The Year of Discipline

Happy Two Thousand and Eleven!

photo by my talented and lovely sister, Ashley Ashworth

I like setting goals. In fact, it’s something I took to doing every three months or so this past year. That works better for me; that way I have a time to stop and assess how I’ve been doing and course-correct as needed.

Chris and I sat down and made some goals to start off the new year. Mine included flossing daily, running a marathon, and starting a blog about bookbinding. Also featured was getting my house tidier/more organized and paying ¼-1/2 of my school loans.

But I’ve been thinking about myself and the things I really want to change. As I stared at my list of things to do, it seemed that most of the things on the list of goals were things I should already be doing (flossing, keeping my apartment cleaner). And I knew that it was likely that most of these things would happen—but all of them? And what would fall through the cracks?

My sister Brittany posted a link on facebook to Christine Kane's post about New Year's resolutions. She suggests a different approach; instead of setting goals, pick one word that you want to kind of encompass the change you want to see in yourself. I liked the idea.

I looked over the list and almost immediately I knew what it would be for me: discipline. I consider myself many things, but disciplined is not one of them. I think, for me, it was a way to rebel when I was younger. I’ve never liked being told what I should do. It always seemed to me that if I absolutely should do something, it would happen eventually. Like dishes getting clean or essays written, book read or even graduating from college. They happen, right?

But I guess that I’m starting to realize that somewhere along the way, I was losing control. Losing my power over my time and how I would use it. Losing my ability to focus and accomplish.

And that’s really what I’m feeling like true discipline is about—not doing things because others think I should, but rather, keeping the commitments I’ve made to myself. Getting a little follow through for all my hare-brained schemes.

So, my mantra for 2011 is discipline. Already I’ve caught myself getting off task and been able to ask myself: is this a disciplined way to do this? Is this really what I’ve committed to doing right now? Looking at my list of goals, the only way to make sure they happen? Discipline myself. Make a plan and stick to it. Become my own best friend and personal assistant.

I talked to my sister, Kristin, about this idea. She shared a quote with me that went something like this:
“You can either face the pain of discipline or the pain of regret.”

And I don’t know about you, but I’ve tried regret on for size a few times and I don’t much care for it. It’s itchy and chafes in all the wrong places. My guess is that the pain of discipline will be closer to the burn of a good work out and the delicious achiness that follows. The pain of strength.

So here’s to a regret-free 2011.

What are your goals and ambitions for the coming year? And what is your plan of action?

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.

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.

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.

Some thoughts on poetry.

I have been writing a lot of poetry lately.

Which makes sense, right? Seeing as I am in a poetry writing class.

I have also been reading poetry. I like it; some Sylvia Plath, some Louise Glück, a bit of William Stafford.

Sometimes is it hard to digest. It makes me think too hard, and my brain doesn't get it. It doesn't click.

Other times, it feels good to just read poem after poem, enjoying the shape of the words in my mouth, in my head, the way these silly little symbols on the page appeal to my senses so readily, with such ease.

When a line or image clicks within me it makes my guts tremble a little: this is what it is for. That feeling of connectedness, of commonality. Even if I have never experienced or have no reference for what they would tell me about, perhaps in the reading I feel it. Their meaning, emotion, a sadness or a joy. Some shadow, bent to fit in my world view, of what they once meant or knew.

Reading poetry is hard. Harder than watching TV or a movie, or calling a friend and conversing. You read the same poem several times, and often even then it is coy and refuses to reveal its meaning.

But it is rewarding. Why would anyone write it, or read it, if it was not? It is condensed glimpses into other lives and souls.

If I wanted to really give you a self-portrait of myself, my life, I would not use paint or graphite or ink. I would use words, words words, they are magic. They are enchanted. They can build anything. They can break it, too.

I you really wanted to see me, to know me, you might look at my poems, at the ways I indulge myself when it is just me, a pen, some paper, and the words in me head. The lines of letters are skeletons upon which I will hang my meaning, flesh it out into a picture of me, a view.

It will not be truthful. I lie about myself. We all do. But it will be something. A facsimile, sure, but one that is closer to real than most else.

And isn't that what so much of literature is, anyway?

Using lies to tell the truth.

Reformation

ELYSSA SQUIRES

It wasn't yours.

It wasn't your paint.

You bent the rules

and busted open silos

you knew held no grain,

but hid away liquid pigment.

It spilled across the earth,

clung to rock and rest

colored it living:

you declared it

a Prayer.

It was not our clay.

But we ignored the rules,

plunged our limbs in the earth

up to the joints.

Fingernails widened into shovels

and pulled the malleable soil.

It would not grow vegetation

instead, be grown into a sculpture;

we declare it

a Monument.

These aren't my words.

I broke the rules

I dashed them against my will

and squeezed them to points—

They are the tools I wield to cut into the vault

where words are stored,

written in dust.

I sweep them into a verse.

I declare it

a Curse.

"What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee." -Psalms 56:3

My heart aches.

I want to be home with my family.

I wish I could laugh with them, cry with them, fast and pray with them.

I wish that there were more that I could do.

I know Robert and Ashley will pull through everything.

I know in my heart that everything is turning out great and that Robert will heal; and at least, if sometimes I get scared, just knowing that Ashley knows it is reassuring.

If she doesn't doubt that the person she loves most in the world will be okay, how can I?

How can I doubt?

march 17th

cookies
with green frosting:
i ate three,
and a large bowl
of mint green
chocolate chip
ice cream.
guilty, a little;
but indulgence,
sometimes,
is the necessay cure.

My butt = in gear

Today was just what I needed: a swift kick of get-off-your-but-and-do-something. I got up at around 9:30, showered and got ready. Then I headed over to the Scroll office and helped with the production. The lead (the journalism world's equivalent of a hook in writing) needed some work, and I also wanted to get more experience on the producing end of things. I turned in an application to be a assistant editor for next semester and would really love to get that position.

I worked on the layout of my page, and also the layout of another. I formatted them both, came up with titles, and other exciting stuff, and got them passed off. It was so satisfying. I really enjoyed the whole process, and seeing the work that goes into finalizing the paper will definitely help me be a better writer.

After I finished there, I met up with Jake and we studied in the library for a few hours. I go a lot done, and although I know it will probably be a week of working hard before I am back to where I want to be, I know it will be worth it. And I feel good just knowing that I have started.

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

The Necessity of Hope

It has been a while since I posted, so it feels like I have a lot to talk about and catch up on.

More than anything, while these past few weeks have held much conflict for me, they have also come with something so much greater: Resolve.

Robert's regular checkup found leukemic cells in his blood. He is back in the hospital, and has just finished off a first round of chemo. He will also have to undergo another bone marrow transplant.

I also have been letting myself get afraid. Drawing away, letting myself get scared. Afraid of being vulnerable.

Honestly, I feel that I've given in to despair often lately. My personal journal is filled with phrases like, "This is all so confusing," "I don't know how to do this," or "I can't believe it; I just feel so angry." Still, after I wind on down that path for a while, I always end up coming back to the Savior, and to His love. Almost every entry ends with a reference to Him and His atonement.
Too often, I lose sight of the opportunity that each day is. I think about the prospect of the next day, week, month, year, and wonder how I can do it all. Wonder how it is that I can continue to go on, to exist in a world that is so full of pain and despair. What could really make living in such a crazy world worth all the heartache?

And then I remember the answer: Christ, our Savior. It is His Atonement, His sacrifice that makes sense of all the senseless pain and tragedy of the world. He lifts those who reaches to Him, makes it possible for them to heal, to become pure. He descended below all these things, all these hurts so that He could lift me above them

Hope is more than just a feeling; it is a conscious choice. It is the choice between having faith, believing, and keeping our hope alive, or giving in to grief and despair. Being hopeful means habitually choosing hope over fear or doubt, every time the choice presents itself.

I have received the resolution I needed. I have felt a confirmation, letting me know that all things are working together for good. I know Ashley and Robert’s journey will be hard and painful, but I also know it will be worth making. I know that because of the Atonement, and their faith, something good and beautiful will come out of it, something better than could have come by an easier way.

I also know that all things in my life are working together for my good. I see the way to courage and love opening up before me. I feel that I am being blessed with the resolve to embark on the journey. I am ready!

I choose to have the Hope needed to know that what lies ahead is perfect.
The best is yet to come.

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.

Back in I.D.HO

So, as stated above, I am back in the frozen tundra that is Rexburg, ID. It is kind of bittersweet being up here. I miss my family already (although that is always to be expected). I came up without the lovely roommate I had been planning on, as Tess got engaged and stayed in CA. It has been weird, not knowing any of my roommates. In a lot of ways, I feel like I am starting over again. Like the previous year hasn't really passed, and that I am 18 again and this is the first time I've been away from home. It all feels surreal,but I know it'll all feel real soon enough.

Still, I am excited to be back up here. It has been awesome to get reconnected with the good friends I made up here last year. They are really fun to hang out with. I've also enjoyed being the "Elyssa" of Rexburg. It's easier for me to be outgoing and fun, to talk and chat with people, and to try new things. I think I am more authentic up here than in Vegas, in many ways.

Also, with classes starting in just a day, I have realized how actually and very close I am to graduating. Only four or five semesters; it definitely feels more doable. Puts it in perspective more, to realize that my time in college is, in fact, limited.
I really want these moments in my life to count. I want to prepare for what is to come, whether it is a career, marriage, writing, motherhood. It is so bizarre to think that all of those things are around the corner, that someday they really are going to happen. I feel like I've been getting too wrapped up in tomorrows. I want to enjoy the here and now as thoroughly as possible.
And I believe it is very possible.
This is it, this is my life.
And, by golly, I am loving it.