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.

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.

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.

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.

Friday's Letters

Niagara Falls on our recent (a few weeks ago...) trip to Palmyra

Dear movers, we still can't get over the fact that you backed your moving van all the way down our 1/3 mile long driveway. Considering the winding tunnel through the forest that it is, that is an incredibly impressive feat. Thanks for the laughs.

Dear USPS, you are my favorite. Please don't go out of business, or reduce your days of delivery. I love my letters too much to lose time.

Dear Christmas in July, you are the best. I celebrated with a morning mug of Stephen's hot chocolate and some holiday tunes. It was the best.

Dear mornings, I've missed you. Let's hang out more often.

Dear three-day thunderstorm, where are you? I've been super excited to experience the crazy natural disaster storms that supposedly happen out here on the other end of the continent. I would be a big fan of a power outage. I need a story to take home, after all.

Dear Costco, I still love your chicken bakes. A lot. Three dollars of Heaven-sent goodness.

Dear imagination, it's good to see you again. The stresses of attempting to fit into this grown up world took me away from you for a time, but with all the time I've been spending with crazy kids, I think I'm finding my way back to you. It's been a good time. Let's keep in touch, okay?

Dear Olympics, I'm really excited about you. Really, really excited.

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.

Flashback

I forgot what it feels like to look for my test scores on the screen of the testing center. That moment completely void of emotion--too scared to feel hope or dread. And then the moment of discovery, and instant joy, satisfaction, or the sudden appearance of a black hole somewhere in the depths of my insides.

The prayer that always follows, grateful for the opportunity to learn, to trust in Him.

And always the renewal of motivation to study harder.

Tests will be different this fall. I won't be walking back home through campus on cold, damp, winter evenings. I won't watch as the Christmas lights reflect in the puddles--at least, not in the same way.

Still, I'm excited for a new adventure. For viewing the home that campus has become in a new light. To develop new habits and traditions for myself.

And hopefully I'll be more successful with my tests than I am with soccer. I was creamed by an 8-year-old yesterday. I lost, 2-10.

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.

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.

Pink Umbrellas

A summer project of mine is underway: reread the entirety of the Harry Potter series. So far, I have relieved years one and two with some of the greatest characters known to wizardkind, and I am enjoying myself immensely. Much sleep has been lost over this project, as I seem to have developed a habit of starting a book and refusing to go to sleep until it is finished. But hey, Harry Potter is more fun at 2 AM anyway.

But here's the thing. Now I think about Harry Potter all the time, and how great it is and how much I love it. The other day, as my mom, sister, brother, and I returned from a rather exciting day spent at Six Flags, I asked my dear mother a question.

Mom, if Harry Potter were real and I got a letter from Hogwarts, would you have let me go?

Her response? No. Who says that? I mean, obviously Harry Potter is real and I just didn't get my letter from Hogwarts at age 11 because the wizarding world needed me to stay here and protect the muggles, but still. Really? I was in shock. And I didn't speak to her for the remainder of the drive home.

Okay, that's a lie. My furious silence lasted about 15 seconds before I realized that, in my anger, I was failing to protect my muggle family as I was assigned to do by my lack of letter. It was then that I used my secret de-angering technique and continued to intently stare out the window in search of any sign of danger. You know, fixed bludgers, swarming owls, Dark Marks, that kind of thing.

The other day, my sister and I wanted to watch a family favorite: My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding. I guess we all kind of connect to it--we're loud and crazy too. The trouble is, our copy is very . . . well loved. In other words, the DVD has all kinds of scratches on it. Generally, we just skip past the first time it freezes, and the rest of the movie works fine enough. However, we have since misplaced the DVD player remote, so we were rendered completely helpless upon its first freezing. In desperation, I cast my eyes about the room in search of something, anything, that I could use to circumvent the scratches. And that's when I saw it. 

The pink umbrella.

Having recently been reminded of our dear friend Rubeus Hagrid, I instantly knew what to do. I picked up that pink umbrella, swiftly made my way over to the DVD player, and gave it a few light raps. And, I kid you not, the movie began playing again a few moments later. Not one more glitch the entire duration of the presentation.

It was the greatest of my achievements to date. Thanks, buddy. Let's do that again sometime.

Happy Happy. Double Happy.

You know how there are days when something incredibly unexpected comes along?

Sometimes, on those days, you discover the beauty of life. And sometimes you just discover happiness.

I've known about this song for a while, but today I actually ventured over to their website and downloaded the entirety of their free album. I'm currently going through it. So far, I adore it. 

New obsession: Ian Axel.

Friday's Letters

Dear Jimmy, you have been a wonderful friend to me. Well, as wonderful a friend as a phone can be. I know you're getting tired, and that it's not so much the years as it is the mileage, but please keep living. The fact that you sometimes freeze and then turn off of your own accord make me nervous. Endure to the end, buddy. You can have your final rest once it's time for a free upgrade.

Dear quilting, let's become good friends. You're doing a really good job of reminding me how to accept being new at something, and that mistakes are something about life that I will have to learn to accept. Just don't remind me too much. Deal?

Dear stolen fan, you have made my room infinitely more bearable. I think you were needed here much more than you ever were in the living room.

Dear running, thank you for all that you do for me. I especially enjoyed the hill you lead me to again--you know, the one that is surprisingly long and difficult every time? Well, I guess I've only really run it twice. Here's to hoping the third time's a charm. Or I can keep on enjoying the challenge, that works too.

Dear rain, apparently you remind people of me. That certainly isn't something that I have a problem with, because I sure think that you're great.

Dear home in the woods, you are a lot of fun. Sure, it means spraying Deep Woods Off bug spray all over me every time I step out the door, and weird dreams about grabbing a bear by the ears and kicking it in the snout to save my baby brother, but it's lovely. I watch the fireflies every night before I go to bed, and I see the most darling little speckled fawns come walking through our yard.

Fireworks and Freedom

Happy 4th of July from the land of 88 degrees and 46% humidity!

This girl from the intermountain west is still trying to get used to it all. It is very hot and sticky. I'm more accustomed to raging wildfires as the crazy summer happenings. (Pray for rain in Utah, will you? Those fires are getting awfully close to home.)

This is how I feel about humidity on an optimistic day like today.

In other news, let's share some happy and hilarious 4th of July moments from the past.

Meagan McGlover is my hero.

It Finally Happened.

You guys. A miracle occurred at 6:15 this morning. A miracle, I tell you!

I actually woke up to my alarm.

This is a big deal. Not normally, no. Because normally I wake up to my alarm just fine. I get up for my 4 AM freezing cold runs and I go have my frigid morning time adventures, and that's just that. But ever since it became summer time and I moved away from all the hectic existence that is my life in Provo, I suddenly just can't wake up.

And it's not one of those, "hear the alarm go off, let out an enthusiastic groan, fumble around for the off switch, accidentally hit the snooze button and repeat the process all over again in five minutes" situations. I have set my alarm clock for varying times literally every morning since my arrival save two. I recall them very distinctly. I know that my alarm works--I have been using it for years. But I must have somehow been turning it off in my sleep every day for the last two weeks, because I have absolutely no recollection of even hearing it go off. Ever.

So the fact that I actually got up early enough to have some quiet morning study time, go on a run, get showered and dressed, and clean my room before my mom started warning me that I had better head out for my run before it got too hot out? It's a pretty big deal. I'd even venture as far as to call it a miracle.

It's a miracle.

Am I alone in this? Or are you fellow bloggers and blog readers familiar with this phenomenon as well? To be entirely honest, this is a new thing for me. But here's to hoping that it's a little less bizarre and concerning than I thought. Regardless, I've got my fingers crossed that this miracle holds out for...forever. I mean, I've got a life to live!

On a completely unrelated note, look at this picture and just try to tell me that I do not have the most adorable cupboard under the stairs sized bedroom.

And yes, that is my room in its entirety. As seen from my front porch. Darling, right?

Life is Great, and Connecticut is Not a Desert.

I managed to leave my brand new pair of running shoes 2,300 miles away. And as much as I adore this video, it would be a little hard to reenact when the only love I have to run to is the pair of shoes I'd need to get there. Which is a bit of a problem, you know?

I can't just not run. Not running isn't an option. Even when I am dead, I will find a way to run. I think we established long ago that I am a runner through and through, but just in case you haven't caught on just yet, check out this Pinterest board of mine.

Now that we've removed any doubt, I will tell you good news. As it turns out, it's actually good to have a second pair of shoes to alternate with--you get a little more life out of them when they're allowed a little break every so often. You can't really blame them. I'd want a break too, if I had the job of a running shoe. So new plan: one pair for the summer, and I'll be able to alternate once I locate my missing pair somewhere in the depths of my Utah things.

The trouble with getting new shoes is that I feel the need to take them on a run right away. I mean, look at these babies--they deserve to know what life is. Tomorrow is Sunday, and they just couldn't wait all the way until Monday morning. So, even though it was 90 degrees, I laced them up for the first (and only--I never untie my running shoes) time and took my first beautiful steps with my new best friends.

Then we kept going for four more miles.

And you know, it was glorious and all. I've missed running--this was my first real run since my marathon. (Oh hey, did I tell you I ran a marathon? June 9, 2012. 4:06:17. It was a blast. I'll get back to you on that.) I powered up High Valley with the sun blazing down, and I thought about how great it feels to start pulling myself back together after 10 months of college unraveling. But I learned something very distinctly.

I've always known that humidity makes everything in general more wet. (Like the toilet tank, for example. There is condensation on the toilet tank.) I knew it makes you feel like you never dried off after taking a shower, and I knew it makes you drip about ten times more sweat than you would where it evaporates off you in half a second. But I got a good laugh when a Fleet Feet worker came in the store and said to his coworker, "It's like a freaking desert out there--it's so hot and dry! The air just has no moisture in it." No, sir, Connecticut is not a desert. And until the entire state erupts into wildfires, I will stand my ground. Because here, it takes about three steps before I am absolutely dripping with sweat. To be entirely honest, that was a fantastic feeling--sweat pouring down my face as I took step after burning step, pushing my way up that enormous hill. It's been too long since I pushed myself just for the sake of it. Somewhere along those four miles, a found a piece of myself I had misplaced in the hustle and bustle of life.

Still, I think I'll wake up before the sun for my run on Monday. And every day after that.

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.

Die Hard

Some things just die hard--and I think that pure love and habits are two of those things. Allow me to elaborate.

I love rain from the very depths of my soul. When clouds start to roll in, warm tinglies shoot through my entire body as if to say, "Something very exciting is about to happen. Are you ready?" And I almost always am.

Rain is an instant priority.

There are seldom few circumstances that will keep me from the rain. Whatever I have to accomplish that day has a way of slipping to the back burner until I have had my chance to get drenched from head to toe.

So when the Connecticut thunderstorm rolled its way on in yesterday, it wasn't long before I was standing out in the yard, arms outstretched towards the sky and mouth wide open. It wasn't long before raindrops were running off my chin and my elbows, and it certainly wasn't long before I was running around the yard giggling in delight.

Eventually, the runner in me put forward a convincing argument and I found myself racing through the rivers we had once called streets. Cars driving by sent sheets of water crashing over my head, widening my smile and quickening my pace. When the rain let up, my feet eventually found their way back home, where I discovered my little brother quietly playing in a mud puddle by himself.

I couldn't resist.

We chased each other around the yard with handfuls of mud in a game of "mud frow," we splashed in the puddle to our hearts' content, and smeared in a little extra mud where things just looked too clean. 

"But I don't want to take a bath!"

A combination of cross country and childhood has instilled a necessity to smear mud all over me whenever I happen upon it. Good mud should not go to waste, and I firmly believe that faces are happiest when they have wars stripes painted on them. Mud should be shared, and so should experiences--so should lives.

Rain and mud are just a chance to let go. To forget about obligations and stresses and fears, to stop trying to uphold an image and just be. Just live. Just experience. And, in the process, share it with someone else.

I guess you could say that's childish of me. But, to be entirely honest, it's likely that I'll always be a child in this regard. I simply can't see myself ever growing out of this.

Because some things just die hard.

Some things are habits, and some things you just love. Some things, however silly they may be, are a part of who you are. They make up who you are.

And you know what?

I'm okay with that.

With Everlasting Truth

"Of all the creations of the Almighty there is none more beautiful, none more inspiring than a lovely daughter of God who walks in virtue with an understanding of why she should do so, who honors and respects her body as a thing sacred and divine, who cultivates her mind and constantly enlarges the horizon of her understanding, who nurtures her spirit with everlasting truth."

-President Gordon B. Hinckley, here

And sometimes that's all that you need to hear. 

A Long Time Ago

"Let's now consider the effects of a change in monetary policy. To do so, imagine that the economy is in equilibrium and then, suddenly, the Fed doubles the supply of money by printing some dollar bills and dropping them around the country from helicopters."

You guys, my Econ textbook was hilarious. Every so often I look back to that class and think fond things, but I'm mostly just glad to be done with it. I still don't know what my grade is, and to be entirely honest, I don't really mind not knowing. Sometimes it's just best to live in ignorance.

On another note, I am becoming quite the Star Wars nerd. Remember Number 28 on my bucket list?

Consider it completed.

My world has been forever changed. I will get the chills every time I hear this song, and whenever I sit down to watch a show I will wish that I owned a copy of all six episodes--or, at the very least, Episodes IV, V, and VI. So, if any of you wished to make my birthday, or Christmas, or other present-giving occasion...now you know how.

Just sayin.

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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.