Only the Good Die Young

"The idea is to die young, as late as possible."

-Random meme found on Facebook

I believe that there is a difference between growing up and growing old. I think that you can be both crazy and mature. Maturity is nothing more than making the right decisions when it matters most--that is all that growing up entails. Growing up comes with life experiences as they teach you how to live. Growing up doesn't mean losing your sense of humor or sight of your passions, growing up doesn't require that you find yourself stuck in the past.

That's growing old.

Sometimes, I think we get it backwards. We feel like it requires a conscious effort to grow up, as if it won't happen unless we create it. And we think that growing old won't affect us until later in life, or that it won't at all. But take a look at yourself: when was the last time you ran around the yard playing imagination games, just for the fun of it? When did you stop fearing that you would miss out on something of grand excitement by taking a nap or going to bed? When did learning become a chore?

Just as growing up has a way of happening upon us, so does growing old. It catches you by surprise. In fact, most of the time we don't notice its effects because everyone around you is doing the same. We don't see the distinction between the two.

I am here to say that age and experience do not mean that you suddenly have to let go of things in life. Choosing to continue to live, rather than simply survive, certainly goes against the path of least resistance. But it's worth it. My grandma is currently training for her 21st half-marathon. And you know what? She is living. And she has something to live for.

I think that's the key. We avoid the effects of growing old by giving ourselves something to live for--something that we have a passion for, something that you would give other things up to have. And then we have to remember that we live for that thing. That, though it requires energy and sacrifice, it is far more rewarding than the things that you let go.

I may only be 19 years old, and I know I have a lot of growing up to do. But I think if I start fighting growing old now, I can nip it in the bud. I can spend my time on this earth filled with purpose and life and love. I can die young, no matter how late it happens.

Who's with me?

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Conference Weekly last week here.

This week here.

July 2012 Quotes

July was actually much more hilarious than this. Apparently it was just a lazy quotebooking month. I apologize for not properly documenting the 31 days of hilarious times with family and catching up with faraway friends. Here's to hoping I'm better these next 31 days. Regardless, I hope you enjoy a glimpse into my July of 2012.

Mom: You have to have your cheeseburger to eat your toy.

Tori: I could live in a condo if that whole building were mine.

Mom: I keep smelling barf. Oh, it's his feet.

Tori: Dad, I don't know why you married Mom.
Mom: Thanks, Tor.

Benny: I'm going to teach Heavenly Father how to do a somersault!

Tori: Oh. I think I just licked a booger off my lips.

Dania: I thought those umbrellas were people.

Mom: I thought those wooden posts were turkeys.

Chase: See how cool it is to be a kid?

Benny: Lick me! Give me a lick.

Mom: Is it just me, or is it dizzy in here?

Brent: I've been going to girls' camp for eight years now.

Tori: So there's this girl wearing one of those one-piece outfits and she leaned over and totally gave herself a wedgie.

Mom: I think anybody who doesn't love the Olympics has no soul.

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Conference Weekly here.

Wind Chimes

Wind chimes remind me of our Arizona days. They sound like childhood. They sound like sweet relief from the sweltering summer sun, as the faintest breeze makes its way through the yard. They sound like the old polaroid camera I used play with--running around the streets, fascinated that I could see the picture almost instantly.

When I hear wind chimes, I remember Paul--a recently sprouted palm tree my sister and I discovered. We tracked its growth weekly with a ruler made with paper, pencils, and inch approximations based on the distance between the first and second knuckles of my forefinger. When I hear wind chimes, I remember rollerblading on those black, black roads. I remember swimming with cousins, and simply adoring the novelty of being able to see underwater when I wore goggles. I remember blue raspberry snow cones, and thinking that my cousin was really odd for reading a book with as strange a title as "Harry Potter." Because, really, who names their child Harry?

I remember feeling so cool as I swept our back patio while using my mom's walkman--jamming out to Enrique Inglesias the whole time. I remember singing to my dad over the phone, wishing he were there. When I hear wind chimes, I am lead to the morning I walked out of my room to get ready for school and found my mom sitting on the couch in shock--hands over her mouth, staring at the TV screen as an airplane flew into the second twin tower. I remember loudly singing "God Bless the USA" in school.

Wind chimes remind me of Visitor, a cactus wren who occasionally flew in through our open kitchen window and made himself quite at home. I remember hikes through the cactus forests. I remember realizing that, though only five minutes apart, twenty minutes seemed an eternity longer than fifteen. Wind chimes bring memories of the class clown who, against multiple warnings from every teacher, stroked a cactus in the small garden of our school. Through tears, he explained that he did it because he, "thought the cactus was bald." Wind chimes remind me of treading fertilizer into a garden barefoot as a class, and learning the reason why it smelled so bad. It was in that class that I was taught that smart person is never bored, because she can find a way to entertain herself always.

Wind chimes remind me of the days when I didn't mind the heat one bit, and when I thought it was exciting that we happened to move into our new home on the hottest day of the year.

Today I heard wind chimes. And I remembered the days of carefree imagination. Today I played games with a three year old who shot me with his toy gun, then kissed me on the cheek to wake me from an otherwise deathly slumber. Today my baby brother gave me the biggest hugs when I needed them most, and today I caught a piece of how far I've come since the faraway days of the wind chimes.

"We are the creatures of our thinking. We can talk ourselves into defeat or we can talk ourselves into victory." 

-President Gordon B. Hinckley, entire address here.

I've still got a long way to go, but I think I can get there.

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Conference Weekly here.

Hide-and-Go-Seek

Pretty much every morning this past month has gone down in the same lack-of-routine type of way. Meaning, I have no schedule, but similar things seem to happen in whatever random order they choose. You'll see what I mean in a minute.

Basically, I have lost all ability to wake up and get out of bed, with the exception of that one morning. And kind of today--I've been awake for two whole hours now, but that's about the extent of it. My theory is that 10 months of colleging instead of sleeping has finally caught up with me. Anyway, I generally out of bed when I'm too stiff to stay in there any longer (I'm nineteen, why do I sound like an old grandma talking?) or when my darling mother decides I've wasted enough of the morning away and I must get up. Either way, I groggily stumble my way into the kitchen and start fixing myself some breakfast, when my energetic three-year-old brother comes leaping and bounding into the kitchen with a stream of "Yet's pway a game! Yet's go outside! Do you want to ride my bike wif me?" spewing from his little mouth that has long since woken up and been fed.

I, however, fully intend to eat the delicious breakfast that I have slaved over. (Toast, most likely. Or something that requires a skill level akin to that of toast-making.) But, more often than not, I will leave my carefully crafted meal for a moment or two to play a game, and thus satisfy the small man-child that I might feast in relative peace.

One particular morning, the name of the game was hide-and-go-seek. I played a few rounds, and eventually began "hiding" on the stool directly in front of my tropical-blend smoothie. This must have gotten old, because he soon pulled Mom into playing with him. When she returned to her previous activity of "Monk-ing the house" (have you seen that show? we LOVE it in our house), Benny decided that he would play hide-and-go-seek with the remaining person in the near vicinity--himself. The conversation went as follows:

Benny: I'll play hide-and-go-seek wif myself! One-two-free . . . weady or not, here I come! [Clearly too excited about the vast array potential outcomes to count to the usual ten]
Benny: Now, where could I be?
Benny: Here I am!

The "Here I am!" was complete with a jump of sincere surprise, as if he was completely stunned to have found himself standing right where he was.

We often look at this boy and think, "Oh, to live Benny's life." Oh, to find such joy and surprise in playing hide-and-go-seek with yourself. Oh, to have that imagination. Oh, to be adored by all.

Just the same, I don't think I've quite grown out of the search for myself. Aren't we all in a continual search to discover who we are and what we can become? And as we look behind the couches and in the closets and all throughout the house in the most unsuspecting of places, I think it's fair to say that we are, on occasion, sincerely astonished to find ourselves. As if we hadn't known all along right where our personhood was hiding.

And that's the fun of it all. That's life--full of surprises, and the best ones are when you surprise yourself.

May we all find joy, excitement, thrill, and surprise as we search for ourselves throughout this life.

He also wears flippers while riding his tricycle.

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Conference Weekly here.

Let's Squish Our Fruits Together

Have you guys seen that video? It's hilarious. I regularly reference it in my day-to-day conversation ever since AP World History my junior year, when I saw it for the very first time. I mean, a grocery store musical? Brilliant. I love Improv Everywhere.

In other news, finger painting with the little brother is awesome.

Seriously, I don't remember the last time I finger painted before this. But you guys--you have to do it. Seriously. Go out and buy some washable paints, and just smear it everywhere. Make tie-dye colored handprints. Paint a house. Or a dog. Or a family. Smear all the paints together and make a brownish-red colored piece of paper. Paint each other. Paint yourself. And, for heaven's sake, get messy!

I promise, it's worth every extra second in the shower washing it off. It's not that many extra seconds anyway.

What can I say? I just really love this boy. And I am absolutely determined to never grow up anymore than I have to.

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Conference Weekly here.

Also, last week's is here.

Sorry it's late.

The Merciful Obtain Mercy

I know I normally just post the link for the Conference Weekly talks, but this one is too good to just gloss over with a, "Hey, go check it out sometime. You know, if you feel like it."

It is beautiful. It is perfect. It is something that we should all hear on a regular basis.

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf is truly an inspired man of God. As the second counselor of the First Presidency of the Church, he has lifted me countless times with his words of guidance and encouragement. And for that, I could not be more grateful. For a basic rundown on how the church is organized, visit this link.

It is easy to hold on to things--to cling to them as if they were our only way to get through life. Fear, and hurt, and bitterness seem to offer us protection. "Nevertheless, we must let go of our grievances. part of the purpose of mortality is to learn how to let go of such things. That is the Lord's way."

"We must recognize that we are all imperfect--that we are beggars before God. Haven't we all, at one time or another, meekly approached the mercy seat and pleaded for grace? haven't we wished with all the energy of our souls for mercy--to be forgiven for the mistakes we have made and the sins we have committed?

"Because we all depend on the mercy of God, how can we deny to others any measure of the grace we so desperately desire for ourselves? My beloved brothers and sisters, should we not forgive as we wish to be forgiven?"

Please take the time to listen to these words--they are the words of God, delivered by His servant. Whether you are a member of the church or not, this will lift and guide you. I promise.

The text to the whole address can be found here.

With Wings as Eagles

The other day, I caught Benny jumping off the arm of the couch and flopping noisily down onto the cushions. Over, and over, and over again. When I asked him what he was doing, he said, "I'm trying to fly like a birdy, but I keep falling down."

And I couldn't help but think that we all feel that way sometimes. We have such high aspirations, we want to accomplish big and beautiful things--we want to fly, but we just keep falling down. Try as we might, we just don't have what it takes to do everything.

Sometimes we take that leap of faith, and when we aren't caught up to soar in the skies above, we're confused. We're confused because we trusted, and we believed, and we hoped. And all that we seem to be getting for it is the ground growing below us, faster and faster with no way to stop it. With no way to control it. Helpless to the pull of gravity.

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A teammate of mine once shared her thoughts on Isaiah 40:31.

But they that wait on the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.

She had been going through a difficult season--her races weren't what she wanted them to be, she wasn't doing what she knew that she was capable of. She prayed for strength, received an answer, and leapt in faith. And she fell. The next race was the worst one yet--and she was confused.

As she pondered on this scripture, the thought occurred to her that we do not have wings as eagles. Nothing in our power can change that. But as we turn to the Lord, we can do all things--even impossible things. We can become something that we weren't on our own. We can fly.

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I guess that's something that we all have to learn somewhere along the way. We can do things beyond what we can imagine now, but only if we let go. It takes letting go of our own plans, our own ideas, and allowing ourselves to be shaped into what His plans for us are. It takes change, and we must allow that change. It takes trust, and hope, and belief that things will be alright in the end. That, though the ground is growing nearer and nearer, we "shall mount up with wings as eagles."

And we will fly.

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Conference weekly here.

I Am a Child of God

And so are you.

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Conference weekly here.

Truth in Stillness

I didn't really want to move here, you know. It scared me. I don't know what it was, but something was holding me back. It was foreboding, it was unknown and unfamiliar. But the stronger I pulled away, the more distinctly I was pulled in. For all the holding back that I did, for all the pulling and squirming away, there was a constant, steady peace that filled me. As if to say, "You know, Dani. You already know."

And I did. I knew that I needed to move here. There was a purpose. I was at a loss as to what exactly that purpose was, but there was a reason bigger than what I had eyes to see.

I probably still don't know what that purpose is, but this much I do know: I love where I live. I love the people that I am surrounded by, and I am happy.

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Conference weekly found here.

Come Unto Ourselves

There are weeks when it's the little things that keep you going. Good friends, a loving family, and a most glorious and beautiful Gospel to pattern my life after.

I am so blessed.

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Conference Weekly here.

Campus Safari

"And on your right we have the Harold B. Lee Library, as you can see..."

There are these golf carts that drive around campus with families all loaded up, ooing and aahing as they take their pleasant little tours. It's all fine and good. But I have to admit, sometimes it makes me feel like a giraffe. Or an elephant. Or maybe a lion.

Sometimes, it just feels like these people are on an African safari, driving around campus to observe the students in their natural habitat. So when I'm that lone student cutting through the parking lot, I start thinking about how I'm that stunned gazelle, standing and staring, knowing full well that it's being watched. And also knowing full well that there's nothing that can be done.

Next time I'll just take off running. Maybe they'll start chasing me. And boy, I would have a good story to tell then, now wouldn't I?

Photo Credit

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Conference Weekly found here.

{Thoughts} Growing Roots

People don't usually believe me when I tell them that I'm shy. I am though. It isn't rare for me to slink back into the most hidden corner that I can find when I go somewhere new. A part of me hopes that a kind soul will reach out and offer a friendship, but mostly I hope that no one will see me and no one will  notice me. I guess it just comes down to a fear of the friendship lasting no longer than the hour that we're there, and then me being left back where I started. Sometimes it's easier to be alone than to have someone and lose them.

People probably don't believe me because I try to act otherwise. Rather than waiting to be plopped into the perfect pot of dirt to grow in, pick up the shovel and start digging yourself.

Easier said than done, right?

I was once told that you should always make wherever you are home. Even if you only think you'll be there for two months--even if you'll only be there two weeks. Be where your feet are. Immerse yourself in the moment. Strive to be your very best--always.

Photo Credit

You may not be planted where you always thought that you would be. Instead, you are creating more beauty than you will ever know.

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Conference Weekly talk found here.

Scarcity

For the sake of time, and my lack thereof, I will forgo the sharing of a memory for the time being. Currently my memory is being consumed with thoughts like this:

Photo Credit

And you know, to be entirely honest, I don't really mind. Even when I am unbelievably behind in every way, I quite enjoy this class.

You guys, I have to tell you something. I love my major.

More on that later as well. For now, it's back to the books.

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Conference Weekly found here.

{Nostalgia} Humidity

It was dark. When we first arrived at our 6 week home in Hawaii, we couldn't see a thing. So we let the sound, the smell, the feel guide us. The swelling of the ocean pulled us in.

Our feet hit the sand, and we ran until our toes felt the washing of the waves. Giggling in excitement, we breathed in the heavy, humid air in loonnng, drawn out breaths. In, out. In, out.

Like the waves.

An oceanside summer. It took some time for me to adjust to breathing in so much humidity--at first it felt so oppressing. Like I was being suffocated, like I was trying to breathe through a thick, down pillow. But I soon didn't notice.

The sun was hot. I woke up at 4 AM every day to get some miles in before the sun rose. Even still, I came back with my long ponytail dripping and flicking sweat every which way. I finished every run by kicking off my shoes, dropping my watch, and collapsing into the cool ocean water once the resistance was too much for me to fight.

I read. They were summer reading assignments for my classes that year--The Hobbit and 1776. More often than not, I fell asleep in the process. To the steady, soft sound of the ocean waves in the background.

I probably didn't appreciate the opportunity as much as I could have. I certainly was convinced that it was of the utmost importance that I spend a significant amount of time inside, reading those books with the fans blasting in attempts to combat the stifling heat of the upstairs bedroom. I could have enjoyed the ocean a little more, I could have spent more time with my family. I could have done a lot of things differently.

Still, I look back on that vacation fondly. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and I have many wonderful memories of sunrises reflecting off the temple window, Angel's shave ice, and walk after slow walk with my mom.

And I guess that's how life always is. Filled with moments that could have been better appreciated, but generally composed of memories that make it all worthwhile. It's like humidity, looking back. At first it's overwhelming. But as time goes on, you begin to find comfort in it. It becomes soothing. And before you know it, you don't even notice anymore.

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Conference weekly talk found here.

{Nostalgia} Raw Feet

I remember that feeling--raw feet. The asphalt, hot and rough, is blistering my heels, my toes. But I can't put shoes on. Not now. It's summer.

Instead I move over to the grass. It's still early enough that dew drops remain on each blade, waiting to be melted off, licking my sore feet as I drag them along in the coolness of it all.

I spent all of last summer that way. Barefoot on the sidewalk, grass, hilltops. Barefoot everywhere. Racing up the dirt pathway to see who could see the sunset first, and leaving our shoes far behind. We ran through the nights in the company of the every-so-often streetlight, giving the world a yellowish tint.

We ran marathons, we hiked hikes, we splashed through rivers and tromped through the remaining snow. We smiled a lot and laughed even more, and the majority of it all was absolute bliss. I spent the summer with some of the best people around.

Those raw feet told stories. They held memories. With each scrape, with each blister, with each line of dirt, something had happened to put it there. Each came from a step that I had taken, a place that I had been. Each came from running around and playing make-believe, they came from chasing after dreams and ambitions. They came from chasing memories, too.

Last summer was an adventure.

The summer adventure is just around the corner, and I wonder what it will have in store for me this year. A little classes, a whole lot of Econ, some settling into a new home, and a lot of friend making. An airplane flight, far too much humidity, and a home without air conditioning. Mosquitoes and fireflies, some big bears, and the occasional woodchuck sightings.

I'm not entirely sure what this summer has in store for me. But I sure hope it involves raw feet, the soles blacked with stories and adventures.

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Conference Weekly here.

{Nostalgia} The Reality of Reality

I didn't sleep that night.

I was too busy shoving everything I owned into white trash bags and plastic bins.

My move-in time was 6 AM, it was about midnight, and I had only just begun packing. My mind was intensely focused on those trash bags--on my clothes going into them, on the stack of my belongings growing in the corner. Somewhere in the very back of my mind was that nagging, that fear. I guess you could really just call it reality. But I was so determined to ignore that uncertainty that I buried myself deeper and deeper into those garbage bags, furiously packing, with an occasional pause to look around, to reminisce.

I lived with my aunt and uncle that summer. About 20 minutes from where all the goings on were happening, since everyone I knew hadn't moved to Springville with me. I worked full time at my dad's dental office, and kept one of every kind of outfit in the trunk of my car. In hindsight, I realize that reality came more gradually than it felt like it did. It just pretended to not see it until it was all that I could see--shielding my eyes to everything but the last speck of innocence until that, too, had faded.

I was scared. I didn't admit it to myself or anyone else, but I was absolutely terrified. So much was ahead, and I didn't know anything. At 5 AM, my sister and I loaded up my uncle's old beater truck, and I spent the entire 20 minute drive in filled with an emotion that came nothing short of ecstasy because I had so missed driving a stick shift. We pulled into the lonely parking lot, and spent a good half an hour searching for someone--anyone--who could help me check into my new home for the next eight months.

I didn't want to call the number that was posted on every single door. I didn't want anyone to have to wake up at my expense. But, when it had been long enough, I finally caved under the logic that the phone number was posted for a reason. Five minutes later, an RA had walked me through the basic mechanics of a fire extinguisher, and I had a key to my apartment.

We made it into the apartment just fine. But, try as I might, I could not get the key to turn in my bedroom door. I sheepishly called that poor man again, asking if there was a magic trick to make the door open. He came to help and quickly informed me that I was trying to open the wrong door.

Tori will never let me live that down.

This is my, "What are you doing over there?" face.

The reality of it all is that it was always reality. Every moment just as real as the next. Every moment growing and climbing and learning. Falling, too. In fear or inadequacy. But always picking back up and continuing onward.

Still, this moment felt especially real. Starting something absolutely new. I was on my own, but I came armed with a drive to succeed that came from who knows where. I guess I'll have to find it again, though, because this is going to happen all over again on Monday.

And even though I've done it before, I don't feel any less afraid.

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Conference Weekly talk found here.

{Nostalgia} Capable of the World

Balloons, candles, all things blue and orange. It was my teammate and best friend's birthday--and it was a big race. Little trinkets to celebrate. Scripture mastery showdowns. I remember.

I had potential to do well that day. I had the drive. I had nothing to fear, I knew nothing but hope. The world was still new.

I remember the dew on the pristine golf course lawn. I remember the tension, the excitement in the air. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw up. I just wanted to run.

I was running the frosh race. We started our warm up late and couldn't get a cheer in before the start, so we did it in the first straightaway. The gun shot off, and so did we:

Where do we come from? We come from T-I-M-P-V-I-E-W, orange white and blue!

We settled into the stillness of footsteps and heartbeats. The top 20 of each race got an award, and I was going to get one of those--I had decided. I ran hard. Step by step, I was keeping with the top girls. I ran past the spectators, I ran around the cones. Step by step, I was behind the rabbit--a golf cart. And I was tired. Somewhere in that middle mile, I lost the pack. I fought to close the gap. My lungs ached for air, my legs begged for rest, and still my heart longed to keep pace.

I crossed the finish line. Relief not quite as sweet as I had imagined for the past 23-something minutes. Clinging to the flimsy flags of the chute, I knew that I had run harder than ever before. Waiting for the lightheadedness and nausea to pass, I knew I had finished a few places behind 20.

But I had set a goal, I had gone after it with my whole heart. I later learned how to run even harder, even faster. This was the wake up moment. This was the time I first knew to push past pain for something more lasting. This was my first race.

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In other news, there are exactly enough talks from General Conference to take one every week until the next session in October. I hereby declare the beginnings of Conference Weekly--a more directed attempt to bring the words of the prophets into my life.

View President Boyd K. Packer's address here.