list almost lost

My mom asked me to email her a paper I wrote in Family History about Bob's family. She has asked me this countless times since I wrote it in April. I finally put forth the effort to get it to her and couldn't find it on my U drive. My only other thought was the flash drive that sometimes works. And there it was. Along with other little treasures. The papers were mostly composed for my Personal History class, pages about my family, my childhood and adopting Step-Bob. Where they fall short in facts they are rich in truth.

And there was one last paper titled simply List. I wrote it on March 28th, the anniversary of the day I began to Fail. The list has 101 things I learned in the year prior, my way of turning my Failure into a success.

Some of the list includes things that are rather random: my hair makes me look like a cockatoo in the morning, Star Wars III was a let down. Snape is still on the side of good….yes he is!

Some are more proverbial: being honest means more than telling the truth, laughing cures everything…except when it doesn’t, and crying in front of other people is okay--In fact, it’s nicer than crying alone.

There are practical discoveries: Jet Blue is my favorite airline, and How to drive stick-shift .

Personal Growth: I can bear seeing my dad cry, I can write a complete novel, and I can get a good GPA.

I have personal testimony and long-term goals. There are things that are changing about me all the time, and things that will always, always stay the same. I have a unicorn.

semesters end

I think I cried myself to sleep again, but to be sure I'll have to ask Caitie. At any rate I know I cried a lot throughout the evening, starting when I met Emilie on campus at 4. Usually it was after a mention of homework or jobs or housing, but sometimes it was after questions of other sorts and once it was during Gilmore Girls. But last night I got a perspective on my tears. (I love being analytical and emotional at the same time!) It is because I am trying. All the messes in which I have invested myself for the next three weeks, I have invested in fully. Those semesters when I have failed (and I don't mean just school) are those in which I haven't cried toward the end.

My first semester I fell apart for a couple of days, until my home teachers came over to read me a quote they liked from President Hinkley. "Now, my dear sisters, that is the way with you. You are doing the best you can, and that best results in good to yourself and to others. Do not nag yourself with a sense of failure. Get on your knees and ask for the blessings of the Lord; then stand on your feet and do what you are asked to do. Then leave the matter in the hands of the Lord. You will discover that you have accomplished something beyond price."

The next semester my mom called as I worked on papers in the last weeks of April. I sobbed uncontrollably on the phone. I wanted to be done. I wanted to leave, to go home to my mom and give up. That is how I feel now. I got an email from my mom this morning that says she misses me and is happy I'll be home soon. I want very much to drop out of school this moment, fly to Texas and take up permanent residence with my mom. I want to be a little girl again. Yet, in my head I have these heroic dreams for myself. I see me sitting up at night in the library faithfully studying and writing papers. Those images don't coincide with me crawling into bed exhausted or frustratedly revising a paper half an hour before it's due. I am tormented with the idea that I could be doing it better.

Other semesters it has not been this way. Two of them ended without struggle. Of course, those two I gave up on somewhere in the middle. These weeks of finals were spent making spaghetti and fried chicken (separate meals) to feed those who were studying. One semester I bought books and fudge and walked happily in the rain. I had it easy, because I was not fighting against anything. I was not fighting for anything. But now I am fighting for a lot. And I will win. I'll just have a few minor breakdowns in the meanwhile.

did i really just?

The panic began some time last week, around the time when I discovered the countdown to my imminent move was only 24 days. The tears started last night. When I lay down for bed, as the stress slowly and grudgingly left my body I began to weep. I pressed my face into my pillow to try to stifle the sound, but cry I must and did until I fell asleep. When I woke up in the morning I took an inventory of myself and wondered, did I really just cry?

In an in-class debate when a girl began a personal attack as her academic one failed, I again wanted to cry. I wished for an abandoned bathroom where I might weep tears of frustration. At work when Aaron inquired about my progress in apartment hunting, I turned away to hide the sudden shine in my eyes. Don't make me cry, is all I responded. The lovely boy promptly began discussing Igor, the Russian assassin. Of course that distracted me. Just not enough.

The white noise is always there, and as long as I ignore it it sounds like static, just static telling me that there is too much friction in my life right now, too much channel surfing, too many distractions. I couldn't agree more. But if I stop and listen to the noise it becomes oh so much blacker. It starts whispering to me of all my insecurities. It tells me I am a failure. You have no place to live, it says. You have no job. You couldn't even sell your contract to take care of Nora. Her stress is your fault too. And you have nothing to offer anyone, especially Kevin. If you had chosen to stay here and do your duty and do things the right way, you could have gone to him without debt and with a degree. What are you now? Nothing. Did you actually think you could do this? Did you really just try?

I'm trying not to listen.

magic anticipated

Tuesday felt like Christmas Eve, the way it has always felt since my childhood, and hopefully how it will always feel long past when I am dead. The feeling is that of anticipation. It is not the anticipation of presents or of food but of magic. There is not any emotion that is quite like the anticipation of magic. The restless night before the first day of kindergarten, the slow-passing hours before a day at Disneyland, the butterflies that dance intricate waltzes in your stomach just to say, Tomorrow! This joy and fear are enough to make life real for you, testifying that you had not lived until this moment of squirming hope, and that you will likely die if the magic doesn't come soon. Oh how hard waiting becomes at those times! Sleep is the best way to pass the hours, because then you cannot count them. However, few can sleep when the halo of anticipated magic hangs around them. The glow is too bright and too beckoning. Even dreams pale in comparison to the simple splendors of waking the next morning.

I remember from when I was little opening my eyes in the gray light before dawn, blinking away the mundane from my eyes, and suddenly having my stomach give a whoosh as I recalled with vividness the magic waiting for me just outside my room. Every fearsome and flighty word I knew leaped to my brain to try to describe to my heart just what lay out in a day run by magic: elves and oliphants, wrapping paper and evergreens, a word that sounds like "pomplemoose", cocoa and Mom (mom encompasses so much magic herself, that the only word to capture all those sensations--the way her hands stroked my hair, the voices she used when reading aloud of dwarves and wizards, the smile she had that she reserved just for special occasions--is 'Mom').

These feelings of radiance attended my sleep Tuesday night and forced me to wake before my alarm Wednesday morning. Not really fair of course, since in this instance the magic wasn't due the moment I woke, but a whole twelve hours later. It is lucky for me, and perhaps for all who know me, that the magic kept all her promises over the next three days.

I felt well rewarded by her enchantments, especially surprised and pleased by the charms of the Denver airport. Other times I felt swallowed by time himself and what I experienced is mine only. But in Denver I saw, touched, heard, smelled and tasted outside of myself. It is the first time I noticed how bewitching the airport is. Of course, this is the first time I explored it during my layover instead of sitting self-contained at my gate. I walked with a quick but heedless pace up and down the length of terminal B, absorbing sensations real and imagined. I felt the grainy texture of the hand rail pass under my fingers, swiftly turning them black, as I meandered on the automatic sidewalks. As I stepped, I pretended my feet sunk tiltingly into uneven surfaces of sand and grass, afterward hopping off the walkway as it came to its end. The sensual aromas wafting from the chocolate factory smoothly replaced the scent of salted popcorn just a few feet before. Children screamed and giggled and somewhere someone sang. Shops of crisp books followed boutiques with dresses made of rose-tinted copper.

On my third trip around I only watched the people. An old man with a cane and liver spots aimlessly walked the terminal too, graciously allowing me to pass him whenever our circuits met. He reached a hand to his brow to tip the hat that wasn't there. Probably his hat used to be red but had faded to a rough pink from sun exposure at countless ball games. I smiled and walked on. A young boy shuffled backward against the rhythm of the moving sidewalk, not in a hurry to get anywhere, rather enjoying his stagnation, unlike his frazzled young mother who watched the other children too small to amuse themselves in an airport. An old woman brought to her husband his favorite snack of honey roasted peanuts before seating herself, feet tucked up on the chair, next to him. They held gnarled hands as they read. Families, couples, wanderers, all with their own measure of romance and magic. I felt connected to them all as I traipsed through their midst and as they began to cast an eye toward me, watching the odd girl who looked happily lost walking the terminal again.

This was magic experienced.

Yet, when I boarded my flight and my plane left the ground, my stomach once more gave that whoosh that said something greater still waited at the other end of my journey.

everything i needed to know

I learned in statistics.

The lesson for today: chi-squared. What I learned from it: chi (pronounced kai) is a Greek letter for the sound "ch" as in "Bach". It looks like this: X. Historically it was used all throughout Europe any time the word "Christ" appeared. Christopher Columbus signed his name (and others wrote his name) as Xopher. Even Cristina Aguilara knows this (of course her parents are BYU alumni) as she tattooed Xina on her neck. So now, you may all dispel the myth that signing X-mas is disrespectful and a sign of our increasing secularism as a culture. It is in fact more historic to use chi.

The lesson on Wednesday: difference of percentages. The example: contracting the common cold from a) playing poker and 2) French kissing. What I learned: You have a greater risk of catching someone's cold by playing poker with them than you do by making out for two minutes. And yes, that is backed up by science, though it makes me wonder who got to participate in that study! Bacteria do not reside in saliva but in mucus. Touching one's eyes or nose transfers the germs onto your hands, a very communicable place. It would be more sanitary, says my professor, for ward greeters to offer a tongue than a hand to church goers. It may also boost the prestige of that calling.

success

Jean Paul Ghetty gave this formula for success:

Wake early, work hard and strike oil.

discovery

I do not make friends. I discover them. I'm the Christopher Columbus of my social life. Just as he did nothing to bring about the western hemisphere, I seem to stumble upon already existing friendships and then receive credit for my clumsiness. This week I staked my flag into two new friends.

Rachael. She is the Cosmo's supervisor right after me. Our interaction usually involves saying hi while switching out our tills. But we also sit together at the staff meetings. On Monday, when the thought of another hour standing at the register and greeting greedy freshman with a smile nearly made me cry, Rachael showed up and took up the load. I went home and napped. When our Wednesday meeting came I arrived early and she late. The only empty seat was next to me, as if everyone else had acknowledged Rachael's rightful place. She and I talked and laughed and made cynical gestures when Curtis spoke too long. And on Friday when she felt sick, I realized that she is my friend, because I felt as badly about her pain as I had about mine.

Aaron. Aaron is the student manager during my shift every day. He begins his sojourn in my area with a question along the lines of "best movie ever made" or "top ten bands of the seventies." One time he asked me who I thought the worst US President was. Of course these questions lead to conversations and debates. He once called Ayn Rand the Anti-Christ! I love the boy to death. Naturally, that means he is gay, whether openly admitted or not. He is a soft, round sweetheart. When I had a bad day, he thought of me between work days, and when he thought of me, he thought "cheese." He cut me a wedge of cheese, because as he got ready for the day, he remembered my fondness for the food. How cute is that!

It's a good day when you discover two new friends.

dayspring

I am over the disappointments of Monday morning. Although I still do not like the grades I received, nor the news, and though the little pains of that day were very real (I must say that it felt as though everything went wrong), this morning they have fled. My alarm clock chased them away, and I woke before my usual time, avoiding hitting snooze until I heard the water shut off in the bathroom. No, I woke early, read in the Gospel of Luke, and started my day off with the strength of the Lord. How long has it been since I woke up early? A couple weeks? I appreciated the reminder last night that made me reset my alarm clock and back it up with my cell phone on full volume.

The softness of morning surprised me, for when I had allowed it to be my enemy its harshness had wounded me, stumbling from bed at too late an hour. But this morning the amber glow of my lamp warmed everything which fell within its halo, the weight of the blankets over my legs gave comfort instead of imprisoning me, and the words of Luke cheered my soul: "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."

taking it

For two days I have had in my head the parting words of Professor Kearl. Absorb negative externalities. In this one line he reconciled Ayn Rand and the Gospel, something I have struggled to do since the day I discovered both were true. But the line keeps circling my head, during times when I have no thoughts save nothingness, where I can't make heads or tails of anything. Then the words come back. Absorb negative externalities. It's a tribute to my personality quirks that this phrasing means more to me than "turn the other cheek." When my emotions got too heightened, when the mental rantings became too articulate with ever shortened vocabulary words, the phrase would come as a gentle reminder and calm things down. Perhaps because it appealed to my rational side. At one point to still my increasingly rapid breathing (sure signs of emotions to follow), I kept repeating the sentence to myself. I can take it, I told myself. I'd rather take it, I added. If I take it, if I keep it inside, no one else gets hurt by it. I can take it. I took out the trash at work, talking to myself as I walked with my hands full of bulging black trash bags. Take it, I said. Just take it, I repeated. TAKE IT! I screamed in my mind and I threw the bags into the dumpster. I almost collapsed with the physical and emotional exertion, but the tears were gone by the time I got back to the counter at work. Absorb the negative externalities.

small heroes

I almost ignored the fire alarm when it started going off during my morning class. Everyone, in fact, ignored the loudspeaker. Noise in the hall shouldn't interrupt a good class discussion. Finally we evacuated. The prerecorded voice said over and over not to use the elevator, which is fine by me. I was only one floor below street level.

As I passed one classroom, however, I noticed someone emerging, someone to whom one flight of steps might be more than an inconvenience. I've met this kid many times, though I don't know his name. He's simply the blond curly-haired boy who has the electric wheelchair I so covet. I kept my eyes on him as Laura and I walked to the stairs. Would he take the elevator anyway? It probably wouldn't hurt anything, I thought. Laura had the same worries. How is he going to get up the stairs? I saw the answer to that.

One guy who had followed Curly out of the class, bent down next to him and said jovially, "How about some help there buddy?" The strapping youth waved a hand to another anonymous classmate and the two stooped and lifted the chair between them. I couldn't watch the whole procession out the door, because I had already easily mounted the steps by myself. As I walked out of the building, my heart lifted at the thought of those two boys and the kind deed they had done.

bugs for breakfast

It was bad enough Sunday morning. I needed pancakes. For that, I was willing to use the sifter on the weevil-infested flour. I'm fairly certain that I caught most of them before they hit the mixing bowl, and the rest got cooked on the griddle. Of course, I had no syrup, so the entire Sunday morning pancake breakfast went a little wrong. My mood darkened all day any time I thought of pinching maggots in my fingers to dispose of them in the garbage. But I moved past it.

Monday was worse. Exhausted, I moved about my morning routine with my eyes closed and my feet scuffing in slippers. I dumped a packet of instant oatmeal into my bowl, added water and microwaved it. I pulled a frothy pink and white mess out a minute later and shuffled to the dining room. I opened Sudoku to waken my mind and then I moved my spoon to the cereal. I thank God that I looked at my spoon before inserting it into my mouth. I nearly screamed when I saw them. Instead I held my breath, held it tight against the gagging in the back of my throat. I didn't know if the bugs had been that big to begin with or whether microwaving had engorged them. Half an inch long. I stood calmly and deposited my bowl in the sink. I rinsed with hot water and sent the carcasses to their demolition by garbage disposal. I did not eat that morning.

Having bugs for breakfast is worse than waking up on the wrong side of the bed. At work my normal cheerful attitude lacked as I cleaned out the ice cream machine someone turned off Saturday night. Spoiled soft serve has a terribly sticky-sweet smell on top of the rotten-sour aroma of old milk. I think I am cured of ever eating again. My bad mood haunted me all day, and I kept wishing I could find someone at whom to be mad. I could have taken it out on Nora, since she's family and has to forgive me. I would apologize later, and mean it. I'm sorry Nora, it's just that I had bugs for breakfast.

say anything

I remember being introduced to the language before I even entered high school. I encountered it at my first stake dance as I rotated in circles while a gangly boy tried not to look at me and not to step on my toes. At that time, small talk did not come naturally to anyone. I was not the only one who preferred silence to questions one heard, such as "do you play any musical instruments?" But by the time I left high school I was years behind my peers, because I still preferred silence while they had mastered the art of chit-chat. Small talk is part of that social capital that comes as a latent function from our educational system. I did not learn it.

Once I entered college I resisted fluency for a long time, but I found that I was the one hurt by the insistence that communications be meaningful or forgone entirely. Because usually the latter occurred. It turns out that one cannot become acquainted with someone without talking, and no one begins a conversation by asking your views on Dostoevsky and the latest political trend toward legislation for the prevention of abuse against small animals and super models.

Truth, never a big component of small talk, also led to complications. Truth is only allowed if it is entirely pleasant and of general interest. It rarely is. When I'm asked about my family, for instance, Mom's affair and Dad's insanity do better in their respective closets, while I have learned to focus on my siblings in general terms--their whereabouts and ages, etc.

Also, questions are not asked to get answers, and statements are not provided to give answers. All talking in small talk is to avoid silence and maintain predictability. Never break those rules.

I took a crash course in small talk after my second year of school. The first, I maintained simple awkwardness amid general good standing socially. The second, I turned my back on accepted social graces and dared anyone to care; they did, as did I. Last year I learned to smile during a speech that held no interest for me, to ask questions of a stranger when introduced and to form my remarks in such a way as would liven a conversation and not kill it. It is only sheer perverseness that leads me to do otherwise on certain occasions.

So now I speak the language passably well, though it does not come naturally. Like a student living in a foreign land, I restrict myself to that language and stumble through it as my only means of communication. I go to work and I go to school and I come home and answer the generally expected question of, "how was your day."

At work I say superb and absolutely a lot. I am superb, I will absolutely get that done, the new system is absolutely superb. Sometimes I wonder what the hell I just said, like conjugating a French verb; surely that couldn't have been right. But then my boss smiles genuinely and lets me get back to work. I like everyone that I work with, but I do not know anything about them but that they are "doing good" today and that this one works efficiently and that one doesn't.

At school I have become Hermione, raising my hand and giving my opinions on everything. That is perhaps the only way something intelligent comes out of my mouth all day (except for the fact that I always use an adverb correctly when asked how I am doing). Those seated next to me ask about my previous classes and sometimes we compare professors. We often discuss material for group projects, but then I find them falling into questions such as, "so, where are you from?" "what are you majoring in?" and "what do you want to do with that after graduation?" Though I want to cry that these people do not care about my past or my ambitions, I have structured answers to give them that they will find interesting enough that their smiles aren't faked, and forgettable enough that we'll have something to talk about the next time.

How was your day? Fine. Good. Superb.

No one should go through an entire day without saying anything.

you might be on nyquil...

You (or I) might be on NyQuil if...

...on a test where you would otherwise have demonstrated amazing math skills, you add 2.5 + 59.5 to get 72. Might I add that the range of the numbers in question only went up to 69?

...on same said test, you calculate the percent rate of change perfectly in five different problems and then on the multiple choice you choose the highest rate of change when it asked for the smallest.

And my personal favorite:

You might be on NyQuil if you go to the store to buy more medicine and buy DayQuil in liquid form instead of gel caps with the intent of carrying the medicine to school each day to redose.

rhea

This weekend I got a whole new perspective regarding just how long a year and a half is. If it were a single unit of time--obscure yet specific like a fortnight--I would call it a Rhea*. Now, on its own, it's not so intimidating. Just one. But looked at as a collection of smaller increments, the Rhea becomes more menacing. All apologies to my best accounting friend, to whom the following arbitrary units of measurement may be painful.

Sick days. I anticipate that in the next Rhea I will have six colds: four minor, two major. That means an innocent looking eighteen months is really a sinister 10 sick days. It is one sprained ankle, roughly 80 exams and 12 cried-over season finales.

It is one birthday (of mine), two or three family vacations, two Christmases, dozens of lesser holidays and approximately 78 family home evenings. It is two fights with Ted, two letters from Bryan, and two visits from April. It is three weddings**, 156 date nights, and probably 20 actual dates. It is one nephew (hint to Jamie) and one degree.

It is also approximately 360 emails, 156 phone calls and four visits. I'd guess that 20 of those emails will be from me, exhibiting cracks in my emotional well-being, and 20 of those phone calls will be from him making it better.

* The name Rhea comes from the beginning of rhinoceros, because 18 months is the approximate gestation period of said animal, and the ending of Flea, which insect may live said length under ideal circumstances. Rhea is also the wife of Cronus the God of Time.

** All predictions are determined by recent rates.

menthol for the id

I hung up the phone and immediately teared up. My inner self began to whine, he didn't even want to keep talking. Another, loftier voice chimed in, come now, people get busy, and you can't live your life on the phone. My Id didn't answer except with a crude gesture and a greater onrush of tears. Voice number three came in calmly and rationally, stopping Super Ego from retorting condescendingly. Come now, my Ego stated, isn't it obvious? It happens this way every month. Just let her be.

Later as I dressed for Jason's wedding reception, my frustration grew at each outfit that looked, quite frankly, appalling on me. I borrowed something from Nora, the worst yet. I walked into her room sobbing. When did I get this fat? She turned and appraised me. Honey, you're probably bloated. All signs (gesturing to the tears) point to it. I nodded and she selected another skirt, A-line instead of cut on the bias. I made sure that my hair was amazing to take focus from my body.

Sunday was no better, a cold adding its merry presence to the Evil One.

That's when Nora gave me the Gift.

It was a menthol tablet that I dropped in the hot water of the shower. Instantly I was swathed in a cloud of minty steam. My skin burned, my sinuses cleared and my eyes watered until I cried. That's when I noticed the music in the background: Dashboard Confessional. I wept until I stepped from the tub and felt not only clean but refreshed. While the emo group sang angrily I towel-dried happily.

The cold went untouched. I am still blowing my nose every few minutes. But the medicine worked for my mood. In fact, I am quite cheerfully enjoying my convalescence. My Id is even being rational.

Well, sort of.

master plan

I have never been ambitious. I thought I naturally had a penchant for contentment. It turns out that I just needed to pick a direction, and then I would run in it. I didn't do well in classes until I chose a major. Now I do fairly decently. I also see how everything I learn ties in to what I want to be when I grow up. Because I know that now too. I want to be a great mom and write whenever I can--fiction, nonfiction, whatever.

But now that I've decided to be a writer, I want to be the best writer I know how. I want to get my master's degree in creative writing from the University of Texas (James Joyce gave them his money!). In order to follow this path in the preferred Energizer Bunny method, I will have to minor, at least, in English. Nothing so easy since most of my electives have stemmed that way anyway.

But yesterday, I received a cruel blow. The English department wants to require one more class than in years previous. One more class added onto my well thought-out graduation plan. Where do I fit it? Next semester, in my 15 credit load? What about Spring and Summer with their 9 credits apiece? I suppose there is always fall. Seventeen credits isn't too bad for a final semester with all 400-level classes. Right? At any rate, I am not staying in Provo an extra semester.

So what do I do? What's the master plan? I don't like that I don't know.

alas, babylon

One of my favorite books, one that I can read over and over, is Alas Babylon by Pat Frank. At the beginning of the book, Randy receives a simple telegram from his brother Mark using their childhood code for danger. Only days later the horizon is lit by multiple mushroom clouds, and the small town of Fort Repose is cut off from the world without an idea of what is going on outside.

Cut to a new TV series airing today. Jericho. A small town in Kansas witnesses multiple mushroom clouds on the horizon and are cut off without information. What will they do? They look like they're going to try to recreate The O.C. without the beach.

If I were Pat Frank, I'd sue. But I'm not. I am, in fact, the next closest plagiarist to them both. I think I am annoyed that the story hits too close to my own. At least mine isn't full of pretty boys who give you the creeps...yet.

happy talk like a pirate day

Talk Like a Pirate Day stems from a long and well-reputed tradition begun upon false premises by none other than nautical expert Dave Barry. I first learned of the holiday in high school, though my love for pirates existed long before. This picture, in truth, was not taken to commemorate this celebration but was a momento of a summer fling. I take this day to remember Cap'n Pete and our love.


. . . and, um, yar.

the passing of ann

Ann Richards, the last REAL governor of Texas, just died. In the article about her death, she was quoted as having said of our dear president/her successor, "Poor George. It's not his fault; he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." We will miss her.

baseball and weddings

After my brother's wedding reception (which is really his wife's reception, which is really for her mother) I am more firmly convinced that I would prefer a park for my own celebrations. A baseball field is the only place where bunting and diamonds are allowable. And, Heather added, what a better place to celebrate "going all the way." At least my sisters made it fun.

pitts

I had a dream last night where I was at a resort with my family and lots of bad things happened, including water rising and swallowing me, the way it used to in my old nightmares. But one thing stuck out to me. I was dating Brad Pitt. Weird. I have many explanations for this entire dream, from images I've seen lately to themes about which I have been thinking. One theory includes Brad being representative of Death (eg. Meet Joe Black). But why, I ask myself, would I want to analyze this when I could just enjoy it? Move over Angelina!

a comprehensive countdown

Work was very productive today. I developed a countdown to all the important dates for the next year. Disclaimer: I only did those dates I could remember off the top of my head. Yes, there are some missing. But not many.

3- Jason's wedding.
7- Ted's Birthday.
11- Ashley's Birthday.
18- Nora's Birthday.
35- Kevin's Birthday.
46 April's Birthday.
66- Veteran's Day.
78- Thanksgiving.
110- Christmas.
116- New Year's Eve.
152- Debi's Birthday.
161- Valentine's Day.
167- Emilie and Janiece's Birthdays.
192- St. Patrick's Day.
199- Alyessa's Birthday.
207- April Fool's Day.
219- Caitie's Birthday.
221- Tax Day.
231- Dad's Birthday.
235- Mom's Birthday.
241- Cinco De Mayo.
244- MY BIRTHDAY!
301- Independence Day.
312- Tarythe's Birthday.
316- Heather's Birthday.
318- Jason's Birthday. Tarythe's Anniversary.
321- Pioneer Day.
339- Cassidy's Birthday.
342- Joyce's Birthday.
365- September 6, 2007.

forgotten nightmares

It's not news that I have strange and disturbing dreams. Ted commented that what I casually call dreams most people would label nightmares. I shrugged. Like I said, it's not news. As far as I can remember--and my memory is pretty good--the nightmares started over two years ago, the summer I went home after Freshman year.

The foremost theme was death or otherwise negatively associated leaving of a loved-one. I became firmly convinced by my subconscious that I had a fear of abandonment. I began to notice in my interactions with others that I fully expected them to leave. The times when I have been proven wrong mean more to me than seems normal on the outside perhaps.

There was the trek of Fat Man's Misery in Zions where Ted hiked with me far behind the others. Bryan never left my side as I learned to ski, wiping-out at every turn. Debi stuck to my side as I grew sick from dehydration. And Kevin sat in the heat while multiple locksmiths attempted to break into my rental car.

These all seem like trivial events, and maybe they are, but something interesting to note is that I no longer dream that I am being left. While my nightmares may be scary and frustrating, I do not wake afraid. I have become so used to it being true that even in my dreams those that matter stay.

oops

I got this email from another supervisor at work today, reporting on last night's business:

"Slow most of the shift. It picked up right before closing.
A note to all those with tills. Peter said not to let any one else ring up besides you and he said that because he is very smart. Do not let anyone else touch the tills.
We had a major problem tonight,
Bottom line, I enjoyed this job while it lasted."

They say a word to the wise is more than sufficient. I won't leave my register for anything! Wow.

it counts

I felt like a Sesame Street special, sitting on the tile floor opening box after box and simply counting the contents. I used no upper-level math, I did nothing particularly skillful. I simply counted.

The mind-numbing process began after eleven PM, the inventory crew having been christened with Mountain Dew just before. The assignments were given, and I smiled sympathetically at the boy whose task it was to spend the next hour and a half in the walk-in freezer, while I got to be warm and comfortable in the dry goods stock room. The time passed quickly enough for those of us in the "Cage". We all joked and talked. Sometimes the laughs would come a minute or so late because the listener's focus had been so intent on not losing count. That was the worst. Was I on 36 or 46? Damn!

Soon even the Dew and the company lost their power to help and the counting just didn't seem as interesting as it had when we started. That's one! One hour! That's two. Two hours...Three. . . I got home at three o'clock in the morning absolutely exhausted. Sleep, however, didn't seem as restful as it might have were I not continuing the inventory in my dreams. A room with imaginary dimensions can be quite full of strange and scary items that need counting.

So why did I do it? I asked myself that question when I almost fell asleep before ten last night while waiting for my shift to start. I knew why I was doing it. Because I had said I would. The money didn't matter, not really, and I didn't need the practice (I'm almost quite certain I have my numbers down). I did it to impress the boss man, to make him see I am cooperative, willing to help and a hard and dedicated worker. I have my eye on his job, after all. It paid off too, when I got the email thanking me profusely for a job well done. I am now in even greater favor with the Powers that Be at work, a good thing when I'm taking the weekend off last minute. So, I'm glad I did it after all, because it counted for something.

Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

hands down

re·cid·i·vism A tendency to lapse into a previous pattern of behavior.

Again. Yet. Still.
Whatever.

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

singing my life with his words

I think everyone hears themselves in song lyrics. A good song is one you can sing to or say "dum di dum" when the words escape you. But a great song is one where you wonder how the writer got in your brain. Often it is just a line or two, little tidbits that I collect for my mental scrapbook. Lately I hear a phrase in every song, grin and think, Yeah I know how that feels. But every so often there is an entire song that throbs my heart and spins my mind. There are some songs that reverberate in me every time I hear them.

Avril Lavigne's "I'm With You" reminds me of Atlas Shrugged. I see a girl slouched over with the fatigue of living and fighting. She is in love with an ideal, one that must be embodied in some man, the man she will love, but she is weary with waiting. She is lonely for him.

Vertical Horizon sings the line, "You're waiting for someone to push you away,"in sensuous and disappointed tones. I hear the chorus and see characters from my own book trapped in a montage scene, as if in a movie of my imagination, and I feel powerless to write what I see and feel.

In 1993 I sat in a van for a family road trip to Colorado, our first vacation since our move to Texas. Nora had a Walkman to entertain her, and she let me listen to one song on it. Dreams by the Cranberries. It haunted me, and though I'm certain I didn't understand it, I did remember it. I heard it again five years later on the soundtrack to You've Got Mail. I sat up in my living room while the movie played and begged to know what that song was I was hearing. Years have passed and I hear it now and then on the radio. It still haunts me but means more to me now. The lyrics are simple, but I feel as if they are mine.

For Good. Tell me, my friends, have you ever seen me get through this song without crying? I finally drove to Target and bought the CD just because I knew I needed to have that song near at hand for all those times when I recall my friends with nostalgia and loneliness.

These songs are ones that I respect for the depth at which they strike me, but the point of this blog was actually my amusement at what other songs I have heard myself in lately. As each selection on the radio follows the last, my ears perk up and I think stupidly, yeah that's so true. Maybe it is the mood I have been in lately and this feeling of pseudo-intellectualism will pass. All the same, it seems a bit silly that I can suddenly "get" Celine Dion.

when nora cries, or how i fear the l word

Nora's face began that elegant contortion that suggests the imminent onset of tears. I stood and walked with her, interlinking my arm with hers for the small comfort that contact can bring. My heart melted, pooling somewhere around where her tears puddled. She didn't get her loan, for one thing. And oh how I know the frustration and ache that money can cause. Luckily I have unshakable faith in my mom that told me Nora didn't have to cry over lost financing. Sure enough mom called within a minute to offer a check, only one question asked: how much? No, something else had to be hurting Nora. He's not talking to me. What?! I managed to make it sound soft and concerned though a beast in my chest was roaring for blood. Someone--not some indefinable source of frustration, but an actual person whom I could conceivably hurt--had wounded Nora!

I cannot stand to see those I love in pain. This week has already been difficult for me in that respect. I saw Emilie cry when I couldn't make it all better, her tears giving heat to my heart that made it possible to hate my second-best friend, if only momentarily. Then there's the now almost-constant shadows in Caitie's eyes. No, I don't mean under her eyes. I mean just what I said. Cassidy's sick and Debi is constantly struggling. And now Nora.

Nora is special. She tries to be so tough, so strong and indomitable, but really she is rather soft and brittle. When she gets hurt, truly hurt by someone she loves, she never views him or her the same way again. While she dances through life in a normal manner, her soul looks with large pleading eyes at the offender as if to say, why? Why did you betray me when all I wanted was to love you? Man, it rips your heart to shreds. Mom slapped her for swearing, with Dad it was when our family fell apart and he kept secrets from us, Heather moved out on her in Boston, and I didn't get her noodles. Now he, that boy (said with all venom possible), isn't speaking to her because he is angry.

Is it just me, or shouldn't it be a little shocking that the weekend after she flies to see him, after they exchange the L-word, he should suddenly transform into Mr. Angry? So why doesn't it shock me? Because that is what I have come to expect. Oh cynical Audrey, my good sweet optimistic and romantic self says as she shakes her head sadly, what happened to the happily ever after you just witnessed with your friend Tarythe? Surely you don't mean-- but here I cut her off.

I have witnessed too many friends use that word or have that word whispered to them only to have their hearts broken mere moments later. I want to ask, so what does that mean to you, the words "I love you"? Dictionary dot com has ten definitions, but I want yours. Does it mean that you love me forever even when you don't like me and that you'll make it your goal to try to make me happy all my days; or does it mean that you really like hanging/making out with me until such a time as real or imaginary offense is taken or given; or does it mean that you want to show that you're a sensitive guy by sharing how much it's going to hurt you to break my heart into pieces when you say Goodbye in about ten minutes? Really what does it mean to you?

As I say this I look almost challengingly at my softer self, demanding a response. Her eyes brim with tears, and once again I am saddened that someone is hurt, not able to do anything even though she is I. I hope, she whispers, showing yet again how determined she is to be good, I hope you're wrong. I see that she believes me; after all it is too easy to convince my vulnerable side to be afraid of never being loved. But I shake my head with fatigue. I hope I'm wrong too.

Wrong or right I am now facing time as the zealously protective guardian of my loved ones. It's not a role to which I have ever been assigned; it just kind of happens. Perhaps I am merely a defensive person, but honestly I try not to take offense at life and her offerings. When it comes to people I love, however, when it comes to Nora, I just won't stand for some things.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

blast

I got an interesting email this week. Okay, the email itself was poorly written and so full of noncommittal small talk that I felt bored in the two seconds it took me to read the stupid thing. Hey. How are you. I'm the same. How's life. Mine's good. Ask Emilie, this is not an exaggeration. What made it less boring and more painfully annoying was the name signed at the bottom. Jon. I haven't heard from him in nine months, since the last time he sent an email entitled How's Life? Jon is a nice guy, a really good guy, but I have a complete lack of curiosity when it comes to him. I wanted to reply civilly to the letter, to prove that I too am a classy person, but then came the rub. Do you mind if I read your blog now so I can see how you're doing? No! You still cannot read my blog. The heat flared up again almost instantly as I recalled my anger at his intrusion a year ago. It's quite ridiculous, really, that I can't let go of past emotions. But isn't that what he's doing too? Why this fascination with my blog when we haven't spoken for a year? If he wants to know how I am, he can ask...or better yet ask Ted. He can ask Emilie who can ask me. She and I can have a nice chat, a quarter of which can be passed back up the line.

I'd like to call his curiosity annoying or to label him pathetic, but such a case of the pot calling the kettle black!

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.

censored

I guess I am not ready for the broadcast vulnerability of the blogging world. It turns out I do care who reads my blog. It changes what I write. And right now, for the last three weeks and for the next period of that same time frame I cannot write the absolute truth. Too bad.

right back at you

Generally, the answers to prayers fall into three categories: yes, no and maybe. However, I have had impressions much more deep than these single word responses. At those times, Heavenly Father turns my prayers back on me, a Socratic method of teaching. I struggle with understanding, but in the end I find a greater trust in Him and a new, clearer perception of my problem.

Once I went to the Lord with a burning, imperative question. I had to know the direction my life was meant to take. How else was I to follow His plan for me, if I didn't know what He wanted me to do? I asked, I begged, I fasted, and then I went to the temple. There I got my answer, so clear. It was a quiet voice that simply asked, "do you really want to know?" Through my mind flashed scenarios of just how much I could screw up my destiny if I were in charge of it. While my mind said shakily, yes I want to know, my heart cried out, no don't tell me! That answer was a no, but so much greater than the answer was the understanding. He explained nothing to me, but peace came anyway, peace to say, I'll wait and see.

Another time I felt the answers were hard in coming, I took myself to the small cluster of pine trees near the track at Helaman Halls. I couldn't decide which course of action would be best between two favored paths. Should I or shouldn't I? I felt only a shrug from the Spirit, a rather unsatisfying answer, like when a friend listens to your confidences and doesn't think the situation so important as you do. "What do you want to do?" asked the Spirit. So I said, if this were my choice, completely without guidance, I would do it this way. I paused. If that's okay with You, take away the distractions. Instantly there was peace, and I was contented with my decision. It is not that the Lord did not care, but that either choice suited Him equally well. This was a maybe.

Yesterday I got a yes, the most bizarre yes I have ever heard, and the most satisfying. My emotions have been like a rollercoaster. I needed to carry daisies with me just in case I needed to know how I felt about any new emotional development. Do I like him? Am I angry? How does macaroni and cheese sound? Am I jealous? Do I like him? My thoughts and feelings ran in circles around every issue imaginable. I cried not only at Gilmore Girls but also at Brawny Paper Towel commercials. Then I laughed in the middle of anger. So help me, these feelings were like PMS on steroids. I couldn't sort it out. I went to the Lord.

Tell me how to feel, I asked. I know I could sort it out for myself, but what if I do and the way I feel is contrary to what You'd like? It would save us both time if You would tell me how I am supposed to feel about him, about her, about this, about that. And what do You think about Luke and Lorelai ending up together; I'm having a hard time with that one too?

Silence.

I changed tactics. Okay, I'll try to listen to my feelings more, I promise. But will You still be there? Don't let me go astray. Watch my reactions, shape situations. If I listen, will You be there to help me know how to feel about it? Just tell me as it comes up. Thanks.

I went about my weekend with no clear signals. Life was usual. Actually, life was not routine. I went camping and slept in the back of a pickup truck. I went on paddle boats and played volley ball for the first time in years. The ordinariness came from the people with whom I surrounded myself: my four roommates and Ted. And my emotions were clear, my thoughts nonconveluted. I felt like myself before the flood, but I didn't feel any wiser or more far-sighted.

When I got home, I knelt in prayer before getting some much-needed sleep. "So," my prayer asked me, "how do you feel?" I contemplated momentarily before whispering, I know. Oh most gracious Father, it's not what I thought, not what I expected, not what I saw coming at all. This is not the answer I thought You would give. But this is how I feel, no buts about it anymore. What I thought I wanted, what I had decided You wanted for me, is no more. Here is my heart, Father, what do you see? A burning, swelling breathlessness seized me that said something very prosaic, like: "That's exactly what I expected you'd find if I gave you time. Good girl."

That was my Yes, and now I am left with more questions than answers. For instance: what now? The Spirit, alas, doesn't deal rhetorically.

rocking horse winner

I have had two images in my head for days now, maybe weeks. One is me diving off a cliff, arms spread wide not caring when someone catches me though the air streaming past my face is growing more ferocious and the ground is racing nearer; I don't care because I know I'll get caught before I hit the bottom, even if only barely. The next image is from D. H. Lawrence, the Rocking Horse Winner. When I think of that, my eyes flinch open and I see how very close the ground really is and wonder why haven't I been caught yet. I force my breathing to calm once more and my body to relax in free-fall. Instead my tension is transferred to a little boy feverishly racing his rocking horse to the finish line. There must be more money. There must be more money.

My short-term loan was due today.

since hell froze over

I went to choir practice, proving once again how futile oaths are. Ted has finally beaten me into submission after nearly three years of trying to make me attend. I don't sing, I argued in the beginning, and at that time I didn't. Then I lived with April for two years, and then Tarythe, and now Emilie, Caitie and Cassidy. In there were friends like Bryan who thought a past time wasn't a past time unless it included singing. So I guess I sing now. That doesn't mean I sing well, or that I will sing in front of people. Jam sessions with Ted have made me less self-conscious, but I have seen how exacting he is even in casual events when it comes to music. How can I step so far out of my comfort zone as to try to sing with a group? I'm probably crazy, or maybe it's this whole self-improvement kick I've been on all my life. Probably though it's Ted. Because he asked me to go. At least I can lay any blame on him; I told him I'm no singer, and he knows my proud and vain manner which makes learning painful for me; so if he can work with that, that's his business. My job is showing up, and I did that.

hiking mad

I went hiking last night with three of my roommates and Ted. Ordinarily I would love hiking--truth be told I still loved it--but ordinarily I wouldn't have been dehydrated before ever driving to the starting point. My body felt weak as I left work, every cell crying out for water like a caricature of a Sahara-wanderer. But my friends were going. Actually, they had already left. Why did I follow them without so much as changing into good shoes? Because I was mad. Note that there are several definitions for mad, eight according to dictionary.com, and all connotations applied to me last night.

I can't explain all my reasons for being mad, but one was that I was tired of feeling left out. I go to bed early now, or try to, and invariable hear about what my friends did together three nights after the event. I don't particularly enjoy listening to the "do-you-remembers" floating around, especially as they are followed by "Oh, no, wait, she wasn't there." I have missed Ted, the night owl, and I have missed Emilie whom I have not seen much of in recent weeks. I have felt lonely.

And I have felt mad, angry at my many different emotions. My determination to go hiking while fatigued and dehydrated resulted from a desire to punish myself. I've done it before, on the treadmill, hitting a full-sprint of eight mph without warming up. As soon as I recognized the reason behind my need for speed, I hit the automatic stop button. I would not harm my body because I was sad, so instead I walked home and had Caitie give me a massage; much more healing all around. This time, however, I didn't stop, and the effect was more punitive than I had anticipated.

Ted was the only one who saw my anger, when I first encountered him coming down the hill to meet me on my way up. I didn't want to talk about it, I told him, because I wanted it to go away. I thought it had when we rendezvoused with the others. Whether or not the emotion had faded by the time we hit the steep up-hill doesn't really matter. Anger had carried me to that point, and my muscles didn't have the ability to keep me going.

I began to let others pass me by as I took the back, stopping whenever necessary to drink (I cannot drink and walk at the same time). Later, as my body wore down I became emotional. I stopped at one point--the first long pause where the others quickly outstripped me--because the pain and senseless emotion overwhelmed me. I nearly began to cry, tightening my already inflamed throat until I thought I would vomit. When my eyes teared, I grew alarmed. Sweet water, which my body couldn't afford to lose more of. I counted, I breathed, I closed my eyes to bring calm.

That's when I felt Debi's hand on my shoulder. She remained with me the rest of the hike. On the way up she served my pride, by letting the others continue on without us at points, though they still waited a lot. She did the same on the way down, but there she aided me even more.

My body had been tired since six that evening, besides the general fatigue that accompanies certain times of the month, and we reached the peak at ten. That's when tiredness was no longer noticeable as a feeling or emotion; it simply was I. Perhaps it was my early-to-bed training. At any rate, walking down the mountain, I didn't have strength to lift my feet sufficiently over jutting rocks and roots. Those shoes that I hadn't bothered changing neither supported my ankles nor had enough traction to stop me from sliding.

Instead, Debi did. She walked behind me and first, and caught me in many near falls. After a while she switched to my guide, telling me where to step and more often then not letting me grab her hand, shoulder or back for support. I never asked for her help, and she never offered it. Instead, as I stumbled my hand came in contact with her, waiting calmly to lift me up. At one point my foot caught in a root and I flew forward with that sensation of inevitable face-planting. A hand hit my hip, steadying me in place.

That is not to say that I didn't fall often. I did. And hard. Usually the other three had gotten ahead around a bend or past a tree, so I hope they did not see. In one fall I shredded my knuckles and landed on my thumb trying to catch myself. Another time I rolled my ankle, but refused to let Debi tell the others to wait. They had just done so for Caitie, but I was embarrassed, extremely so, by my slow pace and weak state, and for my emotionalism. At another time I slipped at an angle and landed hard on my leg, twisting my knee and pulling my calf muscle. The more I fell, the sloppier I became.

I was shaky and tired and fighting a constant battle against tears, when I slid to a bumping stop on the ground behind Emilie. Ted walked back as I stood and tried to persuade me to walk with him. Please, he offered. Please, I begged. He held his hand out to me from where he stood on lower ground, and I kept my hand against his, trying to push it gently away. The humiliation almost overwhelmed me.

The whole scenario was a repeat of Fat Man's Misery almost two years before, when before the hike was over I found myself lagging severely behind. I had been out of shape from a summer of lethargy as well as dehydrated from lack of preparedness. Ted hiked with me then too. I couldn't stand to see him for weeks after that. The memory embarrasses me now. Today, however, I am not so out of shape as I was then (though help me I had a dream where I gained thirty pounds!) and I know that my lack of fluids was more than thirstiness. I was seriously sick, but still I did not want attention drawn to it, and I did not want to slow up Ted, he whose outdoors stamina is a source of pride and identity for him.

I managed to make him go on, but when the road widened out, his pace slowed. I caught up without increasing my speed at all, and we walked in silence, listening to the Gardner sisters walking in front and singing. Debi caught up with them. Ted's comment on how we were all walking as if we were drunk made me smile and realize that he had found a way to condescend to me anyway. Emilie and Caitie would not ordinarily outstrip him. He apologized for being a "bully-headed pig" and I didn't say a thing. Mostly because I felt like asking forgiveness too. I felt like begging for it, or simply whispering "I'm sorry" with as much dignity as I could muster. Since I could muster none, I simply walked until I reached the car.

I drove away without comment, and when I arrived in the Riv parking lot I sobbed in the driver's seat. I cried myself to sleep in bed, with two bottles of Gatorade sitting on my side table. I failed to drink either, and woke up still sick. I have been drinking all day (and having it go straight through) and still the headache persists. The bloody knuckles, non-opposable thumb, and the sore knee are not the worst results from yesterday. The low points are the embarrassing looks, the "are you okay?" glances that acknowledge my weakness and imply the inquirer's acceptance of it. That is the worst.

So I guess that's it. I'm still mad at myself, but for a whole new set of stupid actions. In the end, hiking changed very little, except the view.

lesson plans

An entire lesson in literature from one paragraph:

"A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to emphasize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this. That is all; class dismissed."
~ From Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi

strengths and weaknesses

The money still has not arrived from the VA. After I checked the mail this afternoon I shrunk into a little ball and rocked for a while. When I stood up and managed to go about my business, only my body uncoiled. My spirit is still compactly boxed, sitting at times in my stomach and at others in my throat. I feel small, uncertain and weak.

At such times of emotional insecurity I want metaphorically to bury my head in the sand. So, today I am grateful for the small strengths I possess--that I went to dance class and spun without losing the footwork; that I have not marked days of of my calendar since my white board read 68; for the fact that I don't know how many days ago 68 accurately measured my countdown; that I got two A's on two tests in as many days; that I managed to make my savings account have more than my checking; and that I went running when I wanted to sleep away my loneliness.

For these things I am grateful. But above all I am grateful for the knowledge I have that it will all work itself out in the end--the money, all of it. Knowing that the Lord is at the helm, despite not knowing where he is steering me, is a great strength.

pied beauty by gerard manley hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-colours as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

suppression

Caitie has a book called Feelings Buried Alive Never Die, and its premise is that the reason we develop suceptabilities to certain ailments is due to emotional weakness. This book even lists many physical manifestations of some emotional sicknesses. For instance Caitie developed diarrhea and vomiting only a week after going through extensive visualization exercises with her mom. The cause of such illnesses: "a rejection of a visualization...." Weird.

My ailment has been my throat. I get sick rarely, but when I do it is in my throat and I lose my voice. The root problem: suppressed feelings of anger. I began to watch and about a week after I would be really mad, my voice would go. In between bursts of anger, my throat often got itchy when I was grumpy. The contradiction: I never got sore throats in high school, and back then I suppressed everything.

Last Wednesday my feelings got hurt really badly, and I spent all day Thursday trying to reconcile my feelings with my reason. Thursday night my knees began to ache. All day Friday my hips were in a lot of pain. If I continue in physical activity I am okay, but if I sit or stand at all, all my joints freeze up. The book suggests that painful joints are a result of suppressing feelings of hurt. What the--!

I have been aware for a long time that I have problems dealing with emotions. But in the last few years I have become so much better. Really! I even went to counseling for a year, and my counselor was so excited the first time I cried in front of him. Granted, that was the last time I went...over a year ago. But now I am wondering, is it because I am aware of the emotion I feel that when I hide them my body rebels? To get rid of this ache--which is now spreading to my back and preventing use of a back pack--must I tell my friends these irrational feelings I have? Or can I just take a muscle relaxer? I'm already sucking on cough suppressants to numb my newly sore throat. Man, this is getting serious.

g.i.v.e.r.

I may never grow up. At least, at this pace, it seems unlikely. I have changed my mind yet again in regards to what I want to be. Oh, I still want to write, to be a mom and to do family history work, but now I have another idea to add to that list. Lately I have become infatuated with the idea of starting my own school. Emilie and I planned it. The school would start as a multi-family home school between the four roommates, but it would grow as we solicited students from the community. Always very small scale, but very very effective and fun.

Emilie would teach music--in later years in would be elective, but starting out as part of the core curriculum in elementary. Caitie would have many roles besides teaching science. She wants to be "that person who when the kids get cut tells them to suck it up and quit crying." "The school nurse?" I asked her. "Yeah! That's it."She would also oversee dance and self-defense. Cassidy heads up math and history. I would teach English and social sciences, including government, economics, sociology, and philosophy (all those things I debated majoring in!) Maybe I could also be the librarian?

Emilie and I discussed hiring out for other positions, but she eventually decided that we would marry out for those jobs. All four of us girls would marry men with normal day jobs so our financial drain of a school wouldn't be responsible for supporting the family. These men, however, must also have skills necessary for the survival of our institute. An accountant was Emilie's first concern. I volunteered to take business classes but instead Cassidy has offered to marry a Marriott school grad.

We're marrying Ted because we love him and because his skills in music can complement Emilie's, and he can build a fire. We all love camping and want to do character-building retreats, but I cannot build a fire for the life of me.

We need a handyman, though he can of course have a different day job if he likes. I just want to be able to ask someone free of charge what ought to be done about the leaky faucet. Nathaniel Gardner has been selected as one who is good with his hands. He is too young for me so he falls to Cassidy; he'll just have to major in accounting when he decides what he wants to be when he grows up.

Other requirements included dentistry (because apparently this school is turning into a commune and we'll never go outside the family for anything), advertising, dancing, gardening, knowledge of computers, ability and willingness to cook dinner, and gospel knowledge (for life in general but also for seminary teaching). So if you know someone with these qualities who wants to be part of something small but good, please email me immediately. It's never too soon to marry....oh wait....

Caitie's options for marriage are fairly open. I've recommended Matt Bushman for character across the board. My choice is Steve Gardner for his name. If I marry him we can call the school the Gardner Institute of Education or something like that. Or maybe the Gardner Institute of Very Educated Retards so we could tell people that we are G.I.V.E.R.s Oh the possibilities!

sanity my love

I thought that we had a relationship that would withstand time, Sanity and I, but now I know it isn't so. Because any other potential relationship drives this vital one into dust. My Sanity is a very dramatic sort, and if ever I show an inkling for someone else, he leaves me. I, luckily, am very loyal, and I try to cling to Sanity with every part of me, fighting Infatuation, to hold on to that commitment. But Infatuation was too persuasive this time, making up dreams and fantasies that I can't resist. I didn't even notice Sanity slipping away, until one morning I woke up, ticked a day off on my calendar and immediately began the roller-coaster ride of emotions, gift from Infatuation. Sanity had abandoned me. I needed to be committed. Why, oh why, didn't anyone save me from my idiocy? Now I have the pain of separation, no matter which choice I make--to go back to Sanity, who will always be waiting, or to pursue Infatuation until he leaves me penniless in a foreign country.

I choose...

I choose both, to live the life of an adulteress, holding hands with Sanity on one side and Infatuation on the other. My strong protector Sanity will close all the doors left open too long by Infatuation, those that lead to ridicule and pain. The day dreams will go away, but I'll never quite forget they were there. Maybe I can get some homework done, and maybe I can make some sensible friends. That is, when I'm not checking email like a madwoman and writing stories on my laptop. I need Sanity and Infatuation in my life, and I think in the end I will be glad of them.

i'll take a number 7

Last night I cheered myself up as I often do: I spent time with my best friends (all but Cassidy who had to work). We went to eat at the Olive Garden ordering fancy drinks, appetizers and entrees. A celebration in gluttony. I decided it was my favorite of the deadly sins, until I looked back over the day. Yesterday was a celebration of all seven. Kevin Spacey would be proud.

sloth--five episodes of Gilmore Girls
lust--did I not mention five episodes of Gilmore Girls? to better specify, all the cute ones with Jess.
jealousy--I wanted my friends all to myself! Sorry new people, you must find your own friends.
greed--I want more Gilmore Girls!
gluttony--mmm chicken alfredo, artichoke dip and a mango daiquiri with lime
pride--I didn't play anti-nephi-lehi when it came to the pillow fight with Ted last night.
wrath--when Matt made comments during volleyball. "No, no, don't get up. I got it." Good!

But my favorite was gluttony.

laundry life-line

I am sitting at the computer watching the time count down until my laundry is dry. Then I can unload it. Then I can run away. My laundry is the only thing holding me to this spot right now--to this place physically and metaphysically. I'm letting go and slipping, and I have about 11.46 minutes until my last finger slides off the edge to which I am holding. Then, so help me, I am running away to the Quasimodo of Pretty, a park, the zoo, Disneyland, somewhere. Make that 9.78 minutes; I had to look up how to spell Quasimodo.

Last night I was country dancing and having such a marvelous time that my roommates noted on how much different I am than I used to be. Next minute, I turned around and walked out. I would have walked home except for my fear of dark roads and bad men with mustaches, so Cassidy escorted me. I was too restless to get ready for bed and too indolent to do something fun. All at once my enjoyment disappeared. My body figured out that something was bothering me before I did. It told me to go home, and then my emotions caught up. It took my mind another day before I knew what was wrong.

During that said day, I stayed up way too late, slept in later, skipped all but dance class--the only one I wanted to skip--and narcotized myself with five episodes of Gilmore Girls. Five. You know, it may have been six. Finally I mentally shook myself as hard as I was able. The difficulty lay in that my head was stuck somewhere in a gigantic pile of sand. I saw what I was doing, cutting my legs out from under me, indulging in laziness like a form of substance abuse. Were I a drinker, I'd be on my way to AA (I am legal now). As it is, I found a sudden need to do at least one thing productive.

That's where the laundry comes in. Five loads. And in 2.21 minutes those loads will be gone, and I will forget that reality exists. I will stop loving classes, I will stop going to my job, I will stop even caring what day of the week it is. All because what? Because I am in denial, mad that I don't have better control over my emotions.

The alarm is going off now. Maybe I'll wash a load of towels. 42 minutes. In 42 minutes I'll let go.

bureaucracy

Up until this point I have been relatively sheltered from the bureaucratic processes of complex organizations. For me to get anything done I had merely to ask my parents. Sometimes they dealt heavily with me and made me ask the other parent too. That's the worst I had it. Now I am dealing with the Department of Veterans Affairs. Not only is the VA a government branch, but it is also severely underfunded. Thus, when I ask them for money, they do everything they can to put off payment.

I got the letter in the mail a while ago, saying that yes I was entitled to full educational benefits from the VA. That is 695 dollars a month (I'm sure it used to be 700 but then they wanted to spread the money farther and torture the accountants who work in the basement). All I had to do was provide proof of current enrollment at my college and then pick the date for the benefits to begin. I could back date it to July 2005 when I became eligible. So that's what I did. I faxed them my paperwork, saying yes please send me a very big check. Instead of a big check in the mail, I got a letter asking me to do the whole thing over again. You must select a date, it said. The following letter attempted to talk me out of backdating my benefits. You won't get more money up front by choosing July. Another problem was that I had only provided proof of enrollment since January, not July. I'm sorry, I thought, I didn't realize that current enrollment went back to the time I started kindergarten!

Today I called the toll-free number (so help me, if I get charged for that, those Veterans will remember what war looks like!) and was put on hold for eight minutes before someone took the call. They asked for my social security number, then my name, then my mailing address. I'm sorry, but if my file didn't come up with the social then they need a new filing system. Or is it proof they want? I'm sure someone stealing my identity would know my name and address. I could mail in a blood sample if they'd like. I told him my problem.

They said I picked the wrong date, but I was told I could pick any date.
I have here that you can pick any date.
I know! But it won't let me.
Have you filled out an application?
Didn't you just say I could pick a date?
Yes.
Then obviously I filled out an application.
And I have here that you were approved.
Funny, that's what I heard as well.
So, all we need is for you to pick a date between, let's see....July-
July 22, 2005 and February 1, 2006
So you already know this?
I want to pick July.
I see.
If I do will I get a check for the back payment to that month?
Absolutely.
I will get a check for all the months since July?
Yes.
Then I pick July.
Are you sure you want to do that?
YES!
Okay, just one second...okay, you're all set. The payment department will calculate the money and get it sent out to you.
That's it?
Yes.
You just did it?
You said July, right?
Yes.
Yep, all set.
Thanks.

I hung up the phone wondering why on earth they couldn't have done that in the first place. I had to get an extension on my tuition because they sent a confirmation letter instead of a check, and all it took was thirty seconds to do it. God bless America, but Satan can have the Government.

On the plus side, when I drop out of college for lack of funding and join the circus, I will be expert at jumping through hoops.

that's one, one day!

My birthday came, was wonderful, and fled, leaving behind it a naked spot on my white board. There I had counted down the days until my crowning victory of turning another year older. Now, I could either start over with 364 days or find something new toward which to look. And 364 is such a large number. Alas, so is 72, but that's what the board now says. Tomorrow it will read 71, and in about two months I will be able to bear looking at the teasing integer. Probably. I almost wish I didn't know how to count.

paul simon is my hero

Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo
But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold
And the animals will love it
If you doIf ya do now
Something tells me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
The monkeys stand for honesty
Giraffes are insincere
And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
Zebras are reactionaries
Antelopes are missionaries
Pigeons plot in secrecy
And hamsters turn on frequently
What a gas
Ya gotta come and see
At the zoo

canonical

A new language has developed from my joke. Overheard:

Ben was actually flirting with me!
Maybe he had a change of heart.
He's converted and ready for baptism!
Most men convert to Caitie.
But she hasn't baptized them yet.
Are you converted anywhere?

Oh no.

the new religion

Why do we sweat? I asked Caitie, the future MD. To flush out toxins. That is the same reason we sneeze and cough when we are sick, and the same reason that we cry when we are sad. It's all to rid the body of its imperfections. So, I reasoned with them, if expelling fluids is cleansing, wouldn't that make kissing like baptism? After a momentary pause, the girls ran with it.

But you're getting back fluids too.
So? They're different fluids.
After I kiss someone I develop different quirks than I previously had?
Yes.
Then, if I kiss someone I may develop the habit of swearing.
You shouldn't kiss a boy who swears.
Kissing is rather cleansing.
I guess I've never been baptised.
Was kissing Jon was like baptism...to the wrong church?

Perfect! I am so blogging this, I cried running to my room. Only the screams of their laughter, results of a tickle war in which Caitie has no mercy, drew me back to their circle. I shrieked my own torture at merely watching their antics. I can't stand tickling, though I absolutely adore it. Our romp became more violent until we felt need to repent. I guess we need some religion in our lives.

washington dc

I have found my place in life. I am not talking about a path or some transcendental thought like that. No, I mean a literal place where I belong: Washington D.C. I've always wanted to visit, but now I'm going there to stay. April lives there, Tarythe is moving there, Alyessa is heading that way, Ted and Dave may decide to follow Amy there, and a Bushman is looking into it. Not to mention that Heather is only a short drive away. To this point, I had always thought that I'd have to build my own compound in Spain in order to have so many of those I love gathered in one city. Now I see my error. I lacked patriotism--may I be forgiven--and missed on the vision of this better way. We shall live in the Nation's Capitol and eat Freedom Toast every morning. God bless America.

smell-o-vision

I daydream at work. I run away from the tedium into my mind with all its various stages and plays. Sometimes I fantasize, or write my books, or sometimes I remember real events. Each plays before me like a movie, dominantly visual with some auditory support. And much like movies, my favorite parts are where the sound and visuals have little to do with one another...you know, like in montages. April will agree with me here. So it goes that I don't experience three of my senses mentally. I do not smell, taste or touch my thoughts--I've decided to let MGM or Willy Wonka take over research into those areas. But today I hit on a breakthrough.

I was remembering a past event, slowly processing it into a daydream. I saw the entire situation, somehow third person watching myself. It's odd to visualize oneself in situations; at least, I find it odd despite the fact that that is how I always see life. I saw the image and I heard nothing. I decided to zoom in, and suddenly I saw through true memory's eyes, first person and almost too close. But I gasped when I suddenly felt the sensations. I touched cotton. I looked at my hands in front of me, seeing them resting idly on the metal counter at work, while in my vision I clung to cotton, soft and dry against my fingers. I felt pressure against one half of my body that came from nowhere but this recollection. My head, held erect in reality, felt relaxed as it rested on another surface. I let go of the image when I smelled him, part deodorant, part cologne and part that smell that comes from under the skin that sticks to one's clothes and is somehow completely unique. I felt like I was dropping a hot pan, releasing in protective instinct, as I let the cafeteria at the Cannon Center pound my senses once more. My chest felt tight with the surprise and fear of such an experience. And then I wanted it back.

I feel now that my writing has been as my thoughts--only two-fifths the depth it could have been. It is a strange new world to imagine, with all that detail always demanding attention like a separate character. This person--these people of scent, touch and taste--will assault me from every side now, pulling at me when I have nothing left to give. Yet, if I am going to be as good a writer as I have always hoped, then I will give something anyway. In return I believe I will find a store of greatness, of life--scary and delicious--waiting to be translated by me onto paper.

birthdays

Tonight Nora, Jason, Jamie and I celebrated with my dad his birthday. This leads me to one thought. My birthday. And yes, it's in twelve days. Remember that.

rainy days and mondays

Over a year ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was the day I recognized my failure in so many fields. I went to my dad for comfort and on the drive home, the Carpenters' Rainy Days and Mondays played in the background. Even as I sobbed, I sang along. This year, the anniversary of the day went rather well, and I let it pass. I thought that was the milestone I had to reach, and I admit to being slightly disappointed that it was so nondescript. Today, however, I realized that today is the day I was meant to reach, and I feel that it truly means something that I listened to Emilie sing that same song as we drove home from my Dad's house. I wondered briefly to myself whether Heavenly Father would inspire someone with Carpenters' lyrics, before I nodded with certainty. Of course He would. That one chorus told me so many things that I needed to know.

I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.

Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.

Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?

Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.

This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.

Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.

I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.

I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.

This is my A.