2009 was an odd year. It brought a lot of learning and growth, but that came with heartaches and pains attached. It’s been humbling; the kind of year that leaves one feeling enlarged but deflated.
Every Christmas Eve my family has a gathering in which we share our feelings about Christ, His gospel and His love. This year, we upheld the tradition, minus one; my brother-in-law, Robert, who passed away on December 13th. The convictions and thoughts we shared were more sober and tender than they have been in past years.
“It’s been a hard, painful year for all of us,” said Brandon. “But I feel prompted to say that 2010 will bring a lot of healing and resolution to our family.”
I believe that statement.
I’m hopeful for the new year, and for the new decade.
I want to be more, to do more. I’m not much of a goal-maker, but I’ve gotten the feeling lately that I need to make goals for 2010.
I don’t like setting goals, usually. They seem trivial and insubstantial: getting good grades, writing a book, exercising daily, going on a lot of dates— these kinds of goals serve a purpose, but at the end of the year, these are arbitrary.
Especially now, with the loss of a loved one. I can’t help but look at things differently. At years-end, when I evaluate the person I’ve grown into in those twelve months, I won’t be looking at things like that.
In a year’s time, when I look back on 2010, I’ll be asking:
Did I grow my love?
Did I heal hearts?
Did I nurture my soul?
Did I change my small corner of the world for the better?
I recognize that I'm getting grandiose here. I'm getting sentimental, perhaps. And, as my Dad would say, my hippie is showing.
But still, I believe:
Goals should clarify. They should simplify.
My goals for 2010:
-Develop consistent, daily spiritual habits (starting with praying every morning and night).
- Develop the attribute of charity.
- Write more. Write better.
- Spend time in nature once a week.
- Serve some one. Every day.
- Get enough sleep (eight hours a night, minimum).
- Read two excellent books a month.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 3)
V. Wednesday
Eyes level with the table, I poured a layer of the syrup over ice. Flavored blood orange, I had been eyeing the sweet liquid since my mother had placed the brand-new bottle on the table. I mixed in some mango syrup next, then cream, and finally filled the rest of the glass with sparkling water.
It was a girls’ night in, and the others at the kitchen table were also busy concocting their own Italian cream sodas. I tasted mine, and encouraged Aunt Lara to try the blood orange. Janelle, on my right, was mixing a piña colada. Ashley was there, with Robert’s sister, Alycia. Mom was there, and Karalee, as well.
With a six to one ratio of sisters to our only brother, it used to be that most nights in our home were girls’ nights. Karalee loved to bake cookies; to this day, she still makes the meanest chocolate chip I’ve tasted. Ashley would help, but mostly chat. Janelle often would be there with her son Byron, then just a baby, now a rambunctious six-year-old. She might have sat at the table, spooning cooked and mashed carrots into his mouth.
Brittany and I would have hung around, basking in the self-assurance that our older sisters so embodied, glad no one had felt the need to invite friends, which would have precluded our inclusion. We might have painted fingernails as we waited for the cookies to bake, or watched our favorite moments from the BBC version of Pride & Prejudice (which meant skipping over the whole Lydia mess, and replaying several times the moment when Mr. Darcy emerges, dripping and delicious, from the pond at Pemberley).
Now, girls’ nights were a slightly more formal affair. We made Italian cream sodas and had cheese ball and crackers. Pedicures may have been planned and mentioned once or twice, but the talking goes on for too long and they never happen.
I was on my second soda, a pina colada. I offered it up, stating that even though I didn’t wish to finish it, it was still very good; everyone laughed.
“No, really,” I asserted, “It’s delicious. I’ve just had too much sugar tonight. I’m just starting to hit my gag reflex, which means I’m done.” More laughter.
The cream settled in a milky haze in my half-empty glass.
I basked.
VI. Thursday: Thanksgiving
I dumped puzzle pieces onto the golden tablecloth. As I started to collect the edge pieces, I realized my mistake in picking this particular puzzle. It was a photograph of Arches National Park, an arch that is bright, rich orange. The edges, however, are made up of a speckled but homogenous cream-colored frame.
I sighed, and started to sort through the pieces, forming piles: edges, pieces where the border and the photograph meet, brilliant blues of the sky, the white and blue pieces of sky with cloud, bright orange of the smooth sandstone foreground, and the deeper reddish-brown of the background.
Janelle joined me after a few moments; she had given me the task of picking out a puzzle and starting it. Puzzle assembly is another holiday tradition in the Squires home. Actually finishing those puzzles, however, is not.
The house was fairly quiet. Thanksgiving dinner had come and gone in the early afternoon, and now it was evening. Loony Tunes played on the TV. I could hear Mom and Ashley talking and dishing up leftovers in the kitchen.
We assembled the outer rectangle, slowly and laboriously. Janelle talked to me, asked me about dating. I told her about a guy I like, but already messed up a chance with. She listened, offered advice, and all the time, the pieces fell into place.
Eyes level with the table, I poured a layer of the syrup over ice. Flavored blood orange, I had been eyeing the sweet liquid since my mother had placed the brand-new bottle on the table. I mixed in some mango syrup next, then cream, and finally filled the rest of the glass with sparkling water.
It was a girls’ night in, and the others at the kitchen table were also busy concocting their own Italian cream sodas. I tasted mine, and encouraged Aunt Lara to try the blood orange. Janelle, on my right, was mixing a piña colada. Ashley was there, with Robert’s sister, Alycia. Mom was there, and Karalee, as well.
With a six to one ratio of sisters to our only brother, it used to be that most nights in our home were girls’ nights. Karalee loved to bake cookies; to this day, she still makes the meanest chocolate chip I’ve tasted. Ashley would help, but mostly chat. Janelle often would be there with her son Byron, then just a baby, now a rambunctious six-year-old. She might have sat at the table, spooning cooked and mashed carrots into his mouth.
Brittany and I would have hung around, basking in the self-assurance that our older sisters so embodied, glad no one had felt the need to invite friends, which would have precluded our inclusion. We might have painted fingernails as we waited for the cookies to bake, or watched our favorite moments from the BBC version of Pride & Prejudice (which meant skipping over the whole Lydia mess, and replaying several times the moment when Mr. Darcy emerges, dripping and delicious, from the pond at Pemberley).
Now, girls’ nights were a slightly more formal affair. We made Italian cream sodas and had cheese ball and crackers. Pedicures may have been planned and mentioned once or twice, but the talking goes on for too long and they never happen.
I was on my second soda, a pina colada. I offered it up, stating that even though I didn’t wish to finish it, it was still very good; everyone laughed.
“No, really,” I asserted, “It’s delicious. I’ve just had too much sugar tonight. I’m just starting to hit my gag reflex, which means I’m done.” More laughter.
The cream settled in a milky haze in my half-empty glass.
I basked.
VI. Thursday: Thanksgiving
I dumped puzzle pieces onto the golden tablecloth. As I started to collect the edge pieces, I realized my mistake in picking this particular puzzle. It was a photograph of Arches National Park, an arch that is bright, rich orange. The edges, however, are made up of a speckled but homogenous cream-colored frame.
I sighed, and started to sort through the pieces, forming piles: edges, pieces where the border and the photograph meet, brilliant blues of the sky, the white and blue pieces of sky with cloud, bright orange of the smooth sandstone foreground, and the deeper reddish-brown of the background.
Janelle joined me after a few moments; she had given me the task of picking out a puzzle and starting it. Puzzle assembly is another holiday tradition in the Squires home. Actually finishing those puzzles, however, is not.
The house was fairly quiet. Thanksgiving dinner had come and gone in the early afternoon, and now it was evening. Loony Tunes played on the TV. I could hear Mom and Ashley talking and dishing up leftovers in the kitchen.
We assembled the outer rectangle, slowly and laboriously. Janelle talked to me, asked me about dating. I told her about a guy I like, but already messed up a chance with. She listened, offered advice, and all the time, the pieces fell into place.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 2)
III. Monday
Jenny had planned this outing at least a month in advance, a date between her, her recently acquired boyfriend Chris, and me.
I sat in the backseat, slurping on the eggnog shake that I ordered, even though I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing by myself. We had eaten dinner at an Italian restaurant, and now Chris was driving with Jenny in the passenger seat; I watched them interact.
It was easy enough to see that Chris adored Jenny. He deferred to her in almost everything, an attribute I’m sure my bossy friend didn’t mind. He seemed aware of her, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t really like PDA, or that she hates having her face touched; the small things that matter, things that I know only because we have been friends for so long.
I considered my position in the car, and laughed inwardly. It was somewhat appropriate. Over the years, as boys had come and go for both Jenny and me, it was consistently the case that when Jenny had a boyfriend, I took backseat.
I dragged on the straw, feeling bored. Chris and Jenny were chatting, bantering within the dynamics already created in their relationship, a dynamic I couldn’t quite match. The spiced sweetness of the cold shake felt too heavy, too thick as my esophagus constricted the liquid downward.
“That was at the same time that you were dating Jamie, right?” Jenny addressed me. I hadn’t been listening; I had no idea what she would be referring to.
“Uuuh, yea, I’m pretty sure,” I replied in a bright voice. Facts satisfactorily verified, she carried on with her story.
IV. Tuesday
At the grocery store, I called my mother. She relayed to me the list of what she’d sent me there to pick up:
“–8 bags of lemons—you know, the ones that come with 3 lemons in a little mesh bag.
–6 bags of oranges, I’m pretty sure these come in a red bag. . . .
–A loaf of bread, whatever looks good will be fine, and
–a gallon of milk. Pretty sure that’s it.”
I snagged the groceries, the citrus fruits weighing down the shopping basket on my right arm. By the time I checked out and make it to the car, my biceps were shaky from holding the burden up.
I piled the groceries onto the corner of the counter at home; Mom stood by the sink and looked as if she had been at this for to long. She was in the midst of the annual season tradition in my family, one that has been so central to my life that I couldn’t imagine a holiday season without it: making cranberry ice.
On the stove sat a large steaming stockpot. I knew what would be in it even before walking over, but I did anyway. I peered inside and breathed in deeply. It smelled tangy and thick. Cranberries winked in the bubbling water; some had already burst open, others were still firm and bright.
My mom ordered me to add sugar to the bowl sitting next to the stove. It held a soupy goop, a runny mush that was a deep burgundy pink, a magenta perhaps. I measured out the sugar, counting to eight aloud to ensure I got the amount correct. I followed Mom’s further directions to add water. Then she got busy, slicing oranges and lemons in half and juicing them with quick, deft movements.
As we worked, Taryn wandered into the kitchen. Two years old, she has an inquisitive, round face, and large eyes that sit under fast, dark eyebrows. She has often reminded me of baby pictures of myself, with the cherub face that still manages to look determined and focused. And in many ways, I am told, she acts like I might have as a young child. We share intense, curious dispositions.
And just then, Taryn was curious to know what Mom was up to.
“Nonni, want see,” she demanded, reaching her arm up to point at the juicer on the counter. My mother obliged her and set her on the counter to observe and assist in the process. Taryn swung her legs, clunking them against the wooden cupboards. The boiled cranberries and juiced citrus produced a heady mix of rich and fresh.
As I watched my mother instructing her granddaughter on the art of juicing, I felt certain she had once spoken to me in the same, affectionate way. I can’t quite conjure up the frame of time, or memory, but she must have once swung me up, seated me on the counter, and let me watch her work.
Somewhere in my memory I am studying her hands; one holds a sieve with boiled cranberries in it, the other works to mash them against the metal mesh. I am a young girl, perhaps four, or maybe an overlay of several ages. But I watch the innards of the cranberries, in consistency somewhere between goopy and syrupy. It creates a ghastly drip into a large metal bowl, looking like so much vivid blood. After a while, I am given a turn. I mash with inefficient vigor. When the cranberries in the sieve are sufficiently turned to a pulp, I turn the spoon around and scrape the velvet-rich cranberry pulp from rounded underside of the sieve and into the bowl.
In the present with her granddaughter, my mother poured the juice into the bowl. Taryn let out an awed, “Ooooh!” These were the last few ingredients.
Soon, the liquids would be mixed together and then separated into Tupperware containers and old cottage cheese tubs saved especially for this purpose. They would be sent to the freezer to sit, then retrieved again, hardened, to be added to lemon-lime soda. And on some future night, the family would gather and eat, talk, visit, laugh, and drink this treat--carrying on in the same vein of tradition it was made.
Jenny had planned this outing at least a month in advance, a date between her, her recently acquired boyfriend Chris, and me.
I sat in the backseat, slurping on the eggnog shake that I ordered, even though I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing by myself. We had eaten dinner at an Italian restaurant, and now Chris was driving with Jenny in the passenger seat; I watched them interact.
It was easy enough to see that Chris adored Jenny. He deferred to her in almost everything, an attribute I’m sure my bossy friend didn’t mind. He seemed aware of her, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t really like PDA, or that she hates having her face touched; the small things that matter, things that I know only because we have been friends for so long.
I considered my position in the car, and laughed inwardly. It was somewhat appropriate. Over the years, as boys had come and go for both Jenny and me, it was consistently the case that when Jenny had a boyfriend, I took backseat.
I dragged on the straw, feeling bored. Chris and Jenny were chatting, bantering within the dynamics already created in their relationship, a dynamic I couldn’t quite match. The spiced sweetness of the cold shake felt too heavy, too thick as my esophagus constricted the liquid downward.
“That was at the same time that you were dating Jamie, right?” Jenny addressed me. I hadn’t been listening; I had no idea what she would be referring to.
“Uuuh, yea, I’m pretty sure,” I replied in a bright voice. Facts satisfactorily verified, she carried on with her story.
IV. Tuesday
At the grocery store, I called my mother. She relayed to me the list of what she’d sent me there to pick up:
“–8 bags of lemons—you know, the ones that come with 3 lemons in a little mesh bag.
–6 bags of oranges, I’m pretty sure these come in a red bag. . . .
–A loaf of bread, whatever looks good will be fine, and
–a gallon of milk. Pretty sure that’s it.”
I snagged the groceries, the citrus fruits weighing down the shopping basket on my right arm. By the time I checked out and make it to the car, my biceps were shaky from holding the burden up.
I piled the groceries onto the corner of the counter at home; Mom stood by the sink and looked as if she had been at this for to long. She was in the midst of the annual season tradition in my family, one that has been so central to my life that I couldn’t imagine a holiday season without it: making cranberry ice.
On the stove sat a large steaming stockpot. I knew what would be in it even before walking over, but I did anyway. I peered inside and breathed in deeply. It smelled tangy and thick. Cranberries winked in the bubbling water; some had already burst open, others were still firm and bright.
My mom ordered me to add sugar to the bowl sitting next to the stove. It held a soupy goop, a runny mush that was a deep burgundy pink, a magenta perhaps. I measured out the sugar, counting to eight aloud to ensure I got the amount correct. I followed Mom’s further directions to add water. Then she got busy, slicing oranges and lemons in half and juicing them with quick, deft movements.
As we worked, Taryn wandered into the kitchen. Two years old, she has an inquisitive, round face, and large eyes that sit under fast, dark eyebrows. She has often reminded me of baby pictures of myself, with the cherub face that still manages to look determined and focused. And in many ways, I am told, she acts like I might have as a young child. We share intense, curious dispositions.
And just then, Taryn was curious to know what Mom was up to.
“Nonni, want see,” she demanded, reaching her arm up to point at the juicer on the counter. My mother obliged her and set her on the counter to observe and assist in the process. Taryn swung her legs, clunking them against the wooden cupboards. The boiled cranberries and juiced citrus produced a heady mix of rich and fresh.
As I watched my mother instructing her granddaughter on the art of juicing, I felt certain she had once spoken to me in the same, affectionate way. I can’t quite conjure up the frame of time, or memory, but she must have once swung me up, seated me on the counter, and let me watch her work.
Somewhere in my memory I am studying her hands; one holds a sieve with boiled cranberries in it, the other works to mash them against the metal mesh. I am a young girl, perhaps four, or maybe an overlay of several ages. But I watch the innards of the cranberries, in consistency somewhere between goopy and syrupy. It creates a ghastly drip into a large metal bowl, looking like so much vivid blood. After a while, I am given a turn. I mash with inefficient vigor. When the cranberries in the sieve are sufficiently turned to a pulp, I turn the spoon around and scrape the velvet-rich cranberry pulp from rounded underside of the sieve and into the bowl.
In the present with her granddaughter, my mother poured the juice into the bowl. Taryn let out an awed, “Ooooh!” These were the last few ingredients.
Soon, the liquids would be mixed together and then separated into Tupperware containers and old cottage cheese tubs saved especially for this purpose. They would be sent to the freezer to sit, then retrieved again, hardened, to be added to lemon-lime soda. And on some future night, the family would gather and eat, talk, visit, laugh, and drink this treat--carrying on in the same vein of tradition it was made.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
CNF Piece: A Week Home for the Holiday (pt.1)
I. Saturday
My mother hugged me warmly, despite my ten-hour road trip from college to Las Vegas that had left me tired andgrimy. As she made to release me from her embrace, I tightened mine.
She smelled clean, like laundry detergent tinged with a faint chemical trace of cleaner, possibly Simple Green or Windex. She was comfortable, familiar in the way the skin on her upper arms felt slightly dry when my hand brushed them, and how she tucked her chin over my shoulder.
I released her; leaving one arm around my shoulders, she said in a calm, even tone, “I’m so excited to see you.”
“Oh, yea, and don’t you seem so excited,” I said.
“What were you looking for, something more like this?” She clapped her hands together and then threw them up with a dramatic shriek and a wide-eyed, manic expression of faux-delight. She let out a genuine laugh then at the sheer silliness of it—such an overwrought contrast to her perpetual poise and reserve.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said in a mischievous tone. We both know she is not the type of mother that insists on hugs and kisses. She doesn’t fly at me with barrages of questions or smother with attention.
No, she is the kind of mother who waited, instead, with a reassuring smile, a quick hug, a simple but constant welcome home.
II. Sunday
Siblings, brothers-in-law, an aunt and uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews poured in for the first family gathering of the week that I would be home for the Thanksgiving holiday. The fare of the dinner looked like something from a poolside barbecue, almost comically incongruous to the holiday season: pulled pork sandwiches, my mom’s famous potato salad, and fresh spring salad loaded with grape tomatoes and avocadoes.
I loaded up what I would eat, skipping the pulled pork. I laughed inwardly; Janelle had apologized earlier for bringing a main dish that was so meat-centric. “I still always forget you’re a vegetarian now.” It was amusing to me, but oddly relieving that no one had over-accommodated me.
We ate, and as the food on our plates disappeared, the talk grew loud and the children ran screaming and exuberant up and down the length of the house.
Eventually, we gathered in the family room, sleepily filling in pulled-up dining chairs, the couch, the love seat. I shared a wide lumpy armchair upholstered with an earthy-colored, nubby cloth with my close friend of five years. Jenny has become as much a fixture at family gatherings as any of us.
The room quieted as Ashley began to speak, thoughts on gratitude that she had prepared. Her voice was clear and high, a voice that mine resembles. We are blood; she is the fifth child, preceding my position as the sixth, and four years my senior. She has been married for over three years, and her husband Robert sat next to her now, gripping her hand.
She spoke of experiences that the rest of us only half-knew: hospital stays, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, intensive care units, weakened immune system and bone marrow transplants. She spoke of what the months watching, waiting, serving, holding out faith for a leukemic husband had done to her soul, and what it had done for it. Sometimes wavering, she spoke of prayers proffered in despair, others in hope, of hearts aching, but also hearts healing. Her voice coagulated on those words that rose from a place that is an opening to both pain and peace.
“A grateful heart is the beginning of greatness,” she said.
Jenny placed her hand on my arm. I looked around the room at my family. My niece Taryn sat on the floor where she had busied herself pulling tissues from the box. I noticed Dad scoot his chair closer to Mom, then extend his arm across her shoulders, saw the way she settled into that elbow crook that she must know so well.
I had all the beginnings of greatness right there.
My mother hugged me warmly, despite my ten-hour road trip from college to Las Vegas that had left me tired andgrimy. As she made to release me from her embrace, I tightened mine.
She smelled clean, like laundry detergent tinged with a faint chemical trace of cleaner, possibly Simple Green or Windex. She was comfortable, familiar in the way the skin on her upper arms felt slightly dry when my hand brushed them, and how she tucked her chin over my shoulder.
I released her; leaving one arm around my shoulders, she said in a calm, even tone, “I’m so excited to see you.”
“Oh, yea, and don’t you seem so excited,” I said.
“What were you looking for, something more like this?” She clapped her hands together and then threw them up with a dramatic shriek and a wide-eyed, manic expression of faux-delight. She let out a genuine laugh then at the sheer silliness of it—such an overwrought contrast to her perpetual poise and reserve.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said in a mischievous tone. We both know she is not the type of mother that insists on hugs and kisses. She doesn’t fly at me with barrages of questions or smother with attention.
No, she is the kind of mother who waited, instead, with a reassuring smile, a quick hug, a simple but constant welcome home.
II. Sunday
Siblings, brothers-in-law, an aunt and uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews poured in for the first family gathering of the week that I would be home for the Thanksgiving holiday. The fare of the dinner looked like something from a poolside barbecue, almost comically incongruous to the holiday season: pulled pork sandwiches, my mom’s famous potato salad, and fresh spring salad loaded with grape tomatoes and avocadoes.
I loaded up what I would eat, skipping the pulled pork. I laughed inwardly; Janelle had apologized earlier for bringing a main dish that was so meat-centric. “I still always forget you’re a vegetarian now.” It was amusing to me, but oddly relieving that no one had over-accommodated me.
We ate, and as the food on our plates disappeared, the talk grew loud and the children ran screaming and exuberant up and down the length of the house.
Eventually, we gathered in the family room, sleepily filling in pulled-up dining chairs, the couch, the love seat. I shared a wide lumpy armchair upholstered with an earthy-colored, nubby cloth with my close friend of five years. Jenny has become as much a fixture at family gatherings as any of us.
The room quieted as Ashley began to speak, thoughts on gratitude that she had prepared. Her voice was clear and high, a voice that mine resembles. We are blood; she is the fifth child, preceding my position as the sixth, and four years my senior. She has been married for over three years, and her husband Robert sat next to her now, gripping her hand.
She spoke of experiences that the rest of us only half-knew: hospital stays, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, intensive care units, weakened immune system and bone marrow transplants. She spoke of what the months watching, waiting, serving, holding out faith for a leukemic husband had done to her soul, and what it had done for it. Sometimes wavering, she spoke of prayers proffered in despair, others in hope, of hearts aching, but also hearts healing. Her voice coagulated on those words that rose from a place that is an opening to both pain and peace.
“A grateful heart is the beginning of greatness,” she said.
Jenny placed her hand on my arm. I looked around the room at my family. My niece Taryn sat on the floor where she had busied herself pulling tissues from the box. I noticed Dad scoot his chair closer to Mom, then extend his arm across her shoulders, saw the way she settled into that elbow crook that she must know so well.
I had all the beginnings of greatness right there.
This is the first installment of a creative non-fiction piece I wrote (and still finishing) that is a memory from each day I was home for the Thanksgiving holidays. The rest will follow.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
I promise.
It has been a crazy semester. I've gotten out of the habit of writing here (was I ever in it?).
But I haven't gotten out of the habit of writing.
Whatever else I may say about it, I've appreciated the 18 credits I've taken this semester sheerly because of how it pushed me to write, to think, to grow, to do new things I've never done before.
So, I will start writing more, updating you with what I've been writing.
And I'll also have backlog days, in which I will post works that I have completed in the past.
Stay tuned for awesome.
Monday, September 21, 2009
And the meek shall appreciate what they inherit.
This is a column I wrote for the Scroll, published on Sept. 22, 2009.
We all have things we’ve inherited from our family.
It might be red hair, an artistic eye or habits. It could even be horrible eyesight or a propensity for using long words.
I’ve inherited a lot from my family, which consists of my amazing parents and seven of us kids — and we are all really close, maybe unusually close.
A friend once told me, “Your family is like a cult,” a statement that I could only refute with the fact that we don’t drink Kool-Aid of any kind.
But I’ll just leave it with saying that my family gets along really well and spends a lot of time together. As a result of this, we’ve ended up picking up each others’ senses of humor, mannerisms and ideas. While we are all very different, all of us still fit quite comfortably within the same Squires mold.
The similarities extend beyond my immediate family and into my extended relatives. There are two amazing ladies in particular from whom I have inherited much: my grandmothers. They are both ladies who have been through a lot in their lives, enduring with faith.
My maternal grandmother, Grandma Bev, is a lady full of whimsy and fun. I remember the magical hours of entertainment she would spin with her animated recitations of Shel Silverstein poems. (Oh, that peanut butter-loving king. Will he never learn?)
And let’s not forget the ever-popular Candy Bar Game.
I always looked forward to going to Grandma Bev’s, knowing I was sure to get pretty well spoiled.
One of my favorite things, however, was to sing along with Grandma Bev while she played the ukulele. Eventually she taught me how to play it a bit, a little two-chord version of “La Cucuracha.”
While I never mastered the ukulele when I was younger, in high school I decided I would get more serious about it. After all, if ukulele skills can’t get you somewhere in this world, I’m not sure what can.
I went to the local music store and picked up a ukulele. I still remembered a few chords and soon taught myself and became quite proficient.
When I saw Grandma Bev next, I showed her my recently acquired uke knowledge. I was surprised by how touched she was that I had stuck with something she had taught me, to see the influence that she had had on me.
When Gandma Bev’s arthritis developed to the point that it became uncomfortable to play the ukulele, I inherited her beautiful, handmade-in-Hawaii ukulele. And while I adore it, I treasure more the memories, knowledge and love for music she shared with me. Every time I play my ukulele, I think of Grandma Bev.
The other amazing lady is my Grandma Jean. With my grandpa, she spent four years serving two consecutive missions in Africa. She is dynamic, a cheerful little powerhouse, always full of energy, advice and a kind word.
And while that kind word might sometimes be telling you that eating almonds helps with acne, or that you have a little smudge right there on your face, you still knew that it only meant she cared enough to notice.
In addition to the hairline along my neck (which veers crazily to the right), I inherited the middle name of Jean from my grandmother.
I was reminded of this while reading my scriptures one day; I came across this verse in Helaman 5:6:
“Behold, I have given unto you the names of our first parents who came out of the land of Jerusalem; and this I have done that when you remember your names ye may remember them; and when ye remember them ye may remember their works; and when ye remember their works ye may know how that it is said, and also written, that they were good.”
I know we might not all be named after someone, but we all have last names to remind us of those we inherited them from, of those who went before.
My some number of greats-grandpa John Fell Squires, for example, was one of the children who comprised the first generation to be raised in the Salt Lake valley. His father was, in fact, the barber to Brigham Young. My last name stands for all those steps taken to Zion, the sacrifices my forefathers made for their faith and the many hairs of a Prophet cut.
In addition to what we’ve inherited from our families, we have a rich heritage as a Church and as a school.
We carry the name of Latter-day Saint, the title of BYU-Idaho students. Let’s remember those who came before us, whether they crossed the plains or pioneered the changes that have made this university what it is today. Let’s remember the good that they did and try to live up to the standards they set.
After all, if it wasn’t for what we’ve inherited from them, we wouldn’t be the people we are today.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Some thoughts on poetry.
I have been writing a lot of poetry lately.
Which makes sense, right? Seeing as I am in a poetry writing class.
I have also been reading poetry. I like it; some Sylvia Plath, some Louise Glück, a bit of William Stafford.
Sometimes is it hard to digest. It makes me think too hard, and my brain doesn't get it. It doesn't click.
Other times, it feels good to just read poem after poem, enjoying the shape of the words in my mouth, in my head, the way these silly little symbols on the page appeal to my senses so readily, with such ease.
When a line or image clicks within me it makes my guts tremble a little: this is what it is for. That feeling of connectedness, of commonality. Even if I have never experienced or have no reference for what they would tell me about, perhaps in the reading I feel it. Their meaning, emotion, a sadness or a joy. Some shadow, bent to fit in my world view, of what they once meant or knew.
Reading poetry is hard. Harder than watching TV or a movie, or calling a friend and conversing. You read the same poem several times, and often even then it is coy and refuses to reveal its meaning.
But it is rewarding. Why would anyone write it, or read it, if it was not? It is condensed glimpses into other lives and souls.
If I wanted to really give you a self-portrait of myself, my life, I would not use paint or graphite or ink. I would use words, words words, they are magic. They are enchanted. They can build anything. They can break it, too.
I you really wanted to see me, to know me, you might look at my poems, at the ways I indulge myself when it is just me, a pen, some paper, and the words in me head. The lines of letters are skeletons upon which I will hang my meaning, flesh it out into a picture of me, a view.
It will not be truthful. I lie about myself. We all do. But it will be something. A facsimile, sure, but one that is closer to real than most else.
And isn't that what so much of literature is, anyway?
Using lies to tell the truth.
Reformation
ELYSSA SQUIRES
It wasn't yours.
It wasn't your paint.
You bent the rules
and busted open silos
you knew held no grain,
but hid away liquid pigment.
It spilled across the earth,
clung to rock and rest
colored it living:
you declared it
a Prayer.
It was not our clay.
But we ignored the rules,
plunged our limbs in the earth
up to the joints.
Fingernails widened into shovels
and pulled the malleable soil.
It would not grow vegetation
instead, be grown into a sculpture;
we declare it
a Monument.
These aren't my words.
I broke the rules
I dashed them against my will
and squeezed them to points—
They are the tools I wield to cut into the vault
where words are stored,
written in dust.
I sweep them into a verse.
I declare it
a Curse.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Tribute to my mother
My mother watches as one of her grandsons Jr. plants a kiss on another, Elijah.Lori Gardner Squires. To me, she is mother. To the rest of the world (besides my six siblings, I suppose), an amazing woman.
A mother at twenty, a grandmother at forty-two, she is the kind of woman who has made her family the center of her life.
My oldest sister Kristin had her first baby in 1998. My mother did what she has done with the birth of each of her nine grandkids: she traveled out to support the new mother and care for the new babe. She helped to smooth the transition from insanely pregnant woman to brand-new mother. Cleaning house, rising at unholy hours of the morning, babysitting; she has done it all.
A month or so later, the whole family made a trip to meet the bouncing baby. I was awed. I stared at this tiny little creature and wondered if it was really possible that it would someday grow into a person. I held him, breathed in his newborn scent and marveled at the process that could enable my sister to make something so perfect, soft and amazing.
My sister cradled her new joy, and I could tell she was in love. I was away at college when another sister, Karalee, had her little boy Elijah. He was a chubby baby, the pictures sent to me via camera phone reminding me of Augustus Glump from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
When I met him a matter of just five weeks later, he was unrecognizable. Born with Pierre Robin sequence, a combination of a cleft palate, small jaw, and asphyxiation caused by the tongue falling into the throat, the little guy had a near impossible time eating. He had lost a lot of weight, and was quiet and lethargic. Even sleeping was a struggle, as it caused him to asphyxiate on his tongue.
My mother was there again, reassuring my worried sister. When Elijah was hospitalized in Salt Lake City, she drove up several times to be with Karalee and grandson, to uplift and help in any way she could. Through the following surgeries and hospital time it took to get Eli healthy, that wonderful woman was there, doing what she does best: mothering.
Lori holds Elijah, August 2008.
On May 16, 2009, Lori Squires was again made a grandmother. My sister Janelle, quite pregnant at just three weeks away from her due date went into labor at a family gathering. My mother, of course, jumped right into things. She took her home, set her up in a tub full of water, and called the midwife.
It soon became apparent, however, that this baby would not be waiting for any such a luxury as a midwife. Just a short fifty minutes after she went into labor, Janelle gave birth to a beautiful baby girl—and my mother was there to deliver the baby and welcome her to this life.
I have watched my mother tenderly handle those floppy newborn beings that are her grandchildren. I have seen her goof around and play with them as they get older. She spoils them, as a grandmother rightly should.
It is no secret that she loves them. And I know my mother was once as infatuated with all 9 lbs. 8 ozs. of newborn me. She once held me with the same wonder in her eyes, and loved to hear my laugh.
I am comforted knowing that, when the time comes, my mother will be there with me as I welcome my future children into this world. She will be there to support me in all that I do.
Because my amazing mother, after 36 years, still knows what is most important, and continues to center her life on those she gave life to.
Thanks, Mom.
And I love you.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Confessions of a former WoW-Head
There is something about me that most people don't know. I don't readily admit to it, and it is with some consternation that I am putting this in print for all to read.
Here it is: I played World of Warcraft (WoW).
Sadly, it is true. For two years of my life, I was a WoW-head.
It all started in my junior year of high school.
I have always been a gamer, from Roller Coaster Tycoon to Diablo II. When I hit high school, however, my gaming interest slowly trailed off.
Then I heard some of my guy friends discussing their varied and epic adventures within the World of Warcraft. It sounded fun and exciting—and I hadn't really gotten into a video game for a while. So I decided to give it a whirl.
The game is, of course, a lot of fun. It is designed to be that way. It is filled with challenges, beautiful landscapes, and interesting characters. Perhaps its best selling point is, however, that you play it online with other real people. You can fight against, befriend, duel, trade and train with them. The social aspect is what makes it great.
I wouldn’t say I was hooked at first, but playing WoW definitely became my first choice of ways to spend my leisure time.
Eventually, though, I did become more involved with the game. While I had originally started out playing the game with my friends IRL (in real life), I soon branched out and befriended other adventurers I met in-game as we joined up to complete quests and battle the Horde scum.
And that is when it happened: I got sucked in.
Suddenly I found myself turning down offers from my real friends to go bowling on a Saturday night because I had to meet up with my guild to run a raid.
L33t speak started leaking into my everyday vocabulary. A couple of times I caught my self saying something was “twinked out;” after a particularly good dinner, I told my mom she had truly become an Artisan Cooker (she didn’t get it).
As I fell asleep at night, images of running through Ironforge or capturing the Lumber Mill in Arathi Basin would flicker across the insides of my eyelids. I almost felt more at home running around a player vs. player arena as my pink-skinned Night Elf Hunter, Barbiecue, than I did anywhere else.
image courtesy Paul Kwon
I'm not saying I was some pale mindless zombie who lived only to play WoW. I didn't hole myself up in my bedroom for days at time, hunched over with a headset perched atop my head, surrounded by piles of empty soda cans and moldy pizza boxes.
Looking back, though I can see that I had become desensitized to living in the real world. I didn't feel that great about myself, and my priorities had turned a bit fuzzy.
I played WoW from my junior year in high school up until I started school at BYU-Idaho. I wish I could say that I came to my senses, and stopped playing of my own accord, realizing how much of my time it wasted. Sadly, this was not the case. I stopped playing simply because the internet censor in the dorms blocked the game, and it seemed like a waste of $15 a month to keep my subscription.
It was something of a relief. In the six months or so that followed, some incredible things happened. I developed talents (some of which, like painting, I didn't think I had), worked in church callings, studied hard, and earned grades I felt good about. I made a boat load of new friends and even dated a little (gasp!).
During that time, I was reminded how vital and vivid living in the real world was compared to the insubstantial offerings of the pixelated world I had played in.
It was easier to feel good about myself when boosts to my self-esteem came from relating to and serving others in a meaningful way, or getting a good score on an exam, instead of whether I had Most Damage Done, or the number of quests I completed. Nothing I ever did in WoW begins to match the satisfaction of creating something real and beautiful with my hands.
As I listened to Elder Bednar As Elder Bednar outlined how these things can have desensitizing and harmful affects at the last CES Fireside, I knew exactly what he was talking about. I found myself looking back on the hours spent, not just with playing WoW, but with other video games, Myspace, blogs, Facebook and Youtube videos. I couldn’t help but wonder how many great opportunities those things have kept me from taking advantage of.
After all, this life is amazing and full of joy. It is designed to be that way. Heavenly Father filled it with challenges, unique experiences, beautiful landscapes, and fun and interesting people along the way.
Perhaps the best selling point of this life is, however, that it doesn’t fade after a computer or console is turned off. The things I gain here, like my body, memories, experiences and family will be mine forever.
That is what makes living IRL (in real life) truly great.
Note: This is an editorial I wrote for the Scroll. Let me know what you think. Criticism (or praise? ;D) welcome.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." -Psalms 56:3
My heart aches.
I want to be home with my family.
I wish I could laugh with them, cry with them, fast and pray with them.
I wish that there were more that I could do.
I know Robert and Ashley will pull through everything.
I know in my heart that everything is turning out great and that Robert will heal; and at least, if sometimes I get scared, just knowing that Ashley knows it is reassuring.
If she doesn't doubt that the person she loves most in the world will be okay, how can I?
How can I doubt?
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The beauty is the blur.
Sometimes, you stand still.
You just stand, or slump. you sit. you throw your head back and reach out to the sky.
You curl up, knees to chin, arms securely around.
You pose defiantly, legs sturdy and hands firmly on hips.
You curl up, knees to chin, arms securely around.
You pose defiantly, legs sturdy and hands firmly on hips.
The world swirls around you in a blur:
your life
Passing.
your life
Passing.
Recently, it has been that way for me.
Days streak past me.
Not a bad thing in itself, but it makes it easier to miss out on the good things.
Standing still, watching everything move around me, it is dizzying.
I hardly know sometimes what to make of things.
I see a flash of color, and while I try to decide what it was, three more splash by me.
Days streak past me.
Not a bad thing in itself, but it makes it easier to miss out on the good things.
Standing still, watching everything move around me, it is dizzying.
I hardly know sometimes what to make of things.
I see a flash of color, and while I try to decide what it was, three more splash by me.
But maybe its not so much about organizing my life, knowing what each speeding streak means. Knowing where it is going or why it came.
Could those be as beautiful if I organized them, sorted them out?
Hung them up on a clothesline for all to see,
Or placed them carefully in individual boxes?
Could those be as beautiful if I organized them, sorted them out?
Hung them up on a clothesline for all to see,
Or placed them carefully in individual boxes?
Where would the Life be in that?
Maybe it is less about knowing, and more about observing, and enjoying.
Noticing each shape, hue, rich- or flatness.
Letting each splash in turn, have its time
To be beautiful.
And so,
For now,
I trust that know matter why these streaks came, or where they are going
or what picture all these flashing colors will someday form
that no matter what magic they weave around me:
The sum
the whole
they someday will form, the glory these splashes hint at
will be so much more miraculous than
any of these
small
parts.
Noticing each shape, hue, rich- or flatness.
Letting each splash in turn, have its time
To be beautiful.
And so,
For now,
I trust that know matter why these streaks came, or where they are going
or what picture all these flashing colors will someday form
that no matter what magic they weave around me:
The sum
the whole
they someday will form, the glory these splashes hint at
will be so much more miraculous than
any of these
small
parts.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
march 17th
cookies
with green frosting:
i ate three,
and a large bowl
of mint green
chocolate chip
ice cream.
guilty, a little;
but indulgence,
sometimes,
is the necessay cure.
with green frosting:
i ate three,
and a large bowl
of mint green
chocolate chip
ice cream.
guilty, a little;
but indulgence,
sometimes,
is the necessay cure.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
My butt = in gear
Today was just what I needed: a swift kick of get-off-your-but-and-do-something. I got up at around 9:30, showered and got ready. Then I headed over to the Scroll office and helped with the production. The lead (the journalism world's equivalent of a hook in writing) needed some work, and I also wanted to get more experience on the producing end of things. I turned in an application to be a assistant editor for next semester and would really love to get that position.
I worked on the layout of my page, and also the layout of another. I formatted them both, came up with titles, and other exciting stuff, and got them passed off. It was so satisfying. I really enjoyed the whole process, and seeing the work that goes into finalizing the paper will definitely help me be a better writer.
After I finished there, I met up with Jake and we studied in the library for a few hours. I go a lot done, and although I know it will probably be a week of working hard before I am back to where I want to be, I know it will be worth it. And I feel good just knowing that I have started.
I worked on the layout of my page, and also the layout of another. I formatted them both, came up with titles, and other exciting stuff, and got them passed off. It was so satisfying. I really enjoyed the whole process, and seeing the work that goes into finalizing the paper will definitely help me be a better writer.
After I finished there, I met up with Jake and we studied in the library for a few hours. I go a lot done, and although I know it will probably be a week of working hard before I am back to where I want to be, I know it will be worth it. And I feel good just knowing that I have started.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
driving myself crazy
My alarm went off, the semi-cheery chorus of Psapp's "Hi" waking me. I groggily silenced it a couple times, then managed to drag myself out of bed. I lumbered around, ate a banana and was just about to start doing my hair when a sudden thought made my stomach lurch: I forgot to take that Spanish test. Yes, THAT test. The one that closed last night.
I frantically e-mailed my teacher, and she agreed to let me take it today and give me half credit for it. I did, and I think I actually did fairly well.
Still, I am furious with myself. So, so mad. 23+ points for that class, which is my toughest. Not what I needed.
And more than that is that I just know I haven't been working as hard as I should be. I have been working hard, but I could be doing more. I should be following the counsel of Pres. Gordon B. Hinckley when he said, "Just do the best you can, but be sure it is your very best."
Ah well. Tomorrow will be another day. Another week will come soon.
Hopefully I will get cracking a little more.
I frantically e-mailed my teacher, and she agreed to let me take it today and give me half credit for it. I did, and I think I actually did fairly well.
Still, I am furious with myself. So, so mad. 23+ points for that class, which is my toughest. Not what I needed.
And more than that is that I just know I haven't been working as hard as I should be. I have been working hard, but I could be doing more. I should be following the counsel of Pres. Gordon B. Hinckley when he said, "Just do the best you can, but be sure it is your very best."
Ah well. Tomorrow will be another day. Another week will come soon.
Hopefully I will get cracking a little more.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The Upside of Journalism
I really enjoy writing for the school newspaper. True, it is a lot of work, and sucks a lot of my time, but I love the practice I am getting with writing. It is a whole different style, and the journalism side of things is definitely honing my focus with writing. My articles are getting more cohesive, and I am proud of them. While sometimes it drives me crazy when I hit a wall and just cannot seem to pull the aricle together, I eventually get over that hump. And then it is that much more satisfying to hold the beautiful finished product in my hand!
One thing that I really love is that writing articles gives me an excuse to meet a lot of different people. The last article I published was about the handmade movement (if you don't know what that is, check out http://www.etsy.com/ and http://www.buyhandmade.org/). I went to a swap meet some students in the business department hosted and got to go around and meet a lot of crafters and artists who were selling their goods there. It was great to have an excuse to talk to them more, and to bring up questions you wouldn't in regular conversation.
Today, as well, I needed quotes for the article I am writing, which is on how students can be more eco-friendly. I went around to three different apartments in my complex, and stayed and hung out and chatted for a bit after I asked my questions and everything. It was a great excuse to just invite myself in and hang out for a little. Maybe I should do that more often just because?
I also went in to the Language & Letters Office today to be Academically Advised. As it turns out, I probably have four whole semesters of school left, taking about 13.5 credits a semester. I was kind of hoping that only 3 would suffice, but to pull that off I'm pretty sure I would have to take 18 credits a semester, which I am not so much all about? Also, this way I can probably take a couple classes just for fun.
I am also going to have to settle on a minor soon, but, oy vay! What a pain. At this point I think it is between Spanish, Music, and doing two Clusters (something tha BYU-I has; it is like half a minor, 12-15 credits, and you take two in place of a minor), maybe in Library Science and Journalism?
What do you think? I could use any advice you want to give.
Well, I love you all! If you haven't already, check out the silent auction for Robert Ashworth that is going on over at Karalee's Blog.
Much love!
One thing that I really love is that writing articles gives me an excuse to meet a lot of different people. The last article I published was about the handmade movement (if you don't know what that is, check out http://www.etsy.com/ and http://www.buyhandmade.org/). I went to a swap meet some students in the business department hosted and got to go around and meet a lot of crafters and artists who were selling their goods there. It was great to have an excuse to talk to them more, and to bring up questions you wouldn't in regular conversation.
Today, as well, I needed quotes for the article I am writing, which is on how students can be more eco-friendly. I went around to three different apartments in my complex, and stayed and hung out and chatted for a bit after I asked my questions and everything. It was a great excuse to just invite myself in and hang out for a little. Maybe I should do that more often just because?
I also went in to the Language & Letters Office today to be Academically Advised. As it turns out, I probably have four whole semesters of school left, taking about 13.5 credits a semester. I was kind of hoping that only 3 would suffice, but to pull that off I'm pretty sure I would have to take 18 credits a semester, which I am not so much all about? Also, this way I can probably take a couple classes just for fun.
I am also going to have to settle on a minor soon, but, oy vay! What a pain. At this point I think it is between Spanish, Music, and doing two Clusters (something tha BYU-I has; it is like half a minor, 12-15 credits, and you take two in place of a minor), maybe in Library Science and Journalism?
What do you think? I could use any advice you want to give.
Well, I love you all! If you haven't already, check out the silent auction for Robert Ashworth that is going on over at Karalee's Blog.
Much love!
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Salutations to a stranger
Dear Girl With the Cute Jacket and Tote With Lips Printed All Over It:
Firstly, your jacket really is cute. Great color! Love that rich brown, and the faux-fur trim is cute as well. Maybe we should become friends so I can borrow it sometime.
Also, thanks for smiling at me today as you walked past. I know you probably smiled at a lot of people, but I was the girl with the short orange hair, looking decidedly mismatched in a chartreuse scarf, fuschia hoody and teal jacket. Yes, you made eye contact and held it. You smiled very sincerely. On such a cold day, it warmed my heart to receive such a greeting.
So thanks for being so friendly.
Sincerely,
Elyssa Jean
Firstly, your jacket really is cute. Great color! Love that rich brown, and the faux-fur trim is cute as well. Maybe we should become friends so I can borrow it sometime.
Also, thanks for smiling at me today as you walked past. I know you probably smiled at a lot of people, but I was the girl with the short orange hair, looking decidedly mismatched in a chartreuse scarf, fuschia hoody and teal jacket. Yes, you made eye contact and held it. You smiled very sincerely. On such a cold day, it warmed my heart to receive such a greeting.
So thanks for being so friendly.
Sincerely,
Elyssa Jean
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
i'm a poet, did you know it?
I bought a small pack of thin notebooks, and have been writing poetry in them. I really want to start writing more, and a poem a day is not too much to handle.
This is my first, from February 20th.
Dreamed Seams
Embraced in cotton, all is surreal
thoughts skim, like oil across
the surface of conciousness.
Retinae flutter beneath lids
viewing, seeing what is not.
Mind exercising, reviewing what was,
making sense.
What I know then, is not existent
but so real. Tangible, colorful, more so
than waking.
This is the making:
The making of dreams, dreams
All is what it seems, sewn
at seams, light as air,
deep as seas.
My eyes move to view what can't be seen,
catch a glimps of what is true;
they can glean
a fragment of what makes up my mind,
myself, and I collect these,
In the pocket between waking and dreams,
and stitch them together, like so many
patches, an attempt to see,
the Whole,
What I am,
What is Me.
This is my first, from February 20th.
Dreamed Seams
Embraced in cotton, all is surreal
thoughts skim, like oil across
the surface of conciousness.
Retinae flutter beneath lids
viewing, seeing what is not.
Mind exercising, reviewing what was,
making sense.
What I know then, is not existent
but so real. Tangible, colorful, more so
than waking.
This is the making:
The making of dreams, dreams
All is what it seems, sewn
at seams, light as air,
deep as seas.
My eyes move to view what can't be seen,
catch a glimps of what is true;
they can glean
a fragment of what makes up my mind,
myself, and I collect these,
In the pocket between waking and dreams,
and stitch them together, like so many
patches, an attempt to see,
the Whole,
What I am,
What is Me.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The Necessity of Hope
It has been a while since I posted, so it feels like I have a lot to talk about and catch up on.
More than anything, while these past few weeks have held much conflict for me, they have also come with something so much greater: Resolve.
Robert's regular checkup found leukemic cells in his blood. He is back in the hospital, and has just finished off a first round of chemo. He will also have to undergo another bone marrow transplant.
More than anything, while these past few weeks have held much conflict for me, they have also come with something so much greater: Resolve.
Robert's regular checkup found leukemic cells in his blood. He is back in the hospital, and has just finished off a first round of chemo. He will also have to undergo another bone marrow transplant.
I also have been letting myself get afraid. Drawing away, letting myself get scared. Afraid of being vulnerable.
Honestly, I feel that I've given in to despair often lately. My personal journal is filled with phrases like, "This is all so confusing," "I don't know how to do this," or "I can't believe it; I just feel so angry." Still, after I wind on down that path for a while, I always end up coming back to the Savior, and to His love. Almost every entry ends with a reference to Him and His atonement.
Too often, I lose sight of the opportunity that each day is. I think about the prospect of the next day, week, month, year, and wonder how I can do it all. Wonder how it is that I can continue to go on, to exist in a world that is so full of pain and despair. What could really make living in such a crazy world worth all the heartache?
And then I remember the answer: Christ, our Savior. It is His Atonement, His sacrifice that makes sense of all the senseless pain and tragedy of the world. He lifts those who reaches to Him, makes it possible for them to heal, to become pure. He descended below all these things, all these hurts so that He could lift me above them
Hope is more than just a feeling; it is a conscious choice. It is the choice between having faith, believing, and keeping our hope alive, or giving in to grief and despair. Being hopeful means habitually choosing hope over fear or doubt, every time the choice presents itself.
I have received the resolution I needed. I have felt a confirmation, letting me know that all things are working together for good. I know Ashley and Robert’s journey will be hard and painful, but I also know it will be worth making. I know that because of the Atonement, and their faith, something good and beautiful will come out of it, something better than could have come by an easier way.
I also know that all things in my life are working together for my good. I see the way to courage and love opening up before me. I feel that I am being blessed with the resolve to embark on the journey. I am ready!
I choose to have the Hope needed to know that what lies ahead is perfect.
The best is yet to come.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Why I Win at Life
1) MINESWEEPER MASTERY
Oh yes. This proof of my awesomeness is so indubitable, I had to post it. Of course.
2) Cute Orchestra Guy (who shall henceforth be referred to as "Jake") asked me out last Friday. We hung out Saturday-Monday, and in the words of my roommate Jennifer, he is "sweet on me."
Which definitely qualifies as a win at life.
3) My article made the first page of the school pape.
4) I've started training for a half-marathon coming up in June! How legitimate is that?
5) I made some pretty amazing brownies this past Friday. So chocolatey.
6) My dorm room actually looks so cute (if a little messy).
And these aren't even all the reasons why!
They are just the most obvious ones.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Some Nitty-Gritty Details.
In my previous post, I discussed the challenges and blessings that have come with being back up at school.
But, apparently, you guys (Janelle) didn't want to hear vague statements or sweeping generalizations.
No, you wanted details. The juicier, the better.
So, seeing that I am such a people pleaser, I decided to oblige. Following are some details about my life up here in Rexburg.
Weather:
It is pretty darn cold, but there is not nearly as much snow as there was last year. It's only snowed a couple times since I've been up here. I am kind of glad about this, but come on. This "all or nothing" business is a bit extreme. Plus, the Idahoans need the moisture!
Also, the snow melts and makes a lot of ice. Good for shoe skating.
Classes:
-I love my British Literature teacher. He is very entertaining, and has fun being in class. He has gone off on several amusing tangents, including a long story about why his dog got itself impregnated, and it is the worse dog in the world, among other things. We also had a lengthy discussion another class period about whether his shirt was pink or just "light red" (it was totally pink).
-My Spanish class is going really well! I currently have a 99.48%, so go me! The teacher I have now I also had for Spanish 101, and she is a great, and her teaching style really works for me.
-Orchestra is great; we are playing the IV Movement of Dvorak's Symphony no. 9 New World. I swear, I didn't know it was possible to actually record that kind of majesty, but it is. Give it a listen.
-My Music Appreciation class is fun, as well. My teacher is pretty laid back, and hey, I get to listen to a bunch of music, go to live concerts on campus, and get credit for it all. Hello, awesome!
-My Book of Mormon class is also really good (aren't religion classes always good, though?). One of our first assignments was to write a paper outlining one area of our lives that we wanted to improve on. I chose selflessness; I would really like to experience having more of that ultimate Christ-like quality.
Roommates/Apartment Life:
I am really loving my apartment! It was a bit quiet at first, and us roomies didn't interact a lot at first, but it has really warmed up and we have a lot of fun together.
-Last night: OH THE DRAMZ. Kirsti and Deborah (they were good friends, and now share a room) got in a fight! Kirsti was joking around, pushing Deb's buttons, but then Deb actually got upset and threw a loaf of bread at Kirsti, who threw it right back and followed it up with a bottle of cranberry juice (which consequently exploded all over the floor). It was INTENSE. AND CRAZY.
And pretty hilarious, really.
They made up later, as well, so it was all good.
-Kirsti and I have been working out together! We've gone to a step class a few times, and which are actually a lot of fun! Kirsti is from Texas, and LOVES animals. She watches Animal Planet all the time, and says at least once a day how much she misses her dog. She is pretty fun, but also a pretty focused person.
-Deborah cut my hair, and it actually looks SO FLY. It is now shorter in the back, and longer in the front. I'll take a pic and post it soon. So, yes, Deb does hair, and is in school for Auto Mechanics. She is from South Carolina is totally a country girl. She's sweet and nice.
-Paris has her room to herself (since Tess ended up not coming up). She is SO nice, and is pretty quiet. She is totally fun to hang out with though, because she laughs at me and thinks I'm funny. She is trying to get into the Nursing Program here right now.
-Jennifer is my roommate, and she is totally cool. She is tall (6'2"), and half Native-American, half Honduran. She is also a direct descendant of Sittin Bull. Cool, right? She has the biggest heart, and we have a lot of fun together. She makes a honking noise when she blows her nose and it is amazing!
What's New:
- I am writing for the school newspaper now! It is called the Scroll, and I had thought about getting involved in it, but was afraid I wasn't qualified or it would be too hard. It was funny, though, the subject kept popping up from different people. For example, I met this guy and we were introducing ourselves (his name was Russell), and almost right away he asked if I was interested in getting involved in any school publications (he does a lot of advertisment stuff with the school). I told him I was, and just had to laugh on the inside, wondering how he could have known! He encouraged me to go talk to someone in the i-Comm office, so I did, and voila. I was writing for the Scroll! It was almost disappointingly easy.
In any case, I wrote my first article and turned it in yesterday. I will post a link when it goes up on the paper's website.
-I have this totally obnoxious and ridiculous crush on a guy in Orchestra. He plays the bass, and he is so. good. looking. Seriously, I forgot what it was to be this attracted to someone. He is either a 1-2 or a 2-1, I think, and has the squinty eyes a la Robert Ashworth.
Yesterday I was helping put chairs away after class. He was standing next to the stack of chairs and offered to put up the two I was carrying. My heart dropped down to sphincter, I'm pretty sure. I let him, and that probably would have been that, but I somehow (thanks to a pep talk on Sunday by Ashley, centered around putting myself out there more) got up the courage to introduce myself. His name is Jacob, and he was even thoughtful enough to clarify whether my name is spelled with an "A" (which, as you know, it is not).
It was a small victory--but a victory nonetheless!--and I walked away grinning from ear to ear.
But, apparently, you guys (Janelle) didn't want to hear vague statements or sweeping generalizations.
No, you wanted details. The juicier, the better.
So, seeing that I am such a people pleaser, I decided to oblige. Following are some details about my life up here in Rexburg.
Weather:
It is pretty darn cold, but there is not nearly as much snow as there was last year. It's only snowed a couple times since I've been up here. I am kind of glad about this, but come on. This "all or nothing" business is a bit extreme. Plus, the Idahoans need the moisture!
Also, the snow melts and makes a lot of ice. Good for shoe skating.
Classes:
-I love my British Literature teacher. He is very entertaining, and has fun being in class. He has gone off on several amusing tangents, including a long story about why his dog got itself impregnated, and it is the worse dog in the world, among other things. We also had a lengthy discussion another class period about whether his shirt was pink or just "light red" (it was totally pink).
-My Spanish class is going really well! I currently have a 99.48%, so go me! The teacher I have now I also had for Spanish 101, and she is a great, and her teaching style really works for me.
-Orchestra is great; we are playing the IV Movement of Dvorak's Symphony no. 9 New World. I swear, I didn't know it was possible to actually record that kind of majesty, but it is. Give it a listen.
-My Music Appreciation class is fun, as well. My teacher is pretty laid back, and hey, I get to listen to a bunch of music, go to live concerts on campus, and get credit for it all. Hello, awesome!
-My Book of Mormon class is also really good (aren't religion classes always good, though?). One of our first assignments was to write a paper outlining one area of our lives that we wanted to improve on. I chose selflessness; I would really like to experience having more of that ultimate Christ-like quality.
Roommates/Apartment Life:
I am really loving my apartment! It was a bit quiet at first, and us roomies didn't interact a lot at first, but it has really warmed up and we have a lot of fun together.
-Last night: OH THE DRAMZ. Kirsti and Deborah (they were good friends, and now share a room) got in a fight! Kirsti was joking around, pushing Deb's buttons, but then Deb actually got upset and threw a loaf of bread at Kirsti, who threw it right back and followed it up with a bottle of cranberry juice (which consequently exploded all over the floor). It was INTENSE. AND CRAZY.
And pretty hilarious, really.
They made up later, as well, so it was all good.
-Kirsti and I have been working out together! We've gone to a step class a few times, and which are actually a lot of fun! Kirsti is from Texas, and LOVES animals. She watches Animal Planet all the time, and says at least once a day how much she misses her dog. She is pretty fun, but also a pretty focused person.
-Deborah cut my hair, and it actually looks SO FLY. It is now shorter in the back, and longer in the front. I'll take a pic and post it soon. So, yes, Deb does hair, and is in school for Auto Mechanics. She is from South Carolina is totally a country girl. She's sweet and nice.
-Paris has her room to herself (since Tess ended up not coming up). She is SO nice, and is pretty quiet. She is totally fun to hang out with though, because she laughs at me and thinks I'm funny. She is trying to get into the Nursing Program here right now.
-Jennifer is my roommate, and she is totally cool. She is tall (6'2"), and half Native-American, half Honduran. She is also a direct descendant of Sittin Bull. Cool, right? She has the biggest heart, and we have a lot of fun together. She makes a honking noise when she blows her nose and it is amazing!
What's New:
- I am writing for the school newspaper now! It is called the Scroll, and I had thought about getting involved in it, but was afraid I wasn't qualified or it would be too hard. It was funny, though, the subject kept popping up from different people. For example, I met this guy and we were introducing ourselves (his name was Russell), and almost right away he asked if I was interested in getting involved in any school publications (he does a lot of advertisment stuff with the school). I told him I was, and just had to laugh on the inside, wondering how he could have known! He encouraged me to go talk to someone in the i-Comm office, so I did, and voila. I was writing for the Scroll! It was almost disappointingly easy.
In any case, I wrote my first article and turned it in yesterday. I will post a link when it goes up on the paper's website.
-I have this totally obnoxious and ridiculous crush on a guy in Orchestra. He plays the bass, and he is so. good. looking. Seriously, I forgot what it was to be this attracted to someone. He is either a 1-2 or a 2-1, I think, and has the squinty eyes a la Robert Ashworth.
Yesterday I was helping put chairs away after class. He was standing next to the stack of chairs and offered to put up the two I was carrying. My heart dropped down to sphincter, I'm pretty sure. I let him, and that probably would have been that, but I somehow (thanks to a pep talk on Sunday by Ashley, centered around putting myself out there more) got up the courage to introduce myself. His name is Jacob, and he was even thoughtful enough to clarify whether my name is spelled with an "A" (which, as you know, it is not).
It was a small victory--but a victory nonetheless!--and I walked away grinning from ear to ear.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
transitioning...
It has been a whole official week since the beginning of classes, and I must say that I am enjoying my time here at BYU-Idaho. Which is a relief. While I was constantly looking forward to being up here again the entire time I was in Las Vegas, I was still nervous.
Would me roommate be a "Me-Monster"?
What if my workload was crazy hard?
Would I get a lot of chances to meet new people?
What if the people I already knew didn't want to talk to me?
What if the testing center wouldn't let me in because of my crazy red hair?
What if my crazy red hair scared off potential dates?
I felt overwhelmed my first couple of days, which I realize is normal, but that doesn't make it any better to experience. (It actually peeves me when I am discouraged or frustrated and people tell me it's "normal" to feel that way. How exactly is that supposed to make me feel better? But I digress). I have also felt oddly anxious about most everything; usually I am pretty easy-going, and get things done as they come, make friends and meet people as I go. So feeling anxious or worried about anything really isn't my style. I am particularly concerned about falling behind in school. I guess this does cause me to be more motivated to get work done, i is not very enjoyable. I much prefer being motivated by pretty much anything, rather than fear. I'm kind of missing my old, leave-it-until-later, pull-it-together-at-the-last-minute self.
It's kind of hard not to feel isolated, as well, when you are living with four perfect strangers, your family and friends are ten hours away, and even if you wanted to talk to them you couldn't because you forgot your phone charger, and sadly enough, your phone does not run off of chewed up fingernails. I rely so much on my family, it can feel very hard to be apart from them for any amount of time.
So, in summary, I was kind of thrilled to be here, but my excitement was more a vague haze I could feel floating around on the other side of anxiety, loneliness, and something close to panic.
Still, even though transition are most always awkward, this one has been relatively smooth. While being up here isn't quite how I pictured or would have liked, I have noticed that I have many moments of clarity and joy. I feel more vivacious, and I have moments in which I truly relish life. Taking the time to notice the little, simple things; that is where the joy lies. When I take time to be grateful for:
-the sound of snow crunching beneath my feet,
-the smell of my vanilla lotion,
-being silly and having my roommates laugh along with me,
-the feel of my body, and how strong and good it is,
-tasting the health and flavor of food I cook for myself,
-the way that fog makes the world look peaceful and subdued.
...That is when I can feel and hear most clearly all the many ways Heavenly Father is telling me He loves me.
And I could never count them all.
Would me roommate be a "Me-Monster"?
What if my workload was crazy hard?
Would I get a lot of chances to meet new people?
What if the people I already knew didn't want to talk to me?
What if the testing center wouldn't let me in because of my crazy red hair?
What if my crazy red hair scared off potential dates?
I felt overwhelmed my first couple of days, which I realize is normal, but that doesn't make it any better to experience. (It actually peeves me when I am discouraged or frustrated and people tell me it's "normal" to feel that way. How exactly is that supposed to make me feel better? But I digress). I have also felt oddly anxious about most everything; usually I am pretty easy-going, and get things done as they come, make friends and meet people as I go. So feeling anxious or worried about anything really isn't my style. I am particularly concerned about falling behind in school. I guess this does cause me to be more motivated to get work done, i is not very enjoyable. I much prefer being motivated by pretty much anything, rather than fear. I'm kind of missing my old, leave-it-until-later, pull-it-together-at-the-last-minute self.
It's kind of hard not to feel isolated, as well, when you are living with four perfect strangers, your family and friends are ten hours away, and even if you wanted to talk to them you couldn't because you forgot your phone charger, and sadly enough, your phone does not run off of chewed up fingernails. I rely so much on my family, it can feel very hard to be apart from them for any amount of time.
So, in summary, I was kind of thrilled to be here, but my excitement was more a vague haze I could feel floating around on the other side of anxiety, loneliness, and something close to panic.
Still, even though transition are most always awkward, this one has been relatively smooth. While being up here isn't quite how I pictured or would have liked, I have noticed that I have many moments of clarity and joy. I feel more vivacious, and I have moments in which I truly relish life. Taking the time to notice the little, simple things; that is where the joy lies. When I take time to be grateful for:
-the sound of snow crunching beneath my feet,
-the smell of my vanilla lotion,
-being silly and having my roommates laugh along with me,
-the feel of my body, and how strong and good it is,
-tasting the health and flavor of food I cook for myself,
-the way that fog makes the world look peaceful and subdued.
...That is when I can feel and hear most clearly all the many ways Heavenly Father is telling me He loves me.
And I could never count them all.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Back in I.D.HO
So, as stated above, I am back in the frozen tundra that is Rexburg, ID. It is kind of bittersweet being up here. I miss my family already (although that is always to be expected). I came up without the lovely roommate I had been planning on, as Tess got engaged and stayed in CA. It has been weird, not knowing any of my roommates. In a lot of ways, I feel like I am starting over again. Like the previous year hasn't really passed, and that I am 18 again and this is the first time I've been away from home. It all feels surreal,but I know it'll all feel real soon enough.
Still, I am excited to be back up here. It has been awesome to get reconnected with the good friends I made up here last year. They are really fun to hang out with. I've also enjoyed being the "Elyssa" of Rexburg. It's easier for me to be outgoing and fun, to talk and chat with people, and to try new things. I think I am more authentic up here than in Vegas, in many ways.
Also, with classes starting in just a day, I have realized how actually and very close I am to graduating. Only four or five semesters; it definitely feels more doable. Puts it in perspective more, to realize that my time in college is, in fact, limited.
I really want these moments in my life to count. I want to prepare for what is to come, whether it is a career, marriage, writing, motherhood. It is so bizarre to think that all of those things are around the corner, that someday they really are going to happen. I feel like I've been getting too wrapped up in tomorrows. I want to enjoy the here and now as thoroughly as possible.
And I believe it is very possible.
This is it, this is my life.
And, by golly, I am loving it.
Still, I am excited to be back up here. It has been awesome to get reconnected with the good friends I made up here last year. They are really fun to hang out with. I've also enjoyed being the "Elyssa" of Rexburg. It's easier for me to be outgoing and fun, to talk and chat with people, and to try new things. I think I am more authentic up here than in Vegas, in many ways.
Also, with classes starting in just a day, I have realized how actually and very close I am to graduating. Only four or five semesters; it definitely feels more doable. Puts it in perspective more, to realize that my time in college is, in fact, limited.
I really want these moments in my life to count. I want to prepare for what is to come, whether it is a career, marriage, writing, motherhood. It is so bizarre to think that all of those things are around the corner, that someday they really are going to happen. I feel like I've been getting too wrapped up in tomorrows. I want to enjoy the here and now as thoroughly as possible.
And I believe it is very possible.
This is it, this is my life.
And, by golly, I am loving it.
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