Out of My Hands

I have a love-hate relationship with August.

Love: It usually gets warmest in August. This means sparkly mornings that smell like sweet dew and flowers and that are filled with the cooing of morning doves. This also means warm nights with the windows open and the fans on and the crickets to sing me to sleep. I love all the good things that summer has saved for last, like last minute vacations. I love that August is, for the most part, still summer.

Hate: When August ends, so does summer. And I want to cry just looking at that sentence.

Summer is the best time of year. Every bad thing from September to April can be fixed with May to August. It is carefree, spontaneous, giggly, open, honest, real, warm, gentle, and just so...golden.

Summer is perfect. Even when it isn't.

****

A year and a month ago, my life was as close to perfect as I could dream up. For so many reasons. In fact, perfect was so prefect that a part of me absolutely knew it was going to end soon. I could feel it. It had to.

Part of me was right.

The car crash was first. It was the marble that started the domino tumble. I still think about it. Almost everyday. I remember the moment I realized impact was unavoidable, that the other car wasn't going to stop the way I thought it would...that I wasn't going to keep going the way I thought I would. Next, I remember turning. Only I wasn't turning anything. I was being turned without my permission. Turned in a direction I didn't really want to be going, until finally, I hit the wall and stopped. Somewhere in all that I screamed. Just once. Quietly. Not so much a scream as a cry. I cried out to no one in the moment when my life stopped being in my hands any more. Later, I walked away with a few insignificant scratches, a useless car, and a broken perfect.

The rest of the fall is harder to pin point, a jumble of lots of things. Lots of sad things. Things that should have been expected. Things I never saw coming (because I wouldn't look). Things that broke my heart. Things that made me stronger. Things I may not recognize or appreciate for a very long time. Not even until heaven. Things I can't really talk about. Not even with myself.

****

Summer as I live it now is not the perfect as I lived it then. I kept going. So did life. Some things are better. Some are still kicking my trash. It's a process. I feel older now. Not the older you feel the first time you go for a drive by yourself just because you can. This is the kind of older that comes from dealing with things far beyond your maturity level. The kind of older you swear you'll never let your kids feel because, to be honest, it's scary as hell. 

I don't why it's happening to me now. I don't know why it refuses to end. I've sort of just stopped worrying about that part. For a year I have been stuck in that moment where my life got taken out of my hands and spun out of my control. The moment where I cried out to no one. But it wasn't to no one. God knows. He heard me the first time and every time since. My life may not be in my control but that doesn't mean it's out of control. He knows why this is happening, and that's good enough for me. I trust him. Really. I do. Even though I kind of desperately wish He'd hurry up and bring perfect back to visit for a while. I need a vacation. And I like to drive. Until then I'll try to enjoy watching from the passenger's seat. 

Everything is going to be okay. Everything is under control.

This Very Moment

i'm listening to the crickets serenade the moonlight.

it's beautiful.

it's warm.

it's summertime.

and someday...

i'll share it with you.

Happy Wizarding Independence Day!

On May 2nd, Harry Potter defeated Voldemort and liberated all of wizarding kind from his evil wrath. To celebrate this day, we must all show our wizarding heritage and salute each fellow wizard with high fives!

We did it, we bashed them! Wee Potter’s... the one, and Voldy’s gone moldy, so now let’s have fun!" -Peeves

"Of course 

it's happening 

inside your head, 

but why on earth 

should that mean 

that it is not 

real?"

 Albus Dumbledore 

It all started with a boy.

Third grade. At the time I was the tallest girl in my class. Freckles, long strawberry blond hair that  ran all the way down my back, and to top the look off was a gap tooth smile that made my life until 15 just an extra bit of awkward.

He was older, a mature eleven to my scrawny eight. And though the age difference painted him as a giant to me, in truth he was nothing more than a skinny, average boy in too-big trousers. His bright green eyes hid behind a set of clumsily taped together glasses and a mop of messy black hair partially covered a thin lighting bolt scar on his forehead.

Third grade. That's when I fell in love with Harry Potter.

I can honestly say that to some degree, the reason I am a student at BYU is because of him. His world became my world. For the first time I was consumed entirely in a universe that wasn't my own. In it, I could be whoever I wanted. I was the ruler of my own nation. Imagination. Suddenly, I  enjoyed reading. I enjoyed learning. And while there are dozens of other more significant factors that shaped the person I am today, Harry helped.

What does this matter? I don't know.  Maybe everything.  Maybe nothing. But for over a decade, I have found my life enriched by the freedom and the fire reading gave to my life.

I have lived in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I have ridden an elephant in Tibet and wandered down grocery store aisles in Pocatello, Idaho. I have witnessed the injustice of a southern courtroom, gotten kicked out of prep school, and toured the shores of Neverland. I have felt joy, sorrow, desperation, and exuberance. I have seen death. I have seen life. I have fallen in love.

Why do we read? We read to become. Become something bigger than we ever could have on our own. They say real life is better than fiction. That's probably true.

But while your waiting for your train to come, relax.

Read. Let go. Burn. Become.

I Wish I Knew Now, What I knew Then

I found this copy of a newspaper column I wrote for my high school paper a week before graduation. Oddly enough, what I wrote to my peers a year ago is exactly what I needed to be reminded of now. Funny how that works. This was from the perspective of "before", of someone who was excited and optimistic about college, freedom, adulthood. Now, reading it from the perspective of "after", all I can say is that I wish I knew now what I knew then.

_________________

Every little girl knows the story of Cinderella. A beautiful but ill fated girl grows up living a hard and mostly cruel life. She is oppressed by the lazy, worldly and spiteful. To this, we all can relate in some way or another. Life is full of trials and at some point we all ask, “why me?” 

Still, though, everyone looks forward to the magic. That moment when we least expect it for our fairy god mother to pop up out of nowhere and offer us a free ticket out of our suffering. The glorious instant when our Prince Charming, our saving grace, steps up and presents us with the opportunity to experience three magic words: “Happily ever after.”

Cinderella caught a nice break. She had a rough start but an undeniably great finish. On the other hand, she was stuck waiting. Instead of stepping up and going out and getting her man she let herself be walked all over by jerks until all the forces of the universe miraculously came together to make her happy. 

Reality would frown on this fairy tale, because sadly, life is not so perfect. It cannot be divided simply into segments of bad, good, better, and best. 

Life is muddy. It is messy too. And no matter what we all wish for, no one is going to hand us a happy and easy life. 

The past four years, seniors have lived in a way that could be compared to Cinderella’s (sans the talking mice and pumpkin cars). 

We have worked hard through the ups and downs thrown at us by teachers, parents, and life in general. There were moments when everyone but us got everything we wanted, and at the point when we were about to give up, the lure of a happy ending was dangled tauntingly in front of us.

Graduation. We can almost taste it. 

Unfortunately, our story doesn’t end the second that diploma hits our hot little hands. 

Unlike Cinderella, we live on. The story of our lives doesn’t end, just the chapter. And the best part is, we get to write it. Fate will not control us; we are in charge of our happy ending.

Who knows where we will be in ten years? I don’t. I have hopes, of course, but there’s a lot of life to live between now and then.

Some of us are entering the real world with a plan, an outline of what’s next in our story; others are making it up as they go.

My advice to all is the same as Abraham Lincoln’s: “Whatever you are, be a good one.” 

And don’t forget, no book is endless. Robert Fulghum said this: "I’ve never understood people’s attitude about life. Just once, when someone calls and says, ‘My doctor just told me I have a limited time to live,’ I’d like to say, ‘You didn’t know?’"

So make the most of every moment. Live fully. Not fast or fabulous, but completely. 

As Ralph Waldo Emerson declared, “To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people, and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.”

So, as you embark on a new chapter, aim to succeed! And when you walk next Thursday night remember Winston Churchill’s words, “This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

Hope Floats

Henry David Thoreau is arguably the world’s most infamous recluse. You know the guy. He spent long hours alone by a pond in Connecticut contemplating the universe and the warring habits of ants.

Knowing this, it is not a surprise that he was the one to observe, “The man who goes each day to the village to hear the latest news has not heard from himself in a long time.”

Good point, and in a thoroughly Thoreau way, profound. He implies that solitude is something rare and often avoided. He would not be alone in this declaration. Many, especially those of other nationalities, have commented on the American need to constantly be surrounded by distractions. I would argue the epidemic is worldwide.

In the old days, a distraction would have been other people, perhaps those gossiping down at the local watering hole. Today, a never ending barrage of technology offers an endless escape from the world. Cell phones, texting, MySpace, Facebook, AIM, television, radio iPods, etc, etc. Really, I could go on for ever.

The question then, is why do we choose to immerse, even drown ourselves, in a sea of microchips?

The answer: silence is painful. Silence forces us to listen. It does not allow for a retreat behind a shield of superficiality. We are left alone to our minds, our thoughts and our emotions in an utterly unadulterated fashion. Silence makes us vulnerable, and in a world that exalts the powerful, most are not comfortable with being vulnerable.

Often I feel as though a town council meeting is in session in my head. Different characters, with different personalities struggle for dominance in various situations tugging at a very small version of me in the direction of their choosing. The trouble is, all of the characters are pieces of me, representative of my hopes, logic, and desires. They are each powerful personalities and in my most vulnerable, raw moments I wonder, “Who’s in charge in there?”

I hear from myself plenty, thank you very much. In fact, every second my mind is buzzing as I shuffle through life.

If solitude is how often we hear from ourselves, then solitude is my norm. I bet it’s yours too. The escape, then, is not hiding in a corner, but seeking the company we long for in community.
Historians have proven that Thoreau walk the two miles from Walden Pond to Concord every day and often welcomed visitors to his sanctuary. Even Thoreau was lonely, which is why he eventually moved back to town.

Over 100 years after this, a duo of free thinkers presented their own ideas on solitude.

“And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared disturb the sound of silence.
‘Fools’, said I, ‘you do not know,
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you.’”

Simon and Garfunkel were onto something.

Solitude is not the same as loneliness. It is a boat floating in a sea of other possible companions. No man is an island and that’s why Thoreau wrote “Walden” down. He transcended solitude, existing alone, but was not lonely. He reached out to the world through his words.

And that’s why I write my words to you.
I am floating the boat of my life within speaking distance of yours.

Untitled

Sometimes I wonder about my life.

I lead a small life.

Well, valuable, but small.

And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it,

or because I haven’t been brave?

So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book,

when shouldn’t it be the other way around?

I don’t really want an answer.

I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void.

So goodnight, dear void.