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.

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

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.

Let it Shine

Oh, Christmastime.

To be honest, I have felt Christmas coming on since a Wednesday in early October. I was driving to Institute, when I realized that my A/C was turned off, and yet my car was not an unpleasant temperartue. I rolled down my window, and cool air rushed past me and ruffled what little hair I have. The air smelled smokey and was--could I believe it?--chilly! Driving in the dusk, with the scent of some log burning and cool air on my face--it just felt like fall. Which, in Las Vegas, happens to descend upon us right around Thanksgiving, and sticks around through Christmas and probably even New Year's.


So, maybe it's just that it seems to have gotten cool a little earlier this year, but I am quite ready for the holidays. I have gifts for all my sisters (although some of them still require some effort, since I am making them). I have even bought myself a little somethin' somethin' (oooh Buckle, how cute all your clothes are).

As Christmas has started to take up my mental space, I have found myself imagining how I want my Christmases to look someday. You know, when I have some strapping, handsome man to call my husband and maybe a gaggle of delightful children and some cute house somewhere. (I actually do this with everything--it is one of my favorite daydreaming activities. I already have the theme [peacock feathers], colors [peacock colors/teal and ivory], dress [I plan to sew it myself, ivory, satin, gatherd at my natural waist, with a faux-lapel in an accent color], and cake [actually i just know it will have ganouche on it] of my wedding all planned out). I have considered what traditions I love (opening one gift on Christmas Eve), which ones I wouldn't mind leaving behind (that this gift was ALWAYS pajamas of some sort). What my family will have for dinner on Christmas Eve (scrumptious potatoes will definitely be on the menu), and what treats I will stuff into stockings (homemade candies, while above my skill level currently, would be delightful).

And of course, I have pictured my dream tree. Fresh of course, tall (but not too tall; seven and a half feet would do), all piney smelling. It's branches would be full; it would have a skimpy spot, but we would just turn that side to the wall. Dotted with hundreds and hundreds of fat, round bulbs (as pictured above), carefully wound around branches. Sweets strewn about it: candy canes, caramels and truffles and chocolates dressed up in fancy wrapping, cookies on strings, gingerbread men and women (having edible things on my tree is something I feel very strongly about, mmm'kay?). And most of all: colours. Lots, and LOTS of COLORS. The brightest, most beautiful colors, and lots of sparkle. I want my tree to glitter. I want it to be brimming over with life. I want everything on it to be either handmade, a gift, or both. I want my Christmas tree to be as lively, sparkly, colorful, fun, and joyful as the season is.

I want to look at it and be reminded that that is how my life should be lived, loved, felt, every day. With vivacity, with boldness. I want to look at it, and remember that I, too, shine bright. To remember how it is possible that anything is able to shine in a world so full of dimness, sorrow, lost and broken things. To remember that it all things beautiful, lovely, joyous, and light are gifts from my Savior. That though Him, even the ugliest, saddest, foulest things can be made beautiful, clean, and joyful. That even if I had a million gorgeous Christmas trees, there would not ever be enough room beneath them to fit all the blessings He gives me.


So, while it is the Season of Giving, I'll try to make some room in my heart, too, for all the Gratitude I need to fit there.

Merry Christmas.

and old poem.

I was looking through an old notebook today and found this. I think I wrote it a little less than four years ago (and boy was I angsty!). Thought I would share it.

Asphalt Glow

When it rains, everything goes blurry.
clouds hang around the horizon,
cluttering up the mountains like foam on root beer, making
the point at which earth ends and sky begins
indistinguishable.

Everything is so slick.
The ground becomes a vast, streaky. bubbling, warped,
perpetually morphing mirror.
In the day, it is gray and dark, reflecting
the sky with all its dreary honesty.

but at night.
At night it disregards how bright and cheery,
dull or weary
things may be. At ground level,
the only thought is for the asphalt's perceptions;
it takes what it sees and forms it, reforms it, transforms it into
some magical kingdom beneath the asphalt.

orange smudges
bright, everywhere
against a backdrop of stark
black.
reds and greens occasionally bloom across the pavement,
in our world
commands to stay put or continue on our ways.
In the world beneath the asphalt,
they are streaks of magic. they could be
fireworks, or faeries.
they could be symbols,
the meanings of which we couldn't begin to comprehend.

Or maybe. in that warped and fascinating world, they
are just telling a warped girl
who's waiting with impatient foot on pedal
waiting for some shining light above to give some direction:
to stop or go,
to remain ignorant or to know;
to be stunted, or grow.

Enjoy!
love you.

sorry it's been so long!

I know, i really don't have an excuse, but it did get to finals, and then I was home trying to settle in...still, it's been close to two months. And just because I'm home doesn't mean people don't want to know what's going on with me anymore!

Speaking of writing, that is something I definitely want to do more of, especially now that I'm home. I love the feeling of going back and rereading something I've written and being, well, pleased with it. It happens, you know, every once in a while. I love opening up a file I'd forgotten I'd even saved, and then reading all that was on my mind, or what I was wanting to imagine, months ago. It's kind of like having a friend remind me of who I am.
I think maybe hat's why I love writing and reading so much; it is the way, however crude or imperfect it may be, that we connect with others, and share a part of ourselves with. I feel that even with things like essays; if I never sat down and took the time to really work out my ideas about a specific book or topic, I might never have discovered some of them. I would never have been able to share them with others.
I loved my advanced writing class this past semester. I had Bro. Samuelson, and he was so good. He always had the best advice. One thing I remember him saying that will probably stick with me is: "A writer is someone who writes." I was like, no kidding! I love the truth in that. find what you want, and be it. I don't have to be published or write a brilliant novel to be a writer, I just have to write. It was like a wake up call: do what you love! Be what you want already!
I remember one class period, we were discussing issues we were having with writing our papers, and I mentioned that I was feeling stuck. I had all these ideas, but they were floating around in my research and in my head, and I was having a hard time organizing them all. Bro. Samuelson gave me the simple advice to just start; it didn't matter which paragraph I wrote, or how many changes I would end up making to it, or how rough it is. The most important thing was to just take those first few steps.
I think that is how it is with much of life; we have all these ideas, all these things we want to implement in our lives. It's easy to get so caught up in my thoughts and how I think my life should be that I lose sight of what my life is, and what I'm making it. Especially now, when I'm kind of in this in-between stage, not a kid but not quite and adult. It's easy to get stuck in the "when...then..."'s, as in: "when I graduate, then I'll be rich and won't have to worry about money," or "when I'm married, then I won't have the stress of dating anymore..." What it all really boils down to is the belief that I have to wait to have what I want, to be happy, or to be my ideal self.
Maybe we all need to keep in mind that the only steps we can really choose are the ones we take today; hopefully we'll choose our path wisely and end up somewhere beautiful tomorrow, but still, the biggest thing we have is today. It's the biggest gift we can give, to ourselves, to others, to God; that's why it's called the "present."
So, go ahead and be that writer. Or whatever it is you are wanting to be. The words and the rest will simply follow.

All my love.

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.