I go, limiting my potential. Limiting my experiences. Limiting myself.
And I often find myself haunted late at night by missed opportunities. I find myself wondering how much I could have accomplished if I had just removed the apostrophe t from the word can't. And it's painful and disheartening to realize that I'll just never know. That I can't go back and give myself a chance to try, and that I will never know what could have been different if I'd just allowed it to be.
So I'm going to try something new: I'm going to tell myself that I can. I'm going to give myself permission to try. I'm going to do my very best to drown out that tinny voice of self-doubt in the back of my head that is convinced that trying is useless because I'm just going to fail anyway.
First can't changed to can? A 10K. It's something I've wanted to do for a while, but it's always been filed away in the category of I can't. But I can. And I may. I'm all signed up, my registration fee is paid, and my training plan is on my desk, ready to be implemented bright and early tomorrow morning.
And this is just the beginning. Who knows what I'll be able to accomplish once I start to believe in myself a little bit more. Once I stop telling myself that I can't.
Because I can.
And I may.
And I will.
Can, they'll tell you, means that you are able to do something. ("I can ride a bike.")
May, on the other hand, indicates permission or possibility. ("You may do that."/ "It may happen.")
At this point prescriptivists get all high and mighty about maintaining "proper" usage and descriptivists go on a cranky rampage about how language changes and prescriptivists should just unwad their panties and join the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake.
And though I'm a good little ELang major and have taken grammar, usage, and editing classes galore and have heard the soap box rants about linguistic purity and the grumbles about letting English evolve (all while remaining uncharacteristically neutral about the issue, I might add), I think that when it comes to my own life and abilities, I just can't seem to get the hang of what each word truly means.
(Yes, I'm aware that I correctly used can in the previous sentence.)
You see, I've spent a good portion (say, twenty-two years or so) of my life doubting my abilities, my talents, and my potential. In short, I've been telling myself that I can't over and over and over again.
I can't run.
I can't be outgoing.
I can't meet new people without insane amounts of trepidation and anxiety.
I can't dance.
I can't leave the safe little Provo bubble I've grown accustomed to.
I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't.
But I can. With hard work and faith, I can do all those things. (Except dance. I really am hopeless in that department.)
When I tell myself that I can't do something, what I'm unconsciously doing is denying myself permission to try. I'm telling myself that I may not run—I'm not allowed to create that habit. I may not be outgoing—that possibility is in fact an impossibility. And on and on I go, limiting my potential. Limiting my experiences. Limiting myself.
And I often find myself haunted late at night by missed opportunities. I find myself wondering how much I could have accomplished if I had just removed the apostrophe t from the word can't. And it's painful and disheartening to realize that I'll just never know. That I can't go back and give myself a chance to try, and that I will never know what could have been different if I'd just allowed it to be.
So I'm going to try something new: I'm going to tell myself that I can. I'm going to give myself permission to try. I'm going to do my very best to drown out that tinny voice of self-doubt in the back of my head that is convinced that trying is useless because I'm just going to fail anyway.
First can't changed to can? A 10K. It's something I've wanted to do for a while, but it's always been filed away in the category of I can't. But I can. And I may. I'm all signed up, my registration fee is paid, and my training plan is on my desk, ready to be implemented bright and early tomorrow morning.
And this is just the beginning. Who knows what I'll be able to accomplish once I start to believe in myself a little bit more. Once I stop telling myself that I can't.
Because I can.
And I may.
And I will.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
grocery store strangers
I generally don't go to the grocery store expecting to be reminded how good people are. I generally don't go to the grocery store expecting anything good to happen aside from acquiring food, because grocery shopping is of the devil. But I digress.
On some days, though, mundane tasks like grocery shopping remind you of the goodness in the world. Like the guy on the phone confirming that brown rice was indeed on the grocery list, thus reminding me that I was also out of brown rice. You weren't trying to help me out, Brown Rice Guy, but kudos to you! Your unintentional kindness was rather helpful!
And then there's Lemon Juice Guy. He's the real hero of my little adventure to Smith's. In the midst of my shopping experience, I was on the phone with Jess and asked her if she happened to know where the lemon juice is in the grocery store. I'd looked in every place that makes sense to me—I have a thing or two to say to Smith's about their organizational techniques—but no luck.
Then Lemon Juice Guy walked into my life. He'd overheard me talking to Jess and piped in, informing me of where the lemon juice is found. I thanked him profusely, and went on my merry way.
But even with Lemon Juice Guy's directions, I still couldn't find it. Rather frustrated, I took to wandering the aisles aimlessly hoping that a neon sign pointing to the lemon juice would pop out unexpectedly. But this time wasn't completely wasted—it was at that point that I remembered a few other items I needed to buy, including the brown rice featured in the previous anecdote.
I didn't get a neon sign, but I got the next best thing—Lemon Juice Guy appeared at my side holding both lemon and lime juice.
"Were you able to find the lemon juice?" he asked.
I told him I hadn't, and he extended the spoils to me. "I wasn't sure if you only needed lemon," he said, indicating the lime juice.
"I actually needed both," I told him truthfully, astonished at his thoughtfulness. "Thank you so much!"
And then he was gone.
I know this is such a little thing, but it warmed my heart in ways that are hard to put into words. This twenty-something guy took the time out of his day to not only assist a complete stranger, but then carry out the task when she (me) was unable to do so. Who does that? Who follows up with a person they gave information to in the grocery store and picks up the items just in case their mission were unsuccessful?
Humans do that. Humans do that, because they're good.
And just so that I could try to be as good as Lemon Juice Guy (and to send some more good karma my way), I yielded for every pedestrian on the way home, even the ones who had barely entered the crosswalk and who I could justify not yielding for AND the ones who just cut across the street in a crosswalkless area.
Thank you, Lemon Juice Guy, for being a good person and inspiring me to be better.
On some days, though, mundane tasks like grocery shopping remind you of the goodness in the world. Like the guy on the phone confirming that brown rice was indeed on the grocery list, thus reminding me that I was also out of brown rice. You weren't trying to help me out, Brown Rice Guy, but kudos to you! Your unintentional kindness was rather helpful!
And then there's Lemon Juice Guy. He's the real hero of my little adventure to Smith's. In the midst of my shopping experience, I was on the phone with Jess and asked her if she happened to know where the lemon juice is in the grocery store. I'd looked in every place that makes sense to me—I have a thing or two to say to Smith's about their organizational techniques—but no luck.
Then Lemon Juice Guy walked into my life. He'd overheard me talking to Jess and piped in, informing me of where the lemon juice is found. I thanked him profusely, and went on my merry way.
But even with Lemon Juice Guy's directions, I still couldn't find it. Rather frustrated, I took to wandering the aisles aimlessly hoping that a neon sign pointing to the lemon juice would pop out unexpectedly. But this time wasn't completely wasted—it was at that point that I remembered a few other items I needed to buy, including the brown rice featured in the previous anecdote.
I didn't get a neon sign, but I got the next best thing—Lemon Juice Guy appeared at my side holding both lemon and lime juice.
"Were you able to find the lemon juice?" he asked.
I told him I hadn't, and he extended the spoils to me. "I wasn't sure if you only needed lemon," he said, indicating the lime juice.
"I actually needed both," I told him truthfully, astonished at his thoughtfulness. "Thank you so much!"
And then he was gone.
I know this is such a little thing, but it warmed my heart in ways that are hard to put into words. This twenty-something guy took the time out of his day to not only assist a complete stranger, but then carry out the task when she (me) was unable to do so. Who does that? Who follows up with a person they gave information to in the grocery store and picks up the items just in case their mission were unsuccessful?
Humans do that. Humans do that, because they're good.
And just so that I could try to be as good as Lemon Juice Guy (and to send some more good karma my way), I yielded for every pedestrian on the way home, even the ones who had barely entered the crosswalk and who I could justify not yielding for AND the ones who just cut across the street in a crosswalkless area.
Thank you, Lemon Juice Guy, for being a good person and inspiring me to be better.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
on wounds and healing
They say that time heals all wounds.
They being that anonymous, formless voice of knowledge and wisdom that we revere and that represents collective history and mutual human experience.
They say that time heals all wounds, and I believe them.
What they don't say is that time won't leave scars.
No, the scars remain, a reminder of the pain the wounds once inflicted. And a reminder that what once was a gaping wound—raw, aggravated, and painful—is now knit back together and puckered.
Most scars fade with the passing of time. But like the burn mark on my left forearm, they still remain. Others may not notice the wrinkled skin between my wrist and my elbow, but I do. I know it's there, even though I don't remember the pain of its creation. And maybe by the time I have my own two-year-old who disobeys when I tell her no; no, don't touch the iron—it's hot, and it will hurt you, my own scar will have faded enough that not even I notice its presence.
But maybe not.
Time heals all wounds. But time does not reverse the injury; it doesn't take a burn or a cut or a scrape and revert it back into the smooth, unmarked skin it once was. It takes what it has and molds it as best as it can to fit your body in its present state. Time doesn't erase; it doesn't turn back the clock.
And as time heals, it make those wounds and those scars a permanent part of your being. The jagged, wrinkled, puckered skin of a scar merges seamlessly with the unmarred stretches of skin around it. The scars and the wounds don't huddle together in one portion of the body—the blemished away from the whole. Scarred skin and unscarred skin inhabit the same portion of the same canvas.
And though the pain of a wound will eventually fade, the fact that it once existed changes you, even if it's just in the slightest way. You're left with a memory of an embarrassing fall or a spiteful shove or a hilarious mishap.
But when it all comes down to it, I love my scars—both the ones visible on my skin and the ones imprinted on my soul. I think they're beautiful, and I think they make me stronger. Yes, sometimes they bring back memories of excruciating pain, but more often they remind me that after the pain and the hurt comes healing. And after the healing comes renewed strength. After the healing comes the growth and change.
I choose to grow from my scars; I choose to be proud of my experiences—even the painful ones—instead of hiding them away.
I choose to let my current wounds heal, to not poke at scabs or irritate sensitive skin, so that someday I can grow from those scars too, and I can see them as the beautiful experiences that they are.
They being that anonymous, formless voice of knowledge and wisdom that we revere and that represents collective history and mutual human experience.
They say that time heals all wounds, and I believe them.
What they don't say is that time won't leave scars.
No, the scars remain, a reminder of the pain the wounds once inflicted. And a reminder that what once was a gaping wound—raw, aggravated, and painful—is now knit back together and puckered.
Most scars fade with the passing of time. But like the burn mark on my left forearm, they still remain. Others may not notice the wrinkled skin between my wrist and my elbow, but I do. I know it's there, even though I don't remember the pain of its creation. And maybe by the time I have my own two-year-old who disobeys when I tell her no; no, don't touch the iron—it's hot, and it will hurt you, my own scar will have faded enough that not even I notice its presence.
But maybe not.
Time heals all wounds. But time does not reverse the injury; it doesn't take a burn or a cut or a scrape and revert it back into the smooth, unmarked skin it once was. It takes what it has and molds it as best as it can to fit your body in its present state. Time doesn't erase; it doesn't turn back the clock.
And as time heals, it make those wounds and those scars a permanent part of your being. The jagged, wrinkled, puckered skin of a scar merges seamlessly with the unmarred stretches of skin around it. The scars and the wounds don't huddle together in one portion of the body—the blemished away from the whole. Scarred skin and unscarred skin inhabit the same portion of the same canvas.
And though the pain of a wound will eventually fade, the fact that it once existed changes you, even if it's just in the slightest way. You're left with a memory of an embarrassing fall or a spiteful shove or a hilarious mishap.
But when it all comes down to it, I love my scars—both the ones visible on my skin and the ones imprinted on my soul. I think they're beautiful, and I think they make me stronger. Yes, sometimes they bring back memories of excruciating pain, but more often they remind me that after the pain and the hurt comes healing. And after the healing comes renewed strength. After the healing comes the growth and change.
I choose to grow from my scars; I choose to be proud of my experiences—even the painful ones—instead of hiding them away.
I choose to let my current wounds heal, to not poke at scabs or irritate sensitive skin, so that someday I can grow from those scars too, and I can see them as the beautiful experiences that they are.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
sing we now of christmas
I don't know about you (but I'm feeling 22. Sorry...it's a habit now), but I often get pretty darn sick of hearing "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" and "Jingle Bells" on the radio. Now before you start screaming "Scrooge!" and gathering up all the ghosts you know so you can sic them on me in the middle of the night, let me explain. I LOVE Christmas songs. LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE. What I don't love is hearing the same overly dramatic, ridiculously "soulful" versions of songs that just weren't meant to be soulful or dramatic. It irks me.
So in order to pay homage to those Christmas songs that I feel are too frequently overlooked, here are some of my favorite versions of some of my personal favorite Christmas songs. Hopefully some radio station out there somewhere will agree with my two cents on the matter and revamp their playlists. Crossing my fingers.
The Holly and the Ivy
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Mary, Did You Know?
What Child is This?
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Silver Bells
So in order to pay homage to those Christmas songs that I feel are too frequently overlooked, here are some of my favorite versions of some of my personal favorite Christmas songs. Hopefully some radio station out there somewhere will agree with my two cents on the matter and revamp their playlists. Crossing my fingers.
The Holly and the Ivy
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
(Technically "Carol of the Bells" and "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." Still awesome)
Mary, Did You Know?
What Child is This?
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella
Do You Hear What I Hear?
Silver Bells
Saturday, December 6, 2014
even when
Last night Jess and I stayed up well past two discussing some of life's difficulties. It was one of those honest, raw, frank conversations that tend to happen late at night and that bring out the human in all parties involved.
"You know," I said after I'd finally crawled into bed and arranged my forty-nine (slight exaggeration) pillows, "sometimes life is really hard."
Jess was quick to respond. "Life is always hard."
And she's right. She wasn't being pessimistic (Jess is one of the most cheerful and optimistic people I've ever met); she was just being real. Because life really is always hard. The level of difficulty varies from day to day, month to month, season to season, but nothing is every perfect. Nothing is ever smooth sailing. There's always going to be some bump in the road. Sometimes that bump is as small as having a tricky paper to write and sometimes it's as big as serious illness, but there's always going to be that bump. No matter how righteous and selfless and giving and faithful you are, life will never be perfect.
And that's okay.
Even when there is no sun visible on the horizon, there are friends and family to light up your life and guide you through the shadowy wasteland.
Even when work and stress are piling higher and higher at an impossible rate, there are study breaks and candy canes and YouTube videos that make you laugh.
Even when it feels that your world is crumbling, there's the Savior and the gospel to bind wounds and fix cracks and piece everything back together again.
Even when fear and insecurity settle in and threaten to overcome you, there's prayer to help strengthen you and people in your path to comfort and reassure you.
Even when you can't seem to find a single positive thing in life, there's peppermint ice cream and electric blankets and toddling babies and soft pillows and the smell of laundry detergent and warm socks and late night laughter and a million other tiny happies waiting around the corner.
Even when you fail or fall down or disappoint, there's always another chance waiting for you to take it.
Even when today is unbearable, there's always tomorrow.
I can't pretend that I'm a master at maintaining this attitude. Anybody who's ever met me recognizes that I'm not one of those naturally cheerful, bubbly, optimistic people. But I am a person who is making a pointed effort to adopt a more positive attitude and to always find the good in bad days.
Because I truly believe that even though life is hard, there is always something to be grateful for. There is always something good. And I for one, want to find that good.
"You know," I said after I'd finally crawled into bed and arranged my forty-nine (slight exaggeration) pillows, "sometimes life is really hard."
Jess was quick to respond. "Life is always hard."
And she's right. She wasn't being pessimistic (Jess is one of the most cheerful and optimistic people I've ever met); she was just being real. Because life really is always hard. The level of difficulty varies from day to day, month to month, season to season, but nothing is every perfect. Nothing is ever smooth sailing. There's always going to be some bump in the road. Sometimes that bump is as small as having a tricky paper to write and sometimes it's as big as serious illness, but there's always going to be that bump. No matter how righteous and selfless and giving and faithful you are, life will never be perfect.
And that's okay.
Even when there is no sun visible on the horizon, there are friends and family to light up your life and guide you through the shadowy wasteland.
Even when work and stress are piling higher and higher at an impossible rate, there are study breaks and candy canes and YouTube videos that make you laugh.
Even when it feels that your world is crumbling, there's the Savior and the gospel to bind wounds and fix cracks and piece everything back together again.
Even when fear and insecurity settle in and threaten to overcome you, there's prayer to help strengthen you and people in your path to comfort and reassure you.
Even when you can't seem to find a single positive thing in life, there's peppermint ice cream and electric blankets and toddling babies and soft pillows and the smell of laundry detergent and warm socks and late night laughter and a million other tiny happies waiting around the corner.
Even when you fail or fall down or disappoint, there's always another chance waiting for you to take it.
Even when today is unbearable, there's always tomorrow.
I can't pretend that I'm a master at maintaining this attitude. Anybody who's ever met me recognizes that I'm not one of those naturally cheerful, bubbly, optimistic people. But I am a person who is making a pointed effort to adopt a more positive attitude and to always find the good in bad days.
Because I truly believe that even though life is hard, there is always something to be grateful for. There is always something good. And I for one, want to find that good.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
i don't know about you
BUT I'M FEELIN' 22!
(I'd apologize for that, but I think that as a girl in the 21st century turning 22, it's essentially my duty to make as many T-Swift references as possible today)
I think I'm going to like being 22. Because if the rest of the year is half as good as today was, I'm in for a rockin' year.
Even though it was a busy day and there wasn't much time to do anything terribly special, I got SO spoiled and was really feelin' the love.
And really, my birthday celebration began yesterday with a late night ice cream run courtesy of my angel roommate Jessica.
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This morning I woke up to chocolate chip pancakes in the shape of my initials courtesy of Jess. She also made me a Mickey Mouse pancake. #winning
And when a day starts with chocolate chip pancakes, it has to be good. So clad in a new cardigan and new boots (thanks, Mom!), I left the apartment to conquer the day. (Also, don't worry...I was wearing a shirt and pants, too.)
I got to spend a significant period of time in my one class looking for the perfect picture of a panda (alliteration for the win). Yes, I am completely serious. And yes, it was what I was supposed to be doing. The bell tower played "Bring a Torche, Jenette, Isabella" while I walked to work, which was convenient because I have a weird Christmas crush on that song currently and because, well, Christmas. BYUB is officially decked out for Christmas, which is one of my favorite things, and I pretended that they finished the decorations today in honor of me. (They didn't.)
My awesome coworkers treated me to Pita Pit for lunch (#pitapittuesday), and my boss brought cookies that were the bomb.com. I went straight from work to Schwa prep time and there was no time for me to grab anything to eat. But luckily Jess is perfect and spent her hour break from work bringing pizza to me on campus and having dinner with me. Seriously, I hit the roommate jackpot with that one.
It really was a perfect birthday. Perfect for a birthday during school, that is. I felt so much love from my family and friends. Though I received some amazingly thoughtful gifts that I love, what I cherish the most is the service and care that I've been shown today.It means the world to me.
I think that I like birthdays so much because they represent change, growth, and forward movement. I realize that I'm really no different today than I was yesterday and that age is just a number, but it's an opportunity to close a chapter of life and start a new one. And though I believe you can do that at any point, birthdays are the perfect opportunity to do so.
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22. And it feels pretty darn good.
(I'd apologize for that, but I think that as a girl in the 21st century turning 22, it's essentially my duty to make as many T-Swift references as possible today)
I think I'm going to like being 22. Because if the rest of the year is half as good as today was, I'm in for a rockin' year.
Even though it was a busy day and there wasn't much time to do anything terribly special, I got SO spoiled and was really feelin' the love.
And really, my birthday celebration began yesterday with a late night ice cream run courtesy of my angel roommate Jessica.
This morning I woke up to chocolate chip pancakes in the shape of my initials courtesy of Jess. She also made me a Mickey Mouse pancake. #winning
And when a day starts with chocolate chip pancakes, it has to be good. So clad in a new cardigan and new boots (thanks, Mom!), I left the apartment to conquer the day. (Also, don't worry...I was wearing a shirt and pants, too.)
I got to spend a significant period of time in my one class looking for the perfect picture of a panda (alliteration for the win). Yes, I am completely serious. And yes, it was what I was supposed to be doing. The bell tower played "Bring a Torche, Jenette, Isabella" while I walked to work, which was convenient because I have a weird Christmas crush on that song currently and because, well, Christmas. BYUB is officially decked out for Christmas, which is one of my favorite things, and I pretended that they finished the decorations today in honor of me. (They didn't.)
 |
| My coworker Adam drew Gordon the Scottish Accordion Player on the calendar for me. Long story, but I was thrilled. |
My awesome coworkers treated me to Pita Pit for lunch (#pitapittuesday), and my boss brought cookies that were the bomb.com. I went straight from work to Schwa prep time and there was no time for me to grab anything to eat. But luckily Jess is perfect and spent her hour break from work bringing pizza to me on campus and having dinner with me. Seriously, I hit the roommate jackpot with that one.
It really was a perfect birthday. Perfect for a birthday during school, that is. I felt so much love from my family and friends. Though I received some amazingly thoughtful gifts that I love, what I cherish the most is the service and care that I've been shown today.It means the world to me.
I think that I like birthdays so much because they represent change, growth, and forward movement. I realize that I'm really no different today than I was yesterday and that age is just a number, but it's an opportunity to close a chapter of life and start a new one. And though I believe you can do that at any point, birthdays are the perfect opportunity to do so.
I don't know about you, but I'm feeling 22. And it feels pretty darn good.
 |
| This is my awkward, grainy through-the-balloon-veil birthday selfie. |
Sunday, November 30, 2014
He always knows
Sometimes I just wish I could unzip my heart and dump its contents into my computer or into my journal. Because regardless of how many thousands of words there are in the English language, I occasionally feel that there are none that I can string together that sufficiently explain how I feel. Maybe some feelings just can't be translated into words, but it's frustrating because it's those feelings—the ones that fill my heart to bursting with peace and joy and understanding, the ones that make me believe that maybe I can figure out this strange thing called life—that I want to shout from the mountaintops.
But how do I explain the way it feels when, after weeks of halfhearted prayer, I kneel down to sincerely open my heart to God, begging for forgiveness for not putting Him first and imploring Him to help me find peace of mind about my future?
How do I explain the overwhelming feelings of love and understanding when He provides me with three hours' worth of personalized guidance the very next day?
How do I explain the pure joy that fills my heart while I laugh hysterically alone in my room after reading an email from a friend who is thousands of miles away?
How do I explain the pride and the love I have for my younger brothers, who are growing up to be such kindhearted, talented, and upstanding young men?
How do I explain the deeply rooted feelings of gratitude for the multitude of blessings I have in my life, especially when many of those are undeserved?
How do I explain those quiet moments of contentment that occur late at night in the dim lighting of my bedroom after reading the scriptures and my patriarchal blessing?
How do I explain the wave of spirit that rushes over me after weeks of stressing about what to do with my life post-graduation and says yes, be true to your heart; follow your dreams.
How do I explain the wonder and awe I feel watching a small child learn something new or embrace a total stranger with overwhelming love?
I can't. I can't explain any of that in a way that does it even a semblance of justice.
The only thing I can conclude from all these unanswered questions is that there are life experiences too beautiful and too precious to be able to fully express using written language. Luckily there is the language of the spirit—a language that doesn't always need letters or words or sentences. This language pierces hearts across time and space and speaks using joy and love and peace. It speaks to the heart and the mind simultaneously and allows my whole being to be filled with warmth.
And I'm grateful that even when I haven't the words to express the deepest thoughts of my heart, my Father in Heaven still knows what I mean. He knows of the thoughts and the feelings that I try so desperately to transmit to Him with my faltering tongue and hesitant words. He knows despite my weakness and my failings and my pride. Even when I can't speak through my tears or can't find a single word worthy of His ear, He knows.
He always knows.
But how do I explain the way it feels when, after weeks of halfhearted prayer, I kneel down to sincerely open my heart to God, begging for forgiveness for not putting Him first and imploring Him to help me find peace of mind about my future?
How do I explain the overwhelming feelings of love and understanding when He provides me with three hours' worth of personalized guidance the very next day?
How do I explain the pure joy that fills my heart while I laugh hysterically alone in my room after reading an email from a friend who is thousands of miles away?
How do I explain the pride and the love I have for my younger brothers, who are growing up to be such kindhearted, talented, and upstanding young men?
How do I explain the deeply rooted feelings of gratitude for the multitude of blessings I have in my life, especially when many of those are undeserved?
How do I explain those quiet moments of contentment that occur late at night in the dim lighting of my bedroom after reading the scriptures and my patriarchal blessing?
How do I explain the wave of spirit that rushes over me after weeks of stressing about what to do with my life post-graduation and says yes, be true to your heart; follow your dreams.
How do I explain the wonder and awe I feel watching a small child learn something new or embrace a total stranger with overwhelming love?
I can't. I can't explain any of that in a way that does it even a semblance of justice.
The only thing I can conclude from all these unanswered questions is that there are life experiences too beautiful and too precious to be able to fully express using written language. Luckily there is the language of the spirit—a language that doesn't always need letters or words or sentences. This language pierces hearts across time and space and speaks using joy and love and peace. It speaks to the heart and the mind simultaneously and allows my whole being to be filled with warmth.
And I'm grateful that even when I haven't the words to express the deepest thoughts of my heart, my Father in Heaven still knows what I mean. He knows of the thoughts and the feelings that I try so desperately to transmit to Him with my faltering tongue and hesitant words. He knows despite my weakness and my failings and my pride. Even when I can't speak through my tears or can't find a single word worthy of His ear, He knows.
He always knows.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
The Dating Bill of Rights
As a young single adult living in Provo, you'd better believe I hear a lot of talk about dating. And while bishops and stake presidents go on and on about how many dates we should be going on and who we should go out with and what kind of dates we should go on, I don't hear a lot of mention of what a prospective dater has the right to expect from Provo dating culture. And dating—just like all forms of social interaction—sometimes has the tendency to bring about injustices or general discomfort for one or both parties. It is therefore important that everybody should know what their rights are in different stages of relationships. I don't pretend to be an expert on the topic, but here's me taking a stab at what anybody in the dating arena has the right to expect from dating situations:
1. No person shall ever infringe upon another's feelings of safety and security or their right to be respected in all interpersonal environments.
2. All date invitations shall be delivered in a respectful, appropriate manner, and offers that must be rejected should be rejected in the same attitude of respect. Dates should not be rejected without just cause. Plans to watch Netflix on Friday night does not constitute just cause.
3. Both parties have the right to embark on a first date without the pressure or expectation of commitment past the first date; outside parties are expected to respect that right and not hassle, tease, mock, or imply that a relationship is anything more than one of two people going on a first date.
4. Any person has the right to reject any form of physical or emotional intimacy with which he or she is uncomfortable without the fear of negative repercussions from the other party.
5. Dating persons have the right to move at a pace that is comfortable for both people. Outside parties shall not pressure a couple into moving faster or slower than is right for them nor should they judge a couple's decision of when to take relationship steps. Every person has the right to expect the person he or she is dating to also respect their boundaries and the speed at which they are comfortable moving a relationship forward (within reason). This means that the so-called BYU Third Date Rule is hereby abolished and should not ever be a reason for a couple to make commitments to one another.
6. All daters have the right to feel free and comfortable to speak openly as is appropriate to the stage of the relationship. They should be able to confide in their partner without worrying about the other partner's becoming judgmental, apathetic, or irritated. Any one should be able to expect confidentiality from their partner when confiding in him or her. This confidence applies even if the relationship ends; the severance of a courtship does not justify a person to openly share a former partner's personal thoughts, feelings, or experiences.
7. Prior to a formal commitment being made, no party has a say in who the other person goes on dates with. After a committed relationship has been formed, all persons have the right to complete mental, emotional, and physical fidelity from their partner.
8. A person has the right to confirm or deny relationship status and to share relationship milestones for themselves. Friends, family, and acquaintances have no right to gossip about one's relationship status or spread any information about a relationship regardless of whether it is true or false.
9. People have the right to maintain or sever a relationship based on their own desires and feelings. Outside influences should not pressure a person into staying in or getting out of a relationship. This right can be waived in the case of an extremely unhealthy relationship; outside parties should encourage a person in an abusive or otherwise unhealthy relationship to end said relationship. Any desire to end a relationship should be respected; a dumped partner does not have the right to insist that the relationship remain intact.
10. Any person going on any date at any time with anyone has the right to expect human decency and common courtesy from their date regardless of of any internal or external circumstances.
The Dating Bill of Rights
1. No person shall ever infringe upon another's feelings of safety and security or their right to be respected in all interpersonal environments.
2. All date invitations shall be delivered in a respectful, appropriate manner, and offers that must be rejected should be rejected in the same attitude of respect. Dates should not be rejected without just cause. Plans to watch Netflix on Friday night does not constitute just cause.
3. Both parties have the right to embark on a first date without the pressure or expectation of commitment past the first date; outside parties are expected to respect that right and not hassle, tease, mock, or imply that a relationship is anything more than one of two people going on a first date.
4. Any person has the right to reject any form of physical or emotional intimacy with which he or she is uncomfortable without the fear of negative repercussions from the other party.
5. Dating persons have the right to move at a pace that is comfortable for both people. Outside parties shall not pressure a couple into moving faster or slower than is right for them nor should they judge a couple's decision of when to take relationship steps. Every person has the right to expect the person he or she is dating to also respect their boundaries and the speed at which they are comfortable moving a relationship forward (within reason). This means that the so-called BYU Third Date Rule is hereby abolished and should not ever be a reason for a couple to make commitments to one another.
6. All daters have the right to feel free and comfortable to speak openly as is appropriate to the stage of the relationship. They should be able to confide in their partner without worrying about the other partner's becoming judgmental, apathetic, or irritated. Any one should be able to expect confidentiality from their partner when confiding in him or her. This confidence applies even if the relationship ends; the severance of a courtship does not justify a person to openly share a former partner's personal thoughts, feelings, or experiences.
7. Prior to a formal commitment being made, no party has a say in who the other person goes on dates with. After a committed relationship has been formed, all persons have the right to complete mental, emotional, and physical fidelity from their partner.
8. A person has the right to confirm or deny relationship status and to share relationship milestones for themselves. Friends, family, and acquaintances have no right to gossip about one's relationship status or spread any information about a relationship regardless of whether it is true or false.
9. People have the right to maintain or sever a relationship based on their own desires and feelings. Outside influences should not pressure a person into staying in or getting out of a relationship. This right can be waived in the case of an extremely unhealthy relationship; outside parties should encourage a person in an abusive or otherwise unhealthy relationship to end said relationship. Any desire to end a relationship should be respected; a dumped partner does not have the right to insist that the relationship remain intact.
10. Any person going on any date at any time with anyone has the right to expect human decency and common courtesy from their date regardless of of any internal or external circumstances.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
homebody
I like to be at home.
You can argue that this is because the majority of the time I spend away from home is spent at school or work, and there is some validity to that particular line of reasoning.
But it's more than that.
I have no problem working, but can't I just do it at home?
I enjoy learning, but can I learn from my living room?
All day long, I yearn to be at home with my things and my people and my comfort zone. On particularly bad days, I count down the hours until I can enter my apartment and toss my backpack on the floor and curl into a ball on my bed.
Long days on campus exhaust me, mentally and physically. When I'm forced to remain on campus until a project is completed, my whole soul chants I just want to be finished, and a portion of that desire is because I'm sick and tired of whatever I'm working on. But embedded in that phrase is always an echo of I just want to be home.
Home is where I can breathe properly and where it's okay to get emotional over something silly or dance like a maniac in the kitchen to the Backstreet Boys or have a total meltdown. Home is where I don't feel like I have to twist or bend or mold who I am into somebody I'm not. Home is where I can wear my pajamas at 3 o'clock in the afternoon and still be relatively socially acceptable.
I used to think that my tendency to be an extreme homebody is a purely negative piece of my personality. And though I recognize that breaking out of my comfort zone more than I do is a beneficial activity, I also believe that my propensity to want to be at home speaks volumes about the home I grew up in and the feelings I have toward places of living.
Growing up, I knew that home was a safe place. It's where I would always be loved and accepted and cared for. It was where the people I care the most about were. Home was where I laughed until I cried and played silly games and made memories. It was where I learned to pray and to love the scriptures. Home was a refuge; I remember those rough middle and high school days when I would bottle up emotions and bind a wounded heart all day at school only to come home and have all my vulnerability and hurt spill out into my mother's waiting arms and heart. Home is where I could be a mess and for some reason, I would be loved anyway.
Because of how I grew up, I have a reverence for home. I associate it with warmth and love and security. And that's why I prefer to be at home. That's why I find myself upset and uncomfortable when I don't know when I'll next step over the threshold to my apartment. That's why the very act of coming home instills in me a sense of renewal and peace.
Someday I'll be a wife and a mother, and I'll have a more permanent home with my family. And I want my husband and my children to have the same tender feelings about home as I do. I want them to know that home is a safe place, a loving place, a happy place. I want them to know that despite petty arguments and sibling scuffles, home is the place where they will always be loved and always be comforted.
I want them to like being at home, just like I do.
You can argue that this is because the majority of the time I spend away from home is spent at school or work, and there is some validity to that particular line of reasoning.
But it's more than that.
I have no problem working, but can't I just do it at home?
I enjoy learning, but can I learn from my living room?
All day long, I yearn to be at home with my things and my people and my comfort zone. On particularly bad days, I count down the hours until I can enter my apartment and toss my backpack on the floor and curl into a ball on my bed.
Long days on campus exhaust me, mentally and physically. When I'm forced to remain on campus until a project is completed, my whole soul chants I just want to be finished, and a portion of that desire is because I'm sick and tired of whatever I'm working on. But embedded in that phrase is always an echo of I just want to be home.
Home is where I can breathe properly and where it's okay to get emotional over something silly or dance like a maniac in the kitchen to the Backstreet Boys or have a total meltdown. Home is where I don't feel like I have to twist or bend or mold who I am into somebody I'm not. Home is where I can wear my pajamas at 3 o'clock in the afternoon and still be relatively socially acceptable.
I used to think that my tendency to be an extreme homebody is a purely negative piece of my personality. And though I recognize that breaking out of my comfort zone more than I do is a beneficial activity, I also believe that my propensity to want to be at home speaks volumes about the home I grew up in and the feelings I have toward places of living.
Growing up, I knew that home was a safe place. It's where I would always be loved and accepted and cared for. It was where the people I care the most about were. Home was where I laughed until I cried and played silly games and made memories. It was where I learned to pray and to love the scriptures. Home was a refuge; I remember those rough middle and high school days when I would bottle up emotions and bind a wounded heart all day at school only to come home and have all my vulnerability and hurt spill out into my mother's waiting arms and heart. Home is where I could be a mess and for some reason, I would be loved anyway.
Because of how I grew up, I have a reverence for home. I associate it with warmth and love and security. And that's why I prefer to be at home. That's why I find myself upset and uncomfortable when I don't know when I'll next step over the threshold to my apartment. That's why the very act of coming home instills in me a sense of renewal and peace.
Someday I'll be a wife and a mother, and I'll have a more permanent home with my family. And I want my husband and my children to have the same tender feelings about home as I do. I want them to know that home is a safe place, a loving place, a happy place. I want them to know that despite petty arguments and sibling scuffles, home is the place where they will always be loved and always be comforted.
I want them to like being at home, just like I do.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
t-minus six months
For years I've thought about the day I would graduate college. It's the pinnacle event of my education—the mark of the end of my formal schooling. And as with most other events in life, I always thought I'd feel different leading up to it than I actually do.
Here I am—a semester and a half away from graduation—and I don't feel anything like how I thought I would. My life is nothing like I thought it would be.
I thought I'd feel older, more mature, and more confident. I thought I'd have a more concrete plan as to what I'd do after graduation. I thought I'd have gotten my ducks all in a row and would emerge as a BYU grad ready to conquer the world. I thought I would have gotten over my slight reclusiveness and propensity to wear pajamas as much as humanly possible. I thought I would be more comfortable meeting new people and making small talk and forming connections. And to be honest, I thought things in the dating/marriage department would be drastically different from what they are now. (Non-BYUers have a hard time understanding that, but for y'all, let me just say that it's VERY common to be married well before graduation here at the Y.)
Granted, I have about six months to accomplish the above tasks, but seeing as I haven't been able to do those things in the three and a half years since my college career began, I don't have high hopes that I'll be able to whip my butt into gear and figure out all of my life questions before I don a cap and gown.
I remember the anticipation of graduating high school. I was excited to the point that one of my high school friends reprimanded me for "not wanting to make the most of senior year" or something like that. The moment my BYU application was in, my interest in Randall K. Cooper High School flew out the window, and I wanted very little to do with it. Yes, I was sad to leave behind my friends, but I was ready to move on and to grow up some and to find my niche in college. I was never one of those "I wish high school would never end" kind of people. (And frankly, I think those kinds of people ought to have their brains checked out, because they're loco crazy.) I think a lot of my excitement stemmed from the fact that I knew exactly what was going to happen after I graduated—I was going to work for the summer and then pack up my belongings and haul them 1,600 miles across the country to Happy Valley where I would nestle in for four years of undergraduate education. I was nervous (change always fills my stomach with big bubbles of worry), but it was time, and I knew it.
I wish that I had that now. Because even though I'm sick and tired of school—the mere mention of grad school makes me want to hurl; if that does become part of the plan, it won't be for a year or two, so I have time to find where my sanity went—the thought of leaving the educational bubble I've lived in since I was six years old is a wee bit terrifying. I've been primed my entire life to be a student. I've learned to sit through classes and take tests and do homework and study until my brain feels like it will explode.
And despite the fact that I feel relatively confident that I have the skill set needed to be able to make a living post-grad, it's the job finding/plan making that scares the bejeezus out of me. Do I stay in Utah? Do I go back to Kentucky? Do I close my eyes and point map of the United States and go where ever my finger lands? Do I drop off the face of the earth, disregard the education I spent four years obtaining, and join a traveling circus?
Honestly that last one sounds pretty appealing right about now. I'm sure I could teach myself to grow a beard or walk on a tight rope or put my head in a lion's mouth or something. I could marry the strong man, and then we could have buff little carnie children who would have very interesting talents (think of what you could teach them if you started young!) and no social skills to speak of. I see no problem with this plan.
But in all seriousness, I feel a bit like I'm floundering. Despite my aversion to grad school as mentioned above, in a strange way, I envy my friends who are going to be starting up school again next fall as graduate students. Because even though they have a thousand years of difficult classes ahead of them, at least they have a plan. At least they know what to do with the next step. But choosing my next step tends to fill me with anxiety, so I just ignore the decision making part until the anxiety about not making a decision outweighs the anxiety of making a decision, and I begin the whole vicious cycle over again.
So if there is anybody out there who wants to make major life decisions for me, now is the time to make yourself known. Unless the traveling circus thing actually works out, in which case, I am in no need of your assistance.
Here I am—a semester and a half away from graduation—and I don't feel anything like how I thought I would. My life is nothing like I thought it would be.
I thought I'd feel older, more mature, and more confident. I thought I'd have a more concrete plan as to what I'd do after graduation. I thought I'd have gotten my ducks all in a row and would emerge as a BYU grad ready to conquer the world. I thought I would have gotten over my slight reclusiveness and propensity to wear pajamas as much as humanly possible. I thought I would be more comfortable meeting new people and making small talk and forming connections. And to be honest, I thought things in the dating/marriage department would be drastically different from what they are now. (Non-BYUers have a hard time understanding that, but for y'all, let me just say that it's VERY common to be married well before graduation here at the Y.)
Granted, I have about six months to accomplish the above tasks, but seeing as I haven't been able to do those things in the three and a half years since my college career began, I don't have high hopes that I'll be able to whip my butt into gear and figure out all of my life questions before I don a cap and gown.
I remember the anticipation of graduating high school. I was excited to the point that one of my high school friends reprimanded me for "not wanting to make the most of senior year" or something like that. The moment my BYU application was in, my interest in Randall K. Cooper High School flew out the window, and I wanted very little to do with it. Yes, I was sad to leave behind my friends, but I was ready to move on and to grow up some and to find my niche in college. I was never one of those "I wish high school would never end" kind of people. (And frankly, I think those kinds of people ought to have their brains checked out, because they're loco crazy.) I think a lot of my excitement stemmed from the fact that I knew exactly what was going to happen after I graduated—I was going to work for the summer and then pack up my belongings and haul them 1,600 miles across the country to Happy Valley where I would nestle in for four years of undergraduate education. I was nervous (change always fills my stomach with big bubbles of worry), but it was time, and I knew it.
I wish that I had that now. Because even though I'm sick and tired of school—the mere mention of grad school makes me want to hurl; if that does become part of the plan, it won't be for a year or two, so I have time to find where my sanity went—the thought of leaving the educational bubble I've lived in since I was six years old is a wee bit terrifying. I've been primed my entire life to be a student. I've learned to sit through classes and take tests and do homework and study until my brain feels like it will explode.
And despite the fact that I feel relatively confident that I have the skill set needed to be able to make a living post-grad, it's the job finding/plan making that scares the bejeezus out of me. Do I stay in Utah? Do I go back to Kentucky? Do I close my eyes and point map of the United States and go where ever my finger lands? Do I drop off the face of the earth, disregard the education I spent four years obtaining, and join a traveling circus?
Honestly that last one sounds pretty appealing right about now. I'm sure I could teach myself to grow a beard or walk on a tight rope or put my head in a lion's mouth or something. I could marry the strong man, and then we could have buff little carnie children who would have very interesting talents (think of what you could teach them if you started young!) and no social skills to speak of. I see no problem with this plan.
But in all seriousness, I feel a bit like I'm floundering. Despite my aversion to grad school as mentioned above, in a strange way, I envy my friends who are going to be starting up school again next fall as graduate students. Because even though they have a thousand years of difficult classes ahead of them, at least they have a plan. At least they know what to do with the next step. But choosing my next step tends to fill me with anxiety, so I just ignore the decision making part until the anxiety about not making a decision outweighs the anxiety of making a decision, and I begin the whole vicious cycle over again.
So if there is anybody out there who wants to make major life decisions for me, now is the time to make yourself known. Unless the traveling circus thing actually works out, in which case, I am in no need of your assistance.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
burnt toast
my day started with burnt toast.
but it ended with pumpkin chocolate chip cookies from my sweet visiting teachers and a visit from my favorite little munchkins and a frozen yogurt expedition and a really good pandora station.
so all in all, i'd say it was a good day.
burnt toast and all.
but it ended with pumpkin chocolate chip cookies from my sweet visiting teachers and a visit from my favorite little munchkins and a frozen yogurt expedition and a really good pandora station.
so all in all, i'd say it was a good day.
burnt toast and all.
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
thought process and decision making
When I walked in the door on Sunday night, I had every intention of putting my apartment back together. And then I walked into my bedroom and saw the laundry baskets and plastic tubs and general disarray, and I thought "Ehh, better not," even though I didn't want all of my belongings on top of the extra bed and in my closet. And by this point I felt mostly sorry for my little rant about homeless week, because the voices in my head—the reasoning, angel-on-your-shoulder kind of voices, not going-batty voices. i think—were telling me that complaining never changes things (although I will admit it made me feel a little better) and that there were way worse, more inconvenient things in life like having malaria or having to move to Singapore or having no belongings at all.
That being said, I felt too tired to transport all my dishes and pots and pans back into the kitchen, so I laid down on my bed (I had already taken off the desk and printer and step stool and the gallon of distilled water) and waited for my favorite blogger to post her Sunday night post. (A post about my slight obsession with blogs [I tried to portmanteau that into "blogsession," but I didn't think it was clear enough. Nor am I sure that portmanteau can be used as a verb. Actually I'm pretty sure it can't. Tough.] is in the works. I may post it, or I may not. I haven't decided yet.)
And I texted Liz and Emily and read some emails and uploaded a photo to Instagram and wrote and scheduled some blog posts.
And then I made a dessert grilled cheese, even though it shouldn't be called that because there isn't even cheese on it. It was supposed to be a dessert quesadilla (peanut butter, chocolate chips, and marshmallows in a tortilla that you grill. yum), but I didn't have any tortillas, so I kind of squished a piece of bread and tried to make that work. But then I couldn't call it a quesadilla anymore, and I thought that since grilled cheese and non-fancy quesadillas are kind of the same thing except for the gluten delivery device, I should call it a grilled cheese. And I recognize that it shouldn't even be called a quesadilla because NO CHEESE, but at least it doesn't have cheese in the name.
Anyway. It was pretty good.
I didn't do my dishes, though, because I couldn't find my dish soap. So I left them in the sink to do later.
And then I considered taking a shower, but I didn't feel like fetching my shampoo and body wash and such so I vetoed that idea, which turned out to be a mistake. What planet was I on when I thought that I'd be better equipped to solve that problem in the morning? I can barely figure out which way is up in the morning. The AM and I don't get along so well.
So I decided to just get ready for bed. Most of the stuff I needed was still in my bag from the trip, so I fished that out and then (after a little searching) found my Listerine next to my combat boots in the closet, and THEN I got ready for bed.
And then I wrote in my journal and read some scriptures and called it a night.
So basically I broke my bread and brushed my teeth and went to bed.
(and the smallest one was Madeline)
That being said, I felt too tired to transport all my dishes and pots and pans back into the kitchen, so I laid down on my bed (I had already taken off the desk and printer and step stool and the gallon of distilled water) and waited for my favorite blogger to post her Sunday night post. (A post about my slight obsession with blogs [I tried to portmanteau that into "blogsession," but I didn't think it was clear enough. Nor am I sure that portmanteau can be used as a verb. Actually I'm pretty sure it can't. Tough.] is in the works. I may post it, or I may not. I haven't decided yet.)
And I texted Liz and Emily and read some emails and uploaded a photo to Instagram and wrote and scheduled some blog posts.
And then I made a dessert grilled cheese, even though it shouldn't be called that because there isn't even cheese on it. It was supposed to be a dessert quesadilla (peanut butter, chocolate chips, and marshmallows in a tortilla that you grill. yum), but I didn't have any tortillas, so I kind of squished a piece of bread and tried to make that work. But then I couldn't call it a quesadilla anymore, and I thought that since grilled cheese and non-fancy quesadillas are kind of the same thing except for the gluten delivery device, I should call it a grilled cheese. And I recognize that it shouldn't even be called a quesadilla because NO CHEESE, but at least it doesn't have cheese in the name.
Anyway. It was pretty good.
I didn't do my dishes, though, because I couldn't find my dish soap. So I left them in the sink to do later.
And then I considered taking a shower, but I didn't feel like fetching my shampoo and body wash and such so I vetoed that idea, which turned out to be a mistake. What planet was I on when I thought that I'd be better equipped to solve that problem in the morning? I can barely figure out which way is up in the morning. The AM and I don't get along so well.
So I decided to just get ready for bed. Most of the stuff I needed was still in my bag from the trip, so I fished that out and then (after a little searching) found my Listerine next to my combat boots in the closet, and THEN I got ready for bed.
And then I wrote in my journal and read some scriptures and called it a night.
So basically I broke my bread and brushed my teeth and went to bed.
(and the smallest one was Madeline)
Saturday, August 9, 2014
ch-ch-ch-changes
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| A picture because I don't post many, and maybe you get sick of my words all the time. Plus, we're a good-lookin' bunch. |
I met up with some friends from freshman year this afternoon. The length of time it's been since I've seen each of them ranges from a few days to over two years. And the "few days" end of the spectrum isn't as significant as it seems, seeing as that encounter was our first since bidding farewell after our freshman year.
It's impossible for a person as nostalgic and prone to reminiscing as I am to have these kinds of reunions without spending a great deal of time before and after ruminating over both how much has changed since we all met as college newbies and how strange it is that part of me feels like life hasn't changed at all since our year spent in the dorms.
Here I am two years later still a single student living in Provo. When I have to categorize myself like that, it really sounds as if absolutely nothing is different.
But it is. Everything is different. I'm different.
In the just over two years since freshman year ended, two of the people I met up with today have gone on missions and returned. One has gotten married and transferred to a different university. And the last has also transferred to a different university to pursue her life's passion. When you look at it like that, it really doesn't seem like anything has changed for me. I didn't go on a mission, I'm not married, and I'm still at the same school pursing the same degree with the same career goal in mind come graduation.
I think that we tend to mark life changes only by the grand events that dramatically alter the course of our lives. We think that the only changes that are "real" are the ones that require a public announcement or a party to celebrate or a change of address. And it's true that those big life changes have a significant effect on your future. They are often the superlatives of life events—the biggest, the most exciting, the scariest, the most important.
But what I think we fail to notice as often are the small changes that happen gradually over time. The little habits we pick up or shun. The people who help you see the world differently. The small experiences that change how you see yourself. We don't often notice these changes as easily, because they're not dramatic and don't call attention to themselves. They're the kind of changes you hardly even notice until days like these happen and all of a sudden you realize you're not the same person you were two years ago.
The categories I fit into two years ago still apply for the most part. But those things—my marital status, my physical location, my occupation—aren't who I am. If I wanted somebody to know who I truly am at the deepest level, I wouldn't tell them that I live in Provo. That tells them little more than my address. And I am not my address.
So it's true. Things have changed. I have changed. Chatting with one of my dear friends today, I mistakenly said, "I'm still the same person."
"No," she was quick to assure me, "you're not."
And she's right. I'm not the same person. And there are parts of me I like better now after two years of learning and life experience under my belt since we all first met. But there are also parts of me that have morphed in ways that I'm not comfortable with and that I don't want to be permanent. And I think that's okay, because isn't life all about shaping and molding yourself into your best version? Sometimes you have to let the bad and the ugly manifest themselves so that you can learn how to best deal with them and turn them into something worthwhile.
And I think it's time I embrace the fact that small changes happen while I'm waiting for my personal superlative life changes.
Because, after all, every day happens a whole lot more often than superlatives do.
Monday, July 28, 2014
sometimes the answer is no
From the time that I was a small child, I was taught that Heavenly Father answers prayers. And I believe that.
But as I've grown older, I've come to realize just how faulty and skewed my understanding of this concept was. You see, I equated Heavenly Father answering my prayers to me getting exactly what I wanted.
This is not always the case.
In fact, in my experience, it is hardly ever the case.
I naively and foolishly believed that if I really had faith, Heavenly Father would let me have my way every time. That's what "answering my prayers" meant, right? After all, why wouldn't he grant me a righteous desire if I prayed truly believing that He would listen and answer me? Why would He deny me something good if I had faith that He could make it happen?
But then I came to college and entered adulthood and experienced the things that you experience when you're too young to be cynical but not old enough to have the advantage of extensive life experiences. And all of a sudden some of the the things I wanted to stay in my life were disappearing and the things I wanted to be gone were unpacking their bags and settling in for a nice long stay.
And it was reality, regardless of how much faith I had or how hard I prayed that things would be different.
But then I came to college and entered adulthood and experienced the things that you experience when you're too young to be cynical but not old enough to have the advantage of extensive life experiences. And all of a sudden some of the the things I wanted to stay in my life were disappearing and the things I wanted to be gone were unpacking their bags and settling in for a nice long stay.
And it was reality, regardless of how much faith I had or how hard I prayed that things would be different.
But in spite of having so many things—good, righteous, wholesome, worthwhile things—denied me, I still believe 100 percent that Heavenly Father answers my prayers.
It's just that sometimes the answer is no.
And when the answer is no, it can be heartbreaking. It hurts, and it's confusing, and you're sometimes left asking why. Why would a loving God say no when you really believed in Him and when it's a worthwhile thing you're asking for?
I'll be the first to admit that it's tempting to get angry (or at least very frustrated) when the answer isn't what you were hoping for. Because you believed so sincerely. And you wanted that thing so very badly. But I also know that anger doesn't solve problems and that it will only make the answer harder to accept.
And at the end of the day, I know that Heavenly Father does things for a reason. Do I always know those reasons? No. In fact, I almost never do. Most of the time I just ask to be able to accept the fact that I don't understand.
But I know that I have a loving God. And I know he wouldn't say no when I ask for something good unless there were a reason. Unless I weren't ready, or I needed to learn something, or He had something better in store for me down the road. He knows what's best for me. He can see the end from the beginning when I can barely see three inches in front of me. He can see that some of the things I want that seem so perfect and so right are actually not what will bring me the most happiness in life.
I was never promised that God would answer all my prayers how I wanted and when I wanted. I was just promised they'd be answered. And they are.
But sometimes the answer is no.
And when the answer is no, it can be heartbreaking. It hurts, and it's confusing, and you're sometimes left asking why. Why would a loving God say no when you really believed in Him and when it's a worthwhile thing you're asking for?
I'll be the first to admit that it's tempting to get angry (or at least very frustrated) when the answer isn't what you were hoping for. Because you believed so sincerely. And you wanted that thing so very badly. But I also know that anger doesn't solve problems and that it will only make the answer harder to accept.
And at the end of the day, I know that Heavenly Father does things for a reason. Do I always know those reasons? No. In fact, I almost never do. Most of the time I just ask to be able to accept the fact that I don't understand.
But I know that I have a loving God. And I know he wouldn't say no when I ask for something good unless there were a reason. Unless I weren't ready, or I needed to learn something, or He had something better in store for me down the road. He knows what's best for me. He can see the end from the beginning when I can barely see three inches in front of me. He can see that some of the things I want that seem so perfect and so right are actually not what will bring me the most happiness in life.
I was never promised that God would answer all my prayers how I wanted and when I wanted. I was just promised they'd be answered. And they are.
But sometimes the answer is no.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
home
134 Parker Street was my first home.
Sometime in early December of 1992, my parents brought me to this house, and I was home for the very first time. I was fresh and new then, a tiny, bald bundle of baby and light. We moved from this house a few months before my first birthday, so the closest thing I have to a memory from this house is recognizing it from a picture I've seen in a photo album of my parents, older brothers, and I on the small front porch. I did drive by it briefly a few summers ago, though, when I visited Maine with my parents and younger brothers.
27 Schoolhouse Lane is the first home I remember.
I had my first birthday on Schoolhouse Lane, complete with the traditional Greenhalgh family carousel cake. I often have a hard time sorting out which memories I have of this home are actually mine and which ones I think I remember because I've heard the stories told so many times. I've written about this before, in fact, but I've come up with a few more memories since then. I remember the grassy hill that separated our home from a wide expanse of woods. When it was windy outside, that hill was a prime kite flying spot. I remember the day a moose wandered into our front yard and put its front hooves up on our trampoline as though it were trying to climb on and squeeze in a quick jump before going back to doing whatever moose do. It was dinnertime, and we were eating soup. We had a large garden at this home, and my mom tells me I used to plop down by the peas and eat them straight off the plant. We moved from this home about six weeks after the birth of the triplets when I was just barely closer to my fifth birthday than my fourth
1407 Cayton Road was the home of my childhood.
I associate trees with this home. There were two pine trees in the back yard that were quite close together. We kids liked to play under and around them. There was an every larger tree on the side of the house. The branches started high up enough off of the ground that I could crawl under them as a small child and be completely hidden from the world. One year on Arbor Day, I got a tiny little sapling that we planted in the front yard. I don't think any of us expected it to amount to anything, but a few years ago, we drove by our Cayton home and were surprised to see a large, mature tree in the place where a tiny little twig with a few pine needles once stood.
1883 Farmhouse Way is where I stepped out of childhood.
It's the home of my teenage angst, which I'm sure my family would love to tell you about. It's the home where I had my graduation party, where I had my first kiss, and where I got accepted to college (not necessarily in that order). It's the home both of my older brothers departed from when they blazed the way to college and missions. It's the home I had to leave when it was my turn to make the trek to Provo. My parents and younger brothers still live here, so it's the place I visit at Christmastime. I call this home my Kentucky Home, because even though I don't live there anymore, it will always be home as long as my family is there.
222 Tingey Hall was my first home away from my family.
My first memory of this home took place at nighttime after a long day of travel. We dropped off some of my belongings before heading to my aunt's house to spend the night. I remember stepping into the room that was to be mine that contained a desk that wasn't mine and a bed that wasn't mine and a closet that wasn't mine and blank walls that certainly weren't mine. And for the first time ever, another person's belongings were in the room that was to be mine. And as I shoved a few suitcases into a corner, I felt a sinking sense of fear and dread that this place would never feel like mine. Thankfully, my pessimistic premonition was incorrect—that room became just as much mine as any other room I'd had. And having roommates was actually kind of nice, I found. Sometimes it was (and still is, really) overwhelming for me to live with girls after growing up with all brothers, but it's a unique blessing that I appreciate over and over again when I can come home to a friend to talk to about girl things.
910 N 900 E #104 is where I am now.
It's the first home I've had on a numbered street, which feels more grown up for some reason. In a lot of ways, this home has shaped who I am today more than any other home. The places I grew up with my family laid a foundation for my life; they helped me discover who I am at the core. But this home is where I've had the experiences that have helped me become that person. This is the home where I've dealt with the hardest trials, where I've doubted myself the most, and where I've experienced the darkest of my days. But it's also the place that's refined me, that's taught me how to feel true joy, and that led to meeting some of the most important people in my life. I don't know how much longer this will be my home (according to signed contracts it will be at least a year), but I know that no matter how much longer I stay here or where I go after leaving it, I wouldn't trade my life in 104 for anything. This home helped me become confident. It helped my become closer to my Heavenly Father. It helped me become me.
Sometime in early December of 1992, my parents brought me to this house, and I was home for the very first time. I was fresh and new then, a tiny, bald bundle of baby and light. We moved from this house a few months before my first birthday, so the closest thing I have to a memory from this house is recognizing it from a picture I've seen in a photo album of my parents, older brothers, and I on the small front porch. I did drive by it briefly a few summers ago, though, when I visited Maine with my parents and younger brothers.
27 Schoolhouse Lane is the first home I remember.
I had my first birthday on Schoolhouse Lane, complete with the traditional Greenhalgh family carousel cake. I often have a hard time sorting out which memories I have of this home are actually mine and which ones I think I remember because I've heard the stories told so many times. I've written about this before, in fact, but I've come up with a few more memories since then. I remember the grassy hill that separated our home from a wide expanse of woods. When it was windy outside, that hill was a prime kite flying spot. I remember the day a moose wandered into our front yard and put its front hooves up on our trampoline as though it were trying to climb on and squeeze in a quick jump before going back to doing whatever moose do. It was dinnertime, and we were eating soup. We had a large garden at this home, and my mom tells me I used to plop down by the peas and eat them straight off the plant. We moved from this home about six weeks after the birth of the triplets when I was just barely closer to my fifth birthday than my fourth
1407 Cayton Road was the home of my childhood.
I associate trees with this home. There were two pine trees in the back yard that were quite close together. We kids liked to play under and around them. There was an every larger tree on the side of the house. The branches started high up enough off of the ground that I could crawl under them as a small child and be completely hidden from the world. One year on Arbor Day, I got a tiny little sapling that we planted in the front yard. I don't think any of us expected it to amount to anything, but a few years ago, we drove by our Cayton home and were surprised to see a large, mature tree in the place where a tiny little twig with a few pine needles once stood.
1883 Farmhouse Way is where I stepped out of childhood.
It's the home of my teenage angst, which I'm sure my family would love to tell you about. It's the home where I had my graduation party, where I had my first kiss, and where I got accepted to college (not necessarily in that order). It's the home both of my older brothers departed from when they blazed the way to college and missions. It's the home I had to leave when it was my turn to make the trek to Provo. My parents and younger brothers still live here, so it's the place I visit at Christmastime. I call this home my Kentucky Home, because even though I don't live there anymore, it will always be home as long as my family is there.
222 Tingey Hall was my first home away from my family.
My first memory of this home took place at nighttime after a long day of travel. We dropped off some of my belongings before heading to my aunt's house to spend the night. I remember stepping into the room that was to be mine that contained a desk that wasn't mine and a bed that wasn't mine and a closet that wasn't mine and blank walls that certainly weren't mine. And for the first time ever, another person's belongings were in the room that was to be mine. And as I shoved a few suitcases into a corner, I felt a sinking sense of fear and dread that this place would never feel like mine. Thankfully, my pessimistic premonition was incorrect—that room became just as much mine as any other room I'd had. And having roommates was actually kind of nice, I found. Sometimes it was (and still is, really) overwhelming for me to live with girls after growing up with all brothers, but it's a unique blessing that I appreciate over and over again when I can come home to a friend to talk to about girl things.
910 N 900 E #104 is where I am now.
It's the first home I've had on a numbered street, which feels more grown up for some reason. In a lot of ways, this home has shaped who I am today more than any other home. The places I grew up with my family laid a foundation for my life; they helped me discover who I am at the core. But this home is where I've had the experiences that have helped me become that person. This is the home where I've dealt with the hardest trials, where I've doubted myself the most, and where I've experienced the darkest of my days. But it's also the place that's refined me, that's taught me how to feel true joy, and that led to meeting some of the most important people in my life. I don't know how much longer this will be my home (according to signed contracts it will be at least a year), but I know that no matter how much longer I stay here or where I go after leaving it, I wouldn't trade my life in 104 for anything. This home helped me become confident. It helped my become closer to my Heavenly Father. It helped me become me.
Monday, June 23, 2014
i know why the caged bird sings
I spent my day on Saturday having some quality time with myself. It sounds odd, I'm aware, because there is no point in history (past or present) in which I am not with myself. But always being with myself—whether alone or with others—doesn't ensure that that time is quality or meaningful.
So yesterday I set out to do just that—I spent time alone doing things that were worthwhile and that made me happy to be who I am. It wasn't a special day of pampering and glitz. In all actuality, it was a pretty normal Saturday. I did approximately nine hundred loads of laundry (give or take eight hundred and fifty-five), folded and put away all that laundry, cleaned, ate a lot of spaghetti, made some quick sewing repairs to some items in my wardrobe that needed a little face lift, colored a picture or two, read a book, watched some Psych, edited various documents, and wrote three letters, choosing my words and stamps very carefully (I got Harry Potter stamps! Thank you United States Postal Service).
But most importantly, I reserved a large block of my afternoon for studying and pondering the scriptures. I opened my heart to heaven, and did everything I could to block out the rest of the world, so I could focus on learning. And it was powerful. It's not to say that I had profound insights or had visions of how the rest of my life should be, but I felt the Spirit strongly reaffirming truths that had scampered away to the back of my mind to be forgotten. Truths about my Savior and the Holy Ghost and the gospel. But mostly truths about myself.
I realized that I've spent far too long making myself the enemy. The powers of negative thinking and insecurity led me to believe that who I am isn't good enough and that I'll never measure up. I lost sight of who I am in the eyes of God and who I can become with his help. I am not my own enemy, and thinking that I am only perpetuates unhappiness and stunts growth and healing.
I am a daughter of a loving God. I have purpose and meaning. I can do hard things.
About a year ago I read The Freedom Writers Diary (I highly recommend both the book and the movie). A few of the entries in this book mention Maya Angelou's memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. The title of that book took on profound meaning for me. As a white, twenty-one year old female, I'm not caged by the things that Miss Angelou and the Freedom Writers were caged by. Poverty, gang violence, racism, and broken families are all very real, but they've never played a direct role in my life. But that doesn't mean that I've never experienced the feeling of being caged in.
Some cages are the result of factors out of our control. Some individuals are caged by circumstance, opportunities or lack thereof, mental and physical illnesses, or oppression. Others are caged because of the bigotry and intolerance of other people. All of those cages seem more real, more concrete. They are more obvious, their bars seem thicker and stronger and inescapable. These cages seem legitimate because they are the result of things you can't control.
So yesterday I set out to do just that—I spent time alone doing things that were worthwhile and that made me happy to be who I am. It wasn't a special day of pampering and glitz. In all actuality, it was a pretty normal Saturday. I did approximately nine hundred loads of laundry (give or take eight hundred and fifty-five), folded and put away all that laundry, cleaned, ate a lot of spaghetti, made some quick sewing repairs to some items in my wardrobe that needed a little face lift, colored a picture or two, read a book, watched some Psych, edited various documents, and wrote three letters, choosing my words and stamps very carefully (I got Harry Potter stamps! Thank you United States Postal Service).
But most importantly, I reserved a large block of my afternoon for studying and pondering the scriptures. I opened my heart to heaven, and did everything I could to block out the rest of the world, so I could focus on learning. And it was powerful. It's not to say that I had profound insights or had visions of how the rest of my life should be, but I felt the Spirit strongly reaffirming truths that had scampered away to the back of my mind to be forgotten. Truths about my Savior and the Holy Ghost and the gospel. But mostly truths about myself.
I realized that I've spent far too long making myself the enemy. The powers of negative thinking and insecurity led me to believe that who I am isn't good enough and that I'll never measure up. I lost sight of who I am in the eyes of God and who I can become with his help. I am not my own enemy, and thinking that I am only perpetuates unhappiness and stunts growth and healing.
I am a daughter of a loving God. I have purpose and meaning. I can do hard things.
About a year ago I read The Freedom Writers Diary (I highly recommend both the book and the movie). A few of the entries in this book mention Maya Angelou's memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. The title of that book took on profound meaning for me. As a white, twenty-one year old female, I'm not caged by the things that Miss Angelou and the Freedom Writers were caged by. Poverty, gang violence, racism, and broken families are all very real, but they've never played a direct role in my life. But that doesn't mean that I've never experienced the feeling of being caged in.
Some cages are the result of factors out of our control. Some individuals are caged by circumstance, opportunities or lack thereof, mental and physical illnesses, or oppression. Others are caged because of the bigotry and intolerance of other people. All of those cages seem more real, more concrete. They are more obvious, their bars seem thicker and stronger and inescapable. These cages seem legitimate because they are the result of things you can't control.
But there are other cages. Cages we put around ourselves. Cages I put around myself.
Every time I think I'm not good enough, I put up a cage.
Every time I say I can't, I put up a cage.
Every time I treat someone unkindly, I put up a cage
Every time I treat someone unkindly, I put up a cage
Every time I let myself believe that I'm inferior or worthless, I put up a cage.
Every time I forget my worth, I put up a cage.
I've never read Maya Angelou's memoir, so I don't know what her explanation as to why caged birds sing is, but I know mine. Caged birds sing because they know there is something better out there. They know there is hope and beauty and love in this world that's just out of their reach. They sing because sometimes their hearts are sorrowful and burdened, but they believe anyway.
Every time I forget my worth, I put up a cage.
I've never read Maya Angelou's memoir, so I don't know what her explanation as to why caged birds sing is, but I know mine. Caged birds sing because they know there is something better out there. They know there is hope and beauty and love in this world that's just out of their reach. They sing because sometimes their hearts are sorrowful and burdened, but they believe anyway.
I know why the caged bird sings, but when you remove the cage, the song will change.
My song has been changing over the past few weeks, and I plan to continue to change it as I learn more fully to be who God intended me to be. To be who I really am. At times it's hard to accept that who I am—broken, weak, ugly parts and all—is enough, but those moments represent life without acknowledging a loving Heavenly Father. When I turn to Him and truly trust in Him, I see glimpses of who I can become. I can see how my weaknesses and flaws and shortcomings are all intended to teach and humble me.
When I turn to Him, my song sings praise to His name.
My song has been changing over the past few weeks, and I plan to continue to change it as I learn more fully to be who God intended me to be. To be who I really am. At times it's hard to accept that who I am—broken, weak, ugly parts and all—is enough, but those moments represent life without acknowledging a loving Heavenly Father. When I turn to Him and truly trust in Him, I see glimpses of who I can become. I can see how my weaknesses and flaws and shortcomings are all intended to teach and humble me.
When I turn to Him, my song sings praise to His name.
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