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.

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.

"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.

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?

Resolving the New Year

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The world swirls around you in a blur:
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.

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?

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.

Some fun things.

So I have been crazy busy, it feels like. I have a pretty good workload going in all of my classes; I sincerely hope it doesn't get much more intense because that will not be a party. In any case, I'm staying (mostly) caught up, and I'm having fun. I did a cool face painting in my design and color class; I will have to scan it and post it here. I have also been writing some fun stuff in Creative Writing, which I'll post a little later.
So I had my first date of the semester last Friday night with Drew. He told me he was interested in me, and I assured him I shared the sentiment. We have hung out every day since. He is way cool and chill aaaand I like him. I'm having fun getting to know him. Also, he is a great hand-holder.

Anyway!
Here they are.

Bedtimes
Of the few rooms in our house, the room I was most fond of was the room I was least allowed. It appeared a vast room, filled with adult apparatus: an ironing board, my father’s briefcase, my mother’s sky blue slip that, at the time, I associate with princesses or figure skaters, but would later realize to be lingerie. But more than this, the room felt larger than it was because it was filled with a sense of love and safety, more at times than it seemed possible for it to hold. I was sure at times that if I ran a finger across a piece of furniture it would deposit a film of affections upon its tip, that if I lifted the bed skirt I would see that feeling collected in the corners like so many dust bunnies. While it permeated our entire home, my parent’s bedroom seemed the source.

Still, it was their sanctuary, a place they attempted to keep to themselves, which, of course, proved fruitless more times than not. Some of these times were lazy Sunday mornings; bleary-eyed, one of the younger kids would stumble in, scramble on the bed. Dad would grumble half-heartedly that it was too early, and couldn’t we just go back to bed on the one morning a week he got to sleep in? But he only pretended to mind so much, and they would snuggle up to Mom and wait for her to rise and cook breakfast. That child was inevitably followed by another, and soon my parent’s bed would be covered in squirming bodies and laughter.

Most often we would congregate in the evenings. Arrayed in pajamas, a tooth brush hanging out of a mouth or two, we would each settle into our spots of preference. My favorite was the strong crook of my father’s arm, where I could rest my head on his chest and listen to his breathing, his voice originating and reverberating in his ribs. If this spot was unavailable (as it often was), I would contentedly settle for sprawling across the foot of the king bed, head and arms hanging off, fingering the lighter spots in the carpet where some small one (could it have been me?) had tried to bleach it. Then, all would grow still as my mother or father cracked the spine of some thrilling tale: The Yearling, The Little House on the Prairie, The Mouse and the Motorcycle, The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia. We were all carried to a world where nothing existed but that room, its maroon carpeting, white walls, and mismatched furnishings. And the air above us sparkled with imagining, dreams, adventures, pixie dust exhaled by the steady voices of our parents.

Spring Song
Two girls sit on a patch of grass that stretches across the center of a courtyard. The buildings that surround it enclose students in classrooms and lectures, busy taking notes or drifting off. These girls will soon join them, but for now they sprawl on the grass, heads close, eyes shut against the bright glare of the spring sun. The grass prickles their necks and bits of exposed midriff. It smells crisp and sweet, like apples. The air is fresh and breezy, cooling their sun-warmed skin.

The girls don’t speak; after a minute or so, lazy, light chords waft up through the air, sprouting like so many indolent daisies from the ukulele one of them holds. Feet tick in time, corners of mouths twitch up. An airy voice starts to sing of the world, trees, and bees, its owner moving her head, eyes still closed. One girl strums, the other sings; together they form the song, the sound for which this spring day so longed.