Something Beautiful

I've been travelling cross-country from Washington state to Connecticut via multiple forms of transportation. If we're going to be precise, they are as follows: bus, shuttle, airplane, and train. In that order. My travel time is nearing the 24-hour mark and, in that time, I've encountered a lot of people and seen a lot of beauty.

The view from the bus on the way to Seattle, Washington.

Here are my thoughts--with no rhyme, reason, or order to any of them.

I think it is remarkable to see people instinctively help each other. In this area, I firmly believe that the little things are the big things. I don't mean to discount remarkable humanitarian acts of building orphanages and distributing medicine, but I cannot believe that the impact of those actions are any larger than the one the young man on the train had today. Without a moment's hesitation, he helped three elderly women get their suitcases from the overhead compartment, and thanked them in the process. I was deeply impressed by his sincere service, and I want to spread that beauty along the way.

New Jersey is prettiest when seen through little finger smudges on the window. Something about knowing that a small child was thrilled by the scenery makes it more beautiful in my eyes, too.

Journeys are driven by beauty--wherever one finds it. For me, this trip has been driven by the beauty of family. For a girl I met on the bus, yesterday's journey was driven by the beauty in love, dedication, and sacrifice. For a man I met on the street, the journey was driven by the beauty made possible through new beginnings.

This world is remarkably beautiful. The variety, the complexities, the newness that just a few hours in any direction can bring is astounding. There is beauty in the details and in the grand picture, and I want to soak it all in. I want to let that beauty penetrate the walls I put up, and then let that beauty shine back out into the world.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, here's to remembering to see the something beautiful in everything.

Real Writing

I haven't written--really written--in a very long time. Long enough that I can't quite remember when I last composed a piece of any substance at all. Long enough that I have been craving it for some time now.

Every so often, I put another one of these posts up. Where I stand and acknowledge my apparent death as a writer. I share how much I loved it and express that something magical happened as my fingers stretched across the keyboard--it was as if the wisps of my emotions and experiences knowingly lead me along, one at a time, until I reached what I was looking for all along.

I then clarify that I was no remarkable writer and that I never expected to make a significant impact with my words. But it brought me peace to write and to share those thoughts.

Somewhere along the way, I remember how deeply I love the journey of writing and recommit to a life filled with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences. And, for a small time, I hold myself to my rediscovered passion.

The trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences, though, is that they take time and focus. Which is something that I love to give to writing, so let's try this again. The bigger trouble with beautiful thoughts and clever sentences is that they can always be improved. Which is also something that I love--I love that there is an inherent lack of finality in writing. However, the perfectionist tendencies in me take that quality and turn it into reason for procrastination. Post after post remain drafts because they were set aside to be perfected before they were presented to my small audience.

Well, here I am. And I have decided something. My writing isn't perfect, but it is real--and I am okay with that. Speaking of which, I best leave this real writing to study for and take a final.

To all who may stumble upon this post, please accept it as a peace offering in the battle between perfectionism and a writer's love.

Dark Blue

Some songs demand my attention. I hear the first few notes and immediately drop whatever I'm doing. I associate it with memories and emotion, and I want to completely soak them in.

Dark Blue is one of those.

I never particularly cared for this song until my roommate, Cali, made a most marvelous comment:

"I hope my husband is like this song. I know it inside and out, every little detail of it. But it never gets old. I still get so excited every time I hear it."

And, suddenly, I can't get enough of it. All I want to do is listen to it over and over. I look it up and I put it on repeat. I should probably just buy the thing, but that is a concern for another day.

The point is that I hear this song and, in my mind, I hear those words. And for some reason those words bring me such peace and hope. Hope that someday I can find a this song to my life.

Crunch.

This morning I woke up. Late, much later than planned (much to the dismay of my dear roommate, who endured the multiple alarms going off that I, in my sleepy state of delirium, continued to reset), but it did happen. As I woke myself up with a spontaneous solo dance party to one song on repeat, I found the warmest of my running attire somewhere in the depths of my tiny college student room and pulled them on.

By the time I stepped out my door, it was 8 o'clock and the most glorious kind of lovely. The air was crisp. The sun just peering between the mountain peaks. Specks of gold seemed to flick from the snowy ground. And then it happened.

As I rounded the first corner, my foot landed in the few days old, overnight frozen, super loud crunchy snow. And it was like I was home.

Some mornings are just perfect. Even when you don't wake up on time.

Photo from Saturday's morning run. Close enough.

A Celebration of Words

Who am I?

A question far too often asked to evoke any new thoughts, and a question stands as the beginning of a phrase to be emotionally concluded with, "24601" in the minds of any and all who dare consider themselves cultured.

A question often reserved for high schoolers attempting to find their place in the world, and for middle-aged midlife-crisisers who go on a spending rampage with money they don't have.

A question that gains new meaning when one assumes the additional identity of a blog.

You see, it's kind of like a new world opens up when you can use term "blogger" as a part of your personhood. There are so many different kinds of blogs out there--so many potential identities to be assumed. Cooking blogs, sewing blogs, technical and tutorial blogs. Mommy blogs, and mommy blog mockers. There's the blogs in which the blogger's entire life is poured out to the entire internet world--often exaggerated for dramatic effect. Photography blogs. Travel blogs. Keep-in-touch-with-distant-relatives blogs. Blogs that have more ads than content, but somehow manage to continue attracting followers.

And you know, I never really knew how to fit into any of these. Because I'm neither domestically nor technically inclined. I'm not yet a mother, though I aspire to be one so I have no intent to mock them. I'm absolutely certain that the world does not need any more dramatic takes on basic life events, my photography is nothing special, I don't travel enough to earn that title, and I don't have any faraway distant relatives who care to hear about my day-to-day, oh-so-ordinary experiences. And besides, the latter borders on a diary blog anyhow.

But I knew I wanted to write. And I wanted people to read my writing. Facebook, however, certainly is not the place to be posting attempts at well-written thoughts and musings on life. So Dani Girl Days began and, just as all lives do, began not knowing exactly what kind of niche life would eventually lead her to. (Her? Him? What gender do blogs have? Though I don't believe they even deserve the label of "inanimate," I definitely feel like they aren't an "it." Thoughts?)

I've recently made a blog friend by the name of Sierra, who blogs over at Catching Something Invisible. And it was something that she said that made me realize where I fit in this odd little blog world. "Blogs, in my opinion, should celebrate words." That rings true to me--it feels familiar. Like she spoke something that I hadn't yet found words for. And, ultimately, I guess that's something that I try to do. I strive to celebrate words.

So here we are. This odd little group of bloggers who have very little in common besides the desire to view life through words. Who want to celebrate life with words. Who want to celebrate words themselves. We aren't necessarily fashion-forward, our posts aren't filled with magazine-quality photography, and ads--when present--are more subtle. Our blogs don't look the fanciest, and we aren't top-trending in the blogosphere. We're smaller. And, though we want to share our thoughts and expressions with others, we're okay with that. Because our blogs are more like a piece of home, where we can invite friends new and old to come and share the beauty of writing. We are a community.

And I guess, after years of sporadic posts based on whatever popped into my mind, I've figured out what I want this to be.

Happy almost-300th-post to me.

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.

This 25th Day of July

Memoirs. That's the word.

I've been looking for that word for years. And it finally hit me. I love memoirs. I love them. I love to catch glimpses into the experiences of others. I love a well-told story. I love life in its simplicity, and I especially love to turn something mundane into the extraordinary.

And I guess that's what memoirs do. They take something so simple, so commonplace, and transform it into a universally understandable work of art. They connect us. They help us look beyond social barriers and see that our hearts are shared. Though our hopes and dreams may be different, we all have something that we are striving to become.

You know?

Anyway, today is the day in which we celebrate Christmas in July. I plan on listening to Christmas music all day long, and reminiscing on the days when it was cold enough to wear pants, thick socks, shoes, three layers of long-sleeved shirts, gloves, and a coat--and still fight the urge to shiver in attempt to look normal while walking around Temple Square. While I'm at it, I'll probably drink some hot chocolate soon, before it gets unbearably hot. Then I'll eat some popsicles and pretend that they're snow. I will celebrate that the Christmas season has drawn yet another day nearer.

And, as silly as it is, there is no reason not to take the opportunity to remember what Christmas is all about. A Savior was born. He did all that was required of Him, He redeemed us. And He lives today and is ever reaching out to you, waiting for you to take His hand.

We are so, so blessed because of Him.

Photo Credit

Merry Christmas in July!

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.