The Name Game

“How do you feel about the name Milton?”

“Do you hate that kid?” Chris replied.

“Maybe I would,” I retorted.

“Then Milton would be a great name.”

Any time I suggest a name to Chris, this is pretty much how the conversation goes. I tend to like old-fashioned names, like Wilford or Madge. Or names that have literary significance, like Seymour (from J.D. Salinger’s Glass family) or Finnegan (James Joyce). Or ones that do both, like Ezra (Pound) or Virginia (Woolf).

But then Chris likes really boring names. Like Peter or Jane.

For now, it’s a fun game. But I have the feeling that some day my husband is going to pay off some doctor to put me under long enough to change the kid’s name to something more innocuous than Ernest. You know, like pretty much any name out there.

Nonetheless, there are a few names we’ve managed to agree on. Here they are:

Male:
Seth
Liam
Peter

Female:
Leila
Jean
Kalina (Lina for short)

Also, this is tangential, but what is up with parents giving their kids long names with the intention of shortening them? If you want a kid called Cal, name him Cal, not freaking Callahan. Want an Emmy? How’s about just naming your daughter Emmy instead of Emeline?

Now, if it’s a family name and then you shorten it or something like that, that’s fine. Whatever. But the rest of you parents, cut it out.

Don’t burden your kid with the name Gertrude if she’s just gonna end up being Trudy. In fact, don’t name her Gertrude at all. Even I can agree that that’s cruel.

German Chocolate Frosting

I’m not cake’s biggest fan. In the world of dessert-calorie-currency, I’d simply rather spend mine on other desserts. Like apple or banana cream pie, maybe some coconut cheescake, or any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s.

I revealed this fact to Chris during our courtship, and his reaction was complete and total devastation. No, really though. He’s the proverbial fat kid who loves the proverbial cake. It was almost a deal breaker. Somehow, we pulled through those dark days with our mutual love of frozen custard.

For a little “Hurrah!” to mark making it past the two-month mark of matrimonial bliss, I decided to bake Chris a cake. But being the selfish gal that I am, I chose a flavor I prefer: German chocolate cake. It’s smothered in coconut and pecans and a lot of butter. What more could a gal ask for?

I found a recipe on Rachel Ray’s site that looked promising—fairly simple but with real ingredients (butter, mmm…). But since it’s the frosting I really love, and less the cake, I chose a box mix for the cake. The recipe includes the cake and the icing, but I figured, let’s walk before we run, yes?

The Recipe:

For the coconut frosting:
▪ 1 cup sugar
▪ 4 medium egg yolks
▪ 1 cup evaporated milk
▪ 1/2 cup (1 stick) butter
▪ 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
▪ 10 ounces fresh or frozen and thawed grated coconut
▪ 1 1/2 cups finely ground pecans, walnuts, or almonds
▪ 1/4 cup warm milk

To make the frosting, combine the sugar, egg yolks, and evaporated milk in the top of a double boiler. Stir with a wire whisk until the yolks are fully incorporated. Add the butter. Place over simmering water and bring to a boil (see Note below). Simmer for 12-15 minutes longer, stirring constantly, until the mixture thickens. Add the vanilla, coconut, and nuts. Cool.

Whoah, double-take: what is a double boiler? After a quick image search, I surmised it to be a hole-less version of a vegetable steamer, with no match to anything in my pot collection; I shrugged and carried on with a small nonstick pot.

After mixing up the batter and throwing a couple cake pans in the oven, I started off. I decided to one-and-a-half the icing recipe, since a can of evaporated milk is 1.5 cups, and who’s really going to keep that extra half-cup around?

The stirring was an agonizingly boring ten minutes, but I made it through. I dumped in the vanilla, coconut (I chose shaved for some texture) and blender-ground walnuts and pecans.
It was only after I’d completed the frosting and was putting away ingredients and ran into my unopened half-gal of 2% that I realized I’d forgotten that .25 cups of warm milk. Oops.

Taking the cakes out of the pans, one fell apart (of course). I pasted the pieces back together with frosting, slathered its top up, slapped the other layer on top.

I frosted the top, and tried to frost the side but the icing was still warm. It was a mess, and all over that lovely pink Williams-Sonoma cake platter I got as a bridal shower gift (which may have been the real motive behind this cake caper).

I put the icing back in the freezer to cool some more while I enjoyed some Indian food that my husband had been kind enough to bring home (coconut vegetable curry, delish). When I pulled it out, it was pleasantly cool and spread like a dream.

The Result:

For a first attempt, I think it went swimmingly. Although I did scald the milk and was afraid it might turn out grainy, this recipe is robust enough to survive my rookie mistakes.

Taste Tester (Chris) says: “That cakes tastes like straight sugar and butter and coconut. And by that I mean it was awesome.”

So it couldn’t be that bad.

Menu Mondays

Chris and I decided to make some goals for the rest of the year. Because making goals once a year is for people who only want to feel like failures in February. But me and Chris? We like to fail often and with style.

In any case, one of the goals I made was to try one new recipe a week—dinner, dessert, appetizer, side dish, hor d’ourves—whatever. I tend to get in a cooking rut, as I’m sure many other designated family chefs do. Mine tend to be particularly bad, however, because following recipes bores me. I tend to just make things that don’t require a recipe—you know, spaghetti out of a box with sauce from a can, or salad, or enchiladas.

Also, when I cook? It’s a complete mess. And I do mean complete. Chris describes my cooking methods as “kamikaze,” “inventive” and “unorthodox.” Cooking tried-and-true recipes is tempting fate. Trying new ones is mooning her while laughing in her face. How could she not take a swat?

But I’m sticking my derriere out in the wind and making a tradition of “Menu Mondays.” Every Monday, I’ll try a new recipe, let you know how it went, post some scary pictures and a how-to.

Look forward to the first, which will be German chocolate cake.

Marriage, thank you's, writing. And stuff.

In recent news, I got married to a man who is good and great and awesome. He treats me so well.

Married life is an adjustment. But a good one. As always, being with Chris makes me want to be better, kinder, more loving. And who better to help me than the love of my life?

Oh and check out Jason McGrew, our Utah wedding photographer, he's VUNDERBAR. He’s based out of Salt Lake and he is affordable, very talented, and was a dream to work with. Chris even liked him, and he doesn’t like any photographers.

I have been working on thank you cards for a week now. They have taken a surprisingly long time to do. My goal is to have them sent by the end of the month. Still, I do love writing them. There is something about a hand-written note that will always be special.

Isn’t it funny to think that just a few decades ago, “note” wouldn’t have needed the description of hand-written? They were all hand-written. Just saying.

I’ve started my internship at the New Era. I really love it, actually. I was worried, because I knew that the magazine obviously has a very specific audience and a strict set of standards. They are very careful about what they put in. But it is not bad at all, and it’s kind of nice to get to research and write about my religion.

Also, the place lacks the groupthink I was worried about. You’re allowed to dissent, a little. At least, I hope we are, because I have dissented already. You know, a little.

What I really love about my job, though, is that I get to talk to awesome young people, interview them, talk to them about their beliefs. And then I get to write their stories. Cheesy, maybe, but it’s kind of an honor.

So I’m revving up this blog engine once more. Life is calming down, and though I get tons of chances to write at work, I still need an outlet. Somewhere to put thoughts that don’t have to shuffle through three departments before finally being published.

Isn’t the internet wonderful?

Dust in the wind

I was already a third of the way through my run before I reached what I had really set out for. To the north of town, at the end of 2nd west is a concrete trail. It runs along the tracks for about a half mile, ending in a bridge that crosses the Teton River and a path on the other side that leads to the backside of the Rex.

As I measured out my steps, trying to breathe methodically so as to suck in as much oxygen as possible with every breath, I could feel the stitches starting. My throat was thick and tight, in the way that makes me wonder if I had asthma, despite knowing I don't. A batch of mucus had formed in my mouth, and I swallowed, hoping to coat my quickly-drying throat.

The tracks to my left grew closer to the path, and the tank cars that had been stored out here loom black and tall, like so many elephants lined up, clutching to the tail of his predecessor. I crossed a small bridge that runs over an irrigation canal.

I passed a field, now, that was once the site that of a lumber mill. Wood was brought there from all over the state, the location next to the tracks all too convenient for that, to be processed and then shipped off once more. When the Teton Dam broke in 1976, however, it wiped the mill out. Now all that remains are a few concrete foundations, rusted-out oil barrels, scattered collections of ancient-looking wood. I wondered, if the Dam had never broken, what this field would look like — if the lumber mill would still be standing and running, or if it would have been converted into convenience stores and office buildings.

Kansas shuffled up in my ear buds just as I approached the bridge that spans the Teton River. The steel was rusted red, but sturdy. If I looked west, I saw the fading skyline, the bridge just a couple hundred feet downriver that carries the tracks from one side of the river to the other. I stopped, noting how if I stood just right, I could get the effect of a streak of light, running down the rive, reflected up at me.

Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky,

It slips away.

And all your money won't another minute buy.

All we are is dust in the wind.

I laid on the bridge, flat against it. The sky above me was cut with clouds. I pulled out my headphones, and just breathed. I noticed I could hear the water, the sound of millions of molecules collectively flopping end over end between the banks. Crickets chirped, not too loudly just yet, but with the charming significance of the space between spring and summer. I felt suspended, as if levitating above the water, the steel suddenly thin air, but just as supportive.

I hung there in that minute. It wouldn't last forever, but for now, it's all I had — and it was lovely.

I would get what I wanted ... if I just knew what that was

If trying to work out a wedding has taught me anything, it is that I really have no idea what I really want.

Take my dress, for instance. I have long been convinced that I wanted a shorter dress, and had specifics in mind.

But then I went and actually tried on dresses, and while I found one that was tea-length and adorable, it failed to convince me that it was all I'd ever wanted in a wedding dress. Or dress I'll be wearing to my reception. Or whatever you would call it.

So I tried on long dresses, and found a couple I liked, but still nothing that I wanted to take home with me.

So here I am, with only a little more than two months ahead of me, at a sort of impasse with myself. On one hand, I'm really whatever about my dress. I will wear it once and then pretty much be done with it. It seems silly to spend a lot of time stressing out about it.

But, on the other hand, it really does matter to me. I want to look absolutely beautiful. I want to look back on that day and feel the vivacity and loveliness of that day.

I want a skirt that is knee-length, to avoid sweatiness and show of my stems. But then I want that is long and A-line and will swirl out around me when I dance.

Do you see my problem? Too conflicted.

Let's not even discuss the veil.

But at least I'm positive about the groom.

Engaged.

It's true. I am actually, factually, officially unavailable. All single men and vampires, take note, because I'm just not destined to be your Bella Swan.

Instead, I am the cheese to this guy's macaroni:

And believe me, our brand of mac'n'cheese is the best you're gonna find.

But seriously.

His name is Chris Kirkham and he's the biggest stud I know.

We are to be married July 30th in the St. George temple — which happens to be his favorite. That also happens to be the same place and date that my parents got hitched 34 years ago. Wild, huh?

For now, however, we still live in separate states — him in Utah (I know, right? Who lives in Utah?) and me in Idaho (much cooler, I assure).

Most of the time, being apart is not that bad.

Ok, so that's a total lie. It's horrible to be apart.

But, the thing is, it just means that I have that much less time of actually being around him to drive him away crazy, which is probably a good thing.

Oh, I also have some other things going on before July 30th. Just a little ol' thing called graduation.

Still, I can't help but think of July 30th and ask: are we there yet?

An instruction in living

I love photography. In the way that I admire talents that others have, to capture life's moments. To tell so much, to invoke such feeling simply with recorded light.

I follow some photographers on twitter, not the least of which is theJed.

Browsing his Flickr account today, I came across a series of beautiful images from a trip to Lake Powell with his family (from which the above is borrowed). The gold light, red gritty sandstone, and the algae-colored water that turns murky and brown in the shallows; it came alive to me. I wasn't there, but I felt the sleek water run through my outstretched fingers as I paddled, the warm sting of a sunburn, the slimy sludge between my toes.

Trips to Lake Powell every summer were a long-standing tradition on my dad's side, up until I was thirteen or so. Looking at the photos brought back those times — not in specific memories, but in impressions, in the vivacity of youth, the joys of being strong and free on a lake in the heat of summer. It brought my mind alive, relishing this internal stream of responses brought on by stimuli. This is what beauty is, I thought, what art should be: an instruction in living, a how-to for cherishing existence.

Later as I headed home on my blue Huffy, I still rode on that high. Rather than resenting the wind, I noticed the cold, recorded the steely sensation. In my head, everything was a photograph, everything was art. The scraggly bush that grows over into the sidewalk, the rolling gray of the sky above; things I usually don't notice, that I take for granted, were suddenly there, so real and deliciously tangible. I enjoyed the rumble and shift of the rubber wheels over a path of cement blocks set in the earth, end to end.

There is a quote from Anaïs Nin: "We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect." And while that's true, I know that I write, at least in part, to anticipate life. Because I know that for every moment I take the time to delight in and write about in retrospect instructs me on how to better appreciate the moments that are to come.

Understanding identity & feminity

Recently, I found the April issue of the New Era (the magazine written and printed by the Church for teenagers)in the student newspaper office. It was a special edition, all about "Dating for Beginners," and it was full of some really amusing things (the whole issue can be found here).

There was a lot that I felt was good advice; overall this was a great introduction for young people to dating. I remember having a lot of questions when I was younger that the magazine addressed.

Another section addressed to the young women. The Young Women's Presidency gave dating advice, most of which were good things like "Be Physically Fit," and "Improve your social skills."

But one bullet of advice really bothered me. It read, "Behave like a daughter of God. Do not be forward, loud, brash, or suggestive. You may have seen this kind of behavior in movies, but it is not fitting for a young woman who understands her identity as a daughter of God."

Hmmm, I thought. I am definitely all those things.

Forward? Check.

I've definitely asked guys on dates. I've told others that they needed to take me on a date.

Loud? Check.

Ironically, I was loudly reading excerpts from the New Era in my hand just moments before. I seem to be missing the volume-control built in to most humans.

Brash? Check.

I'll admit it — I'm irreverent. I try not to be rude, but the truth is, life is too funny and absurd and ridiculous to be polite and soft-spoken all the time.

And suggestive? Check.

Not sexually suggestive, silly. Is that really all you can think about?

But, I suggest things all the time. Just today I suggested that the trash be taken out, because something smelled like rotting, snot-covered, fetid pig vomit.

Not to get graphic or anything.

Also, I would suggest that maybe it would be better to encourage young women to be genuine and unique. To love who they are, even if that is brash and loud. To be willing to take responsibility for their life and get what they want—even if it means being forward, or being intimidating and not getting asked out.

I suggest that it is great to be brash and loud. Being forward and going for what I want doesn't mean that I misunderstand my role as a woman — it just means that I'm not afraid to make things happen. My strong personality is what makes me powerful, and I'm not afraid to be so. I know that I was created loud and forward for a reason, in the same way so many are timid or shy. They are just different ways to do the same thing; to share my beliefs, to be bold, to be forward in what I feel passionate about.

So, go ahead girls: get loud. Be brash. Go forward. Make suggestions. Because you're powerful, and it is this boldness that will enable you to make a positive change in the world.

On metamorphosis and maturation

In my second grade class, we got this butterfly kit, a kind of introduction to the microcosm and melodrama of metamorphosis.

It included these little plastic tubs with holes punched in the tops, with caterpillars crawling around in this delightfully disgusting golden goo that was supposed to be their food. The class watched them get fat, inching around, eating, pooping on their food, eating some more.

Eventually, the caterpillar would inch its hefty little body to the underside of the lid. There, it managed to attach its tail end to the ceiling of its little house and spin itself a bright green, pristine chrysalis. Then, we took the lids off and attached them to the top of this tube-shaped net, the tiny delicate house swinging when moved.

The class waited a week or so later, and finally, monarch butterflies emerged, orange and flashy and regal. Their eyes were big, bodies thin and delicate; they were beautiful, and so wholly different from the short stubby things they had been when I had last seen them.

Metamorphosis is an apt symbol of growing up, of maturation. It's about as literal of a representation as one can get: a caterpillar grows fat, too heavy for adolescence, and encases and transforms itself into something completely new and different, as a mature member of its species.

The process of metamorphosis for cicadas, however, is quite different.

Female cicadas lay eggs in small cracks and crevices in tree branches. When they hatch, the tiny creatures drop to the the ground and burrow into it. There, the pupae grow and mature, living off of who-knows-what.

Finally, when it is warm enough, they emerge simultaneously from the soil, ready to molt to an adult, driven by some insane and inexplicable instinct. Then, a cicada attaches itself to the bark of a tree and emerges from its exoskeleton as a wet, green, sickly-looking thing with over-sized eyes. Slowly, it will dry out and become the brown hordes that will buzz incessantly for the next four weeks or so.

We had three huge mulberry trees in the front yard of my childhood home, and their bark was often carpeted with the pale yellow, crisp skins left behind by the molting cicadas. Fascinated by them, I would often spend hours plucking them off the bark, crushing them, studying the minute structure of those odd creatures.

The creatures hardly had the same grace and beauty that butterflies are admired for. And that's not even mentioning the noise. But I still couldn't help appreciate their determination, their ability to push forward, their readiness to progress and change.

The human metamorphosis seems to a be a combination of the two species. It is half the desire of the caterpillar, to become something more elegant, beautiful, greater. And it is half the goal of the cicada: to rid itself of a stiff, constricting skin. Our skin has grown too rigid, and we are outgrowing them.

No matter how underdeveloped they may see, we still need room to spread wings that have been slowly growing underneath our hardening skin. The difference? We get to decide what those wings will look like, and what they will help us do.

Short fiction piece

I just finished a piece of short fiction that I don't feel terribly embarrassed to have written.

It is 12 pages. 3,726 words long. And it is pretty depressing. It was a work of will to just get it finished.

But, writing it was liberating. As if the story was this entity, urging me to finish, to tell it, to make it real. It was exciting to finally have a story I was excited about, that I felt was worth telling. The kind that compelled me.

I know it's not anything spectacular, but that's ok. It was one of those things that just needed to be, no matter whether it was a work of literary mastery or not.

To read it, head here.

(Although I warn you, it is not a light read, either in length or content)

"The Fascist v. the Faulty," (or) Me and My Cell Phone

This is me.

This is me with my mostly-destroyed "phone."

I dropped it a few days ago, and the face plate popped off and refused to be resecured, despite my best coaxing.

Since then, it seems like every time I turn around (or drop it again?) some new piece unfixes itself: the keypad, the volume button on the side, the strip of plastic over the microphone. The screen followed — I somehow managed to reattach it, but it's still rather fritzy.

Did I mention that sometimes, if I hold the beast just right, my skin completes some circuit and I get a tiny shock to the face? It stings a little bit, but I'm hoping it'll prove to be some weird form of facial (as per here). Hey, as long as it's going to be shocking me, may as well remove a few wrinkles — am I right?

This phone is just the latest in a long line of nemeses I have acquired. Most are electrical gadgets, ranging anywhere from old laptops to older sewing machines. Others are things of which I simply can't keep track (toothbrushes, class notes, keys, and combs being at the top of that list).

I'll admit, a lot of this is my fault. I'm definitely not the gentlest with my belongings.

It's possible that this beastly gadget may have been helped along the road of destruction by my two-year-old niece, who put it through a rack and an iron maiden (and possibly some water-boarding, as well). I can't deny that I allowed her to handle my phone fully knowing the torture she was likely to incur. I also may have dropped it in the snow, lost it on a number of occasions, stepped on it, sat on it, nervously fiddled with it (i.e. pulled it apart), etc.

But I can't officially confirm or deny any of this, of course.

I'm like the tyrannical despot that demands too much out of her citizens, then tramples all over them while living the life of luxury. My belongings are just bound to turn against me eventually.

When I get a replacement, I'm planning to take this "phone" apart, mount each layer side by side, and frame it. You know, as an example to all other subjects thinking of staging a coup. And maybe out of some minor desire for revenge (sweet, sweet revenge).

Maybe some day I actually will lead a luxurious life; then I'll be able to afford things nice enough to be worth taking good care of.

Until then, I'll just keep the bamboo shoots ready and the guillotine well-oiled.

A Case of Wanderlust.

Today Chris and I were watching The Brothers Bloom again. During the scene where Bloom steals an apple, Chris said, "That park is awesome."

"You've been there?" I asked.

"Yea, I've been there."

"Where is it?" I asked.

"It's in Prague." Which would make sense, as that's where this particular section of the movie is set.

I paused. Repeated in my head: Prague. "I want to go to Prague."

Image courtesy of here.

To be honest, I didn't even know what country the city is in. Google has since informed me that Prague is the capital city of the Czech Republic. But my initial ignorance of Prague's location has only reaffirmed this fact to me: I need to see the world.

The onset of my wanderlust has been a recent thing. In my younger years, I wasn't that interested in the world. And in many ways, I think I was afraid of what I would see.

When I was fourteen, my family flew out to Chicago. I remember visiting the Art Institute of Chicago, posing next one of the towering lion statues out front, majestic even though they were crusted green with oxidization. We visited Buckingham Memorial Fountain at night, watched it light up spectacularly with different colors.

I don't remember being that impressed. I liked it OK, but growing up in Vegas, you get used to spectacles. Vegas has an Eiffel Tower, a Statue of Liberty, a volcano, a bi-hourly pirate attack; and artificial as all these things may be, they still manage to cheapen the overall effect of the originals.

I was impressed, however, by the bums.

Maybe it was because I didn't spend much time in downtown Las Vegas, but it seemed that the Windy City had more than its fair share of the homeless.

Homeless people in Vegas are often charming, will chat you up. They look tan and leathered. They say, "God bless you. Now you have a good day, now," when you give them some money. They might thank you by doing a dance. They hold signs that say things like: "Father killed by ninjas. Need $$$ for karate lessons." Maybe most of the time they are just too blitzed out of their minds to appear that sad.

But in Chicago, not only were the homeless more numerous, they were more pitiable as well.

Bums there sat in wheelchairs, one leg or even both clearly missing. Some leaned against walls, or huddled over, knees to chest, one hand holding a cup that they slowly clinked from side to side. They were everywhere, and they looked so openly dejected, and it frightened me. I wanted to give money to enough of the homeless people we passed on the street that my dad finally told me to cut it out, that at this rate we would never get anywhere.

But the whole thing was uncomfortable to me. I remember that whole trip as being overshadowed by a greater realization that the world was a bit uglier than I had previously thought.

Then, the summer after I graduated from high school, I made a trip to Boston and New York with my brother Brandon, his wife, and my younger sister. Before going, I was apprehensive of visiting another big city.

To my surprise, however, I loved the city. I loved its life, its ceaseless pace.

I loved when it surprised me, with its sheer size, the endless number of people packed onto each street, the delicious food. One night we headed back to our hotel after midnight, after going to the jazz club, Birdland. I don't know why, but I was surprised to find the subway car empty but for us; tired and slaphappy, I did a Russian-style jig around the car.

I think I was afraid, at one time, of seeing the world, of facing the reality of it.

But now, I see: the world guarantees I will be surprised, but I am the one who decides if it's good, or if it is bad; if it is beautiful, or if it is ugly.

I want to see the world.

I want to be surprised.

Now, around people like Chris who have been all over Europe or spent months at a time living outside the United States, I am envious. But I am hopeful. I'll get my turn.

Telling my own story.

I saw The Brothers Bloom this past summer, and I absolutely loved it. It's a clever, funny tale about two brothers, Stephen (Mark Ruffalo) and Bloom (Adrien Brody), who are con artists. But they take conning to a level of art; they endeavor to create a con that is an adventure, a beautiful story in which every person involved gets what they want. They end up conning Penelope (Rachel Weisz), a rich heiress who is eccentric and naive. Directed by Rian Johnson, it's really a moving film.

What's more, is it has an absolutely brilliant soundtrack, this wonderful and dynamic mix of clarinets and electric guitars, electric organ, jazzy saxes and yearning cello solos. It's the kind of thing I can listen to over and over again (which I have been doing, almost obsessively), and almost every time I listen, I notice something different. It amazes me in some new way. I can only hope to one day create something that inspiring, delightful, and whimsical.

I loved the theme of the movie, as well: telling your own story.

Penelope, explains it well. She tells Bloom about her childhood, how her parents mistakenly thought she was allergic to everything and kept her inside their huge, sealed-off mansion. When she's around 19, they finally discover that she's not allergic, but then her mother gets sick and Penelope has to stay home to take care of her for a very long time. Bloom asks her if she feels cheated, and Penelope replies:

"The trick to not feeling cheated is learning to cheat. So, I decided this wasn't a story about a miserable girl trapped in a house that smelled like medical supplies, wasting her life on a dying person she sometimes hated. No. This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing. And even love the person she was trapped with. And I told myself this story until it became true.

"Now, did doing this help me escape a wasted life, or did it blind me, so I wouldn't want to escape it? I don't know. But, either way, I was the one telling my own story, so, no. I don't feel cheated at all."

I love the idea, of telling our own stories. Of taking control. Of acting, rather than being acted upon--even if all that means is getting to decide who we are in less-than-desirable circumstances.

Things are so much what we make them; life, friends, enemies, good times, bad times. They are what they are, because that is what we believe them to be. That is what we make them.

Maybe that's what hope is: holding onto the belief that their is beauty in every person, situation, and thing, if we only look for it.

Stress for stress' sake

I'm becoming Bridezilla.

Don't worry—you didn't miss anything.

I'm not engaged —

just the editor for the Bride's Guide produced here at BYU—I.

Which is pretty ironic, considering that the part I dread most about the possibility of one day getting hitched is the whole wedding fiasco.

I could care less about flowers or cakes or centerpieces, and planning makes me anxious.

If there is anything that is possibly more painful than planning a wedding, it's planning a magazine about planning weddings.

Today we had the photo shoot for the cover. I was stressed out about it for a number of reasons. One, because this is the first cover of the Bride's Guide that was shot specifically to be a cover, and not just something a nice photographer is letting us use. It really has no general precedence, so a lot of the ideas and process were from scratch. Secondly, this is the first magazine cover I've really had to plan and make happen. A cover everyone will see.

And remember how planning makes me anxious?

Between trying to figure what props, etc. we needed, getting dresses from a local bridal shop, trying to line up times, photographer, reserving a studio, I was ready to go into a coma.

And what's worse is that I allowed myself to become crazy because of all of it. I'm not a detail person, so details?

They drive me crazy.

And somewhere between picking out fonts and deciding on a concept for the cover, the details jammed up my synapses and I morphed into Bride's-Guidezilla.

Finally, today we are in the studio. Our model, Meredith, is cooperative, sweet and fun. She's a recently-returned missionary, and totally gorgeous in the dress: a simple sheath, free of embellishment, the flares at the bottom, with an almost pearlescent sheen.

Joey snaps away taking pictures; after a moment, they appear on the screen. They look great; better than I'd imagined.

On the inside I sigh, glad to actually be doing instead of just planning and fussing. It's a relief to finally see the project.

And I realized that only about half the stressing I did actually helped lead me to this product. The rest of it was just me worrying and fretting over things that were unimportant or outside of my control.

When it comes down to it, I know that the magazine will go to print in a week and a half looking totally fabulous, and it won't be because I stressed about it. Actually, it probably won't even be because of anything I did (or didn't) do.

How about you? What things do you needlessly stress over or worry about?

Being more.

Heartaches.

They are caused by losing something that we loved.

Sometimes it’s a person you love.

People leave our lives, by choice, or circumstantially — it happens.
When most people think of “heartache,” this is probably the first kind that comes to mind; the longing for a person, their presence, their laugh or smell. The remembering and missing all wrapped up in one.

Sometimes it’s losing something we treasure. Like a book with sentimental meaning. A notebook of original poetry and sketches. Sometimes it’s memories.

We can lose places, too, as with homesickness.

But a person can also lose a space in time — remain nostalgic for a small speck of a lifetime that can never be retrieved.

Perhaps the thing is less tangible. Maybe it’s the idea that people are inherently good, that there is a God out there, that love is forever. Maybe it’s the notion that the world is a place of peace and beauty. Or perhaps it is the loss of innocence, of ideals, of hope.


Sometimes, my heart aches.
And I can’t quite lay a finger on what I miss, because I can’t quite remember it, but—I know it’s real.

Can a person be homesick for heaven?
I often think that I am.

Singing a hymn, the words say:
Yet ofttimes a secret something
Whispered, “You’re a stranger here,”
And I felt that I had wandered
From a more exalted sphere.

And something inside me agrees. The strangeness, the disconnect, the weirdness of being.
Living right now, it’s the only kind of being I can remember. So, why, then, does it feel so foreign?

My heart aches for what my head can’t remember, can’t even comprehend. It misses peace and truth, and love. It longs for clarity
It yearns for home.

There is a lot we lost before we even got here. Or, rather, we gave up so much in the process of getting here, to this life.

And maybe that’s what it means, choosing to live: being willing to lose things you love to be something better.

So, what does your heart ache for?

I'm an English major. Expect disdain.

I study English.

Which, as you probably know, makes me pretentious.

By definition of being an English major, I know more and have better tastes than you. It's just a fact.

Another byproduct of studying literature is the gross compulsion I have, upon finishing a good book, to talk about it. In fact, it often pains me to read books outside of a class, because the chances of finding an intelligent human to discuss it with are greatly reduced.

For instance, I just finished The Road by Cormac McCarthy. I was in the Spori office with it sitting next to me, and a friend walked up to me and asked me how I liked it. I replied that while it was a very despairing, I still found it very hopeful.

"Yea, I didn't really like his punctuation style. He left out apostrophes all over the place--it drove me crazy," he said.

I stared at him blankly. That's the style he wrote it in; that's the point, I explained. It helps construct the monotonous tone.

"I don't know. And what's up with the boy and the father not having names? That drove me crazy. And I really wish the book had had more of an exposition. We don't even know how the world got to its post-apocalyptic state," he said.

Again, I was confused. An exposition? Names? They would have ruined the book. It would be a completely different novel.

The father and son remaining nameless—that was the point. When there is only one person in your world, do they need a name? Do they need some distinguishing label?

I guess, as an English major, I have had an abiding trust of authors and writers imbedded in my psyche. When a writer does something like leave a character nameless, or drop me into a post-apocalyptic world without much explanation, I assume it is for a reason. There is a purpose for this, a statement being made, and if I don’t see it, it just means I need to look harder.

But then, maybe I shouldn’t go around assuming these writers are smart. At least, smarter than me.

Perhaps my friend is right, and he does know better than Mr. McCarthy how his book should have been written.

For now, I think I'll just have to stop reading extracurricularly.

It's causing me to lose faith in my generation.