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.

Toast.

I'm not sure why it is, but I have this strange tendency to take any question that I have to this here web log thing I signed up for. But that's irrelevant.

As you can tell from the title of the post, today I want to talk about dreaming. And not the kind that you have at night, and not the kind you have during your most boring class either. The kind that plays itself out somewhere deep in your soul, and every so often you catch a glimpse into. The kind that shows you what it is that you truly, deeply love. The kind that you would be willing to throw your current life--everything that you know--completely aside for.

The desires of your heart.

Sometimes, I dream big. Oh, I dream big. I dream about using my degree (that I have yet to obtain) in recreation management to change the world--or at least a corner of it, somewhere. I could start a non-profit, I say. I could work with youth, I could travel the world via humanitarian trips to various third-world countries. I could get a master's degree. I could learn a language. I could, I could, I could. There are so many wonderful, beautiful, remarkable things available. So much good. And I dream about being a part of it.

Sometimes those big dreams are beautiful. Sometimes they're the most beautiful thing I could ever see. Because when something is just a little bit far off, it still has that extra sparkle. From the outside looking in, the smudges are a little harder to see--especially with that glint in your eye. Sometimes we get selective vision--when we dream up our visions of grandeur, we see the excitement and the glory and the goodness only in the big things. We miss the detail that makes it splendid in the first place.

There is something immensely beautiful in an individual's ability to devote a life dream to something that draws little to no attention. Something that people all too often gloss over. It can be difficult to go after a dream like that in a society that so often pushes "bigger is better" as we trample each other in the race to the top. It takes remarkable courage and, to me, courage and beauty are unfailingly intertwined.

What's funny, is that I think that we all do that. We all have our number one, most important dream. And that's the one that we live. It's the one that we put all else aside for. But what do we do after that? So often, we hold onto our second best, our third best options. Not even for the sake of a backup plan, but to show them. Because we ask each other these things--what is your biggest dream? And we need an answer, don't we?

And for some reason, we never think to answer, "I'm living it." Clear and simple. None of the if's and the maybe's and the hopefully's and the it'll probably never happen's. Just gratitude. Just recognition that you chose to be where you are for a reason.

I guess what I'm saying is that I don't want to be afraid to dream my biggest dream in something inconspicuous. Sometimes that's where accomplishing dreams is the sweetest.

But all this dream-talk is making me hungry. I think I'll go have some toast.

What is Faith?

On a fairly regular basis, I realize that I don't know a whole lot. Sometimes that comes in the form of listening to my math major friend talk about his day, sometimes in the form of hearing my roommate discuss literature, sometimes it comes when I look out into this great big world of ours and think about how much knowledge is out there. But then there are the times that I think about what I do know, and how that knowledge can go even deeper. This week, the realization came with the word faith. What is faith, anyway? I mean, what is faith really?

"Faith is not to have a perfect knowledge of things; therefore if ye have faith ye hope for things which are not seen, which are true."

-Alma 32:21

But then, what is hope? A quiet assurance. It's a sense of peace, of calm. Hope is the offspring of preparation and understanding. It enables us to move forward. To become. So as we hope for "things which are not seen, which are true" we combine our experiences with our knowledge to look forward to something greater. We hope for God. We hope in and through Him. We hope in His plan, and in His Gospel, and in His truth. We hope in all that He is and all that He does and, somewhere along the way, we realize that it's faith.

Faith is also a bit of courage. And strength. And beauty.

In the Book of Mormon, we are told, "Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life" (2 Nephi 31:20). If we, indeed, express our faith through hope, then the phrase, "having a perfect brightness of hope" tells us that faith gives us light. It lifts and brightens us. Faith is the courage and the strength that we need to press forward, and it is the light by which we can see all beauty.

I once went on a hike at 4 o'clock in the morning. I stumbled along, vaguely making out shapes by the light of the Cheshire Cat moon. Unsure what it was that I would discover, I made my way to the top and looked out into the darkness. Eventually, I began to make out the first signs of dawn. It has since occurred to me that faith is hiking to the top of a mountain in the darkness, not knowing what you'll see--only that the sunrise will be spectacular.

"If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you." 

-Matthew 17:20

Through faith, we can summit mountains. We can move them. With faith, nothing is impossible. Ultimately, I think faith is the ability to look beyond the limitations that we see with our mortal eyes. It is letting go of fear and doubt, and it is an absolute trust in what we feel to be undeniably true. It's hoping in God, in all that He is, and all that, through Him, we can become.

This Much I Know

"Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it. In the short space of twenty years, he has brought forth the Book of Mormon, which he translated by the gift and power of God, and has been the means of publishing it on two continents; has sent the fulness of the everlasting gospel, which it contained, to the four quarters of the earth; has brought forth the revelations and commandments which compose this book of Doctrine and Covenants, and many other wise documents and instructions for the benefit of the children of men; gathered many thousands of the Latter-day Saints, founded a great city, and left a fame and name that cannot be slain. He lived great, and he died great in the eyes of God and his people; and like most of the Lord's anointed in ancient times, has sealed his mission and his works with his own blood; and so has his brother Hyrum. In life they were not divided, and in death they were not separated!"

-John Taylor (D&C 135:3)

There are a lot of things that I haven't figured out. There are a lot of things I have left to learn, and a lot of improvements I have to make. I don't know much--compared to all the information out there, I don't know anything. But this much I do know: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. It is God's one true church on the earth today. I have a loving and caring Father in Heaven who knows me and watches over me. He guides me. His Son, Jesus Christ, gave His life for me so that I can return to live with them again. I am never alone.

So as I go through life, confused and a little lost, I will always be grateful for the sacrifices of those who came before me. Joseph Smith gave all that he had to give and, though I may not be called to die for this cause, I will live for it.

Because this much I undeniably and immovably know: this church is true.

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.

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.

Sometimes I Wonder

Do you think that a person's bookmark says something about them? About their lives, about who they are and what they believe?

What do they have lying around, available to pick up and stick between pages at a moment's notice?

Yesterday I picked up a piece of lined paper, sloppily folded it somewhere around in half, and closed my book around it. And I wondered, what would that say about me to someone else?

I was in my room, on my bed. The paper was out because I had been writing letter after letter in attempt to get caught up. The paper is still out--and I am nowhere near caught up on my letter writing. Does that paper say that I love and value others as I write them? Or does it say that I don't love and value them enough, because I have pushed them aside for a time?

There are two questions that I always ask in a get-to-know-you situation. I will always come out knowing the color of that person's toothbrush, and his or her favorite ancient civilization. I have done this for years and years, and I will likely continue to for quite some time. Just another Dani quirk, now you know.

You know, the answers to those questions don't really tell me a thing about the person. But sometimes I think the way the answer is delivered might. And, though I don't consciously form my opinion on a person based on something so irrelevant as the color of my toothbrush, isn't that something we all do?

We make a lot of decisions about people. We form a lot of opinions, and probably cast more judgement than we are in the position to acceptably do. But we love, and we support, and try to lift each other up. We encourage and inspire. We connect. And how this all ties together, I have no idea. I don't know where we decide to stop deciding how we feel and just go with what our heart says. Some things are just beyond my understanding.

Still, sometimes I wonder.

Raw

There sure is something about that raw feeling. On fingertips, on heels and arches and toes. It means you're trying something new, that you're using them. It means you are experiencing.

I've recently picked up the ukulele. And by recently, I mean very recently. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret: I love it. And part of what I love most is this raw feeling on my fingertips. I love to sit here and press them against things--my thumb, mostly--and feel that dull ache. The burn of the warm keyboard on them reminds me again that I have been working towards something. Yes, my fingertips are red and raw and achey, but they suddenly have a purpose.

And now they can't wait to prove themselves.

Such is life. We work and struggle and begin to see improvement in ourselves. But then, when we go back to keep on keepin' on, suddenly it hurts. The places that we have worked are tender. They're raw. They're red, and they're achey, and even the slightest warmth feels like a burn.

But here's the beauty of it all: callouses form, and our abilities will grow. With practice, with time, I will be able to play more difficult chords. I will find them quicker, the ukulele will feel more familiar to my fingers--and the raw feeling will eventually subside.

For now, I think I'll pick it back up and feel the sharpness of the string while I can. I will enjoy it all, every last bit of it.

Such is life.

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.

Here I Am

I guess there are just those days when you stare into the mirror. Not at yourself, but past yourself. Beyond the outward, physical existence. Into yourself. You stare because you want to see who you are. 

But it doesn't come in words. 

It comes in images, in memories. It comes in hopes and dreams. It comes in prayers once said and conversations once had. It comes in kind words expressed, and maybe some not-so-kind ones too. It comes from the deepest depths of somewhere. Somewhere.

I'm not really sure where somewhere is.

But here is what I do know:

I am happiest when the day begins with a run, followed by a large breakfast and a slew of daily vitamins.

I want to be a student for the remainder of my life.

I cannot wait to graduate already.

Nothing says comfort food like cereal.

I drink Milo when I miss Fiji terribly.

I find comfort in knowing that, when goodbyes are hard, at least it means it was something worthwhile.

I want to be a better person.

My Heavenly Father knows and loves me. 

Precipitation in any form is a cause for celebration.

I know that the Book of Mormon is true.

I sure am proud of those boys serving missions.

Service is the best way to love life now.

"All things denote there is a God."

I curl up with the quilts my mom made me when I'm homesick.

The idea of being bored is exciting to me.

I don't read nearly as much as I have always intended to.

A letter in the mail will always make any day a good one.

I am never alone.

My family is incredible.

Some things are worth doing just for the sake of telling the story later.

I have a very real obsession with drinking water.

I love cleaning stoves.

Peanut butter has a place on every type of food. 

I am always down for a cheeseburger of any size.

I love scars and bruises and scrapes.

I firmly believe that eating onions makes my mouth taste like an armpit.

I don't know how to pack.

Breaking down certain walls is scary, but always always worth it.

Aprons are meant to be worn all day and everywhere.

Ponytails give me headaches. 

My main motivation to keeping my hair long is to be able to braid it.

Pencil skirts are a lot cuter when I'm not trying to run in them.

Same with heels.

And backpacks.

I go barefoot whenever possible.

I named my phone Jimmy.

Writing in my journal keeps me sane.

I always tag Facebook pictures right on the person's nose.

Good food is always a good present.

I can do anything that I set my mind to--but I sometimes forget that.

I am desperately, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love with life.

In all those countless moments of staring through the blur and past the toothpaste speckles, at least I've found this much.

Living Life

“Texting isn’t real life.”

For one reason or another, this phrase has been in my head a lot lately. I think we sometimes think that we are building bridges, developing relationships as we text. And, to an extent, that is true. But I feel like the more I text a person, the more distant I become. Gradually, it becomes less of a conversation between me and another real person, and more between these two…beings. More a conversation between the phones than between people.          

Beyond that, have you ever noticed how we are expected to be constantly connected? I remember that I once planned to delete my Facebook account. (That was actually when I started a blog—I figured this would be a more constructive use of my time.) It wasn’t long, though, till I realized that I simply couldn’t do that. Deleting my Facebook account would mean losing all form of easy, quick, and mindless communication. Deleting my Facebook would mean never knowing about an event, missing my friend’s mission farewells, and being a general out of the loop.

And to a high schooler of barely 17, that was a big problem. It was also a big problem to my mom, who certainly wasn’t in high school anymore. In fact, it seems to be a big problem to most everyone in the world. Ever had someone complain to you, “I wrote on your wall and you never responded!”?  You weren’t connected enough. Automatic stamp of “failure,” right there on your forehead in big, red letters.

In one of my recreation management classes, we discussed that we are often offered different forms of leisure that are, as the textbook puts it, “trivial at best.” They are activities that offer us minimal amounts of happiness—a temporary fix of sorts. But the problem with temporary fixes is that they’re temporary, and pretty soon you need another dose. It doesn’t take long before these little things start to look an awful lot like an addiction.

My big challenge is anything that connects me to people. Texting, Facebook, blogs, etc. I justify them. “I’m developing friendships, I’m supporting people,” I say to myself. But wouldn’t it be better to actually be with that person? Seeing “(hug)” on a phone screen just isn’t the same as an actual hug. We, as human beings, are meant to be connected by more than electronics.

I go through phases. Normal consumption of these activities gradually leads to excessive consumption, which eventually reaches a point where it scares me enough to cut back—so far back that I feel under connected, so I pick back up again, a little at a time. And so it goes, the seemingly neverending cycle.

But, hey, they’re just little things here and there, right? I mean, I’m still getting things done as I go throughout the day.

Well, kind of. The problem is that it so interrupts everything I do. They’re just little things here and there, but they don’t allow for me to think things through anymore because they’re so chopped up by buzzing phones and email dings and Facebook chat pops. I specifically remember thinking to myself during finals week last semester that I understood how everything in Stats worked, but I couldn’t quite see the connection through it all. Well, no wonder it’s all disconnected—I jumble it up as I go. I read a section, respond to a text message. Finish a problem, check my Facebook. Little, tiny things that don’t take much time but certainly do interrupt any kind of rhythm I was getting down.

The same thing happens all day long. I sit in my classes and ideas are sparked. “What if…” I begin to wonder. I start forming ideas all the time—emphasis on the start. But then what happens? I get busy. I run off to the library to study, then to the testing center. I’m in class, at work, on the phone. Always doing little things all day long. Always rushed. Always off. Always doing the next little thing. But when do I get a chance to sit down and make something big happen? It’s pretty rare.

I may be getting a lot done, but do these things add up to anything? Are these little things, here and there, worth what I am sacrificing? Are they worth what we are sacrificing?

I wonder what kind of a society we are creating. Advances in technology—that sounds like a good thing. But there has to be an opportunity cost somewhere. As we’ve repeatedly learned in my Econ 110 class, “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” So, what are we losing when we have all the gain laid out before us?

           

Thoughts. I think that we are losing the ability to think things through. To reason. To deduce. To create. Now, I’m not saying that we should forsake all advancements and spend our days reading Thoreau in the forest. (Though that actually does sound lovely at the moment. Let’s pretend that finals aren’t in two days and just read in nature instead.) But I am saying that we must be deliberate about what we allot our time to. We have to be intentional about it, because the path of least resistance is certainly not taking us anywhere that we aspire to be.

           

So what do we really want? I know what I want—I want to think, to grow, to experience. I want to be someone and something bigger than an accumulation of little things. I want to be someone that does and means something larger than a text message. I want to have ideas—I want to come up with solutions. I want to make an impact. I want to reach the end of my life, look back and see that I truly lived.

I have a goal, and I’d love for you to join me. No more space-filler checking for updates on anything. I will break the habit that my fingers have developed to (command+T-->f-->enter) and find myself logged into Facebook and scrolling down my newsfeed without even realizing it. I will learn to leave my phone in my backpack for a few hours at a time and be okay with it. I will not lose my life to the imagined world filled with emoticons instead of emotions, and I will not interrupt my time with real people for something so trivial and impermanent as technology.

             

The world is so beautiful. Everywhere, there is such beauty. And we forget about it. And I forget about it. I want to see that beauty more often—more readily. I want to feel it. I want to remember it. I want that beauty to be a part of me and of who I am.

I will let it in. Will you?

{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.

I am Strong Enough.

There are days when everything is overwhelming. There are days when it's all too much, and all you can do is sit down and eat spoonful after spoonful of peanut butter and chocolate chips. There are days when all you need is a storm--pouring rain to wash everything away. And sometimes, on those days, the clouds will come.

But sometimes they don't.

I turned the shower into a rainstorm. An absolute downpour. I stood with my face in the stream, coming in so fast that I hardly had time to get a breath before my mouth filled with warm, soothing, cleansing water. And as I stood there, barely breathing, I remembered something.

We were sitting in Stats 121 auditorium last semester, waiting among 700 other students for class to start. "I love seeing the moms go back to school," she said, as a woman in her 30s walked down the aisle a few rows down. The truth of that statement resonated within me. I remembered a time before.

Sitting outside the testing center--panicked as I studied for my first test of college. More like crammed. More like stared blankly at the heaping pile of notes I had yet to memorize. Somehow, through the frenzy, I entered a conversation with another freshman girl and a back-to-school mom. She made the both of us swear that we would graduate now, that we wouldn't let anything stop us. "Don't let those boys sweet talk you finishing later," she counseled us, "And do NOT start popping out those babies until you have graduated." Finish now, she told us. Before we have a family to look over, and bigger bills to pay. Before we're asked to commit to more than planning a church activity once a semester. Before life gets even crazier. And, as she spoke, I remembered something else.

I remembered my mom, being that very same. She was once the back-to-school mom. She was the one walking down the aisles of the classroom, waiting for class to begin. She was the one sitting outside the testing center, dreading walking up those two flights of stairs and handing over her student ID card. She may have been counseling young girls like me, I don't know. But what I do know is that with every step that she took on this very campus, she was an example and a source of strength to everyone around her--especially the young girls, just starting out and feeling very overwhelmed. I know because that is what those moms are to me now. They're a symbol of hope, in a way. They remind me that I can do it, that there is a very real and a very important purpose in it all. That life will certainly get harder, but it will also get better. They remind me that beauty always increases, and that we never stop seeking growth in ourselves--not for anything.

When my mom graduated from Brigham Young University, I was in middle school, and I didn't fully appreciate the enormity of what she had just accomplished. I got a new dress, we took a billion pictures, and we probably celebrated with a delicious meal at some point or another. It was an exciting day, and, despite the fact that I had no idea what she overcame, I was proud of my mom.

I've never been one to draw strength from those that came before me. I guess it was never much comfort knowing that someone else could do something, because their circumstances and situations and entire persons were completely different than mine. But as I stood there, face aimed straight into the shower head, tears of gratitude mixed in with the water pouring down my face. I thought of those moms--I thought of my mom--and I knew that I was strong enough. I knew that there was a purpose. I knew that I not only could overcome, but there was a reason to overcome. That I am working towards something bigger and more beautiful than what I have eyes to see right now.

For the first time in my life, I have found comfort, power, and motivation in the words, "If she can do it, so can I." So thank you, Mom, for living the rainstorm that washed away my doubts. You have shaped me in more ways than you know.

{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.