the daily kaylie

2011-11-24T21:00:00.001-08:00

le parole

2011-10-24T22:46:00.000-07:00

In class today, we discussed the actual, electromagntic, intense powerful substance of words.

"Let there be light."

And then there was light.
But there wasn't light before there was words.
And the power of God's words brought about the light.

Words can denegrate, they can change, they can reduce, they can expand.
They are our way of understanding the world, of understanding reality, of re-presenting the intangible, the unknown, the known, the tangible, capital-L-LIFE.

But.
They aren't the world--these words that spin and sway and try to be something real, tangible, evidenced. They are reductive in their encompassing, portraying themselves as a full story; aiming to convince; aiming for wholeness, yet never quite getting there because that wholeness is something impossible.

There are hundreds of thousands of languages on this planet. Within those hundreds of thousands of languages, there are millions and billions of words, conjunctions, congugations, nouns, pronouns, verbs--all trying to explain this world away, slicing it into tiny bits, cooking them until well-done, aiming for fulness. Fulness of the partaker. Fulness of the dish. Fulness of presentation. Or, re-presentation.

This is my frustration with words. They have power, they have might, they have truth-lower-case-t, but not always Truth-upper-case-t. They desire, want, long for the full story, but never quite obtain it.

Mandarin orange.
Mandarin orange.
Juicy, sweetly citrusy, pockets of skin bursting with flavor and wetness.
Perfect in an Asian toasted salad, with cashews.

I can say it a thousand times. The words fill my mouth. But that doesn't change what I'm not chewing on.

Do you get it? This sub-reality that words like to create? To simplify the world, reduce it, make it graspable?

Reduction is not something I need, currently.
For it is not logical to desire to reduce happiness.

An update, of sorts?

2011-10-11T22:08:00.000-07:00

I have the itch today.

It's tingling my arms, working its way through my bones, trying to reach my head, trying to grasp something, anything, just ONE thing of the millions of things bopping through my head.

Hmm.
That's not accurate.

Things USED to bop around my head. They used to flail, and scream, and fight their way around my head, actually.

But that doesn't happen anymore.

No, my mind is more peaceful now. Peaceable, too.

and I think it has something to do with my heart.

I just figured this out. Just two seconds ago. Just typing I realized this.

My heart and my mind are on the same track. It took some time to route my mind (because the mind is always the one veering off the intended) back on track, but I think I am finally here.

And it feels good. Oh so good.

So the itch. The things (not) bopping through my head.

These days I just think. I just wonder. I just contemplate, and search for truth. I don't try to will things to be how I see them. I don't try to know everything. I just try to experience, and I try to learn as much as I can.

It makes me quieter (if that's possible), and it makes me more peaceful.

This will probably come as a shocker to most people who have known me, but it is what it is.

These days I don't fret. I don't worry. I don't obsess over injustice, unfairness, wrongness. I don't try to WILL change. Change in other people. Change in everything around me. CHANGE CHANGE CHANGE. DISCONTENT. CRAVING FOR SOMETHING ANYTHING BUT THIS. DIFFERENT. FREEDOM. SOMETHING.

No, that is not me. Not anymore.

I just try to live my life as much as possible.
I try to follow my soul.

And I'm learning, that's about all I can do.

I'm finally getting that.

I'm relinquishing the control that I never had, but constantly tried to have over absolutely EVERYTHING.

and

I'm turning everything inward.
Changing myself.
Righting my own wrongs.

I feel so peaceful.

So I suppose that's one of the things slowly musing its way around my brain.

On another note, my adorable son is currently the cutest thing on this planet, and my husband is still as spiffy as ever.

2011-09-12T13:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I switched to the new Blogger interface. At first I'm always thrown off a little bit by website changes (probably a conditioned response due to facebook's neverending changes which may or may not turn out to be for the betterment of the website and its users), and so my first reaction was to dislike it. However, after exploring a little bit, I found the set-up to be quite convenient. I quickly became especially fond of the site-tracking section. Not only does it tell you how many page views you have had on a particular blog, but it gives you referring sites, location, browser, and even the computer type of the visiting individual. Not that this is revolutionary technology or anything, Sitemeter has had all of this for quite some time now. But rather than having to navigate to an entirely different site just to find out how many people are reading your stuff, Blogger has set it up in an easy to access, functionable, quick way. It's all just right here.

So anyway. I'm browsing around the new site, and I stumble upon the statistic portion of my "daily kaylie" blog. Fully expecting to see zero site visitors since, like, May, I was completely shocked to see how many people still come here daily.

Honestly, I'm quite flattered.

Thanks for checkin' up on me, and giving me reason to keep writing on here.

I've got some things to say, and this is my place to say them.

It's taken me time to know how, to think through things, to learn of my internal changes since being a mother.

It's a time thing.

So thanks for staying tuned.

It is much appreciated.

Things(ish) I've learned in the last 2 months and 3 weeks.

2011-05-20T13:55:00.000-07:00

Being a mom is the hardest, most rewarding, most fulfilling, best job I have ever had. And I'm only going on month 3.

I love love love it. My heart breaks probably a hundred times a day to fit my growing love for this tiny (okay, so maybe he's not so tiny anymore...) little boy (he weighed in at 13.2 lbs at his 2 month check up... 95th percentile for weight! Haha!).

Everyone tells you, it's going to be over before you know it! And it's true, time has absolutely flown since little man got here. But this kind of advice just makes me sad, nostalgic, and depressed. Very uncool. I like my mom's advice much better (but when do I ever NOT like my mom's advice?): Just enjoy every stage!! Enjoy getting up at night with him. Enjoy him as a helpless newborn, enjoy him as a bouncy toddler, enjoy him as a troublesome five year old, enjoy him as a moody teenager, and so on. And that's what I'm trying to do. I'm not going to focus on how fast time is going. I'm just going to love every single minute of being this little boy's mom.

MOM.

I refer to myself as mommy probably a hundred times a day.

"Mommy will feed you after mommy changes your diaper."

"Do you know how much mommy loves you?"

"Mommy and Gabey are going for a walk!"

And the strangest part? It's not weird (well, it's not weird that I'm a mom, anyway. It probably is weird that I constantly refer to myself in 3rd person while talking to a little person that can't really understand what I'm saying. And the voice I use is probably even weirder. But being a mom? That's not wierd). I'm a mom. And I love it.

People always laugh at new parents for making a big deal out of everything the babe does. Most nights LJ and I will just sit together, holding the babe between us, and laugh at every single cute thing he does. He laughs back, too. He probably thinks he is the funniest thing on the planet. We certainly do. So it's true, what they say about new parents. The funny part, though? It's not just new parents who are like that. It's, like, EVERYBODY. People love babies. Especially cute babies. Like mine. People coo and laugh and give all of their attention to an awake baby who will coo back. And when you have a baby, all the sudden you become ten times more popular. Only, it's not you people want to talk to. It's your two-month-old. It's pretty hilarious.

And if you think you can't talk to a two-month-old, think again.

Because I talk to a two-month-old pretty much all day.

I was thinking about how babies communicate the other day, and I find it so fascinating. Babies in general cry when they are hungry, tired, lonely, bored, have messed their pants, or are uncomfortable in some way. They cry to alert us to these problems, as they are completely dependent and can do nothing for their discomfort themselves. How interesting that they CRY, though, to tell us these things. To us (developed adults) crying means sadness. I would argue that when we witness another person experience this emotion, we have our most immediate and thorough reactions. We comfort, empathize, and sympathize and want to help the person to feel better almost instantly (I'm talking NORMAL human beings here...we'll leave sadistic, unfeeling crazies off the list...). This doesn't happen with any other emotion, really.

Interesting, then, that babies use crying as their primary method of communication. When Gabe cries, nothing else matters to me. All I can do is focus on him, the problem, and how to fix it, ASAP!!!! Gabe is not always sad when he cries. But crying is his only method of communicating. I have learned to read his different cries that mean different things. It took a while for me to figure this out though. Which is great! For the first large chunk of Gabe's life, his crying lead me to give him incessant attention (I don't know if you know, but crying is pretty difficult to ignore). Because of this, I was able to learn how to communicate with him.

And now we have regular conversations.

And it's awesome.

Gosh, I love being a mom.

Gabriel Alaka'ipono Sikahema

2011-03-12T13:05:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to write this for a while, but if you can't imagine, I've been doing much more important things. Like holding my sweet, tiny, perfect, baby boy. But I still wanted to write his birth story on here for those still interested in hearing it.

So here it is:

Sunday, March 6. 6AM I wake up with light, but regular contractions. I don't think much of it because at this point, contractions of this nature are a regular occurrence. I try to lull myself back to sleep, considering the fact that Sunday is the only regular sleep-in day, but sleep won't come. Eventually, I decide to cease my tossing and turning, and get up and do something productive. I find my scriptures and my journal, and move to the living room to read where I won't disturb my still-slumbering husband. After reading for a good 20 minutes and continuing to feel regular contractions, I become distracted, and wonder if I should start timing them. I get up and walk to the bedroom to grab my cell phone to use as a timer. As I return to the couch, I see a small puddle of liquid pooling where I had just been sitting. How embarrassing. I didn't even know I had to go (weird things happen to your body when you're pregnant. Just saying).

At that moment, I experience a particular strong contraction. It is shortly followed by a realization on my part.

Perhaps that pool of liquid is not urine...

So I sniff the puddle, and sure enough, it has no scent. I'm confused. I thought my water was supposed to "gush" if it broke. Not trickle into a little puddle without me even realizing it. I look at the clock--just a little bit after seven. My mom should be up. She's an early riser.

I am calm as I tell my mom what happened. She advises me to continue timing my contractions, and to call my doctor around nine. I'll probably have the baby today, we both decide. Calmly. Rationally.

We hang up, and I continue to time my contractions. I leave LJ to his sleep, as I figure this might be the last good night's sleep he will get in a while. At 8:30, my contractions are regular and 5 minutes apart. I decide it's time to wake LJ up, and let him in on the news. I sit on his side of the bed and gently shake him until he opens his eyes.

"Hi. We're having a baby today."

Smile.

We spend the next hour and a half showering, packing, eating breakfast, making sure the camera is charged and the video camera works, and taking a few last minute pictures (none of this had been previously prepared...what can I say except baby boy was 2 weeks early). At 9:30 I am unable to reach my doctor, but my contractions are pretty painful, and when my mom hears me breathing through them on the phone, she instructs us to just go to the hospital. Don't worry about contacting your doctor.

The drive is quiet. Calm. Happy. We talk about what we thought this drive would be like. We talk about having a baby. We talk about how much we love each other. We talk about how great life is.

We arrive at the hospital around 10:30, where I had already pre-admitted a few weeks back. I walk up to the lady at the registration desk, though, because I am unsure where labor and delivery is.
Hello, I say.
Hello, she says back. Do you need to register?
No, I've pre-admitted. I'm currently in labor though.
Oh! Labor and deliver is on the 3rd floor! Good luck!

Once in labor and delivery, I am taken to a room where they will decide if I will be giving birth today, or if they will send me home on a false alarm. My contractions are painful.

The nurse walks into the "decision room" where she tells me to shed my dignity, and my wardrobe. She is witty, sarcastic, and anti-BYU, we learn from the get-go. I like her instantly. Not because she is anti-BYU, but because I feel immediately comfortable with her. After testing my leaking fluids on a little strip, and telling me that I am dilated to a 3, it is determined that my water has, indeed, broken, and that I will, indeed, be having the baby today.

So, she says, we've got to decide a few things. On a scale of one to ten, one being none, and ten being having your arm sawed off, how much pain would you like to feel?
Umm...one? I'm not that into pain...
Oh, good. I thought you were one of those crazies who likes pain (her viewpoint, not mine). Epidural, then?
Yes, please.
When do you want it?
When can I have it?
As soon as we can get the man here!
Wonderful.

So we wait for the epidural man to bring his magic. In the mean time, the nurse puts in my IV, and brings me a cranberry juice. At 11:30 the man arrives, and administers the blessed medical miracle (at this point my contractions are preeettyyy intense, and I might have sung the man's praises as the medicine kicked in). Then, we begin the wait. My wonderful doctor who is not currently scheduled to be in labor and delivery comes in just to deliver my baby. It's getting close to one, and I am dilated to a 5. He tells me to hang out and get some sleep if I want. He is going to attend his one o'clock meetings, and he'll be back around four to check on me and perhaps deliver the baby.

The three hours fly. After about an hour and a half I am fully dilated, and by four when the Dr. gets back I am +1 and absolutely ready to have this baby.

The nurse tells me that we should have this baby out by 4:30. The Dr. agrees.

Delivery is exhausting. I was told after the fact that most women burn an average of 50,000 calories during delivery. After experiencing it, I can understand. After an hour of pushing, we're about half-way there. My epidural is wearing off, and I am in quite a bit of pain. I had refrained from pushing the "pain" button which would give me another dose of the epidural medication because the nurse told me it would make the pushing more difficult if I were to push it, but the pain gets to the point where I can hardly handle it. I push the button again, but it is too late to kick in. The last 15 minutes of the delivery are pure agony.

At 5:37PM, though, after almost 2 hours of pushing, my beautiful baby boy is born. Immediately, I feel a billion things, all at the same time. The emotions are higher than anything I have ever felt, and can hardly be explained in words. He is squirmy, and flailing, and beautiful with a head chock-full of black hair, still wet from the womb. We sob, although not as loud as Gabriel. We can't take our eyes off of this perfect little boy. We've never been so happy.

He is weighed, measured. 7lbs even, 19 inches long.

He is then placed on my chest. Skin to skin. I cry harder. He is perfect.

I desperately want LJ to hold him, too, and I tell the nurses so. One of the nurses suggest I leave him on my skin, but my kind, understanding doctor says that it's my baby, and it is also LJ's. We make the calls.

Soon, everyone has gone. It is just the three of us, our small family, alone for the first time. We continue to cry, all three of us, until the nurse comes to get him so that he can be bathed. LJ goes with him. I'm not fit to walk, and I have to prove that I can go to the bathroom by myself before they will let me go downstairs.

The next couple days are a blur. Friends and family visit with their wishes. He cries at night, but I refuse to let the nurses take him to the nursery. He pees on his face while our favorite nurse, Kally, is changing him. He is kissed probably a thousand times. We can't get over our happiness.

48 hours after he is born, Tuesday, we are allowed to go home. We are told to return to the hospital for a biliruben test the next day though. It's should be nothing to worry about, they say, but his levels are a little high.

That night my mom stays with us. We are exhausted but absolutely ecstatic to have him home.

(This blog is plenty long, so I'll stop here. Wednesday we had to readmit him to the hospital, and I might write about that in a Part II of sorts, but we all know how good I am at fulfilling blogging promises, so we'll see.)

Oh, hello.

2011-02-23T13:26:00.001-08:00

I want to tell you about things.

New things. Things I am learning. Things I am grateful for. Life-changing things. Things that are important. Things that I've been meaning to get out for months.

But it will have to wait.

Because for now I am headed to a 50 minute closing discussion on Walcott's Omeros, and then 50 minutes of Chinese review.

And after that I will be writing a paper on morality and poverty, studying for a Chinese midterm and a Religion midterm, and preparing a presentation on Abrogation, Appropriation and Negritude.

I love school so much.

(Not sarcastic. I really do love it.)

Also, 36 1/2 weeks down. (Men) frequently ask me when my baby is due, now (this is a big step, as men seem to be significantly more cautious about this subject than women), my heartburn is almost constant, and I can hardly go 15 minutes without thinking about this little dude and his cute little nose that looks just like his daddy's (3D ultra-sounds are pretty sweet).

My heavens, we cannot WAIT to see what our little man looks like.

Ode to writing. No promises, though.

2011-01-20T10:17:00.000-08:00

I've never been a great journal writer. I've come to learn that it is partially because my mind flows far too quickly for my hands to keep up--so I'll get halfway through a paragraph while journaling, and then get so lost in some secondary thought that I will completely forget what was supposed to come next on paper. I get frustrated with the time it takes to record thoughts using only a pen and paper. It is tragic, really, because I am a thorough, hard and fast, rose-doodling, rain-kissing, love-lettering romantic, and the thought of a scratchy pen filling up a soft, off-white piece of paper (if we're being idyllic, by candelight), sends romantic shivers through my fingertips. But it's just not that practical. Nor fulfilling. Not for me.

I suppose I've lived in the 21st century for too long.

Because where paper and pen don't seem to do the trick, a keyboard and a blank word document seem to fill that empty space in my writing soul quite agreeably. My fingers can move (almost) as fast as my mind tends to, and when I have thoughts that are irrelevant to my current stream, I can type 'em out and move 'em around until I find the space of thought they were supposed to be composed in in the first place.

It's like playing Tetris. Only with words.

So for a while, I did that here. I opened my veins (morbid? sorry...) and splashed words onto this tan and white blogger screen that doesn't ever seem to agree with my formatting. I don't think I ever did it daily, although that was (clearly) my goal (see blog title).

It's also clear that that goal failed. Miserably, I might add.

Here's why: I got scared. I got scared that I was uninteresting. I got scared that people wouldn't want to read what I had to say. I got scared that people would judge my writing abilities. Scared that I would never be good enough. For you, or for myself.

Silly, isn't it? It's just a blog.

Recently, though, I've created a word document. It sits on my desktop. It is saved as "paperclips." I visit that document frequently, if not daily, and I just type. I don't delete, I don't re-read, I don't edit, I just type.

And it is wonderful.

And the best part? My muse is back. My words are back. And I want to share them. Because I want to connect. I want to connect to humanity. I want to connect to YOU.

I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all. -Richard Wright, American Hunger

2010-12-01T20:55:00.000-08:00

the christmas tree is glowing and my lips are all dry and there's hot cocoa waiting for me on the coffee table and for some reason all my creative urges happen during the very hours that i have to write a blasted 12 page research paper.

talk about waste of creativity.

talk about bad timing.

talk about getting chapstick, blogging, hot-cocoaing, and putting off said research paper for another 15 minutes.

One year... really?

2010-11-21T14:51:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting here on my Monet-looking, patterned couch, eating the knock-off, generic brand of Apple Jacks (probably like Apple Smacks or something... I'm too lazy to get off the couch and look). It's snowing a lot outside. Really chilly. And pretty wet.

It's good to sit for a minute. To contemplate. It's been a year.

Just now I started making a list of everything notable that has happened in the last year. Things, I suppose, that could easily be seen as check points along the way. However, it didn't take me long to realize that this wasn't quite appropriate--neither for the way that I am feeling, nor for the way that the last year has actually been for me.

Because here's the deal. It's not really the tangible, datable, quantifiable things that have happened along the route of our first year that have defined who we are in our marriage. Rather, it's the untangible: the thoughts, the ideas, the emotions, the lessons, and sometimes even the sublime that define what we have become, together.

A few weeks back I read an article by Orson Scott Card about marriage. I thought it was so fascinating, and really, eye-opening. Part of the article said:

"AMERICA HAS BECOME tragically ignorant about something we once seemed to understand: marriage.

Even in the church, we postpone marriage later and later, as if it were a particularly unpleasant dental appointment. There's so much to do first — we have to "find out who we are." We have to get our careers established. We have to prove we're successful.

I had a taste of that myself when I got married back in 1977. I had sold my first novel and wanted to get it finished and delivered ... before I got married. So I was just a few minutes late getting to the temple because I had to finish photocopying that manuscript and get it into the mail.

What was I thinking? That it would somehow be better if my wife knew for sure that she was not part of my career as a writer?

That's such a silly mistake — that we must or even can "find ourselves" before we've made that lifelong (or longer) commitment.

Here's why it's a mistake: We don't ever "find" ourselves. Instead, in marriage, we make ourselves.

No, we make each other — as a joint project. We turn ourselves into a perfect fit. Our self is the marriage, and our part in it. There is no 'I' without the 'we.'"

Interesting concept, no? But from my small, short, life experience, I've found this statement, particularly the last paragraph, to be rather profound. Even though I was pretty young (20) when LJ proposed, I had completed 3 years at a university, I had been (almost) entirely independent for those 3 years, I had held steady, good jobs, I was financially stable with no debt, I had planned out my future education prospects, I knew clearly what my dreams and goals in life were... well, let's just leave it at that and say that I thought I had myself pretty-darn figured out. So when LJ came home from his mission and proposed a week later, I had zero inhibitions about going forward with it. We loved each other, we were the best of friends, and it would have been silly to put it off any because propriety told us we should wait.

Well, my stubborn, seemingly-solidified, birthed-from- the-strains-of-adolescence confidence soon found its way out of my newly-wed window. One beautiful, married morning, I woke up, and I had the strange thought that I didn't know who I was. It was strange because I hadn't had that thought in years.

It was strange, too, because I couldn't figure a reasoning for my loss of confidence. LJ tells me that I'm beautiful, smart, talented, awesome, and a whole bunch of other things that I am probably not but that he so graciously thinks I am pretty much every single married day. He always encourages me. I couldn't figure out my problem. Like really? What the heck.

My mother, though, the all-knowing, ever-saving angel that she is, enlightened me to that fact that I would have many of these identity-crises throughout my entire life, and that major life changes would always cause identity changes as well.

And right she was, and will continue to be, probably for the rest of my life.

This past year has been amazing. It's been hard. It's been work. It's been growth. It's been humility. It's been time. It's been memories. It's been entertaining. It's been different than anything else I have ever experienced. And let me tell you, it's been worth it.

There is nothing better in the entire world than marrying the love of your life in the temple of the Lord.

If you have ever questioned whether or not you can make it there, whether or not it is worth it, whether or not it's for you...STOP. Because you can make it there. It is worth it. It's for everyone.

And not only is it for everyone, but it might be the best thing that you'll ever do.

Because let me tell you, it's definitely the best thing I've ever done.

Now, if you'll please excuse me, I am going to go celebrate the best thing I've ever done with a romantic candle-light dinner, Martinellis, and a very attractive husband.

(Wasn't she just eating Apple Jacks?)

Some thoughts.

2010-11-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

Since I've been pregnant, I've struggled emotionally with a lot of things. I've struggled with loneliness, depression, a heightened sense of the future, and uneasiness about how things will work out right in the months to come.

My good friend Becky, previous to two days ago, was pregnant and due right after I was. We announced our pregnancies 1 week apart, and throughout my pregnancy, I have found a lot of solace knowing that she and I have been going through very similar things. We are both 21 (our birthdays are 1 day apart), we are both English majors, we were married within a month of each other, and we both had very similar experiences in deciding to get pregnant. Two days ago, she found out she is having twins. They are her first babies, and they are both boys. I refer you to her blog post found here before you continue reading.

Becky is amazing. I know that, because Heavenly Father trusted her with 2 babies instead of just one. Every single mother of twins that I know is chalked up on my list of "Mothers that I would like to be like one day." One of these is my own mother. Becky will be a wonderful mother to these babies, and I have so much respect for her, and for the faith that she has maintained through this. It's a darn big deal to find out that you are having twins when you are 21 years old. Darn big deal.

I have stolen the quote from her blog to stick it here, because that quote struck me extra hard when I read it. I want you to read it, and to think deeply about it. Don't just skim it, you'll be missing something very important if you do.

"I have just two things to say to you who are troubled about the future. I say them lovingly and from my heart.

First, we must never let fear and the father of fear (Satan himself) divert us from our faith and faithful living. Every person in every era has had to walk by faith into what has always been some uncertainty. This is the plan. Just be faithful. God is in charge. He knows your name and He knows your need.

Faith in the Lord Jesus Christ—that is the first principle of the gospel. We must go forward. God expects you to have enough faith, determination, and trust in Him to keep moving, keep living, keep rejoicing. He expects you not simply to face the future; He expects you to embrace and shape the future—to love it, rejoice in it, and delight in your opportunities.

God is eagerly waiting for the chance to answer your prayers and fulfill your dreams, just as He always has. But He can’t if you don’t pray, and He can’t if you don’t dream. In short, He can’t if you don’t believe."

--Elder Jeffrey R. Holland

Like I said, throughout my pregnancy I have struggled with depression. I have struggled with fear of the future. I have struggled with uncertainty. I still have 2 semesters left in school. I have a husband who has 3 semesters left of his undergraduate degree, and then will be going to grad school. I don't know a lot of things about the future. And a lot of the time, that scares me.

Like Becky, though, I know that this was the right choice. In quiet moments when I can calm my mind, when I let myself be happy, when I am grateful and content, I feel my baby with me, and I know that he needed to come here. I know that he needed to be with us. It was his time. The Lord needs him here. And part of that reason was me. The Lord needed me to have more faith. So he sent me a baby boy to help me grow.

It's amazing how the Lord works. I have spent the weeks since general conference re-watching talk after talk. Mostly, I've watched President Monson's talk--The Divine Gift of Gratitude. It's been slow, but I have felt my mentality change every so slightly every time I listen to it.

I have so much to be grateful for. So much to be happy about.
I am so grateful. So happy.

I am attending a good university. I have a wonderful husband who loves me, and is excited about the future. I am expecting a beautiful, healthy, baby boy in March. I have a wonderful family, and wonderful in-laws. I have the gospel.

I have the gospel.

And that, my friends, should cause me to rejoice and be full of gratitude everyday.

Which leads me to my next point.

There was one day last week where I felt like I had literally been stomped on by a parade of horses, storming into a bloody, hopeless war. I felt so pelted into the ground, that I didn't know how I could ever stand up again. I cried and cried and cried.

That day, LJ somehow didn't have to go into a (usually) mandatory meeting with his boss. Instead, he came and found me in the Wilkinson center, and tried to pull out of me the matter that was causing me such distress. I never told him what had caused my depression, I don't think, but that really didn't matter at all. To be honest, I really can't remember what it was. You see, what's wrong is never really what we think is wrong. And LJ saw this. He was able to reach down beneath the foggy muck that was clouding my mind and the aching of my heart to see that the problem was my failure to use my God-given gift of agency. Sure, life was a little difficult, sure my emotions were running wild due to these crazy pregnancy hormones, but beneath all of that, I was not allowing myself to be happy.

LJ pulled out his Book of Mormon, and told me to read 2 Nephi 2 in its entirety and think and pray about agency the entire time I read. He specifically pointed out verse 27 which reads: "Wherefore, men are free according to the flesh; and all things are given them which are expedient unto man. And they are free to choose liberty and eternal life, through the great Mediator of all men, or to choose captivity and death, according to the captivity and power of the devil; for he seeketh that all men might be miserable like unto himself" (I added my own emphasis, obviously).

It hit me like a ton of bricks. It doesn't matter what happens in life. I have two choices: 1.) to choose to be happy and have freedom, or 2.) to choose to be miserable and remain in a sort of captivity.

Being happy is just so much better, you know?

Depression is real. Emotion is real. Why do you think that these tools are so effective in Satan's hands? But God is also real. The gospel is real. And all things which are expedient are given unto us. That means we have power. Real power to fight the adversary. Real power to fight the adversary and win.

Amazing, isn't it?
LJ always tells me, "Nothing works like the gospel works."

All I have to say to that is a rousing AMEN.

Baby baby baby.

2010-11-11T15:13:00.000-08:00

I'm not really in a super-sappy mood right now, but sometimes when I talk about baby, I get a little sappy. I'm female and pregnant, though--so if my emotions seem a little out of the ordinary, let me tell you, they are.

We saw baby again yesterday. Baby is a he. A him. A boy.

When we saw baby for the first time, both LJ and I automatically thought boy. Strongly. But as time went on, I started to wonder and second guess. I guess that's just because I didn't want to be determinative. If it was a little girl, I didn't want to insult her by implying that she was masculine by thinking she was a he, or something. I got really sensitive about baby's feelings for a while there. Actually, make that present tense. I AM really sensitive to baby's feelings. Currently. Continuously.

But anyway.

So then last week, all the sudden, I start to think it's a girl. And then both of my spiritually-in-tune, missionary brothers thought it was a girl, so that influenced my opinion as well. Not that their incorrectness in guessing my baby's gender changes their spirituality at all. Because it doesn't. I mean, really.

So in-betwixt all of this, everyone kept asking me what I wanted. I hated that question. Like I said, I've been hyper-sensitive to baby's feelings. I would never say that I want a girl only to have it be a boy, or vice versa. Now I just imagine my baby boy, hanging out while I have these conversations with people, listening in... I didn't want to offend, you know?

So I told people I wanted a healthy baby. Period. And I am so grateful, because so far he is.

The ultra-sound tech kept talking about how beautiful his heart was. No spina bifida. No Down syndrome. A brain. She said, "We have to check because in 14 years you're going to start wondering if he ever had one." 2 functioning kidneys. Both arms. Both legs. His dad's nose. That makes me happy.

LJ jumped out of his chair when she said boy. Not that she had to say it. It was preeettyyyy clear, to be less than candid about it.

I've been thinking so much about this little boy, lately. He already has my heart. I feel him--not just his movements--but the person that he is. He is soft, gentle, smiley, and he has a good sense of humor. He's a lot like his dad, I think.

And now that we know what he is, I just can't wait to meet him.

On, on to the victory!

2010-10-23T16:15:00.001-07:00

So this is kind of cool, and new. Considering the temptation and the disobedience that consequently accompanies the missionary rules about the internet, I guess I never even considered this as a possibility. However, I think it is absolutely awesome. Confused? Read on. This is an email we got from my brother's mission president a few weeks back:

Dear Parents,

Eighteen missionaries in the California Santa Rosa Mission have received an assignment to work on the Internet daily as a proselyting missionary for one to two hours per day. Their purpose is the same as any missionary which is to invite others to come unto Christ by helping them receive the restored gospel through faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement, repentance, baptism, receiving the gift of the holy ghost, and enduring to the end. They will use social networks, blogs, chat, and other powerful communication tools the Lord has provided through the Internet to accomplish this assignment.

We are sending this letter to let you know that your missionary son or daughter has been given such an assignment. Please do not use your missionaries’ Facebook page for communications about home, family, or other items that will detract from their sacred work and calling. It is because of your missionary’s obedience, spiritual maturity, and earned trust that he or she has been given this assignment. Please do not do anything that would detract from their work and devotion to the Lord and to their mission. You and loved ones should continue to communicate with your missionary only through the current established policies, which is weekly by email or by the US Postal service.

If you want to read more about what the Church is doing and who is involved go to this blog address: http://mormonmission.blogspot.com/2010/10/officially-blogging-missionaries_09.html.

We are excited to start this new assignment. We pray for the Lord’s guidance as we begin learning how to best proselyte online. I am confident our missionaries will be obedient and diligent as they communicate with investigators and members in their areas, and by spreading the good news of Jesus Christ with people throughout the world. It is our belief that this is one way that the gospel will fill the earth more quickly.

Thank you for your understanding and in assisting your missionary from home in their sacred assignment.

Sincerely,

President Jonathon W. Bunker California Santa Rosa Mission

Pretty cool, huh? I'll be honest, this makes me really proud of my little bro. Anyway, my point is to link ALL of you people reading my blog to his blog-- which is: http://armiesofheaven.blogspot.com/

Visit it, become a follower, and suggest it to others.

Shall we not go on in so great a cause?

Braided lines of hope.

2010-10-06T07:46:00.000-07:00

A Parking Lot Metaphor.

Yellow leaves scatter themselves about the drenched parking lot, their surfaces damp and clean from the freshly-given rain. Small puddles form mazes on the asphalt.

A small boy maintains a wobbly stance on this mazey, black asphalt.

He totters around the parking lot in tiny tennis shoes that probably won’t fit him next week. Every step he takes, he gazes at the path around him. Everything is new to him; he doesn’t want to miss a thing. He wobbles his way around the puddles, and I see his dad standing ten feet away. Dad keeps a constant watch, looking for danger, looking for cars that could hurt this tiny boy, calling out to the boy when the boy becomes distracted by small, harmless bugs, leading him out into the dangerous street. Dad is far enough away that if the boy loses his balance as he learns of leaves and rain and worms and beautiful things, the boy will fall. But dad is close enough that if the boy falls, dad can run to his aid. Dust him off. Give him hope.

A Brown-Paper Bag of Hope.

We have more poetry books than food, and are content to sit like this for hours. The two of us lay on the blanket I made for him 5 years ago. No shoes on the blanket. The park is warm, peaceful. I lay flat on my back and ask him if he has ever tried to feel the earth pulsing and turning beneath him. You can, if you try hard enough.

10 people approach us with coolers and smiles. They have a free lunch for us, they say, on one condition. We must let them pray for us. My heart warms as they hand us brown paper bags with homemade turkey sandwiches inside and pray for our unborn child. Amen. They smile again, and walk away. A flyer in the lunch sack tells us they want us to find Christ, as they have. I am not familiar with their faith; but I am familiar with the message they share.

My insides warm again.

Good people.

A Woman I Love.

Less detail this time.

A bumpy wool blanket spreads on the twin-size bed. She shares the room. Her roommate can’t dress herself. She’s careful about the rules. She wants to be good. Her heart and her mind are hurting, almost as much as her body is. I see her pain, her goodness, her sheer humility. I watch her daughter, I witness a miracle. I am learning from her. I am learning from all of them. I am ashamed of my pride. I’m trying to be better.

Faith.

A standard of truth, bravely projected to millions. Divergent voices of hate and misunderstanding reply. Judging, hating. They don’t understand that what drives him is love. What drives us is love. It’s okay, though. We know what is important.

We know what is real.

And the waves and waves of this reality crash down upon us every day.

Even when the world screams that they don’t exist.

They keep on a-comin'.

And they always will.

That. That is what I live for.

An attempt at portraying impossible emotion.

2010-09-20T15:36:00.000-07:00

I haven't written in a while. Mostly it's because I've been keeping things inside of me.

{Quite literally.}

Specifically one thing.

This one tiny thing has tiny little fingers, tiny little toes, a tiny little heartbeat, and a tiny, very bouncy, little personality.

It's hard to know how to write about big things.

{Big things that are little.}

Today we saw baby for the first time.

The second its little head and neck and torso and fingers and elbows and toes showed up on the screen, I forgot the nausea. I forgot the fatigue. I forgot the headaches. I forgot the prenatal vitamins that make me want to stab my eyes out.

As I looked at that tiny little figure, not only did I forget the difficulty of the previous 3 months, but I ceased to think whatsoever. Emotion gulped me into its abdominal cavity, and I was able to do nothing but feel. Feel pure joy. Feel pure love.

The day I married my best friend was easily the best day of my life. Because of that best day, I will have many more best days as I live my life with him, as we live our life together.

This day was one of those best days.

Because it's one of those things that I'm not sure mere words can capture.

Because this story is our story.

And only hands-in-the-mud-face-in-the-sand, hair in the wind, kool-aid stained smiling reality can tell it.

In the mean time, though, I'll give the details.

I'm 14 weeks pregnant. It was not an accident.

We want this baby more than anything.

Baby already brings us so much happiness.

March 21 is laborday.

Baby's heart beats.

And baby jumps like a kangaroo.

We're poor.

And we're in school.

We've got to work hard.

But baby is healthy.

We have never been happier,

And God is teaching me why.

Life is better than a cinnamon flavored cereal.

2010-08-10T22:37:00.001-07:00

I hardly write about my life on here, I'm realizing. I guess that's because I feel inhibited. I feel inhibited when I see the number of people who come here, who read my words, who take my thoughts. I feel inhibited because I don't know what their purpose is for reading my words. Your purpose.

And sometimes I am frightened by what I don't know.

But today, I was reading this lovely girl's blog, and I realized that I'm kind of exhausted from being so guarded. Like her, I miss the sanctuary that this blog used to be for me. I miss the release that it once gave me. The freedom.

I want it back.

LJ and I moved a little more than a week ago. We moved from 4o sq feet, wall-to-wall sitting and sleeping arrangement, pink tiled and retro-countered, broken-disposal and 9000 degrees at night first apartment to a newer, two-bedroom, with dirty-carpets, 3x the storage and floor space, and cable-enabled apartment.

The day we moved, I was pretty much incommunicado, because I was throwing the lovely Brooke Beecher soon to be Schultz a bridal shower. So after moving all of our stuff and dishes and bed and futon and dresser and clothes and crap with help from my family and one kind soul from the Elder's quorum, LJ held the responsibility of cleaning the old apartment himself. Which he did, being the awesome husband that he is.

After the bleach and windex spree, he locked up.

And then he said goodbye.

And all of this? Well, without me.

I won't lie, I cried a little when I came home to our new, boxy apartment with dirty smelling carpets and realized that we no longer had the key to our first home.

That tiny amount of square-feet had held our first downfalls. Our first triumphs. It held our first arguments, and our first family home evenings. It held our newlywed excitement of coming home to the other. It held our first Christmas, our first dinner. It held a lot of life's lessons, a lot of teaching moments, a lot of work, mixed with a lot of love and understanding.

It took me a while, but I'm not sad, now.

Goodbyes are always worth good cries, though.

Life is full of triumphs. Life is full of memories. Life is full of new, teaching, learning experiences. It is full of downfalls. It is full of lessons. And if you let it, it can be full of love.

And sometimes, you have to let the moments of the past punch themselves into your memory box so you can move on, so you don't put the process on hold.

Also, I cleaned the carpets.

They look amazing, and no longer smell.

2010-08-08T22:01:00.000-07:00

Today, one year ago, I saw LJ for the first time in 2 years.

Today, one year later, my life is completely, completely different.

And I can honestly say,

I've never been happier.

Caught.

2010-08-07T18:24:00.001-07:00

Okay. I'm posting.

I'm not typing and then saving.

I'm not typing and the deleting.

And I'm not waiting, either.

I am posting this blog, no matter what comes out.

Devo vomitare le parole.

I told LJ the other night about my writer's block.

I told him it's like I have a billion thoughts floating through my head, but they are thought processes that are foreign to my own. I don't form my thoughts the way these thoughts were formed; thus, in my mind, they are but wisps of ideas-- ideas not concrete enough to grasp, even if I could leap that high.

I think it's a good thing. To change the way you think. To forget that you once knew things.

To learn.

I can feel myself changing.

I can feel my heart changing.

It beats differently, now.

And my thoughts, I guess, are simply trying to catch up.

Growing up, maybe.

2010-06-23T12:17:00.000-07:00

Oh geez.

It's been a real long time since I've written.

But it's because I've had to be real quiet, lately.

God's been talking to me. And you've got to listen real close when God talks.

{If you don't, you might miss what he says.}

Last week sometime the radio flipped on at 6:30AM, signaling my time to get up.

Let me go home, it sang in a swoony, light tenor voice that sounded quite a lot like Michael Buble.

I heard it and smiled in my half-awake state.

And then husband pulled me closer.

Things are changing. Life is changing. But it's good.

It's an adventure, and I'm not quite sure what's going to happen next.

But I'm excited.

something like time.

2010-05-19T23:00:00.000-07:00

we read the letters tonight

you know, the letters.

the ones we keep on our bookshelf, that hold two years of our love in those plasticky sheet protectors and black and white 3-ring binders.

those letters.

growth is an interesting thing.

especially when it is printed in black (and occasionally pink) within college-ruled, barely-blue lines.

Bloah.

2010-05-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

You guys, I haven't written in a while.

It's because my confidence in my ability as a writer fluctuates.

Eng 318R killed my confidence this time.

I learned that I cannot write fiction.

So I've stopped for a while. I'm taking a breather. Waiting for my words to come back.

My dad tells me that I need to get used to it, if I want to be a writer. Criticism is inherently connected with writing. Or any sort of creating really.

I'm working on it.

Aiya.

2010-05-01T20:36:00.000-07:00

Well, this morning we were in Hong Kong.

This afternoon we were in Japan.

And tonight we are in Provo.

Doing homework.

May 1st has been about 50 hours long thus far.

And I am not ready to go back to school.

2010-04-29T18:42:00.000-07:00

I want to say something about Hong Kong, and I feel as though I should; but the thing is, there are no words for me to say.

I mean, there are a lot of words. But they are MY words. My words that will take up my insides and churn my thoughts and breathe my being and shape the person that I am, and that I will become. They are already shaping. I am slowly becoming.

I don't understand the words spoken here, but there is a language that I can feel. It is without sounds or tones or grammar.

And it tells me that we are all human, and that we are all loved by someone much greater.

One week in Hong Kong, and I am a different person.

At lunch she told me that sometimes we are scared of experience-- we are scared of leaving the pockets of our families to go, to serve the Lord. The scriptures tell us to go out, into the world. I listened to her as she told me these things.

The train passed through the station from a far away destination, but it didn't stop. It wasn't authorized to stop. But we stopped. We watched the train as it approached, and faded away. We knew the people of that train. We could feel them, even as the train roared passed. I listened to the roar, but also to the feelings.

I married into this. Sometimes I am scared, but mostly I am just trusting. I trust my husband, I trust the Lord.

And life is supposed to be an adventure, right?

Yes.

2010-04-21T19:25:00.001-07:00

Well guys,

My finals are completely finito.

And we're going to Hong Kong. Tomorrow.

Expect updates over the next week or so. The famfam's gotta know, you know?

Sunday sunday

2010-04-18T13:54:00.001-07:00

I don't really have that much to say. I suppose I could start my soap box about women and education, but I'm not really in the mood. I'm content. Super content. You can't be feeling content if you want to soap box. I just doesn't work like that.

The weather is wonderful. I'm wearing my birthday dress that husband picked out for me. I made cookies. I visited some sisters. Finals will be over in 3 days, and we will be on a plane to HK in four.

Also.

I'm in the nursery. Well, primary I guess you could say. I'm the Primary President. Which, in my ward, translates to nursery leader.

i. love. it.

Seriously, if it was as easy to make friends with adults as it is with children, there WOULD BE NO SUCH THING AS WAR. Except for maybe the occasional tiff about that plastic pink ice cream cone that everyone seems to want. But other than that, world peace.

And, also, they aren't afraid to be anatomically correct. Which is awesome/hilarious.

Happy Sunday everybody.

Go out at get some sunshine if you know what's good for you.

Keep 'em open.

2010-04-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

We woke up with the window open today, and the blinds too, so that the morning sun danced into our small bedroom. The air was not cold, and not hot. The birds were singing. I wondered to myself why I had never slept like this before.

Last night I was scared of bad guys coming in, but the oven had been leaking fumes. Once husband had fixed the problem, I was more scared of carbon monoxide poisoning than bad guys. Open windows won. I was worried about cold, too, but husband just snuggled me, and soon we were asleep.

And this morning when the new morning air breathed me awake, and the sun lifted my eyelids, I wondered why the windows usually stay closed.

Also, good luck on finals, errbody.

dear high school aged, hormonal females,

2010-04-15T11:57:00.000-07:00

i know my husband is hot.

but please stop asking for his number.

and hitting on him.

and bringing your friends to come look at him.

he's mine.

regards,

kaylie.

To the women, or basically everybody that reads this blog.

2010-04-14T09:50:00.000-07:00

Lists. We hate reading lists, right? I think in lists.

I have a few things to say, from the last few days.

I'll monopolize, and categorize. Don't be bored.

Thing that I have to say on a controversial, probably emotionally engaging topic, and probably the thing that you will find most interesting upon reading:

Yesterday, I stood in the Wilkinson center all on my lonesome, waiting for husband to leave work and come find me in all my loneliness. I wasn't actually that lonely. Just waiting. This is usually a bad idea. The Wilk is always FULL of people, trying their hardest to hand you their fliers, sign you up for their blood drives, and make you participate in their social experiments. If you are alone and seemingly unbusy (or doing something that looks unbusy such as waiting around for a husband to come fetch you) then it is most probable that you will be hoarded by annoying booth people. My husband is sometimes one of these people. Has been.

So I'm standing by the trash can, at the corner where nice people walk into the building from Brigham Square. I place myself strategically-- far enough away from the people that they have to make a specific effort to approach me. I busy myself with the blank papers in my hand while texting phantom people. It worked. No one approached me.

After sitting there for a bit, though, I got bored with my phantom texting, and my blank papers. So I looked around. There was a man sitting in a booth on the corner. He was advertising sign-ups or study sessions for graduate school testing. This man was older, probably mid-thirties.

So I start to watch this graduate school testing man, for no other reason than I am bored, and waiting. The first person walks past. This person is of the male persuasion, and looks to be in a rush to get somewhere. Testing man calls out to rushing male, Hey! You planning on graduate school?

Rushing male responds with the typical 'no thanks' that any and all people respond with when they just don't want to stop and chit chat.

I'm still watching.

Then, a group of girls walk past. They are in the midst of a heavy discussion about their previous class, so when they pass Testing Man, he says nothing, and the girls walk past, undisturbed.

I'm still watching. And at this point, I'm not thinking about much, except for that maybe it's hard to be the flier-handing-advertising-person in the Wilk. Rejection is fun for nobody.

2 more girls walk past. Not a word from Mr. Testing Man.

1 boy walks past.

He moves, and jumps up to ask about graduate school.

The cycle continues: girls walk past, undisturbed by Mr. Testing Man, while boys walk past and shove the typical 'no thanks' in his face.

Can we see what I'm getting at?

Is anyone else reminded of this?:

So you probably think that what I am getting at is a man-hating ranting and raving session to spill my anger and to relieve myself of (probable) emotions that this experience caused me to feel. However, this is not the case at all. What good would a man-hating session do? I could sit and rant and rave about all of the injustices that men place on women for this whole blog post and then after posting, I'd probably receive a few hearty "yeahs!" in my comment box from my almost entirely-female readership. But what would that do? Make us angry for a second, bond us together as a female population by giving us a common enemy? Men?

Come on. If you think that that particular reaction would be productive, then we have more problems that I initially thought.

I’m married to a man. And I love him more than anything. He supports me. He loves that I love to learn. He wants me to further my education. He wants me to be a scholar. I’ve never felt anything but love and support from him.

Ironically, I feel most of the “gender” pressure from my counterparts-- other females.

Ironically, I often feel like the harshest judgement, and the most changing vices of social pressures comes from other females.

Ironically, you are female. You know.

You remember looking at ‘her’ outfit, thinking why on earth she wore that. Or you remember ‘her’ comment in Relief Society, and how it was a little whacked, but you looked at the other sisters and all silently agreed about that particular sister. And you remember judging the girl in your Freshman ward who got married when she was 19. And you remember when so and so didn’t have babies for 4 years and you thought that there was no way she was doing what was right. And you remember judging that one teacher because she was pregnant and going to graduate school. You judged that girl you met at Jamba Juice the other day because she DIDN'T go to graduate school, or didn't finish her degree.

Why do we do this to each other, girls? Why do we allow ourselves to bring each other down in this way? It’s so hard to be strong in a world that is so degrading.

Now, the issue of degradation. I think this most often turns women to the issue of sex, and being seen as sex-objects by men. I will say that men should take some blame for this, however, I sometimes think that we bring these views upon ourselves. We're constantly ranting about how we're tired of being seen as objects of sex, but what do we do to perpetuate this? We wear clothing that gets us noticed. We spend HOURS focusing SOLELY on our appearance. We act certain ways that we think will attract men to us. We not only participate in, but SUPPORT entertainment that BLATANTLY degrades women. We LET ourselves be mistreated. Is this the fault of men, entirely? My heavens, women. It's got to start with the way that we think about ourselves. You are not a sex object. Don't treat yourself like one.

In my final session for one of my classes this semester, we talked about what is called the "male gaze." It seems that men are always looking at women. In film, in literature, in audience... The women are always the object of the gaze, and men are always the gazers. This is not necessarily a bad thing. However, it can become a bad thing when we, as women, portray ourselves contrary to what we divinely are. If we make ourselves objects, we will become objects. I, for one, will not have that. I am an intelligent, capable human being, and I will do what is in my control to portray myself as such.

I recognize that this is much easier said than done, though. That is why we should help each other to be strong. Lift each other up. Aid one another in our efforts to do good, instead of judging one another in these efforts.

In General Conference this year, I was really touched by this talk.

Particularly, this part:

"In the past year I have met thousands of Latter-day Saint women in many countries. The list of challenges these sisters face is lengthy and sobering. There are family troubles, economic tests, calamities, accidents, and illnesses. There is much distraction and not enough peace and joy. Despite popular media messages to the contrary, no one is rich enough, beautiful enough, or clever enough to avoid a mortal experience.

The questions sisters ask are serious and insightful. They articulate uneasiness about the future, sorrow for unrealized expectations, some indecision, and diminished feelings of self-worth. They also reflect a deep desire to do what is right.

There has grown in me an overwhelming testimony of the value of daughters of God. So much depends on them. In my visits with the sisters, I have felt that there has never been a greater need for increased faith and personal righteousness. There has never been a greater need for strong families and homes. There has never been more that could be done to help others who are in need. How does one increase faith, strengthen families, and provide relief?¹ How does a woman in our day find answers to her own questions and stand strong and immovable against incredible opposition and difficulty?

Personal Revelation

A good woman knows that she does not have enough time, energy, or opportunity to take care of all of the people or do all of the worthy things her heart yearns to do. Life is not calm for most women, and each day seems to require the accomplishment of a million things, most of which are important. A good woman must constantly resist alluring and deceptive messages from many sources telling her that she is entitled to more time away from her responsibilities and that she deserves a life of greater ease and independence. But with personal revelation, she can prioritize correctly and navigate this life confidently."

Personal revelation.

Keyword: Personal.

It is so important to be strong in this world that is so clearly ripping its inhabitants to pieces. Look at our world. Step back. Look at the hate. Look at the negativity. Look at the degradation of morals and values.

The most important things are being replaced by the things of least worth. Things like love are being replaced with how awesome of an outfit she's wearing.

Come on, women. We are better than that.

We are stronger than that.

Now, I am not done with this topic. I currently do not have time to address women and education, so I will tell you to look for a future post addressing this issue. I have a lot to say about it. Stay tuned.

And sometimes it makes for an awkward situation.

2010-04-08T16:45:00.000-07:00

Neighbor's husband just got home, and I hear their hellos and their happiness through the wall that I lean against. This wall is too thin.

I like it today-now, though, because I like their happy hugging sounds, and the exclaim of "you're home!" and their chatter from the day that they just had. They are nice people, they have a nice life.

But sometimes, late at night, when my husband comes home, and we are together, and we talk about secret stuff like babies and dreams and growing up, they are home too. We live our lives separately, always knowing that the other is there, always knowing that the other could be listening.. not for purpose, but because it's impossible to help.

And we never talk about it, either.

Because that would be improper, right?

Sometimes, when they are in the middle of happy conversations, and when they call each other those pet names that lots of people use but will never admit to using, and when she is making dinner and he tells her how good it smells, and when he says that her hair is beautiful, and she tells him that she likes his tie, and when he answers the phone "what can I do ya for?" I just want to yell through the wall-- I know you're there! I'm glad you're happy! I'm glad we're neighbors! I'm glad that two people as nice as you got married to one another!

But I don't. Because only outgoing five-year-olds do that. And even when I was five, I wasn't outgoing.

This year I had a class where I felt completely safe.

Usually, when in class, I never raise my hand. I never contribute my ideas to the discussion. Usually, I will formulate ideas in my head and script every word of my comment to be made and let my stomach get all knotty and worry until my face gets all hot and my hands get jittery and itchy and I will jiggle my leg up and down until I eventually work myself up to the prospect of alerting the class of my pre-scripted comment by waving my shaky hand at the teacher. But usually there's the boy in the red baseball cap with the ballpoint pen and the thick-rimmed glasses on my left that will make the comment that I had previously scripted in my head exactly 4 seconds before I can work up enough adrenaline just to raise my hand.

Usually.

I didn't like Shakespeare. Last year.

I didn't like Shakespeare my whole life.

But this year, I fell in love with him. And in his class, I found my confidence. I learned that yes, I am intelligent, and yes, I have good ideas, and yes, I am a capable, functioning, educated human being.

Sometimes you wonder, ya know?

I raise my hand every class, though. I express myself.

And I tell my small class of 16 that I know I am important.

It's a big step for me.

I'm finding my way out, guys.

Today my soul breathes. It is a little more free.

And about these thinned walls?

They won't keep me bound.

I've found a window to lean my back against.

The little engine that could.

2010-04-06T22:40:00.000-07:00

Today was a bad day.

Not for any particular reason,

but you know those days that every obstacle you encounter makes you want to sit down against the nearest wall and bawl until your head falls off? But instead you hold back and and your chest forms that tight, knotted mess just behind your lungs.

You finish a research paper only to start another one, and you never quite finish your reading, and you have two presentations you have to give this week-- neither of which you've been able to spend much time on, and you didn't eat 'til four today because you were trying to get stuff done, and you fell asleep when you got home because you only got 5 hours of sleep last night and woke up after the temple closed, and all you want to do is sit down and cry and then eat ice cream and watch The Time Traveler's Wife because you've had it on netflix for a week and a half now, but you haven't had the opportunity to cuddle up to husband and watch it.

Husband makes you dinner, though, and cuddles you and smiles at you and tells you how much he loves you until you can't help but smile back.

And you're going to the temple early tomorrow.

And you'll be done with finals/papers/presentations/this semester and you'll be across the world from all of this scholarly nonsense** in a mere 16 days.

Happy last week of semestering, lovers, and good luck. If you're anything like me, you'll probably need it.

**This statement is purely a bi product of my exhaustion from this semester. I do not think scholarly pursuits are nonsensical.

2010-04-05T17:06:00.000-07:00

Indeed, I listen to Yanni radio station on pandora while writing. I don't like repetition, and I don't like loud lyrics to get in the way of my words.

My dad listens to Yanni. And Enya. And my dad reads books like I do.

More like eats.

Inhales.

I remember when I was 7 years old, and dad used to rap that book to us.

The Berenstain bears and the missing dinosaur bone. Beat boxing included.

Do you remember daddy dates?

I remember in high school, when I would miss the bus everyday. Before I could drive.

Mom would drive me to school, and even though she was probably irritated because I just wasted 30 minutes of her time, she let me talk to her the whole way about my life.

And the thing that made the difference? She cared.

They both did. Do.

That's all I wanted to say.

Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?

2010-03-29T21:06:00.000-07:00

I've been writing about Virginia Woolf for 4 hours now.

I think it's about time to take a break.

She's all about stream of conscious. I might as well be, too.

The "LOVE" enrichment project woodamajigger-- a wedding gift that currently sits on the entertainment center-- blends into the wall, even though the two colors are not the same. I probably would be a better decorator if I had money to do so, and more importantly, time. But I spend my time doing other things-- like schooling and showering and sleeping. But I wonder if the landlord knew that one day, we would move in, and the walls would be the perfect color to make our"LOVE" enrichment-project-wedding-gift-the-extent-of-my-decor-skills blend in with the wall. He probably didn't, and if I told him, he wouldn't care. Just like he didn't really care when we told him the garbage disposal was broken-- but I guess we didn't either because we've only called him once about it. The only other time we called him was when the pipes froze over the winter because we didn't have the heat high enough. But he responded promptly to that. In fact, he brought a heater that didn't work over for us. We just left the heat on high, and placed the broken heater above our shower in the large storage gap that allows us to keep our christmas decorations and a backstock of paper towels. I would put extra clothes up there-- you know the ones that are perpetually falling out of my closet because they don't have any room-- but it's been water damaged, and probably has some sort of fungus. I'm not that into the fungus look. I don't really know what look I'm into. I'm a married, almost-twenty-one-year-old female who will graduate with a bachelor's degree in one year precisely and sometimes I still can't figure myself out. But sometimes I think that will never go away. Sometimes I think your mind simply can't keep up with the rest of you...That your ears grow and your eyes grow and your heart grows, and old brain is just left in the dust, waiting to know what the rest of you knows. But maybe that’s not you. Maybe that’s just me.

I think Virginia might have thought so, though.

She gets me.

Now look down at the blog post. Now back at me.

2010-03-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

We didn't go to Holi yesterday. But I'm not super disappointed.

And I don't have much else to say.

This is super funny:

Of course this commercial was husband's gold find.

I love living with that boy.

three times a lady.

2010-03-23T19:07:00.000-07:00

He's two rooms away, which only equates to about ten feet.

He's strumming the guitar. No, not strumming. Plucking. No, that's not it either. It's not a cliche guitar verb. It's something smoother. He's turning the guitar. He's spinning the air with the sound from the inside. The wood vibrates.

I told him this was my favorite cardigan, and if he could please compliment me on it. He told me he likes my bangs, too.

When I first met him he played guitar. Confidence. And he sang, too. He made me want to sing, but I was scared. I'm always scared. About new bangs, and about singing in front of people.

But he makes me feel okay about both. He makes me feel good about both.

I learned today that I tell him everything.

That means something-- when you can tell someone everything. When you don't hold back. When you can express love openly, disagree openly, divulge openly, and you're never ashamed of your small thoughts that sometimes you just want to speak.

I'm glad he still plays the guitar.

If you're going to call me a heretic, please don't read this blog.

2010-03-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I had a break down for a lot of ambiguous and unspoken reasons of an emotional nature that I will choose not to divulge on this public web page for the very fact that it is public and the ambiguous things of the emotional nature are currently egg-shell like and ready to be smashed in my face, which I would prefer not to happen for obvious reasons. I am a writer, but I am also not keen about spilling my personal life to the world free for the judgments and taking of all who choose. No, I'll just cry to husband.

But that's not my point.

After this long and ambiguous emotional breakdown, I decided to investigate the graduate school application process here, at the BYU.

And it led to another emotional breakdown.

Because.

The average GPA for acceptance into the BYU graduate school English department is 3.72.

Oh, did you notice? 3.72.
Like that Biology test that you studied for 5043 hours for and got a B on? Not good enough. Really.
3.72.

Um, excuse me BYU for not maintaining a 3.72 GPA-- I had spiritual things to discover, social things to figure out, weddings, financial troubles, engagement (just one), best friends, good byes, work, and a whole crap load of experience that makes my GPA not quite that awesome. Okay? Thanks.

Apparently, though, there are 30 people that are accepted into the Masters of English program every year that maintain that GPA, PLUS having skyrocketing GRE scores, plus running 12 miles every day, plus only eating organic meat and salads, plus ironing their jeans, plus getting published 342554 times, plus... well, you get my point.

Obviously, I'm generalizing, stereotyping, and being downright obnoxious. But can you blame me? I spent my first year at BYU attempting to major in business by taking all of the math prerequisites. It shot my GPA, my self-esteem, and my plans to go into marketing.

But guess what? I found out what I really wanted to do. Want to do.

And now, from the BYU website, I am being told that I am not good enough to do just that, because of a process of self-discovery that occurred while I was here. I'm not perfect. I'm flawed. Extremely. But I feel like sometimes BYU expects perfection. Spiritual perfection. Intellectual perfection. Physical perfection. Elitests.

Excuse me, for being human, BYU.

That being said, though, I must say that I absolutely love BYU. I love a billion things about it. I have received a fantastic edumacation here, met some amazing people, had some breathtaking experiences-- and none of those things can be degraded, or SHOULD be degraded because I probably won't get into their English program. I'm true blue, cougar to the soul, and it will always be that way.

So, the heretical part.

I looked up University of Utah's grad school programs.

Now before all of you fellow cougars flinch and bawl and leave this page, hear me out.

Their required GPA is 3.0. 3.0 is a beautiful GPA. Get a few Bs, get a few As, get a few Cs, live a little, and on to graduate school it is. I can do 3.0. Another thing-- it tells me exactly how much it will cost to go, and it is only a small amount more than the amount I am currently paying for tuition. I'm not sure of BYU's prices, but I've heard horror stories. The actual amounts aren't available on the website. Plus, I've heard that it's a good idea to do graduate studies away from your undergraduate university. More diversity, or something.

So there it is. Come fall of 2011, it is very possible that I could be a graduate student at the university I have cheered against for the sum total of the years that make up my life.

Don't fret my lovely cougars,
For I am blue, through and through.
But I value education, too. :)

{how could byu give up such extreme poetics from a writer like myself? heavens. poor souls. hehe}

For clarification:

2010-03-18T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am not pregnant.

Stream of consciousness blogging can be trouble sometimes.

I am really excited for babies, however. And it will be a storm, I'm sure.

Those crazy Sikahema children.

loestrin. 24.

2010-03-17T17:24:00.000-07:00

my soul has been quiet lately.

it's a good quiet-- like the quiet of your house when you come home from Disneyland, and your Dad carries in your sleepin' little brother in his arms because it's late and way past all of your bed times, and in your bedroom the bed is made and your pillow is soft and cold and fluffy because it's been almost a week since it has been slept on, and you breathe in deeply because the smell is familiar, and the rooms are welcoming, and you feel soft and you feel safe there after a weeks of riding crazy rides and trying new things and traveling on strange roads for what seemed like eternity.

you look back on the week, grateful for everything that went into the adventure-- for the relationships that you built, for the adventures you had, and for the exhilaration of it all... but when you finally get home, you are more than ready for it that little, patterned, quilted blanket of familiarity that it provides. you are more than ready to rid yourself of the strange-smelling hotel beds, the processed food, and the up and downs of the many roller coasters you placed yourself in.

lately, i feel calm, a lot. part of that is husband, i know. he calms me. he gives me perspective. and he loves me. a lot. and i love him. a lot.

but there are other reasons i am changing, i think.

last march. i was almost 20. almost. i cried a lot, then. probably every other day. i was lost, a little. confused, maybe.

but i was happy. life was good. it was just up and down, spinning, dropping, turning, and accelerating all the time.

life is a different kind of good, now. i'm home now. and husband is home with me. and we love each other. and life is calm, and happy, and good.

i was ready for this calm.

..this calm before the storm?

babies.

i recently discovered that i like potato chips again.

2010-03-16T21:03:00.000-07:00

there were people making out on campus today.
and i judged them.

but then i realized that i have no problem doing the same thing.
exaggerated.

and husband picks me up and spins me in the wilk, even though it's only been 57 minutes since we last saw each other.

sigh.

also, i am 21 credits from graduation.
strange? yes.

u.s passport

2010-03-12T14:37:00.000-08:00

lalalalala came today.

hong kong, rome:
here we come. :)

small day.

2010-03-11T17:09:00.001-08:00

i revived my youth a little today. because the sun was shining, and i could feel the youth inside my rib-cage. it was bubbling. so i drove with the windows down, and the radio loud, and i smacked my gum like a child, even though i never chew gum because it hurts my intestines. i almost pulled my hair from the wispy french-braid i threw it into this morning. but i'm not quite that youthful, still.

you know those kind of sublime and unearthly experiences that you sometimes have, such as déjà vu? the ones that leave your fingers tingling and your mind pounding and you feel like you've almost reached this climax that you never even knew existed-- so your heart pounds and reaches for the rest, but it is just barely out of your grip and then the experience fades slowly, and all the sudden you are back in a classroom with desks in a circle talking about irish literature?

i wondered what it would be like to be husband today, and had one of those experiences. it's like, we're living the same life, right? ish? and so we have all of these things that we see and feel and experience together, and i know how i feel, but he's an entirely different person than i am. and his experiences are completely different. but sometimes i feel so at one with him, that i nearly forget we are two people. which is silly.

oh, but how i love him.

i kiss him all the days.

peeves.

2010-03-10T08:36:00.000-08:00

you guys.

slews of wonderful men exist on the planet.
1 of which is my husband, 2 of which are my dads, and 6 of which are my brothers. among many others. obviously.

however.

slews of not so wonderful men also exist on the same planet.

and these slews of men inherently include the park-stalkers that steal parking places and back into you in the south-of-campus parking lots that are always always full.

i was a park-stalker today.

[park-stalker: n a person desiring a parking spot in a lot that is entirely full, who consequently looks for car-owning pedestrians and upon finding one, will follow them creepily with their vehicle to the stall that owner and vehicle will briefly leave.]

so i'm perched at the prime park stalking place, right at the base of the stairs, and the ped-entry to the parking-lot. primo. when there's no parking places, co-eds fight for that baby. and i had it.

WELL.

mr. honda civic forest green thinks that he is more worthy of such a lookout point.
so, upon entering the parking lot and realizing that I [me, hello, right here] am already in the prime pouncing position, he proceeds to line his vehicle up in front of me and then, once perfectly aligned, he starts to BACK UP.

um, excuse me mr. honda civic? seriously?

i'm stubborn. and no male with an over-dosage of testosterone is going to make me back out of my primo spot. especially male with and over-dose of testosterone driving honda civic and arriving late to the parking lot. please.

okay, mr. civic. back up into my car with all of your manliness. then you and your manliness can pay for the damages to my car. and your insurance premium can go up.

i almost stayed there.

making the 23452 mile walk from the marriot center, i contemplated this child's behavior.

byu needs more parking spaces.

hey guys, what if i started blogging regularly again?

2010-03-09T16:32:00.000-08:00

She's wearing black, decorated with white lines. Her hair is just the opposite.
We're simplifying language, understanding our words, dissecting our souls.
We're making meaning
from the madness
and The Audacity of Hope
which I will read this summer,
because I want to know
like she knows.

{i drive back to fake life}
without my mind on
autopilot.
simple words.

{she says the only advantage of getting old is the perspective you gain.}

I listen.

{to lyndsi shae: i think you know who this is about. i loooove her class. and her. and you.}

that old bard.

2010-03-05T14:31:00.000-08:00

and yet i love him for it.

but this is the hardest exam i have ever, ever witnessed.
sleepless weekend.

and my ontology will be refuted by the ethereal existence that takes its place post-examination.

like a rolling stone.

today

2010-03-01T18:51:00.000-08:00

i smelled the grass growing

.smile.

.

Hey guys. I have died.

2010-02-19T23:27:00.000-08:00

And gone to heaven.

I will never love another musician as much as I love Billy Joel.

It's one of those kind of things where only screaming until your vocal chords bleed and your pancreas implodes and you pass out from the sheer awesomeness of the concert you just attended can explain.

So I'm not going to try.

Goodnight.

Reconciled words.

2010-02-19T09:55:00.000-08:00

Today I have confidence again.
{i hate admitting that maybe my confidence depends on my success. but that's not that crazy. it does. i am.}

--The only reason he took off points was for LENGTH.--

Triumph!

My words are back.
I missed you, old friends.

Peer Edits

2010-02-09T18:20:00.000-08:00

She told me that that sentence was passive. I used 'there are.' She said I shouldn't. Ever. Really.

Why, I think. Because some opinionated professor told you so?
I chose to be passive. Intentionally. Shocked?

Those poor, poor, students who do everything any given PHD tells them to.

Please. Spare me.

I told the waitress no ice, and it's far too early for chocolate.

2010-02-05T14:31:00.000-08:00

I know you saw my hand flailing, for I watched my pulses of non-validation as they swept past your face. You looked, but didn't see... I'm real too.

I guess you'd have to know my name, first.

It rained today.

Saturday night's alright.

2010-01-30T21:50:00.000-08:00

It's weird when you have time to write, but nothing to say.

At least, it's weird for me.

All day long I have essays and poems and theses running through my head.

And all day long I have no time to complete them.

So I do the napkin thing-- grabbing whatever sort of random material that will hold my thoughts temporarily, until I can find a better home for them. Which I rarely do. So they float, half-way between my thought processes, and half-way between the paper I can't seem to ever find; and when the paper is present, the time is lost again.

So here I am, 11:00 on a Saturday night, in my tiny little house, without husband.

I have time and paper--

but no words.

Sorry to disappoint.

But today I'm tired of trying too hard.

Husband blogs. I'm sure you'll read.

Missionaries.

2010-01-28T16:37:00.000-08:00

It's Wednesday.

Your moisturizer falls in the sink, and spills liquidy-cream stuff all over the inside of the brown marble bowl. You stare.

It reminds you of the whitish, sugar-free pudding today at the buffet. It was mixed into the salad bar, sitting amongst the spinach and nuts, obviously wondering why it had been placed so randomly. And you almost considered putting it over your ceasar-salad you just created, if only to give the sugar-free, vanilla pudding a purpose in its arbitrary existence... But, instead, you walk away. Brother was still with you.

You remember walking into the buffet, and asking brother how he felt. He told you about packing his suitcase, and about more than 55 lbs of stuff he had to transform into 55 lbs, and you walked ahead of him, and didn't make eye-contact. Your feet shuffled as he talked, and eventually he trailed off. He probably thought you weren't listening. You memorized every word.

3 AM comes quick when you're sad. You scratched your ball-point onto 2 sheets of college-ruled paper. One to California, one to Provo.

You think of the pudding again.

Husband holds you while you cry until the alarm sounds. It's too early.

I thought I would change,

2010-01-26T17:24:00.001-08:00

Because the day that I started to want bangs, it was over. The next twelve years of my life had bangs with them. And when my hair had nearly grown to the point of a non-bang existence, I captured those bangs again. Snip, snip.

And today I want to cut bangs again.

To: Santa, Love: The Marrieds

2009-12-22T20:59:00.000-08:00

Single people say that married people who were once single and then become engaged and then married and are thus considered married people drop off of the face of the planet once this event occurs.

However, I can assure you, they don't.

I started this blog, hmm, well probably last week sometime. I am currently sitting in an airplane, somewhere over Iowa, halfway between Utah and New Jersey.

Halfway between two lives that I now live. Two lives that will slowly form themselves into one, and it will be called, "The Sikahema Family." I have two homes now. Two sets of parents. I have a total of 10 siblings. And I have a small, new family with the love of my life. It's just us, but we're a family.

Last week, I legally changed my name. Social security, and Driver's license.

Last week, LJ and I celebrated our 1 month anniversary.

This week, we celebrated our first Christmas together.

Life is completely different, now.

It's amazing how fast and how drastically your life can change when something as little as a tiny "r" enters your preferred title. They print out the license, you say your "I Dos" at your preferred place of marriage, and suddenly your life changes forever. Suddenly your best friend is at your side 24/7, and you talk about things like joint-checking accounts, bills that stack up because you are poor college students, and the toaster you have yet to buy for your tiny apartment.

It's wonderful.

Life, life always changes. It is a perpetual cycle of change.

Today, I smile at change.

For time is fickle, but change is constant.

"Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity." ~Henry Van Dyke

LG phones

2009-11-20T10:06:00.001-08:00

The fact of the matter is: I'm getting married. Tomorrow. This day, November 20, is my last full day as a single woman. Today, I am sane, which is more than I can say for yesterday, or probably tomorrow. Remember that insurance commercial that has the obnoxiously inconvenient things happen to the characters in the scene, and then prints the phrase, "Life comes at you fast" afterwords? Ambiguous. Sorry. But yeah. Life. Comes at you fast.

Yesterday I had 1234 papers to write and 73456 things to read and 2345 things to study for and 3487 quizzes to take and a bed to pick out and tiny little wedding things to do and moving and figuring out where to put my car because the Riv kidnapped my parking pass and cleaning for cleaning checks and waxing some parts of me that turned out to be extremely painful and eating and SLEEPING.

But today, today I just had to go to class. And I have a midterm in an hour, a midterm for Italian... which I DON'T understand, by the way... and for which I am absolutely not going to spend my time studying for.

No, instead, I will amuse my thoughts by writing on my blog; a blog that has probably ceased viewership because of its lack of updated information. It's okay. I don't blame you. Duh.

My last post was about swine flu. During that time period, I probably cursed swine flu into the grave because of my hatred for it. Little did I know, though, that swine flu would eventually become a foul-weathered friend to me.

LJ (I'm going to start capitalizing both letters because for some reason he hates that I only capitalize the J, which doesn't really make much sense to me because I love the way the little j looks, but I guess it is his name, so I will oblige...) and I had tickets to the Elton John/Billy Joel concert that was supposed to be tonight. LJ's dad bought them back in June for us, even before LJ had come home. So, in the event of our engagement, and considering that fact that the tickets still seemed ages away, we planned the Wedding for the day after the concert... and planned our wedding dinner the day of. (Today.) It was sheer madness when we figured our mistake; but, of course, the dinner was more important. The tickets got a selling slot on KSL, and we got depression.

However, just 2 days ago, I was back on KSL, attempting (again) to sell our tickets. I posted a phrase numerous times that stated the seat numbers, section, row, and date of the concert. After posting, I got a mysterious email that exclaimed I was being fraudulent in my posting... for the concert had been "postponed."

This couldn't be. Life couldn't be THAT good to me.

But, sure enough, I hopped onto a news website which, indeed, pronounced the delay of the concert. Elton John had swine flu. The statement told all ticket holders to hold on to their tickets, and they would be redeemable on the date of the new concert-- which is expected to be towards the beginning of next year.

AND I'm getting married tomorrow.

So I suppose that means I'll be eating my cake, too.

just oinkin' around.

2009-11-01T18:36:00.000-08:00

a few weeks ago, when swine flu vaccines were available to the general public, i was not one among the few and the lucky to receive a supposed cure for the dirty epidemic that has people fearing pigs everywhere. being an asthmatic, college-attending, health-care-working, 20-year-old-- i am pretty high on the list for people most likely to contract the flu of swine.

i'm not saying i have swine flu.

i'm not even going to say that i might have it.

but i am going to say that i'm pretty darn sick.

along with, what seems to be, the rest of the entire human/byu/everyone i know population.

i spent the day hacking up my lungs, sleeping, attempting to communicate with my rapidly declining vocal chords, downing fluids, chicken noodle soup, vita c, and cough drops. Emphasis on cough drops.

and fiance? he spent the day making me chicken noodle soup and holding me while i drooled on his tie, snotted on his shoulder, and coughed like a mad woman into his chest. then, he'd lift my head and tell me that i'm beautiful. and kiss me.

i am terrified he is going to get sick. terrified.
but in the mean time, i want the world to know that i have the best future-husband in the entire world.

on top of the best fiance, i also have the best mom. she has made two trips to provo, yesterday and today, to bring me fresh (homemade) chicken broth, meds, cough drops, and vita c tablets. this is my mom, who ALWAYS has a million and one things to do. like, everyday.

swine flu.

bringing people together: one cough drop at a time.

i guess my point is to say that in the midst of all this illness, i am grateful to have such awesome people in my life. i really am so blessed.

also, i am getting married this month. THIS month.
i'm sure that post-engagement will enable me to be better in the blogging world.
you understand.

anyway, the best of health to you all.
happy oinking.

[on new journals, registries, and obesity]

2009-10-21T09:43:00.001-07:00

I bought a new journal.

Lj and I are registered, but I don't quite feel at ease with it.

And I'm deathly afraid of obesity because of Beto's over dosage.

I'm getting married exactly one month from today.

Don't worry, my bloggage will resume.
Eventually.

[on love]

2009-10-15T23:22:00.000-07:00

my heart beats in iambic pentameter.
but not when i'm with you.

[on small towns and morning breath]

2009-10-14T23:39:00.001-07:00

somewhere, driving, around 6am on a cloudy, rainy, sunday morning

"I like morning breath."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Not like as in love. Like as in appreciate."
"Let me smell yours."
'What? No. There's only one way I'd let you do that."
"So pull over."

the clouds covered our half of the horizon, producing smallish droplets that drizzled the landscape. the dirt road extended past anything that could be seen. the darkened fence on the right felt stable. the smell was fresh, like earth and life. there were yellow fields, and those circular sprinklers that are so characteristic of small towns. the sun was just peeking through the horizon, and the warm air drafted through the small vents on the dashboard as we watched our earth. shared the morning.

"I can't believe that I'm marrying a girl from a place like this."
"Just a city boy..."
"Yeah, yeah."
"You love the song."

he kissed me softly then, morning breath and all. the silence surrounded us, and the sun began to join our charade of contemplation. we sat for hours. sometimes we would comment on the horizon. sometimes on the smell. once a friendly neighborhood sheriff pulled up to ask if everything was okay with the car. we told him yes, that we were simply enjoying the morning. he smiled, and nodded in understanding.

"Maybe, one day, we could raise kids in a place like this?"
"They would love it."
"I would love it."

the morning turned into afternoon, and the time came to leave our small haven we had found. we drove slowly, all the while watching as the yellowed fields passed, slowly turning into blocks of houses and green lawns. the days have passed, too, reminding us of our small town. it keeps us company, and reminds us.

we like morning breath.

[on questioning your life's endeavors because of one stupid assignment]

2009-10-07T18:04:00.001-07:00

How does Emerson express self-reliance as an active endeavor?
When one is passive, who is doing the acting? What institutions is Emerson critical of and why?
WHY does the pursuit of self-reliance require action?
The pursuit of becoming self-reliant is a quest which requires action.
Sure. Sure it does. How? Why? Expand?
I must be completely retarded.
Because I have absolutely nothing to say, and 6-8 pages to do so.

[on being a part time lover, full time friend]

2009-10-02T10:05:00.001-07:00

I.
The bleachers are cold. The air is cold. Our ears and noses are cold. Just yesterday, it was warm. 78 degrees, probably.

II.
We sneak into the stadium, even though the black, red and white sign next to the fence warns trespassing lovers like us to keep out. Well, it doesn't warn lovers. But people in general. We just happen to be lovers, who happen to be people, who happen to be trespassing. We need a place to sit. And a blanket.

III.
I drive. It's sparkly. I need to watch the road.

IV.
The Roman goddess of the dawn: her name is Aurora. Like sleeping beauty. Phillis Wheatly told us so. Then, we read Emerson. We like the dawn. And good poetry. He keeps looking at me. I just smile.

V.
It's raining, I'm barefoot, standing in solitude, waiting for his hands to find mine. He'll come, I know. He doesn't like the wet, but he likes me.

2009-09-01T17:31:00.000-07:00

i apologize for the lack of updates.

i promise a big, long, juicy post, very, very soon.

much love, bloggettes.

Hey, brown eyes.

2009-08-16T02:34:00.000-07:00

It's 3:30 in the morning.
It was August 15th.

Last week, I kissed missionary for the first time in two years.
This week, he asked me to marry him.
Tonight.
And I said yes.
Because I love him more than anything.
He means everything to me.

I am so excited for our life together.

Perfection is the only word I can think of.
It's the only word that even comes close.

Endless rainy metaphors.

2009-08-13T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'm chewing one fruit snack at a time, slowly. I eat the orange and yellow ones first, because every one knows the red and purples are the best. I like to save the best for last. My glasses keep slipping down my face, and I think I should get them tightened. Maybe I'll go tomorrow, but maybe I'll just be. I haven't changed from my Thursday work shirt yet, and my name tag keeps hitting the sliver pendant hanging from my neck. I painted my toenails again last night, and they are bright orange. I like the orange.

I've grown.

Outside, the rain is pelting the ground. The leaves that cover the dirt yield to the powerful surges, their faces turned away from the frightening nourishment. They don't know it's nourishment. That's why they turn away. That's why they cower. And the rain carries on, though misunderstood by the ones that he loves, as the colorful petals will one day bring validation. The aching souls of the newborn plants will stretch, and the droplets will smile at their maturity.

But the 3rd-grade water cycle plays through the mind: evaporation, condensation, precipitation; and the waves flow perpetually, the leaves cower endlessly, and everything continues to grow. Slowly, painfully, rhythmically.

And no one really notices.

Until one day, sitting on my pinkish sheets with orange toes, work clothes, a name tag, and fruit snacks, I remember the many intimate embraces of the icy water pelting down my face. From here, I can look and see my shrunken facade gasping for air, and I can feel the breath in my lungs now.

I look up, and I see sun.

And I've grown.

I'm in love, I'm in love, and I don't care who knows it!

2009-08-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

You guys.

He's home.

I couldn't stop looking at him. And grinning. Ear-to-ear.
Perma-grin, I kept saying.

It's what he does to me though.
He makes me happy.
He makes me laugh.
He makes me want to call again in the middle of the night, just so I can hear his voice.

I love him.
Imperfect words are useless to express that though.

As long as he knows.

2009-08-07T05:38:00.001-07:00

Well, this is it.

Next time I post, I won't have a missionary.

I'll see you homies on the other side.

Wish me luck!

Today.

2009-08-06T23:52:00.000-07:00

August 6, 2009

I woke up and went to work. As usual.
And I worked. And it was fairly busy.
But apparently not busy enough to distract.
But maybe that was because I was already distracted.

Anyway, I ran errands, and came home.
I attempted to pack, but just ended up having an emotional break down about my outfit.
So I went to cute Bailey's wedding instead.
I came home and the siblings were watching Mulan.
And I freaked out again, because I remember Lj saying how Chinese that movie really is, and for some reason that warrants a freak out.

I wanted to leave again, but I couldn't find my purse, or my shoes, or my brain for that matter.
So my Mom hugged me for like ten minutes, and told me to breathe. Breathing is vital, apparently.
I convinced my sisters to go to Walmart with me to buy tampons and Midol, because yes, I am announcing to the world wide web, I am on my period during the most important weekend of my life thus far. I am thoroughly convinced that this is some sort of sick joke.

I debated on going to the gym because I still had so much to do, but my sister convinced me that I would become neurotic if I didn't go. So I did, and I ran and ran and ran, and my body hurt, so my mind paused. Paused, mind you. It did not stop. It is not capable of such a thing at this point.

I came home and tackled my room/packing again. But this time my girls came to help. And they let me scream and giggle and freak out and dance like a maniac because the boy I love is coming home and they know how much that means and they love me so they came to be with me and it made me so so happy.

And then my sisters and brothers helped me clean. And pick out outfits.

And Lana, Lj's Dad and I exchanged texts like mad.

And now, it's one o'clock in the morning on the 7th. I have nothing left to do, except for sleep; but I'm writing because this moment I am experiencing right now will never happen again. And I want to remember everything about it.

In less than 24 hours, Leland James will be home.

Home. Remember that?

Basically,

2009-08-05T22:39:00.000-07:00

My intestines keep jiving in my stomach just enough so that my legs can't sit still and I want to scream and cry and freak out every second and every other second I throw myself into fits of giggles because the butterflies sitting in my stomach chronically take flight and then they start to nibble at my bellybutton and then I start to cry but I think it's just because somehow a rabble of those very same stomach butterflies escaped into my brain and all I can see are rainbows and stars and waterfalls and happy endings and my eyes have a sappy, glazed sheen causing my vision to be blurred and a perma-smile is stretched across my face that unfortunately has the very beginnings of about 3 stress zits that I have creamed and popped and manhandled to keep out of visible range and my fingers keep drumming beats to favorite love songs that are suddenly 12 times better than they ever have been and I have been rendered completely useless because missionary is coming home in

....breath...

2 days.

Oh, epiphany.

2009-08-04T17:08:00.001-07:00

I keep thinking that I want to write something intelligent, and mildly interesting.
So I get frustrated when I write stupid things.
But then I realize that my mind is validated in its inability to focus.

Duh, August 7th.

That was a sigh of relief.
I'm not completely incapable.

Blah blah blee blah

2009-08-04T16:38:00.000-07:00

I thought I had Jelly Bellies figured out, and then I got a peanut butter. Which was weird. Mildly unpleasant, even. But surprisingly satisfactory. Still, if I were Harry Potter, I would stick with Chocolate Frogs-- and not even because of crazy dementor whacked out madness that seems to accompany them. I quite enjoy the pear, however.

Also, Dementor is apparently not a word. At least, that's what the highschool english, wavy and annoying red-line beneath it is trying to tell me. Well, Mozilla, Dementor IS in fact a word. Helllooo, welcome to pop culture. Also, whacked shouldn't be spelled with an "h." Lame, Webster.

I'm a narcissistic nitpicking freak lately. Towards myself. Hence the narcissism. Or maybe anti-narcissism would be more correct. Anyway. The weird choppyness of my hair around my face is driving me nuts, not to mention the fact that it will NOT stay straight, no matter the amount of heat-styling I apply to it. Also, my right lateral incisor is a tiny chip smaller than my left one, and I want it bonded. Like, every day. AND, my daily workout regimine seems to be increasing my endurance and strength, but as for tone and unwanted chub, I've got nothing. I started out this post talking about Jelly Bellies and Chocolate Frogs. Maybe I'm onto something here.
Fareeeaaaak, I'm tired of stressing about my blasted image.
I mean, I know WHY I am. But it's just getting ridiculous.
I'd stress about breathing if not for my Medulla Oblongata. Seriously.

There's a weird part of me that loves law. For instance, Law and Order might be my favorite TV show. (But considering the amount of time I spend in front of the television, that might be debatable.) I love John Grisham books with my soul, and even though they are all fundamentally the same, I've read a good majority of them. And...
Okay, so that's it maybe.
It was just a thought.

My mind's everywhere.
Which is probably obvious to you.
I'm annoying myself.
And I'm reeeeaaaalllyyyy tired.
It was a long day.

But even if it was a long day... It was a long day that's nearly over.
And then, 2 days.

I should clean my room.
And figure out what on earth I'm going to do with my hair.

I love Leland James.

Meditation.

2009-08-01T01:09:00.001-07:00

1 AM. Here.

I was driving instead of snoring, because I can't get enough of my girls.
It happens.

The moon was enormous, and looming at the very edge of the west mountains surrounding the dipping valley. I've never seen it so large in my life. It was a breathtaking color of gold, too. Emphasis on breathtaking. Absolutely beautiful.

And I thought to myself, this time next week, I'll be with Lj.

So I blasted the song, because the music speaks, and my thoughts muffle. Not anything in particular, they just muffle.

It was Rufus Wainwright-- the man singing I mean. There was a baffled king, and he composed hallelujah.

I think I kind of know how that baffled king felt.

Years ago, Brooke and I discussed the meaning of that particular song in the darkness of my car when we didn't want to separate ourselves for curfew and propriety. It happened frequently. We decided that the hallelujah is love; but it is a sad, withered, worn out love. A broken love, maybe.

I've changed my mind a little.

I'm a baffled king composing hallelujah.
My love is coming home.
And we are one in soul, me and Rufus.

But maybe it was just the chords speaking to me.

Because like I said, my thoughts muffle.

10 and counting.

2009-07-28T16:50:00.000-07:00

I don't usually shop at Kohl's department store unless I am exceedingly desperate for an article of clothing, and have thoroughly searched my staple locations unsuccessfully. Not that I have anything against Kohl's-- they have convenient locations, their sales aren't bad, and I find stuff I like every once and a while-- but I just reeeaaalllyy can't shop there because their disorganization kills me. It makes me feel dizzy just walking in there. Not that I have anything against them as a corporation, but like I said, they're a desperate-measure type deal.

Anyway. I was there today, looking for shorts that would adequately cover my annoyingly long thighs. Not that I don't have them (shorts that will cover my thighs, I mean)-- I'm just tired of sporting the same 3 pairs of shorts summer after summer after summer after summer. Good shorts seem to be a rare commodity, like, always. After my (obvious) lack of success in searching for this seemingly endangered article of clothing at other stores, I trudged over to Kohl's to give it a shot. Upon entering the store, though, I had the immediate urge to sprint back out to the 98767 degree weather and make the drive home, thus accept my failure as a shopping woman. I fought the urge, and actually found some shorts that seemed promising while I browsed. I had to try them on, though-- It can never be a full commitment until the dressing room approves, of course.

So I wandered over to the dressing room area, had urges similar to the ones I felt upon arrival, but found an open room anyway, and began to try on the shorts.

"Ugh. Too short."
"Fat pant shorts?"
"What the heck are those dangly things on the pockets? How did I miss those?"
"Maybe if I took out the hem..."

After about the third or fourth pair, I began to get discouraged. I sat on the bench in the dressing room and heaved a sigh of frustration. As I sat there, I began to listen to the happenings of the other Kohl's customers in the dressing rooms around me. One conversation caught my attention. It was a female, who was just entering high school. She had her parents and a friend with her, and they were shopping for back to school clothes. The friend seemed to be acting as her fashion consultant, and her parents the modesty-generals. As she tried on one particular outfit, she walked out of the dressing room, exclaiming to her friend how much she was in love with it, even though she could barely fit the skinny jeans over her "huge thighs." (Her words, not mine.) Her friend proceeded to tell her how fantastic she looked, and how every guy would be gushing over her on the first day. As she walked out of the dressing room to get the final verdict from her parents, her mom reacted immediately.

"Absolutely not. Honey, you know that is not acceptable."
"But Mom! I love it!"
"Look at your Strength of Youth pamphlet. Do you think that this outfit would cater to the standards I KNOW you are trying to uphold?"
"But MOOOM!!!! UGHHHHH!"

As she walked back into the dressing room, she unneccessarily informed her friend of her mom's reaction.
"I don't understand why she has to go all Bible on me! Augh! She is so ANNOYING."
"Yeah, that's so annoying. Doesn't she know how great you look?"

And that's when I caught myself thinking, "It may seem annoying now, but trust me, you'll thank her later."

That was weird. That thought, I mean. For me. Not because I don't agree with the mother, but because I don't think I'm old enough to be thinking thoughts like that.

Every time I sign on to blogger, I click on all the updated blogs displayed on my dashboard. I open them all up before I start to read, and then I close them as I read them. Today I had too many tabs open in my window, though. They were tabs for photographers, and flower sites, and reception centers. I'm not planning a wedding. Not yet. But it might look that way.

And I'm okay with that. I think.

I'm thinking a lot of things.

You're probably wondering exactly what I'm thinking at this point, then. I mean, tomorrow we will be in the double digits. Lj will be home next week. After two years of being without him, he will be call-able. Speak-able. Hug-able. Boyfriend-able. This is kind of a big deal, I think.

But mostly, I just can't wait to be with him. I love the person that he is. I can't wait to just drink him up. To hear his laugh. To see him smile. He's got really pretty brown eyes. I love his eyes. He makes me laugh all the time, too. He's a great listener. He's disarming, easygoing, and funloving. I can be who I want to be when I am with him.

I can't wait for that.

And I don't have to, much.
Just 10 more days, is all.

And 2 years? Let the world know that I would do ten more if I had to. He's just that worth it.

2009-07-27T07:37:00.001-07:00

Last night, I wrote my final letter.

Too many thoughts.

2009-07-26T11:22:00.001-07:00

Two nights ago we snuggled on the grass with our four different quilts and swatted bugs until an approaching thunder storm decided to grace us with its presence. We laughed out loud as it poured off of our faces and down our throats through our open mouths. It tickled. And we talked, for hours.

Yesterday marked two years. Two years since Lj reported to the MTC. Yesterday I also went to the wedding of my lovely friend Camille. I almost cried through the whole reception. I'm embarrassing. But they looked so happy, so in love, so perfect together-- and together they will be, for eternity. I can't wait for that.

My mind goes 18232465 mph lately. I haven't experienced 2 seconds in the last 3 weeks where my mind can just be. I'm gonna see the love of my life in 12 days. That's probably why.

And plus brother leaves in 3 weeks. He's gonna grow up and go to college. Away from me.

I don't know what to say. There are so many things to say. I'm ecstatic, nervous, excited, terrified, sad, content, and anxious.

But mostly, I'm extremely happy.

2009-07-25T22:41:00.000-07:00

Orson Scott Card is one of my favorite novelists. He is probably most notorious for the Ender series, however, he is a fantastic essayist and has written many other great novels. Just a few days ago in a conversation my dad and I were having about Card, my dad informed me that one of his popular novels entitled Lost Boys was actually written as an autobiography, which some might say is why the book was so fascinating. It was filled with some metaphorical, and some very literal tellings of his life.

Anne Fadiman. She's an essayist, one of my absolute favorites. I read a collections of essays by her called Ex Libris in high school, and have read and reread it numerous times since. The essays focus on aspects and facets of her life, mostly that have to do with being a book worm and an author, but are driven by the everyday ins-and-outs of her personal life.

The very best of poets-- Byron, Tennyson, Dickinson, were all driven in their writing by very obvious personal experiences-- whether it be love, heartache, faith or passion, if it was real they wrote. The beauty of their poetry is birthed from the veracity of their words.

The difference between these people and me?
Audacity scares the crap out of me.

I've been thinking on my writing lately. I've stopped posting, for no other reason than the fact that I can't possibly bear the knowledge of my personal life floating, free for the taking of unknowns who will do what they will with my deepest of thoughts, fears, doubts, desires, and emotions. I have a lot to say, and I say it. Just not to the world. In fact, most the time, to no one but myself.

I want to be a writer. I'm driven by words.

But how can I if I am so terrified of sharing my reality?

Snuggies.

2009-07-15T22:15:00.001-07:00

I officially own one.

{video has been disabled because it was one of those annoying, start on its own kind. can't have that. thus, it has been removed.}

Thank you Katie Harris, Thank you.

Obsession.

2009-07-08T22:35:00.001-07:00

Wildflowers

2009-07-07T20:33:00.000-07:00

The flowers sway with the ever pressing wind, and the dust dances around them.
It leaves their delicate silhouettes reaching for freedom.
A trained figure prances around their patches of life, examining.
But their gentle beauty seems to offend the caretaker's pride.
The small roundness of their petals hardly compares to the bright convulsion of the others.
Their untrained bodices reach toward heaven, but rarely catch the sun.
The others are chosen, and taken.
They are left, alone.

Day after day, the sun withers their shrunken, reaching ligaments.
And day after day, their small petals unravel their mysterious and patient beauty.
They wait for the figure to appreciate their smallness, their insignificance.
The nights are long, and continually occur.
And still, they are left alone.

Today, it is 31° F, and the reaching petals no longer exert force.
Their withered souls sigh in completion.
Tonight, the dirt is left alone.

Tomorrow, the figure comes searching.
The smallness of their beauty is gone,
and he weeps for ignorance and shame.
His tears form a salted mud in the dirt,
and the souls of those quite beauties sing of second chances, and a coming Spring.

I sing the song with them.
It's the only thing I can do.

The last four years

2009-07-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

Today marks four years. Four years in Kaylie-Lj time.
It also marks 5 weeks. 5 weeks until that time can resume the dynamic it began with.

Four years ago today, it was Sunday. It was warm, but not hot-- and I was wearing the bluish dress I sported at homecoming. I wore heels, but later regretted it. I didn't want to look too tall. Sitting in a pew with my family, I would nonchalantly glance around the spacious room, my eyes always returning to the first row of chairs to the right and about ten feet back. I wanted to see if Lj was looking at me, too. He wasn't, though. He's smooth.

In Sunday school, I answered a question wrong-- something about the tree of life. Lj corrected me, but not condescendingly. Just sweetly. I remember kicking myself for getting the wrong answer, though.

After church, I made my family come with me outside to "hang out." But of course I was watching for this cute boy who was staying across the street. Eventually, he left the house to talk to his buddy about me, which information I was obviously ignorant to, and so I invited myself along. We walk around the block, just chatting, and eventually ended up on the front lawn.

"I like you more than I've ever liked anyone."
"Yeah, me too."
"So you've never kissed anyone before?"
"I want to kiss you, if that's what you mean..."

Now, four years later, I am five weeks away from seeing this boy that I have loved for a great fraction of my life, but feel as though I have loved forever.

Will you share your life with me
Till the world explodes
Till there's no one left
Who has ever known us apart
There are so many dreams
I need to see with you...
I will never be complete
I will never be alive
I will never change the world
Until I do
-The Last 5 Years

Writers Unblock

2009-07-01T19:37:00.000-07:00

I love the tapping of a keyboard while purging myself through the tenacity of a word processor. There is probably nothing more satisfying than that sound. It's a sound that has been somewhat foreign to me lately. Tonight, though, I was tired of the silence-- tired of the private sentences formulating themselves in my head, but not clearly enough for me to see. There is a blockade that has held my mind for weeks. Tonight, it finally seemed to dissipate. I have become a sort of freedom. A sort of liberation, if you will.

Staggering upon this blockade some mere hours ago, I realized that a fight would ensue in order to relieve my mind from such an enemy. My mind raced with images of Berlin. The images, though, were personalized-- fitting perfectly into this void in my mind, creating a massive barricade between my words and me. Unlike the Berlin Wall, this wall was blank-- a clear, darkened gray, free from any idea whatsoever.

I glared at the massive thing. And it glared back.

Hearing my name from an unknown room, I wandered the dusk-lit hallways to find the source, and perhaps to find freedom from the adversary that was binding my attention. It was my mother who called; she was sitting calmly next to the piano in the burnt-orange chair with the broken leg when I found her.

"Oh hello," she says, "I just wanted to see what you were up to."

Fighting internal battles, I wanted to say.

I sat down on the matching burnt-orange chair, the one with no broken leg, right next to her.

"Oh, nothing," I lie.

I think she always knows, though.
She had been to a viewing earlier that night. It was a viewing of a good family friend. She passed away last week--leaving four young children and a husband. I asked her how the events transpired.

Upon arrival, the father could be found greeting friends and family with a cheerful grin filled with genuineness. He inquired about the lives of any and all visitors, all the while his parents stood by him with equally inviting smiles. The heir of happiness seemed almost out of place as the mourners made their way through the line, but the feeling of faith and love overfilled the room, a calm presence donned the room with light, and not a person could deny its origin.

This is what my mother said, anyway.

I cried as she spoke.

I cried for a lot of reasons.

The small wall in the corner of my mind that had captured my full attention only minutes before seemed to diminish itself through my tears and escape down the curves of my cheeks as both of us realized its lack of significance. The battle that I expected to fight was suddenly lost in the fervency of reality, in its undeniable nature.

It allowed my words to be loosed, to be free.

I don't know who you are, or why you are choosing to read my blog; maybe you are a close friend who follows it publicly. Maybe you are family who likes to stay in tune with my life. Maybe you are an acquaintance who simply likes to read, or maybe you are a complete stranger who happened upon this random web page.

Regardless of who you are though, you are still reading my inhibited words-- words which I sometimes struggle to give freely of. I don't know why. However, these words which I will share are real. They are full. They are.

I don't know what you believe. I don't know what means the most to you. And I am not trying to convince you one way or the other. I simply want to share the things most important to me while my mind is clear-- free from the restraints of the monotony of life.

Not many things are of extreme importance in our world. That seems like a broad, general statement, but it's true. There is so much focus placed on success and prestige, appearance and other vices of futility-- but why? Why is there not more value placed on honesty, love, and peace? I know, I sound like a flamboyant hippie, but I do not know one single person that doesn't appreciate an honest dealing with a fellow-man, a genuine expression of love, or a day filled with peace.

An inhibition created by commonplace and societal rules dictates that talk of God should be limited-- saved for the most grueling of circumstances. Even now as I type, I am careful to structure my sentences as to not be offensive. But why? I love God. I love him with all my heart. I am his daughter. And he loves me very much. I talk to God everyday; I know him. He is my best friend.

A love for God leaves me with a desire to do good. It leaves me with a love for people. It keeps me fighting for things I believe. It leads me exactly where I want to be, and I don't regret a minute of this time I have spent loving him.

It seems that the fervency of reality did not only disable the word-blocking wall, but the wall between my mind and my heart was also relinquished.

I can see the words clearer tonight than I have in months.

I can see my mother, sitting across from me in the chair, and I see the words I love you in my mind. I can see the woman across the street struggling with at 2-month-old and a 4 year old and the words I can help you formulate themselves. I can see hugs, quality time, and patience. I can see years of kindness from strangers. I can see the man who stands up for what he knows is right, even when it's hard. I can see goodness.

I can see life.

But I can see so little time.

And tonight as the words slip from my mind, I am deciding what to do with mine.

P.S.

2009-06-30T17:12:00.000-07:00

Today is the last day of June.
Tomorrow it will be July.

When it is July, I can say, "Oh, missionary? He'll be home next month."

I hope we understand the magnitude of this phrase.
Seriously, people.
This is once-in-a-life-time type business.

Writers block

2009-06-30T16:55:00.001-07:00

The words.

They're bottled up, hidden below a veil of emotion, and corked with a stubborn clog of time. They long to be free, but they haven't quite matured enough to find their own way, their own place. So they wait, and wait, and wait-- until it seems as though they will never be free, never be rid of my contradicting vices. It's not that I don't want them to be free; rather, I don't want to lose them. I want to keep them close, until they have grown to the stature of their full potential.

But instead, they wither inside my tightening heart, and fight against my agonized soul. They can hardly stand the small corners of my mind, and claim injustice in my keeping them there. It's selfish of me, I know. I should free the words, free my mind. But I can't. I simply can't.

Clammy hands reach for pencils that have no point, and dried-out pens that will never write again. No, they don't reach. They clamor. There is a longing in those hands, just as there is a longing in that heart. It must be free; from the words it must be free.

But these lines! These intersecting lines that create the letters that create the words. It is all too much to handle, too much to preserve. My fingers ache from effort, as does my mind and soul. With the words, they are one; but alone, they are nothing at all.

Nothing. Exactly how I feel now. Nothing, empty. Drained of life. Drained of words.

Because the words, the words are life; and in their absence there is darkness. Even death.

Remember this?

2009-06-22T21:22:00.000-07:00

Boyfriend is so hot. :)

Oh college.

2009-06-19T18:52:00.001-07:00

I don't know where to liiiiiiiiive.

Lookout house.

FLSR.

Some unknown cubicle of living.

Mars?

Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.

Suggestions? Please help.

p.s. sorry i'm a slacking blogger. posts to come, as soon as i stop stressing about my life, and figure out somewhere to reside in the fall.

Predicament.

2009-06-11T18:14:00.001-07:00

I tried to eat some green beans today.
They were pickled.
They tasted like pickles.
I thought it was an accident.
Because when you eat green beans, they are supposed to taste like green beans.
Not pickles.
But THESE ones are supposed to taste like pickles, mom said.
They were kind of good.

I was still surprised.

California. Tomorrow. Lover.

Don't try to stop my storm

2009-06-07T21:52:00.001-07:00

The thoughts pulsing through my head won't allow sleep. They force me to write. Force me to purge the contents of my mind, thus allowing the pulsing to recede to a slow, breathing existence--the contents thereof emptied on wasted facebook time, a couple paragraphs of writ, and a chapter or two of scripture.

Exactly 2 months from today. That epic, changing day. It's hard to not think about it, hard to not dwell on it. 2 months. 1/12 left. Next month it will be 1/24 left. And the month after that...

I feel a perpetual impatience with life. My life is stagnant, in a strange limbo period. The calm before the changing vices of an approaching storm. It's inevitable, but still approaching. Still not here. Running to the storm would be debilitating, as the safety of the shelter would be lost; but waiting for the welcome storm to rear its head on the doorstep seems illogical as well. Reason is lost in emotion, so I continue the only way I know-- the way I've been doing it for years now. I've always known the storm would come, it just never seemed so close. It never seemed tangible.

I can't wait for this storm. I welcome this change.

Don't try to crash my rainbow,
Don't try to stop my storm.

Institutionalization

2009-06-05T07:35:00.000-07:00

I say I want a revolution.
And I know we all want to change the world.
But, the world!
In all its turning, turning, turning, my reddened vision allows only change.
And I can't see my hand in front of my face.
Red must be darker than they tell us.

"It is easier to lead men to combat, stirring up their passion, than to restrain them and direct them toward the patient labours of peace." — Andre Gide

I'm an ascent of futility, just like stan.
A purpose driven suicide. A fantastic acceleration to overdrive.
Vain desires, vain attempts, vanity.

They never talk about inner revolution, though.
An unclogging of selfish paradigms.
An INNER recovery from a revolutionary urge.

The spout of red is halted in flow, and the world is white and new.
A revolution.

my revolution.

One more thing...

2009-06-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

This is the reason I facebook stalk:

Because I find little surprise gems like this one in albums that are so graciously posted by his companions.

There's a reason they teamed up with Shaq

2009-06-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

I am embarrassed to be making my voice heard again to the blogging world with no changes to my layout except some wrapper adjusting, a little tidge (which, apparently is not a word... who knew?) to my widgets, a small change to the width of the body, and a description that now more accurately describes what this blog is. The problem with my whim of a desire to change my blog layout and then broadcast it to the blogging world is that I have come to learn, in my short 20 years of life, that I am a love-at-first-sight kind of person; so getting rid of a layout that I just so happen to like A LOT probably wasn't the best idea I've had all week.

It's ironic, though, because I spent a good 19 years of my 20 being cynical of that very idea. Love at first sight, I mean. I'm continually learning about myself, though, and here's the thing-- when I like something, whether it be a dessert, an article of clothing, a blog layout page, or a boy, I LUHIIIIKE that something. And most of the time I know from the second we meet what kind of a lovely relationship we will have in the future.

Upon meeting strangers, ('meeting' here does not just mean a small handshake and an exchange of names, but rather an amount of time spent with an unfamiliar face, time which I consider the 'meeting' period) I am usually not chatty or uppity with the person. I think this initially comes off as shyness, but in reality, it's just my way of entertaining this person's place in the world in my mind. I'm cautious when it comes to people, and observant while meeting them for the first time. Before opening the book that is my life to them, I like to get somewhat of an idea what they will do with that information after I divulge. Consequently, my relationships in which I do allow my wall to come down have much depth to them, but are also few and far-between.

That sounds selfish. That whole paragraph. Darn it.

For clarification:
Upon meeting strangers, I am not only worried about myself. I don't sit and stew about how 'meet-ee' could wrong me. I just watch, and listen, and ask questions to get a general idea about the person at large. Oftentimes it's out of mere curiosity, not simply out of some strange, defensive barrier I place between myself an another person. I'm not completely socially inept, or selfish for that matter.

Anyway.

I met Leland James Sikahema Summer of '04. We were obviously just friends then, seeing that I was only 15, he was 16, and I was on the other side of the country. However, after meeting him, I couldn't get him out of my head. It was pure, it was heavy, it was love. I hadn't had a crush like this one since Stuart Coombs in the 2nd grade. I checked my email on a daily basis hoping one would come from him, wrote his last name next to my first over and over again during class, and told all of my girlfriends at sleepovers that I liked a cute boy from New Jersey named Lj. This all sounds creepy and obsessive of me, I realize that. And honestly? It probably was. But, obviously, the feeling was mutual, (at least somewhat... I'm sure Lj wasn't writing his last name next to my first name all up in his school notebooks...) because check us out now, nearly 5 years later. I cannot get enough of this boy.

Another example: Vitamin water. This one doesn't have such a happy ending, though, so brace yourself. The summer before my freshman year of college, I wandered into the Smith's by my house one night to get a snack and a redbox to entertain myself for a few hours. Strolling down the beverage aisle, a line of colorful, powerade-shaped bottles caught my attention. (Acutally, the yellow tag below the bottles reading $.89 probably caught my attention first, but the bottles soon followed, I assure you.) I had never tried this particular beverage before, and the adventurer in me that so rarely makes itself known to myself decided to pipe into my mental assessment of the situation and beverage. I decided to try it.

I loved it, from day 1. I can honestly say that I drank a Vitamin water 95% of my days as a BYU freshman. A day just wasn't a day without a Vitamin water. In all my naïveté, though, I failed to realized the caloric intake from that small addiction. At the end of my freshman year, I knew I had put on some lbs. Not the typical fifteen everyone likes to yap about, but I definitely wasn't the twig-of-a-person that I was in high school. There are probably a lot of reasons this occurred, but for this case, I will blame the Vitamin water. So do these people. Oh, Vitamin water. Curse your deceptive facade of a healthy, beveragey snack by placing 'vitamin' in the title, and large percentages on the back. I am now proud to say that I am Vitamin water-free, even after they announced their "10 cal" version-- I drink happy, healthy water.

Sometimes, as with the above account, my 'love at first sights' go dreadfully awry. But most of the time, the limbo, 'meeting' period is thorough enough that I build happy, life-long relationships with my 'love at first sight' candidates. I don't blame the Vitamin water for what it did to me. I simply blame my lack of observation. The Vitamin water WANTED to be something good, but it simply was not in the make-up. I gave it the benefit of the doubt, when I should have retained my fortress.

Now, in closing, I would like you to deeply ponder the following question: (feel free to comment when you have come to a conclusion)

Do YOU believe in love at first sight?

...

Or do I have to walk by again?

*snort*

construction

2009-06-02T23:14:00.000-07:00

the daily kaylie is obviously undergoing a serious make-over. obviously.
i am widget-less, padding-less, and severely unsatisfied with any and all layouts i have looked at.

so the search continues.
bear with me, people.

Chunks

2009-06-01T21:20:00.000-07:00

Today I laid out in the sun on my St. Joe's Prep blanket while reading my favorite collection of essays, Ex Libris. It never gets old, no matter the amount of times I've read it. For some reason my neighbor's dog thought it dandy to tickle my stomach, make me giggle and sit up, and then sit in the shade my body created after rising. I would then lift the heavy thing off of my blanket, tell it to go home, and situate myself again... only to have my stomach tickled minutes later. This went on until I eventually gave up and went inside. I hate being tickled. Especially when I am doing something important that requires concentration... Like nintendo. I used to be good at Dr. Mario. My character was always the robot-guy. I got used to the robotic victory sound he created after winning, because, well, it happened frequently while he was my character. Then, I went to school, and important skills such as nintendoing were squashed out of me to make room for Bio 100 nonsense and other "general" education. I think they call it general education because they make you take a class that gives you a general idea about the topic at large, and then tests you with graduate level questions from the same subject. And they "generally" make you do a pointless 10 hour project that no matter how hard you work on it, you'll probably get a "C" anyway. The general consensus states: "These classes generally suck." Hence, general ed. What a wet idea. It rained today. Buckets and buckets. We were trying to roast mallows to make s'mores. But everything just ended up soggy. For some reason my brother thinks it's a good idea to put a reeses in the s'more instead of a hershey's bar. That's far too liberal for my liking, though. There are a couple fundamentals such as s'mores that you just don't touch because the original will just blow the wanna-be-progressive, new product out of the water. It's a lose-lose situation. Just like when you go to Zupa's feeling adventurous, and your usual nuts about berries salad takes a backseat because you want to be different today, and your mom accompanies you on your quest for liberation, so you both proceed to liberate yourselves from the predictability you have become captive to, and ironically on this same day the dressing-chef decides to have a hang-over while making the vinaigrette, and the dressing on both of your (liberating) salads happens to taste like a dozen wasps crunched together with rotten milk in a magic bullet. Your taste buds get an unpleasant shock from an over-dosage of vinegar during your first bite, and you vow never to step outside of your comfort zone again. You don't want to complain, because everyone hates that person. But you walk out of the lovely salad joint feeling slightly disappointed, and irritated at your needy friend, hunger pains. Luckily, a trip to Costco was already on the itinerary, and their free samples and $1.35 frozen yogurt combat your distaste for public eateries. At the checkout, they scrutinize your face because they know it's not you on the back of the card, but luckily mom's with you this time, so they have no means by which to kick you out. And then they do the weird receipt-marker thing. I've never understood that. For some reason brother keeps singing in a falsetto and putting you in full-body locks, which, unfortunately, your nails prove to be useless in such a circumstance, so you sit helplessly, waiting for a parent to come to your rescue. But it's funny, so no one does. Ben Folds wants you to play his songs on the piano, but they've always been a little hard. You struggle through Fred Jones, and then decide to turn in for the night. But facebook calls, and so does blogger, and even though you've got absolutely nothing interesting to say, your fingers can't stop creating run-on sentences and choppy ideas about the day you just experienced, even though it is plausible that absolutely no one will want to read such a ridiculous piece of your mind. But you keep typing, anyway. Somehow, you were able to type for 40 minutes, change narrative from 1st person to second person, delay bedtime, and accomplish absolutely nothing while doing so.

But you got a letter today. And absolutely nothing else matters because of that.

It's contingent upon...

2009-05-31T17:25:00.000-07:00

The primary class was great today... that is, if great happened to translate to psychotically wiggly and incessantly talkative for the entire two hours. Which is fine. I have those days all the time. Still. Sundays sans treat bags are bad times, and not just for the four-year-olds.

I got new specs a few weeks ago-- a fact that I failed to mention on this blog for two reasons: 1.) The content of my most recent blogs has not catered to a casual drop of a minor image adjustment, and 2.) My most recent blogs have failed in the "recent" department. My apologies. Anyway, being an English major at the BY, I have learned that there are certain image requirements to be accepted/taken seriously by peers and professors alike who are also in the department. No one will admit to said requirements, of course, because an image requirement would mean conformity and anti-creativity/lack of individuality, and of COURSE no English major is prone to such horrendous ideals. Ironically, though, every single coed in the department seems to have gotten the image memo, and is distinguishable as such regardless of circumstance. Defining them as hipsters would probably be too extreme, but most are borderline-- you know the type: thick rimmed glasses, skinny jeans, colorful scarfs, aged sweaters, and t-shirts with obnoxious political statements advertised across the stomach. Judgmental, you say? I am only able discuss the stereotypical BYU English major's outer apparel like this because, unabashedly, I can admit to being *somewhat* like them. Hence the specs. I am (currently) pursuing an image that will enhance my ethos in my chosen educational pursuit. This might lead one to ask if my ability should be the sole cause for the established ethos. If, instead of worrying about my image, or about my specs, I should only worry about increasing my aptitude and skills. My response? Sure. In fact, absolutely. But I don't make the rules. I don't make the world turn. I just sprint at a rapid, continual pace to keep up with the rest of humanity while struggling to hold my specs to my face. To establish ethos. I'll post pics.

The brothers graduated this past Friday. It made me nostalgic. And made me feel old. People keep telling me that I should feel young, because I am, but I think that they probably didn't feel young when they were 20, either. Life is too full of vitality (yes, I purposefully chose to write a redundant sentence like that...) when you are 20 for you to feel young. There's not enough time to feel young anymore.

69 days, people. 69. 69 is divisible by 3. 3 sets of 23. Do we understand how CLOSE that is??....!

Summer nights have finally arrived, which means summer has officially begun. The chill of the evening has been replaced with biting bugs, the clouded spring skies return a darkened abyss filled with bright stars. It's perfect if you're a lover, and it's perfect if you're just you, too. But it makes you want your lover. A lot. Hypothetically, of course.

Frozen yogurt might be the best thing since sliced bread-- second only because of its small increase in calories. Not only is it healthier than ice cream, but my personal opinion is that it tastes better, too. My current, personal favorite is this lovely joint. The girls and I paid a visit last night. It was pulchritudinous. (It was a must to use the word. Surely, you understand.)

And with that random regurgitation of thought, I will end this arbitrary work of nonsense.

Don't cry for me, Argentina

2009-05-17T23:26:00.000-07:00

I feel as though my desire to blog always occurs at the most inconvenient of times, such as now. My bedtime was over two hours ago, and yet here I am, awake, and blogging.

And I can guarantee I will regret it tomorrow.

I hate leaving pseudo-emotional posts as the initial post on my blog. Sometimes I'll write in the peak of emotion, post, leave, get over it, and forget about it. Then, I'll come back days later, read what I had written, and think to myself, "What was I thinking!??" I'll be honest, it's not the greatest feeling to have after reading something you posted days ago on the world wide web.

I'm a really happy person, but I think it's harder to write about happiness than it is to write about sadness. Perhaps this is merely a by product of my chronic happiness. Because I am happy most of the time, when I am sad, it is more-- for lack of a better term-- poignant. It seems more real, because it is something that I don't experience on a regular basis.

The day I wrote my last post was a strange one. I drove home that day with a somewhat melancholy feeling engulfing me. As I was driving, I thought, "I haven't had a good cry in a while. I think it's about time I had one."

So I did. I let myself be sad. I let myself hurt. Because sometimes it's good to remember what it feels like to hurt. It keeps the happiness real, instead of forcing it into a norm.

I like to cry. I like tight feeling your eyes get after tearing for an extended amount of time. I like the dull ache that frames your head and the blood that rushes to your face from the effort. I like breathing deeply after letting the emotion escape my body through salted droplets.

Perhaps that's weird, but I like to know that I am real. I like to feel my existence through pain, sadness, happiness, contentedness, and countless other emotions. When the day to day monotony of life seems never-ending, at the end of the day, it's nice to know you're still real.

I think emotion is a huge blessing. If it weren't for emotion, we would never fall in love. We wouldn't have passion, a desire for expression, or art. Beauty would be non-existent, because there would be no reaction to it. It would be a pointless fluctuation in an everyday existence without the sentiment that it would invoke in a world of emotion.

I've heard it said that each person wants to feel the full range of human emotions.
The depths of despair allow a person to experience the peaks of pure bliss.

One without the other cannot be accomplished.

Again, I'll say-- I like to cry. I do not say this in a sick, masochistic way, but rather, in the sense that I appreciate each of my emotions as I feel them, because of what they represent.

Which is why I won't delete the previous blog, or any of my other emotionally driven pieces of writing. So be it.

The girls who eat their feelings

2009-05-14T20:34:00.000-07:00

If a tree falls in the middle of a forest with not a soul around to hear it, does it really make a sound? If a chef creates a masterpiece of a meal, but there is no one to taste it, does it still have flavor? If a writer bears her soul with beautiful words, but shows it to no one, would it still be beautiful?

I'm not trying to be philosophical.

The words bounce through my head all day, held captive by my feeble tongue and my frail mind. I feel it is only necessary to jot them down--to give them life. The words deserve the freedom found in commas and brotherly phrasing. They deserve to live. They deserve to be. But what about me? After discovering freedom from the insufferable concourses of my skull, the words selfishly betray me with their clarity and transparency. I am left alone, vulnerable, and exposed. Despite their betrayal, these words are a part of me. They are the only refuge I have-- a refuge that is probably a common necessity for writers. Writing is not a severe like, or even a love for the words filling space in one's skull; but, rather, an obligation to those words. It is a force driven by the innards of one's soul-- a force that runs ball point ink pens dry, fills spirals and notebooks, and phrases the essence of the ambiguous and the sublime.

I can feel this force now, it is causing me to write again-- causing me to feel that bare exposure that I am so painfully familiar with. The exposure, however, is inspired by a piece of artwork found in a world darkened of blindness. I, too, like the artist and the paintbrush, want to be heard: no matter how rough the road to lucidity becomes.

I'm as unstable as a new-born colt discovering its skinny legs for the first time. I can feel the ground beneath my feet, and I can smell the fields waiting for my widened strides to explore them. However, I am unable to make my way beyond the fence that encompasses my small world. Sunny days keep my mind on the good: the safety of the pen, the familiarity of the scent, the blessed siblings learning to walk with me, and the powerful stallions training us with their expertise. However, some days the sun becomes dark, and that contentment resurfaces as turmoil. The pen becomes a prison, the scent becomes a stench, and the rivalry of forceful peers causes the pressure of life to become more than my small, skinny legs could handle in the first place. I'm ready for change, I'm ready for escape.

My words don't mean much to you without the few allusions to my self-sense of inability and mediocrity, my tire of monotony, and my gaping insecurities. I'm frustrating like that-- I never spell it out just right. I expose myself, but only a little, for I am guarded. I keep you wondering just enough to make you frustrated, but I give you enough to keep you interested.

I write everything, and then seal it in a vault. Perhaps, one day, I will realize the full impact of the tragedy of the painting I mentioned in a previous paragraph, and share myself with the world. But, today, I will give you a paragraph, give myself five and then eat my feelings.

Besides, a good bowl of ice cream never hurt anyone.

Homecoming.

2009-05-13T17:27:00.000-07:00

A gentle definition, a saga of passion filled parentheses, an ordeal of epic occasion. A description deemed unconquerable. Pencil scrawls that lack the ability to encompass the mass of the pertinent bombshell; no Shakespeare, Milton, or Tennyson can develop the harpish sound of my dictating heartbeat.

A tear cannot embrace the magnitude of the emotion, and laughter fails just as readily.
The two together, though, might manage a symphony of emotion that will only just pass for a footnote of the occasion.

But words? Words are useless.

A little bit of my typical nostalgia.

2009-05-05T23:10:00.000-07:00

God wasn't kidding around when he gave me some of my best friends as blood relatives.

I'll probably never be able to thank him enough for that.

How is it possible that night after night my siblings, parents and I are able to plop down somewhere (most likely my bedroom, Mom's and Dad's bedroom, around the kitchen table, or in the family room) and talk for hours upon hours about, well, EVERYTHING? We discuss everything from politics, love, and religion, to Seinfeld, the Biggest Loser, Madagascar 2, and Nintendo. Our tastes are all impeccably aligned, and yet, we're different enough to make conversations interesting. We laugh with, and at one another; everyone can be targeted, and everyone is a good sport about it.

Our house is loud, sometimes because we are yelling our opinions, sometimes because the littles are hyper, and sometimes because we just can't stop laughing. Loud is good. I like it that way. I like getting a call and having to leave because there isn't a square inch of the house that isn't being bombarded with decibels that make it impossible to hear the unfortunate soul on the other end.

Tonight I became severely nostalgic about our childhoods together that are rapidly slipping through our fingers. This fall, my brothers and I will be moving out of our house, perhaps for the last time ever. It has been known for years that this year would be one of tremendous change for our family. That doesn't make its swift approach any easier, though.

In a few months, my brothers will be serving full-time missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I am so proud of them. I am so proud of their willingness to serve. I know for a fact that there isn't anything better they could be doing with their lives. However, just as it was when LJ left, these feelings of pride and peace won't make me miss them any less.

Our family discussions will be less entertaining without Zach's goofiness, and Nate's wit. The added measure of stability they add in our family will be removed, and for a while, we will be rocked by the effect.

They'll miss my wedding. Surely.

Given all of this, the purpose of my blog is to let them know how much they mean to me. How much I love them.

Zach: I love your innate goodness. I love your desire to do that which is right. You are a rock, and an iron rod. No one person can move you in your righteous desires. You are humble, and you are always willing to admit your weaknesses. You are happy. You have direction. You know where you are going, and you know why. You are lighthearted, and love to laugh. You enjoy making others laugh around you, which only adds to your lovableness. You are a light in a world of darkness, a flame that burns bright when all others have gone out. Not to mention, a Disney Trivia guru and a quesadilla whiz.

Nate: You are stubborn in the truth which you know-- you are unchanging on the paths you choose. You have the ability to love, and also to teach. You are patient and kind. You feel a deep empathy for those around you. You serve, and give. You are a strong leader, and an even stronger follower. You dictate those things which you know to be true-- no small inhibition can hold you back. You keep those around you looking for the light which you have found. You have a talent for words and expression; and use those for the betterment of those around you.

I love you both so much.
Thanks for being my brothers, and my best friends.

I'll wait for you. I promise. :)

My point is needles.

2009-05-02T14:34:00.000-07:00

Well, it has happened.

I have decided, by my own free will and persuasion, to become domestic.

This could be a result of a few things: one of which being an *undisclosed* individual will be returning from an *undisclosed* excursion in a few months after an *undisclosed* amount of time, which will most likely cause *undisclosed* to occur. Because of the occurrence of *undisclosed*, I will be making *undisclosed* dresses for *undisclosed* people, making *undisclosed* food every evening, and doing other *undisclosed* domestic activities on a regular basis, because they will be my *undisclosed* duties.

It's clearly necessity, isn't it?

Anyway, I have decided to go about this domesticity by learning to sew this summer. I mean, I know how to hem, and do simple alterations on clothing; but this new desire to become domestic requires me to learn the nitty-gritty, ins-and-outs of the sewing realm. Seriously. I'm making myself a sun-dress for starters. Practical, and handy. Doesn't get much better than that.

Obviously I can't go about being domestic until I learn to cook. My pathetic attempts at making sophisticated dinners with my George Foreman grill simply must cease. I feel as though it would be too ambitious to attempt the art of cooking this summer alongside my new found sewing skills, so, instead, I will save this aspect of domesticity for the Fall. Impossible, you say? I say otherwise. I will be living in the Italian house, where I will have to be cooking large dishes of Italian food for people that will be PAYING to come eat at our apartment and speak the lovely language of Italian with me and my roommates. If that isn't incentive to learn to cook, I don't know what is.

On a completely unrelated note, I am currently LONGING to open my used-book store. I talk about that store a lot, but lately I've been searching for a decent one in Utah Valley (I usually have to drive all the way to Park City to find one that I personally deem acceptable) and have been, again, unsuccessful. Even though my dream is to open the used-book store near a beach somewhere, I would settle for downtown Provo at this point. I'm used-book hungry. STARVING.

I could write pages about my love for used-books, but I will refrain today, and save those thought processes for another time.

Until then, though, know that I will be conquering domesticity.
Somebody should make me a banner or something.

This is a picture of my lovely sewing machine that will be aiding me on my quest to domesticity. Huzzah.

epitaph in spite of rain

2009-05-01T23:21:00.000-07:00

A suction of silence creates a whirlwind of sound as I unfold my napkin in my lap. My head aches from spindled thoughts of ingrown fantasies, and unfinished lullabies. The colors of plastered memories leap and bound in my mind simply from sheer knowledge of the reality it lacks, and all I can do is sing. The music is all I know. The simple melody of life is ironically congealed with the rhythmic panting of time; and both march on, leaving me and my thoughts on a plane of inspired logic and intrinsic empowerment.
As I sing, as I feel, I write the epitaph. OUR epitaph.

The strength of my time-weakened heart surprises me as it fights the forlorn nature of its previous existence. The cold shell dims as the night grows darker, and the truer warmth places itself in a deeper crevice, only to resurface in a moment of perfection.

Hidden in a crevice, my tiny, warmed heart couldn't feel the rain pelting my face as I scrawled in blue ink on that lined page, or as I twirled and turned in the storm-ridden streets from the momentum of it all. Bare-foot, the energy of the world sprung through my life-filled body, and constrained my worries with a pulsating gasp of clean air brought by the grey, softened clouds.

I was planted in a spot of ground, a seedling waiting for new life-- for new rain.

It came.

I'm growing, now.
Slowly.

Growing up: Not a eulogy.

2009-04-23T20:29:00.000-07:00

Between the ages of birth and Jr. High, I thought that surely high-schoolers were considered grown up by the definitions of society. So, I rumbled through my early years without a care in the world: staining dozens of shirts, going bankrupt on many a lemonade stand, having princess sleepovers twice a month, and not giving a care in the world to the rapidly approaching teenage years that were serenely sauntering to my doorstep. To me, that was adulthood, and adulthood might as well have been eons away.
Upon reaching high school, I realized that my 'youthfulness' of my actual 'youth' seemed to have attached itself to my buttocks, and was following me around, everywhere. I retracted my assumptions from the earlier years of my childhood that assumed adulthood happened in high school, and consequently deemed myself forever young, because surely, having a flamboyant "youth" attached to the seat of my pants would force my high school years to exist eternally. Those years would never end. They couldn't.
I suppose I shouldn't have blinked, though.
The next thing I knew, graduation was over, and college was knocking at my door, demanding tuition and hours of my time.
Freshman year was a nice rerun of the ever popular house game I played as a child. Perhaps that's why I enjoyed freshman year so much. The lot of us pretended to be grown up, and the grown ups weren't around to watch, so our pretending went unnoticed. Perhaps that's why we thought it was reality. Perhaps that's why we thought we were grown up then. No one was there to tell us otherwise.
In college, I'm supposed to be grown-up, I think. It's hard to be grown up, though, when you don't feel old enough to have a full time job, to be half-way through a degree, to be thinking about weddings, paying taxes, or attending bridal showers...

Perhaps it was being broken down in the middle of non-civilization with no-where to go, and no way to get there that got me to thinking about adulthood, and when one reaches it. I suppose, in that particular moment of distress, I just wanted to hear that everything would be okay--that no matter what happened, the Parents would figure everything out, no questions, troubles or tears. I waited for that comfort, but when it didn't come I realized, among other things, that I am much to old for that now.

I suppose the worst part about growing up isn't, in fact, the taxes, the jobs or even the sheer aging aspect of it; but rather, the realization that the grown ups around you, the ones you've looked to for answers throughout your childhood, don't actually have all the answers. Scarily enough, they are just exactly like you, taking in problems as they come, and trying their hardest to find the best solutions to the hardest of questions.

Everyone knows the common euphemism: "Ignorance is bliss."

I'm always skeptical about broad generalizations such as this. Of course ignorance isn't bliss as a law. Of course ignorance can be a detriment in many circumstances. However, I have learned that not only can ignorance be bliss, but sometimes it can help create it. This said 'ignorance' will often stem from a branch of youthfulness, and it can sometimes even produce buds of happiness. These buds of happiness don't have to be selfishly enjoyed by the youthful tree, either. The clouds can look down and see the beauty of the buds, the grass and dirt can breathe in the delightful scent of the buds, and the world seems to be a better place because those buds exist. And it all stems from said *ignorance.

Sitting in an Arby's for 6 hours in the middle of no where gave me a lot of time to think, a lot of time to stew, and a lot of time to be upset. In the middle of my disdain, however, a beautiful little girl, full of 9-year-old youthfulness approached my fuming self, wrapped her small arms around me, and asked me to play quarter-basketball with her. She made me smile for the first time in hours, and I even laughed a little as she complimented my quarter-spinning skills.

I have now contemplated retracting my "forever-young" promise to myself. I am considering letting myself grow up, and move on. Perhaps I am slightly tardy in this effort. Perhaps I should have done this years ago.

My reasoning? I've been young. I've lived my youthful days. I've scratched my knees, had dirt smudged all over my face, made lemonade stands, cried when I had to come inside because it was getting dark. I've wasted hours at the mall with friends from 8th grade English and 9th grade history. I've painted my face for football games. I've cried to my mom about boys. I've slept in until 2 just because I could. I've been youthful.

And if I haven't learned anything from that childhood, I've learned one thing. In life, you have to take turns.

And I've had my turn.

Maybe I am growing up, after all.

*This paragraph reminded me of this poem. One of my favorites.

The love? I found it. And it's not in America.

2009-04-20T20:10:00.000-07:00

Remember this?

The following video accurately describes what I was actually feeling during that whimsical moment I seemed to have had with the rest of BYU campus.

Sound of Music Train Station @ Yahoo! Video

Posts to come.

Broken phone.

2009-04-20T17:38:00.000-07:00

Again.

And my facebook is also gone. Again.

So, basically, there is no way to get a hold of me until I work up the courage to spend 200 bones at the Sprint store to get a new one.

Oh, rapture.

Rainy nights should be homeworkless.

2009-04-14T20:50:00.000-07:00

Should the rain, in all its madness, be allowed to keep me from my thoughts?
I try to focus, but the steady patter on the window pane keeps my hungry imagination's cravings at a peak...
And it smells good, too.
It's the smell of a thousand memories that can never be forgotten-- no matter the pace of the frustrating wind. A thousand good memories. They match the smell.

I hear the creak of the trees, begging the moisture for the sun's return.
I see the whispering grass, dancing their cry of hopelessness.
But they only think it's hopeless.
This storm has yet to pass.
I empathize with them.

I observe from my pinkified bedroom on the basement floor.
The window is blurred by the tears of the sky, and it drips, drips, drips...
As if it has not a care in the world.
And those memories come back.
They all come back.

That last night, together.
Maybe it poured.
Maybe it sprinkled.
Maybe it was just our tears.

We danced for it, once.
A waltz of empiricism-- the heavens begged us to teach them.

Can you wish on the rain?
We can.
We do.

Run! Faster!
The drops will catch us!
They always do...

Kiss in the rain?
What a cliche...
Hardly.

Then there's the times you weren't there for...
When I soaked up the rain
as it poured off my face
while I dreamed of yours.

Drip, drip, drip-- and my focus is drained, washed with the dust down the gutter.
The soggy memories sharpen into thoughts of you I'm left with.

I have a message. I'll deliver it to the clouds, who will deliver it to you.

It's a simple message-- just three words.
I'm hoping a few drops will do the trick.