to journey and return.

These are some reflections on the Grand Eastern European Trip I took. You can read about the beginning of the adventure here. 

It's been almost a month since I returned from Semi-Unwise Foodie Road Trip Across Eastern Europe. (Quite literally--a month ago, I was sitting in a hotel room bed in Helsinki, Finland, trying to get some access to the WiFi by sitting in the corner and then standing on my bed, trying to get a signal.)

I still look back and wonder how we managed to pull it off.

But really. I remember sitting in my flat in Oxford, figuring out logistics. We had no idea what we were getting into or how planes would be delayed, how we'd end up not able to find our hotel room in the maze of streets, or how Briana would get terribly ill in Estonia. The fact that everything actually worked on this trip is nothing short of a miracle.

The fact that we're alive is also a miracle.

There are travel companions . . . and then there are Eastern Europe travel companions. With our combination of language skills, Krav Maga skills, brains, humor, and ridiculous good looks, Briana and I made a stellar travel duo.

[I mean. Amiright?]

I've always loved to travel. I really do believe--like Mark Twain said--that travel is 

 the enemy to bigotry:

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

Leave it to Mark Twain to be blunt.

Along these lines, Briana and I also decided that travel is an antidote to apathy. Whenever you travel to a place, you care about it a lot more. You have a vested interest in a place, people, or culture, because in a way, it becomes a part of you. I will be a lot more aware of Hungary and Croatia now than I used to be. You don't necessarily have to travel to a country to love it, of course (I'm a big advocate of literature and history accomplishing the same goal of making you aware of a place), but it does help.

Of course, I know that there is more to a country than the touristy parts. A lot more. One of my fears is that I will just "taste" the world instead of feeling it. I want to embrace the world. And I hope (and think) that even though this trip was literally a whirlwind tour, I felt more than tasted. I tried to soak in the cities--the languages, the dress, the smells, the atmosphere--instead of just seeing what the world could offer me.

Of course, part of travel means the return. We have to learn to "journey and return." (See this song here--it is beautiful.) We explore, we seek, we experience, we find . . . and then we come home. We are never the same from what we see and experience. There are parts of ourselves we leave in distant lands. And there are things we gain--from walking along the Danube, from wide Latvian skies, to the maze of St. Petersburg streets.

But we return. Sometimes that landing is painful. Other times it is smooth. But we always return. And we hope that there will be people who we can share our moments with. And we hope that there will be other adventures. And the thing is? There usually will be.

But for the moment, I've returned. And I'm learning how to return with grace. All we can do is try, right?

Thank goodness I have the opportunity to journey and return. Not everyone is so lucky, I know. I just hope that I can use my experiences for good.

Song of the Day: All I Can See, by Brendan James

I want to walk through this doorway

I want to open my mind 

I want to pledge my allegiance to all I can find

I want a car that will crash through the barrier

To a road no one knows

I want to feel less control on the bend and I 

Want to land far from home. 

The revolution of the earth around the sun 

Is the perfect lesson of how it should be

So if I cannot learn to journey and return 

To never rest til I've seen all I can see. 

I want to learn a completely new language, 

One I don't understand. 

I want to help someone lost, someone helpless

With the strength of my hand 

I want to come to the base of a statue built

Before they counted the years

And there I'll fall with my face in my hands 

And cry and feel their hope in my tears. 

The revolution of the earth around the sun 

Is the perfect lesson of how it should be

So if I cannot learn to journey and return 

To never rest til I've seen all I can see. 

Train rides and pastures colliding

Colors and customs I've never seen 

I know I, yes I know I, 

I know I will stumble, but, 

Time is precious my friend. 

Those who journey can easily understand

The more they see, the more they'll learn, 

There more that they will be

So this I swear to you, and this I swear to me

I'll never rest till I've seen all I can see

No, I'll never rest till I've seen all I can see

I want to know where the strength of a person lies, 

In their past or their future

Is it in the way that they hurt 

Or they love themselves, or is it all an illusion? 

I want to crawl from this skin that I'm painted in 

Body, please let it give

I want to find the Creator of all good things, 

And ask what it means to live. 

Finding Home: Some Thoughts on Homesickness, Loss, and Embracing the Absence

Disclaimer: I've been thinking about this post for awhile now and I hope it comes across in the right way. It's not a cry for attention (except in that strange way that all writing is--particularly blogs), and it's not a pity-party. Instead, it's a way to show that life is full of paradoxes, contradictions, and mixed feelings. And that the good and the bad can coexist in that beautiful tapestry of human existence.

We usually only see the good experiences on social media. We post when we feel particularly successful, pretty, cool, or downright vain. (I've been there. I am a part of the selfie generation.) What we don't often post about are those extremely human moments of grief and loss. I understand why. It's hard--and dangerous--to be vulnerable, especially online. We each have to decide what we are comfortable sharing with the world.

But this is my small attempt to reach out to those who might feel discouraged when they look at their friends' "perfect lives" on Facebook. No vacation is perfect. Neither is any relationship. And part of living means losing. Losing people, places, keys, memories. But I do think that, as Mary Oliver wrote, that "salvation" is on that other side of the "black river of loss." What that exactly means I am still trying to figure out for myself. But working through those questions is certainly a start of learning how to live.

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! [. . .]

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 

She stood in tears amid the alien corn [. . .]" --John Keats, "Ode to a Nightingale" 

They say it takes your soul six weeks to catch up with you after a move. 

Any transition, really. 

It takes time to find your place again. 

Because even as your body is in a new corner of the world, your heart is somewhere else. 

I am finding this to be true. Now, don't get me wrong. I love Oxford and I feel this is where I need to be for the next year. I love the buildings I get to pass on the way to class. I love the people I am meeting from my college, my program, and beyond. I love hearing British accents on the streets. I love afternoon tea and scones. I love studying in the Bodleian Library. I love having my own schedule and creating my own career. I love forging my own path. I love it here. And my love will only grow.  

But there are other people and places I love, too. And I miss them. I am unashamed to say that I miss people and places of home. Because those people and places create my home. 

What is home? That can be a sensitive topic. Some people easily say it is with their families, but for others, family matters are toxic. For some, being with family is not being at home. And I think it is important to remember that a house does not make a home. 

As I have gotten older, I have come to realize that home is more of a feeling than a concrete place. But at the same time, I think we all have to have a "safe space" to come home to. And that usually means a place with people who care about us. I am fortunate enough to have a loving family nestled at the base of the Wasatch Mountains whom I can always turn to. I have a home. 

Then again, I have several homes. "Home" is more fluid than it was to me as a sixteen-year-old. Home is associated with people and places, feelings and memories. It is a place where I feel loved. It is where I feel confident, silly, pretty, happy, and where I feel safe enough and brave enough to be vulnerable--to be open, to be scared, to be angry. 

Home is a place and time where I am surrounded by people who love me for me. 

And with that definition of home, it is easy to see why I--or anyone--can get homesick for people and places around the world. Especially when you are separated from those people or places. Of course there are moments when I miss the familiarity of sitting around the kitchen table with my family, but there are also times when I ache for my small kitchen in Provo, Utah, cutting apples and chatting with my roommates. Or times when my soul soars back to an autumnal street in eastern Ukraine, or returns for a moment to a bridge over the River Cam, or peeks into my grandmother's bay window.

Memories of love leave imprints on our souls. And our souls never forget moments when they were truly safe; when they were truly, completely loved. 

For that reason, it can be hard to be somewhere new, even when the colors around us are vibrant, and the conversations stimulating, and the future exciting and strange. 

It is that strangeness which both tantalizes and terrifies us.  

And in those moments where the tumult and excitement die down and we are left with just ourselves surrounded by walls pale with loneliness, homesickness can be suffocating. We are separated from those who care, or from those we care for, and we miss them. We miss them a lot. 

It is hard to lose familiarity, even though we cry for independence. Don't get me wrong. We need that independence to learn about ourselves and to find what we are made of. It is essential that we live, learn, and experience life on our own. And doing so helps us realize what kind of future home we want to create for ourselves and those we love. 

Also, I don't think that homesickness is necessarily bad. Like Keats's immortal nightingale, those pangs of loss are reminders of the love that once was and that still is and will be again. Those gentle, melancholy melodies can make us weep. But I think those yearnings for home--whether for a place round the fireside with family, a cafe with friends, a trail in the Rocky Mountains, or a future destination we are still searching for--give us direction. They give us hope in the possibility of peace and rest. 

They poignantly remind us of our human need for connection. 

Building a home takes time. It takes patience. And it takes love. Not only from those around you, but from yourself. You have to let people know that you care in order to create a haven. To create a home. 

So to all those who are missing someone, something, somewhere, some state of being--know that you are not alone in your absence. And that nothing can remain empty forever. Fill that absence with beauty. And if that beauty makes you weep, just know that the color of grief is just as necessary as the color of joy in this canvas of life.  

Song of the Day: "To Build a Home," The Cinematic Orchestra  

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.

Some thoughts on authenticity

I've been going through my iPhone photos recently, deleting pictures and making room for future shameless selfies.

Like these ones:

See what I mean? Shameless. I am incredibly vain.

But the thing is . . . although these pictures capture some form of my personality (mostly my vanity), they really are not what I look like. I mean, of course they are pictures of myself. But they are the best pictures I took after a few tries. And then they were edited, filtered, etc., to get just the right look I was going for.

Selfies are a twenty-first century art form.

(Oh man . . . what that says about our society is very revealing and quite sad.)

At the same time, I don't think there is anything necessarily wrong with wanting to make yourself look good. That's part of what social media is about, isn't it? We're branding ourselves. And we want that brand to be attractive.

We all have a desire to be remembered well. And I think most of us want others to think that we are attractive, clever, and put-together.

Most of humanity has had that desire before social media ever came along.

Take Anne Frank, for example. I think that a very revealing parts of her humanity comes through when she is quite honest about how she looks and how she wishes she looked. She has a picture in her diary and then a write-up to the side:

"This is a photo as I would wish myself to look all the time. Then I might have a chance to go to Hollywood. But I'm sorry to say that I usually look different these days." 

[via annefrank.org]

I think all of us have pictures of ourselves that we wish we looked like all of the time. We all have favorite pictures of ourselves or favorite time of life that we wish we could relive.

Below are some pictures of myself as I wish I could look all the time:

I took these selfies on a day I was feeling particularly pretty, confident, and happy, as the next picture shows:

[Sorry about the terrible lighting--my room is actually not a photography studio. Weird, I know.

But you can tell that I am happy from my eyes. You can always tell in the eyes.]

Here's a more picture where I look more natural and less make-uped . . . it's a more "real" picture of me (whatever that means), but I am still happy. Tired, but happy.

[Fun fact about Megan #43: I take selfies in the car when I am waiting/when I am bored. I also take selfies when I have new clothes. This is a new shirt and I felt happy wearing it. The end.]

These are the pictures--the ones where I am truly happy--are the moments and memories that I wish could last all the time. And photographs provide a way for those memories, those regrets, and those wishes to resurface.

At the same time, life is not picture-perfect. We have blemishes, we blink when the flash goes off, someone photobombs us, or we look and feel bloated on school picture day.

There are pictures of ourselves that we don't want anyone to see. Ones that we instantly "untag" ourselves from on Facebook. Selfies that never see the light of Instagram or SnapChat.

There are parts of ourselves that we don't want others to know about.

Honestly, there is a lot about ourselves that our 15 million friends on social media don't need to know about.

And I don't think that makes you any less genuine if you don't want to post about your latest break-up or your faith crisis or your sister's battle with cancer or anything that is too private and personal to share over the cold and unfeeling interwebs.

So the question is, how do we put our best foot forward while at the same time being authentic and "real"? We complain that the lives and pictures and posts people post on social media aren't "real." And you know what? They're not. At least, not entirely. They are what people want others to see. And part of that is real. But it's not every single waking hour of their lives. Honestly, that would be overwhelming and disturbing to know what went on inside of our friend's heads all of the time.

We need filters for what we say. (And for the pictures we post on Instagram, naturally).

But more than that, we need compassion. We need to be more willing to give others the benefit of the doubt with their posts, but also know that others will probably not give that same compassion to us.

I recently saw a quote by Thomas Merton that said, "Pride makes us artificial. Humility makes us real. And real is what makes us beautiful."

I think there's a lot of truth in that.

I need to think about it more.

. . . anyway, a lot of that was rambling. Basically, I'm still thinking about these things and this was a way to address the void and get my thoughts out.

But, if you have any opinions on this subject, let me know. I think this is an important issue and I would love to hear your thoughts.

i'll meet you young and free for a dance 'round the memory tree

Hello, world.

I promise that I'm still alive.
I just haven't been in the mood to write lately.
Like, I have things coming.
I can feel them in my mind and in my heart.

Thoughts from things I've read.
Things I've seen.
Things I've heard.
Things I've felt.

But right now?

It's mostly busywork.
Paperwork.
Red tape.
Preparations.

I sometimes wonder if purgatory is just a long line in a bureaucratic office where you never move. Ever.
A long, never-ending line without phone service or Wi-Fi.
I'm pretty sure that if Dante had known about visa and immigration offices he would have written about it in his Inferno. 
Queues in bureaucratic offices in general.
A special circle of their own.
"Now serving number 83."

I had things I meant to write.
Kind of like a "little lists" kind of write-up.
Just so I would write, really.
Because often beginning is the hardest.
But I forgot all that I wanted to say.
Even though it was very clever in my mind.
But now.
To-do lists fill my head
instead of the things I'd actually like to think about.

But I am alive.

And I get do to things with people I love.
People who remind me that I am more than a brain.

Those reminders are important.
So thank you to all.
Pictured or not.
Thank you for the memories you give me.
Thank you for reminding me of what I am made of.
That I do have a brain
but that I also have a heart.
And a voice.
And a knack for silliness.
Because goodness knows I need people who will let me be silly every once in awhile.
And who encourage it.
And people who love me the way I am
but believe that I can always be better--
and maximize my potential.
Which is so much more than a brain.

*Song of the day: A Dance 'Round the Memory Tree, by Oren Lavie