Where are they now, those women who stared from the mirror?

Part of packing up my life/organizing my room as I get ready for Oxford means that I find a lot of old notebooks and journals. I have too many of them. But the thing is, I'm not one a person who just collects pretty notebooks. I use them. All of them. Every single page.

I'm a writer. It's what I do.

My journals are . . . how do I describe them? They are similar to my blog posts, but they are more personal. I know that the more skeptical among you are saying, "Really, Meg? Because this blog can get pretty darn up-close and personal sometimes." I know that it can. Frankly, that's how I prefer it. I like to be as genuine as I can be without being overbearing. I have a way that I portray myself online, and for right now, I'm good with that--even if it does mean that I am more personal than some people would be comfortable with.

But, even though my blog posts can verge on the diary-esque at times, I hope that my thoughts and experiences are useful to people. I write with an audience in mind--and that audience includes both friends and family members who tell me that they enjoy reading my blog and myself, honestly. I try to write things that I would enjoy reading if they were on someone else's blog.  

Anyway. My journals are much more personal than these blog posts. They include many more names, feelings, angst, dreams, hopes, etc. than I would ever feel comfortable sending into the vast universe of the Internet.

My journals are also full of more self-reflection than these blog posts.

Last night, I finished up a journal that I started about nine months ago. I always have this sense of melancholy accomplishment when I finish a journal. I also have this ritual I do--I like to look back and see how I have changed, what I have learned, and what I hope to improve about myself. It's part of the narrative I write about myself, I suppose. I want my narrative to be one full of growth and change, hope and redemption. (See this article in The Atlantic for a more-detailed analysis of this idea of how we shape our narratives--I think it's fascinating.)

When I write my journal posts, I am limited--I only have the understanding of what I experienced that day or that week . . . I can't see what the future holds. But when I look back on my old journal posts, I am an omniscient reader.

I know exactly what grade I will get on that essay, how that first date will go, or what graduate school program I will choose.

And I know how I have changed--for better or for worse--from those days before.

Often I laugh out loud when reading past journal entries. I laugh at how silly I am or how melodramatic. Sometimes I cry. I cry for the pain that my previous self experienced or inflicted on others. Sometimes I am impressed by the wisdom of a February 7th or April 16th Megan. Yet reading the entries from February 9th or April 28th help me realize how easily I forget. It's a cycle of epiphanies and amnesia, bitterness and healing, pride and humility, hard hearts and soft souls.

That's part of the story of the last nine months. That cycle. The give-and-take. Hope, despair, grief, healing, pain, joy, expectations, cynicism, anger, love . . . they are all a part of me. We can't choose what life or others throw at us. But we can choose what to do with our circumstances. Hard hearts can soften. Moments of struggle bring the greatest growth. And I can choose to be an agent and claim a space of choice.

Perhaps one of the biggest lessons I've learned this summer is that the cure to our maladies (particularly grief and heartbreak) rarely--if ever--come in some dramatic package. Rather, it is by doing the little things step-by-step and choosing to keep moving forward that we make it. Peace and healing take time. But they come. If we are searching, moving forward, and trying to reach out to others, healing comes. That I believe.

It is also impossible (and unhealthy) to try to make things the way they were before. We learn from the past, but we don't live there. As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland says, "We look back to claim the embers from glowing experiences but not the ashes. And when we have learned what we need to learn and have brought with us the best that we have experienced, then we look ahead, we remember that faith is always pointed toward the future."

Last September, I fell in love with a song from the musical Ragtime. It's called "Back to Before," and it is sung at a critical junction in a character's development. It is a moment of self-realization . . . and disillusionment. Listen to it--it will be worth your time, I promise.


[I'm also including a link here, just in case the video is taken away.]

Since I know that you most likely did not listen to it (although if you did, kudos to you--it's beautiful, isn't it?), here are the lyrics:

"There was a time our happiness seemed never-ending
I was so sure that where we were heading was right. 
Life was a road, so certain and straight and unbending
Our little road with never a crossroad in sight. 

Back in the days when we spoke in civilized voices 
Women in white and sturdy young men at the oar. 
Back in the days when I let you make all my choices . . .
We can never go back to before. 

There was a time my feet were so solidly planted
You'd sail away while I turned my back to the sea. 
I was content, a princess asleep and enchanted 
If I had dreams then I let you dream them for me. 

Back in the days when everything seemed so much clearer
Women in white who knew what their lives held in store
Where are they now, those women who stared from the mirror? 
We can never go back to before. 

There are people out there unafraid of revealing 
That they might have a feeling or they might have been wrong. 
There are people out there unafraid to feel sorrow, unafraid of tomorrow, 
unafraid to be weak . . . unafraid to be strong! 

There was a time when you were the person in motion 
I was your wife, it never occurred to want more. 
You were my sky, my moon, and my stars and my ocean . . .
We can never go back to before. We can never go back to before! 

I think that we all have multiple times in our lives when we have those startling paradigm shifts: we realize that life can never go back to the way it was before. Our "little roads with never a crossroad in sight" suddenly become tortuous. We realize that there are many winding roads with multiple crossroads . . . and we are forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions where we both lose and gain.

We wake up from our enchanted sleep and find that we have been been living someone else's dreams instead of living our own lives with purpose and fulfillment. Those "women in white who knew what their lives had in store" and who seemed to have all the answers fade from the foreground; their images become blurry and clouded from doubt and disillusionment. Life as before can never be the same.

But in those moments, instead of wallowing in self-pity--or even allowing ourselves to be paralyzed by shock--we need to choose action over cynicism or fear. We choose to move forward in faith, even while we grieve (or rejoice, depending on the context) for what was lost. We can choose to be "unafraid to be weak, unafraid to be strong." To live deliberately. To realize that doubt and disillusionment are parts of life--of growing up--but that doesn't mean we have to stay in those valleys.

We can claim our agency. And re-claim it time and again when life tries to swallow us whole.

Fight for our happiness.

As I was re-reading a few of my past journal entries, I came across one that I had written after a "we can never go back to before" moment. A paradigm shift, so to speak. And a deeper understanding as I wrestled through questions and struggles of my own. I hope you will indulge me as I share it hoping that these thoughts will be helpful for someone, somewhere:

"Where is the mercy? I think we all ask that--or we all will ask that--either cynically or out of despair at some point in our lives. Where is the mercy? Where is the mercy in the history of a world that is full of plague, war, rape, slavery, and oppression? Where is the mercy in our own lives? Our own lives which are also full of sorrow, disappointment, despair, and loss? Where is the justice? Where is the compassion? And where is the mercy? [. . .]

"Sometimes we wonder where God is, or why God "did" or "didn't" do something. But often, God doesn't do anything. Not in the sense that He's not there or that He doesn't care. But in the sense that He doesn't take away our agency. He allows us to make stupid decisions. So that we can learn. So that His justice can come to pass.

"I mean, God could send an angel with a flaming sword to stop every bad thing from happening--every genocide, every stock market crash, every war. He doesn't stop every break-up, every broken arm, every sickness.

"He could. And don't get me wrong--sometimes He does. Sometimes He does. But most of the time, He lets us choose. And our mistakes hurt others. And others' choices hurt us. He is the God who weeps. Who weeps because we hurt each other. Who weeps because we choose ourselves over Him. Who weeps because He loves us. But who loves us enough that He doesn't and will not take our agency away.

"So there has to be something powerful about agency--so powerful--that God will not take it away from us . . . that He will not force us. But that He will guide, direct, persuade, and ultimately weep--mindful of us and mindful that this use of our agency is the only way we can learn. It is the only way we can progress. Desiring and choosing the Lord's way helps us become like Him. But we have to really want it. He wants to know if we really want it. What are the desires of our hearts? Shto ty hochesh? What do you want?"

We can never go back to before. But we can move forward. We can choose to claim our agency and be the leading ladies and heroes of our own stories.

Agents to act instead of being acted upon.

New Student Orientation

It's kind of neat seeing campus teeming with life again. Today, they are (for the most part) new students. Freshmen. With that terrified, "deer-in-the-headlights" look. Just hoping that they won't get lost and that someone will be their friend.

Those butterflies. I remember them all too well.

And now. Flash forward 5 years later. I'm on the other end. A senior. Getting ready to start my last year. The start of the end. It's so weird. But . . . it's good. Really good.

I'm glad to be on this end.

But I'm glad for the start, too.

And the journey. The growth. I am so glad that I never have to go through the experience of being a freshman again. Not because it was bad. Because that time of life is important. And I learned and grew from those experiences.

But just . . . I guess it's because it's like I'm one hundred feet from reaching the top of the mountain. The climb is almost over. And although the beginning of a climb is great because it's exciting to embark on a new adventure and it's fun to see the scenery, there are times on the trail when you wish you'd never started. And there are times when you look back and you are soooooo glad that you don't have to climb those rocks again.

I'm standing close to the summit now. But the beginning of the journey is crucial. The end--well, the end is rewarding. And just like I looked forward to the beginning, I'm looking forward to that accomplishment . . . and new beginnings, too.

nobody said it was easy, 
no one ever said it would be this hard. 
i'm goin' back to the start. 

                                         

Strength and Vulnerability

Disclaimer: I’ve been thinking a lot about this topic the entire semester. I still don’t have all of my ideas the way I’d like them, and I know that there is so much to say about this subject. I won’t be able to express my thoughts exactly the way I want to, but that’s the way it goes sometimes. I am showing you my vulnerability by writing about vulnerability.

In Ether 12, Moroni writes a beautiful discourse about faith. However, half-way through the chapter, he interrupts his sermon and begins to write down his doubts and insecurities about his worthiness of his calling—the record-keeper. He does not feel like he is a good-enough writer and compares himself to other great writers of the Book of Mormon (especially the Brother of Jared). Moroni expresses his concerns to God—expresses that he is weak, vulnerable, even, and he fears that his weakness will make the Book of Mormon susceptible to mockery and ridicule.

As Moroni laments over his vulnerability, the Lord offers this counsel:

            

“Fools mock, but they shall mourn; and my grace is sufficient for the meek, that they shall take no advantage of your weakness. And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them” (Ether 12:26-27).

This seems paradoxical: when we’re weak, we’re strong? But it doesn’t mean that weakness equates to cowardliness or being a pushover. There is a deeper meaning to vulnerability; a strength that comes from recognizing our weakness and opening ourselves up to others. I believe there is power in vulnerability. There is strength in meekness. And the weak things of the world can overcome the mighty and proud. 

I don't know how many of you have watched Brené Brown's TED Talk, "The Power of Vulnerability," but I highly recommend it. (In fact, go watch it. Go watch it right now. Here’s the link. It's about 20 minutes long, and worth every minute.)

In her speech, Brown talks about how she always equated vulnerability with shame, fear, and weakness, and then set out to prove her point through research. However, she found that "wholehearted individuals" (her term), are individuals who are happy with who they are and believe that they are worthy of being loved and accepted actually embrace vulnerability; they don't turn away from it. Their courage, compassion, and connection to others is brought about by being vulnerable and authentic. Vulnerability is the birthplace of joy, and allows us to be whole, loved, and connected. It's an interesting idea--life-changing, even. 

Vulnerability comes to play in relationships—family relations, friendships, or romantic relationships. You have to be willing to put yourself “out there”—you have to be willing to love and care, and you have to be willing to get hurt. Love is vulnerability. It is opening up your heart to someone; it is letting them see your insides—the good and the bad parts. It is giving that same heart to someone else and hoping that he or she will take care of it—that they won’t give it back, drop it on the ground, or damage it in any way . . . but instead cherish it—cherish you. That hope is vulnerability. Relationships require both sides to be committed to vulnerability.

           

“And then you take that love you made and stick it into some-

            Someone else’s heart, pumping someone else’s blood

            And walking arm-in-arm, you pray it don’t get harmed

            But even if it does, you just do it all again.” ~Regina Spektor, On the Radio

Vulnerability and love go hand-in-hand. You can’t have one without the other. That is why love—especially choosing to love—is so frightening. By reaching out and giving of ourselves, we show our vulnerability. We “put ourselves out there,” not knowing how the other will receive us—if they will accept us or reject us. We hope they will—pray that they will take us and accept us and care for us like we want to care for them—but in the end, we don’t know how it will be received until it is . . . or until it’s not received, as can often be the case.

And then what?

            

Well, it hurts. It hurts an awful lot. We’re all experienced that aching pain of heartbreak, and we know that the radio waves practically swim with breakup songs and songs about unrequited love. But just as we’ve experienced that pain, we know that we've just as easily inflicted it on others.

            

But just because it hurts doesn’t mean we should give up.

            

It also doesn’t mean that we should throw caution to the wind and purposefully allow ourselves to get hurt. Our bodies, minds, hearts, and souls have defense mechanisms for a reason. There are some people we shouldn’t trust with our innermost, sacred selves.

            

But if we put up too many walls, no one will be able to find us in order to love us . . . we'll come to a point where we'll be so hardened that we can't love ourselves or anyone else around us. 

            

I believe that we have to decide to overcome fear in order to create healthy, lasting, loving relationships.

I see BYU students’ fear of being vulnerable all of the time . . . and I’m not excluded. We’re afraid of getting hurt, or of hurting someone else, and so we don’t act. We just don’t act. We’re paralyzed by fear and so we stay in the same place, without giving or taking—just breathing, never moving forward. But "to choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation" (Yann Martel, Life of Pi). When we close ourselves off or refuse to take chances, it's because we figure that the risks loom larger and hurt more than the joy the possible rewards could bring. But by closing ourselves, we lose any opportunity to form wonderful friendships, relationships, and have incredible opportunities for growth.

I believe more and more every day that love is a choice. And since it is a choice, it requires faith and action. Part of that action means being vulnerable—opening yourself up and letting someone else open himself up to you, too. If we choose to become hardened and calloused, then we cannot receive the love that people want to give us. Even more importantly, we cannot give. We may be safe, yes, but safe from what? Safe from hurt? Perhaps. But also cut off from growth, change, and refinement. Safe from fear? But if we close ourselves off from others, we are acting out of fear and not from love. What do we keep out as we close ourselves off in our self-made citadels of pride and fear?

It is when we open ourselves up to love others and to allow others to love us that we find beauty. Vulnerability gives us strength. It gives us more opportunities to love and for others to love us. It helps us find who we truly are and gives us confidence. It deepens us. Sometimes it breaks our hearts, but then—as long as we choose to not let fear overcome us—it gives us empathy. We are able to care more and to understand more.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say (and this is just as much for me as for anyone who reads my blog—all five of you) is don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Be vulnerable. Be genuine. Open up. Ask that girl out. Talk to your crush. Make a new friend. Decide to fall in love. Decide to be willing to move a relationship forward. Take a chance. Reach out. Share a secret. Share of yourself. Forgive. Love.

           

“Perfect love casteth out all fear.”

See also: 

To Love at All . . . 

[learning how to die.]

~the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death. (1 Corinthians 15:26)

About two weeks before I left Ukraine, the first girl I trained--Sister Nevers--gave me a note to read on the airplane home. "Don't you dare open it before then," she warned.
Being the good girl that I am, I obeyed.
And when I read it on the airplane, I cried. [FYI: the couple from St. Petersburg sitting next to me thought I was crazy.]

If you've ever read something from Sister Nevers, you know what a wonderful writer she is. Her words penetrate and her sentences are saturated with sass and love. Each word was meant for a perfect going-home letter--just for me--but there is one part that has sung to me more than anything.

In the letter, she quoted a song that is now one of my favorites. It's called "Learning How to Die" by Jon Foreman. (You can listen to it here.)

"I'm gonna miss you.
I'm gonna miss you when you're gone.
She said, 'I love you. I'm gonna miss hearing your songs.'
And I said, 'Please--don't talk about the end
Don't talk about how every living thing goes away.'
She said, 'Friend,
All along, thought I'd been learning how to take,
How to bend, not how to break,
How to laugh not how to cry.
But really, I've been learning how to die."

It's beautiful and thought-provoking. So often we think that in order to be strong, we can't break. We have to laugh, not cry. But really, we're all just learning how to die. In breaking and crying, we also find healing and love. We find transformation. We find new beginnings.

By accepting and embracing the concepts of change and death, we are able to live life more fully. And I don't mean in the "you only live once," party and live-it-up context. But it also doesn't mean that we live in a fatalistic, "the end is near" mindset.

It's like an autumn afternoon. We can sense darkness and winter in the air, but it doesn't take away the beauty and glory of fall's colors or its golden sunlight. We don't panic when we watch autumn maple leaves sail to the ground, or when we watch the fading colors of a sunset. Instead, we savor it.

Learning how to die means we live deliberately, as Thoreau put it. We live life to its fullest meaning. We give of ourselves. We love. We reach out and lift. We accept failure with dignity. We forgive our enemies. Enjoy sunsets. Cry with the broken-hearted and rejoice with those that rejoice. We live life in a way that we'll be unafraid of death when it comes. We live the abundant life so that death will be sweet and rich--like vibrant autumn leaves on the ground.

There is no need to be afraid of the end.

We've come to earth to live . . . but we've come to earth to die. Ultimately, we've come to earth to go home.

We learn how to live when we learn how to die. We learn how to die when we learn how to love.

No need to say good-bye.
No need to be afraid.
It's like coming home.

"I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly." --John 10:10

Back to School Night

. . . talk about stepping into the Twilight Zone.

Last night my uncle, who teaches Physics at my former high school, asked us to help decorate his classroom before school starts tomorrow.

So, of course I went. I mean, I might not be majoring in art, and I may not even have any talents in interior design, but I won't pass up an opportunity to decorate. Cards, cupcakes, classrooms, take your pick.

It was the first time I'd been back at my old high school in a long time. And it was weird, to say the least. Strange to walk on those tiled floors, past rows of lockers, and enter my old physics classroom. Honors Physics. Sophomore year. A1. My first day, first class of high school.

I was greeted by classic black science desks, friendly-neighborhood Expo markers, and that familiar, pungent scent of bat guano (our high school is ancient--I *think* the bats are out of the ceiling by now? I *think* they got rid of them my senior year? In any case, they left their mark).

The memories rushed back, too. Early morning light streaming over the mountains and onto my physics assignment. F = ma. Force. Pressure. Those growing pains of adolescence. Gaining confidence. Losing it. Gaining it again. Making friends. Seating charts changing. Awkwardly flirting with the cute junior boy sitting next to me. Falling flat on my face. Getting up again. Learning. Growing. Changing. Some things never do. Newton's laws. 9.8 m/s squared.

And some things never do change. Cycles. Rotations. Transitions. Seniors, juniors, sophomores, freshmen. We learn and grow and cry and laugh--and that is life.

And tomorrow, there will be a new beginning for those students. Who knows what will be? A fresh canvas of beautiful possibilities. Heartbreaking disappointments. Mistakes and experience. Desirable to make one wise.

"Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?" ~ Anne of Green Gables 

Welcome back.

There and back again . . . some thoughts on adjusting

Do you know what the most awkward group on the face of the planet is?

ding, ding ding! You guessed it! Recently returned missionaries! We are the most adorably awkward people on earth. And you can’t really blame us.

I’ve had some interesting experiences the past couple of days with recently returned missionaries. First, I’m taking an institute class for recently-returned RMs. As one person so bluntly put it, “It’s like RM rehab.” We all just cling to each other and as other RMs tell their stories/experiences/share their testimonies, we all get this dreamy, faraway, knowing look in our eyes: “Oh, yeah. I know exactly how it is.” [but the thing is, we really do. just in different ways. and yet eerily similar ways. it’s a weird phenomenon.] We are all crazy and weird together and it is great, because we all understand each other. [yep. RM rehab.]  

Then yesterday, I went to volunteer at the TRC (the Teaching Resource Center) at the Missionary Training Center. And I was with a bunch of recently-returned RMs who all went to Russia on their missions. So, we were an even smaller and rarer group of awkward. We all just bonded over how weird it was to be back in the MTC, and about how we almost died when we went to Costco for the first time, and we spoke Russian with each other and swapped Soviet train stories. We were all besties in like, five minutes. And all so awkward. Wonderfully, adorably awkward. Love it.

But the thing is, the transition back is hard. It’s hard for everyone. And it should be hard. You’ve just left some of the most trying, refining years of your life. And you’ve changed . . . and it feels as though the world around you hasn’t.

There are two ways I like to explain coming home from a mission. One way is from a friend of mine, the other is my own idea.

My thoughts. Coming home feels a lot like when Frodo comes back to the Shire in Return of the King. Do you remember that scene when he’s back at Bag End, writing some memoirs, and he says,

“How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart, you begin to understand, there is no going back?”

Because there is no going back. You can’t go back. You have to move on—because you’re a new, changed person, and the world around you is different. Mostly because you’re different. So you have to move forward. You go forth with faith.

Wisdom from my friend. Coming home is like the last scene in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe when the Pevensie siblings come tumbling out of the wardrobe . . . and they’re suddenly back, without any preparation. And the world around them is exactly the same, and they look exactly the same, but they have all of their experiences in Narnia—they have grown up in Narnia, and they have become kings and queens there and their souls are entirely different. But no one understands, except those who have been to Narnia.

[image courtesy of aceshowbiz.com]

In short, coming back from a life-changing experience is not easy.

I've obviously been thinking about this quite a bit. So, I’ve compiled some thoughts of challenges I and others have experienced when coming home and my own two-cents of how to cope with these challenges . .  . at least, what has been helpful for me.

Common challenges of being home:

-          What it feels like: crushing, disconnected, weird, alone, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. These are just a few responses I’ve heard/I have felt.

-           You know you’ve changed, but people expect you to be the same.

-          You keep wanting to go back; you are homesick for your mission.

-          Not sure where you fit in anymore.

-          Keep wanting to build the kingdom of God/be of some type of service . . . and feeling like you are wasting time/not being helpful.

-          A general feeling of “now what?” You know that last scene of Finding Nemo where the aquarium fish finally get out of the dentist office and into the sea? They’re so happy to be out and “free” . . . but they’re still stuck in the plastic bags and the pufferfish says, “Well, now what?” Yep. That’s us.

-          I know there are more. Too many to count, really. 

Some things that have helped me adjust:

-          Have a schedule. Whether it’s work, school, or a schedule you create yourself, it is good to have things to do and to be consistent. This is not only good for right after the mission, but it’s just healthy to be organized. Make sure that you make time for gospel study and for service.

-          Be patient. Remember that it is a transition. It takes some time. Also, if being a “weird RM” means that you love and talk about the Gospel more than you used to, that’s not a bad thing. You don’t want to go back to how you used to be. Because you’re better than you used to be.

-         Do talk about your mission. Don’t worry about stereotypes. Find someone who you can trust and who will just listen. And then talk, even if you both know they won’t understand everything.

-          Smile and be happy—attitude really does matter. Humor helps, too.

-          Write down how you are feeling. Writing is a wonderful outlet.

-          Love and move forward. Faith, hope, and charity. 

      You can never go wrong when you follow advice from the prophet: “The past is behind, learn from it. The future is ahead, prepare for it. The present is here, live it.” – Thomas S. Monson

-          Again, I know there are more remedies.*

It’s not easy, this thing called life. It’s full of growing pains, changes, and sometimes it is downright confusing. But, if there’s anything I learned on my mission (and that I need to apply every day), is that I need to trust in God more. He loves us. He knows what He's doing. He really does care for us, and He has a plan for each of us; He wants us to be happy. Because that's what the plan is called, isn't it? The Plan of Salvation. The Plan of Happiness. 

“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.

In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” ~ Proverbs 3:5-6

*If any of you have more advice/thoughts on adjusting—to anything, whether it be post-mission or postpartum life, feel free to comment below.  

. . . again?

Well, my MTC entry date was moved again. But instead of being moved up, I was moved back later this time. Two weeks later.

I'm now scheduled to leave February 15th instead of February 1st. (Which is still a month earlier than I was originally going to enter the MTC.) Apparently it's for a language pilot program, to see if they can teach us Russian in 9 weeks instead of 12.

And I'm not so sure how I feel about it.

There are pros and cons, of course. I've already gone through the positives and negatives of this situation dozens of times.

But I guess the biggest thing is that I was really getting ready to go--just get everything done and then--zip!--off.

I know it's only two extra weeks. And those extra weeks will be helpful in preparations and good-byes.

Still. I don't like this constant back-and-forth, whiplash movement of my life recently.

But I'd better get used to it. Life is change. *sigh*

September the First

It's the start of a new semester and I am not going back to school.

Guys, it's so weird.

I was on-campus just yesterday helping my sister get textbooks from the Bookstore. We walked through the aisles, checking up and down to discover Elementary Linear Algebra's hiding place (I didn't want to find it, but my sister did), and searching in vain to find the Teachings of the Living Prophets manual.

But I didn't get any books. No Shakespeare, no Woolf, no American History textbooks.

And although my pocketbook was happy, it didn't feel quite right to me.

I mean, school is what I do. It's what I've done since Kindergarten, and I like it. And am quite good at it. It's so weird to not be going back when all of my friends are.

The only thing I can compare this with (and this is extremely nerdy, but I don't care. I've accepted and embraced the fact that I am a nerd.) is the seventh Harry Potter book. The part where the trio is hiding out in Number 12 Grimmauld Place, and Death Eaters are stalking the neighborhood, trying to find their hiding place. On September 1st--the day they would start their seventh year at Hogwarts under normal circumstances--Harry tells Ron and Hermione that:

“There are still a load of Death Eaters watching this house,” he told Ron as he ate, “more than usual. It’s like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express.”


Ron glanced at his watch.


“I’ve been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, not being on it, isn’t it?”

And it is weird not "being on it." I'm not back in Provo. I'm not going to class tomorrow. I'm not going to have my name called out in class. I'm not going to see my friends on campus.

It feels so surreal. To be completely honest and silly, I feel a tad rebellious, like I'm skipping class or something, because it doesn't feel real yet. 

But I'm also feeling a tad nostalgic, like Harry:

"In his mind’s eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet steam engine as he and Ron had once followed it by air, shimmering between fields and hills, a rippling scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Ginny, Neville, and Luna were sitting together at this moment, perhaps wondering where he, Ron, and Hermione were [. . .]"


I realized yesterday when I was on campus how much I love BYU. I'm going to miss it for 18 months. And although my situation is nothing like Harry's (or is it? . . . perhaps the fate of the wizarding and Muggle worlds does rest on my shoulders), I still feel that pang of homesickness, and that longing for familiarity.

and I still hope, just hope, that someone wonders where I am, too.

Getting me through the week--

This scripture:

"Therefore, dearly beloved brethren, let us cheerfully do all things that lie in our power; and then may we stand still, with the utmost assurance, to see the salvation of God, and for his arm to be revealed."

Waiting on the Lord. It's not a passive waiting. It requires more faith and diligence than I ever thought possible.

But His promises are sure.

It's in these moments of stillness that I hear the voice of God.

School Days

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy school is starting again!

It's crazy to think that I'm a JUNIOR at BYU! Upperclass(wom)an, baby!

And I forgot how stressful first days at school can be. Honestly, this was probably the hardest one since second grade (but no dogs chased me this time, fortunately).

But there are always silver linings:

--Friends (and friends-to-be) in all of my classes
--A Shakespeare class that I'm ueber excited for, even though it will probably be one of the most demanding classes I've taken so far
--Texting/calling freshman sister (Hi, Sarah!)
--Friends who take time out of their day to help me
--Courage found in the unlikeliest of places

This ain't gonna be an easy semester. But I know it will be worth it.

Hard things unfailingly are.

Thoughts

This summer has been rejuvenating.

I've found time to relax, which was definitely needed in my life.

I've found time to read again, savor a book, let the question it raises change my mind and often my soul, and become friends with the characters. It is an incredible thing to let someone's story change your life; that is why books are so powerful.

But perhaps even more important to me is that I've found time to write again. In the flurry of assignments, work, and other semester-drudgeries, writing my own stories gets put aside. I can't do that to myself. Fortunately, one of my friends and I created our own writing group to share our stories, and it motivates me to write. And the more I write, the more alive I feel.

I'm realizing that my hobby for writing is more than just a hobby--it's a need. I have a need to create beauty; I have a need to share stories; I have a need to use my imagination. I thrive on creation; on breathing life into characters. I feel complete by pouring my questions into a plot; my soul into a tale. I get excited when I think of new plot twists and character developments. I love it when my prose sings truth.

The stories I write are powerful. And I don't mean that in a prideful way, because goodness knows I have so much to work on. More than I'd like to admit.

But my stories are changing my life. And if that isn't powerful, I don't know what is.

A Year Ago

. . . I went to my first Cambridge prep class.

It was exciting for me, but I had no idea how much the summer in Cambridge would change my life. 

More importantly, I didn't realize how the people I met because of Cambridge would change my life so much.   

Last night, I went to a banquet where Carole Mikita, the religion correspondent for KSL News, spoke. She talked specifically about God opening doors for us, our responsibility to open doors for others, and how God usually opens those doors for us through other people. 

Cambridge was one of those doors God opened for me.  

Thank you, all of you, for being my friend in some way or another. 

Wow. It's amazing the change a year can bring. 

I hope and believe it's for the better.