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.

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.

"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?

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.

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.