notes from the underground--grad school edition, volume 4.

grades were posted yesterday.
this first semester of grad school is officially done.
and you know what?
it went far better than i expected.
far better than perhaps i feel i deserve--
were i to believe in deserved and undeserved.
but in this, one of the most peculiar semesters of my life,
(that's putting it incredibly generously and kindly.)
it didn't turn out so bad at all in the end.
not bad at all.
(in all aspects of living, really.)

by the end of the semester, though, i was ready to give up.
(#finalsweek, you know?)
because. am i really meant to do this?
am i actually even capable of being successful?
do i even like it?

and then in the very middle of finals week,
i had a meeting that changed everything.
a meeting that put me back on the bandwagon again.
a meeting that left me saying, okay. fine. i suppose i'll stay.
a meeting that reminded me, i really do have a lot of good things going for me.

because.
looking at real stories--real people.
digging into the puzzle of who they are.
analyzing speech and language anytime i'm around children these days.
seeing the application of where it all goes.

it really does all go somewhere.
it really does matter.
we're not supposed to know everything yet--
that's the point.
that's why we're here.

it's going to be a good life, you know?
because it already is a good life.

one semester of gradschooling down.
t-minus four semesters to go--one of which only slightly counts.
not that we're counting.
(we're totally counting--
especially the days until tuition is paid for the very last time.)

[insertsomanyemojishere.]

coming and choosing.

this one's for the faithless, the ones that are surprised

they're only where they are now--regardless of their fight.

this one's for believing, if only for its sake.

come on, friends, get up now--love is to be made.

(comes and goes, greg laswell.)

belief builds from scratch. i'm realizing that the true power of faith is not only the faith itself, though, of course, that's also important. the true power of faith is the choice--choosing to believe, if only for the sake of believing itself. because choosing to believe? well, this is how all love is made. faith and love are both actions, the action being the school for belief.

(a watercolor painted and gifted by a member in saltovka, ukraine.)

believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth;

believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth;

believe that man doth not comprehend all things which the Lord can comprehend.

(mosiah 4:9)

believing. even when you don't. believing. even when you feel you can't. that's true faith--one step enough for me. walking on faith feels sometimes more like walking on eggshells than it does a solid foundation. little do we realize, though. as we go forth--believing we will receive--all those eggshells become a stunningly colorful mosaic. those eggshells become fired into shining ceramic within that refiner's fire. and then? only then are the spaces between each tile filled with the strongest and thickest of bonding paste. the kind that becomes unbreakable stone.

brother, how we must atone, before we turn to stone. 

the true atoning is already done.

and so we must believe.

some days that belief is simultaneously neat and wild like a mosaic, 

some days simple and clear-cut like a stained-glass window,

some days messy and running together at the borders like a watercolor.

all colorful. all art. all beautiful. all needed.

and so we must believe.

if only for its sake.

Д В А. [T W O.]

уже два года прошли.

уже?

два года. же.

the truth is, there are still days i feel a whole lot like this, or a bit of this.

(i still have an obsession with the concept of home--did you know?) 

the truth is, i hardly ever look at these emails i wrote home, and as i wrote them i never edited or reread.

and most of them left out a grand majority of my experience.

because you just can't send those things home.

the truth is, everything was always just a stream of writing.

(the truth is, nearly all of the things i write are like that--with only minor edit or revision.)

the truth is, i should probably read my mission journal more--

because that's where the real truth of it all can be found, inasmuch as is possible to capture.

i should reflect and embrace the struggles and the miracles together.

but the truth is, sometimes i can't. 

because sometimes it is too much to go back there.

and because i'm starting to think i don't really believe in the validity of should's.

i remember vividly the process of writing my final email home. the dingy, but large, internet club in center donetsk that was infinitely nicer than nearly all the others i'd used each week throughout my mission. all the little boys and men playing games and other things on computers all around us, the scent of beer and breathe reeking of cigarette smoke wafting all around. the emails exchanged with my daughters still in-country. the beautiful emails i received from jillian and megs that made me nearly cry two tears. and most of all, starting the email i was trying to write over and over again. because what do you say at the end of so many months like that? what do you say, when you start to realize that it really does end and there really will be the juxtaposition of simultaneous relief and heartbreak at being pulled away from it? what do you say when dreams and nightmares become reality, and reality becomes dreams and nightmares?

sometimes i feel like God lets me to write, so that i have something to hold. so that i have some way to capture experiences or feelings that cross me, of course. but--perhaps more importantly--to hold the lessons He teaches me for later. i wish i could say i feel like this all the time, that i maintained a status quo of that perspective. i don't. sometimes that wintergrey still gets me.

i've found myself talking a lot about ukraine lately--more than i have in a long time. there's still so much from ukraine that defines so much of who i am, but time's a funny thing, you know? distance is a powerful informer of perspective. as are these 730 days. i'm still 93 million miles from the sun, though some days feel much closer to the warmth than others. it seems fitting that this two-year mark collide with the weekend of finals, the end of my first semester of grad school, jillian's wedding, among other things.

i wish i could say that i've progressed a lot in these two years, though i'm not so sure that i have. it looks like it, of course. objectively speaking. i graduated form college. applied, was accepted, and began graduate school. went to israel. met a million different people--some who have stayed, others who kept moving onward. but has my heart and soul really changed? i don't rightly know. or perhaps she didn't need to change. but i'd still like to hope i've learned a thing or two in these two years.

when i first came home, i wanted so badly to throw out every piece of my life that preceded ukraine. i didn't like the girl i saw there--the way she was or how she thought and lived. i wanted so badly to begin life anew, keeping only small and important pieces from anything before, and building mostly upon ukraine and the woman she made me.

i've started over a lot in the past two years--in every sense of the word--just as i did in ukraine. starting over and over again, here i am living in radical uncertainty. moving all around, often nothing quite staying.

and yet. it's all part of the path. how it ever ends? only God really knows. but you know what? all those things and people that don't seem to stay are a sifter for the things that truly do. because it's in that process that you come to find the things that truly matter--not only inside yourself in regards to where you're going, but also in discovering what matters most in building your life.

december the twentieth was an odd day this year, with a little piece of everything inside. one that ranged through a whole lot of different experiences. because apparently, just like last year, there's just something about these important days, you know? you know.

in the middle of the day, i purposefully chose to walk a ways through the snow to and from my churchings, and there was something so cathartic about that walk through the cold and snow, ukraine style. the chance to breathe and be. walking along and having a good talk with God about who i am and how i got to where i am. in addition to where i am striving to go.

and this twentieth day of december? a day that went from cold and icy to pure and sweet. i'd like to think that it was an odd sort of metaphor. a microcosm of life. i certainly hope. because two years later? in all this building and all this striving? here i am living and breathing. finding that perfect blend of selected pieces of past working with selected pieces of present, paving the way towards future.

two years already? now we've only just begun.

because e.e. cummings is always a good idea, you know?

let it go – the

e.e. cummings


let it go – the
smashed word broken
open vow or
the oath cracked length
wise – let it go it
was sworn to
go

let them go – the
truthful liars and
the false fair friends
and the boths and
neithers – you must let them go they
were born
to go

let all go – the
big small middling
tall bigger really
the biggest and all
things – let all go
dear

so comes love

notes from the underground--grad school edition, volume 3.

(because apparently this is becoming a onceamonth thing.)



motivation towards
my field
and my career path
and my academics
and all things related
has been a struggle lately.
i think this is what we call burnout.

in the library today:
allyson: all these undergraduates look so--
me: young and spry?
allyson: happy.

- - -

that said.

november was a beautiful month in the life of krem.
maybe not academically.
but clinically.
clinically, november was a beautiful, busy month.

i helped with and did the report on a diagnostic for a new client that i'll be working with next semester.
the way it works out, i get to work with a supervisor who i justsohappen to think is a boss.
who justsohappens to be an expert in areas i want to potentially work in.
and both of my clients will be with the same supervisor.which makes literally everyone's lives easier.
winwinwinnomatterwhatwhatwhat.

- - -

nevertheless.
знаете в чём дело?
вот. я вам скажу.
дело в том, что:

being in classes is really hard for me.
not so much because it's hard,
but because it's so hard for me to see the real connections.
i like learning as i go.
i like learning on my feet.
running up to every ukrainian on the streets with my пригs, even when i don't know russian yet.
because i want to climb the stairs and get elbow-deep in mud.
i want to be inside the real thing.
and therefore.
being in classes is very hard for me.
not that i know everything--
i most certainly do not.
but i think i learned more in the few weeks i spent researching for and following up on that diagnostic,
than perhaps in the entire semester.
because it was real.

me and my obsession with real things and sincerity.
it makes for moments of sitting in the harbor frustrating.

- - -

here comes the end of semester one.
i'm beginning to question whether or not i will be alive three weeks from now.
because sometimes grad school makes you question all your life decisions. (#realtalk)

that said.

i had a talk the other night with greer. (amongthewisestofallthewomen.)
in the which we started talking about speech pathology.
and i got carried away talking about it and grad school and the intricacies of speech and language.
because.
you know?
it really is that interesting.






right.
still.
i don't even know.
^^this is how we feel about grad school right here, right now.

- - -

[i realize this post may seem meaningless.
but i want a record at least monthly of my gradschoolings.
i like the idea of it, in theory.
it's no daily log like my mission was, but it's something.
right? right.
we're going with it.]

lessons from the orchid.

i had this incredibly eloquent and poetic little ditty that i planned to write back in september--

a little something about my orchid.

it was all written in my head, multiple times over.

and yet.

i never wrote it.

it never came out into tangible words,

and i think that in and of itself means.

(the capital-m-significant kind of means.)

it all started back in july when i was at an all-staff meeting for work. i was still fairly new to the organization, but they had mini-presentations on some of the main company values--one of which is hope. as a part of this, the woman presenting had an orchid on the table as she discussed both having and instilling hope in the individuals with whom we work and their families. because when we truly hope? we expect with confidence. because deep down, a hope is an expectation of good things to come. 

at that time, i was in a place where i was feeling a little bit stuck as a human--caught on a plateau in the line of progression. in that moment, though, my eyes were opened to the glory of the field i am pursuing. furthermore, to knowing that i would ultimately far surpass where i stood in that present moment. the glory of a versatile speciality and the possibility of all that stood before me.

belief in tomorrow is how we bear the hardship of today. all things are bearable by the means of hope. somewhere inside there, the orchid became a symbol for that attribute. and so i decided right then and there that i want an orchid in my room. so that i may see that even if some things fail, i still have the power to succeed. because. HOPE. like the orchid.

i came home and mentioned that i want to have an orchid in my room, and a few weeks later my mom came home with one for me. an orchid of one's own for a room of one's own. as i began to watch this orchid, though. i found so much more inside her than i ever anticipated.

if you look closely, you'll see that the roots of the orchid inside that pot are quite a tangled mess. for all its straight-up, no-nonsense appearance of simplicity, those roots are a mangled piece of work. and yet? the orchid grows onward. blossoms sprout and bloom. it just keeps growing. hope against hope.  despite those messy roots, she just kept on growing, even when i thought there was no more in her. hope.

there's life in this house. that was the conclusion i made. various plants all around and an orchid that wouldn't stop growing. life all around as i began a new life of my own. this was back in august and september. back when i was all filled up with hope. i had all these hopes with school starting for change and new life. all these pressing impressions and progress that were coming to fulfillment.

well. there was change, alright--but no life inside. rather, a dead and haunted kind of life. plants filling a chilly living room, that seem to be a fake kind of forevergreen. cold air filling the main floor--the very places that represent communion. i waited for something, and that something died. (cue this song.) so i waited for nothing, and in nothing i lived. despite so many strivings for multiple months, everything remained strange. despite any attempts to create and be open to connections, i was left in isolation. in a way different than i've ever experienced in my life. the details aren't important. only to know that i was in a perpetual odd state. as if i was suffocating in my own universe. my own soul being squelched from who i truly am or have potential to be. almost like unto cold mountain.

it wasn't just about school or those with whom i lived or my ward, though all certainly played a part. it was about everything. all pieces of my universe that were in an odd state of upheaval. and at times, i began to blame myself. that it must be my fault. that i must not know how to build a life or make lasting friendships anymore. even when turning on my kremcharm and my sparkling baby blues, nothing changed.

this is a succinct and far from all-encompassing description. only to say, it was a weird few months in ways both mentioned and not. because nothing arrived. and perhaps i wouldn't have minded so much, except for the hanging feeling that it felt something of some kind should have. which made it all the more frustrating. and so i was left inside my greatest fear: emptiness.

connection. for a time, that was the very thing i lacked in greatest abundance. people need people, you know? they just do. human connection. a place where voice matters, even if it's to express little more than occasional vocalizations. the connections i had were waning or gone, and i was left alone. isolated. at the time, any new connections for a long time were minimal. 

right on cue, as if in perfect harmony with life, by october my little orchid stopped growing.

i know it can seem extreme to make everything in life literary and piece out metaphors. but. my life often seems to be a perpetual metaphor. like the orchid that stopped growing, even though she seemed like she had a bud or two left in her. she couldn't grow anymore. 

ever since my mission, i've had dreams more than ever before in my life, including more than you'd think that are significant with a capital s. and in the midst of a dream that came in two variations in september was the discovery that i felt like i was suffocating. despite the lace curtains, chandeliers, and pretty walls--there was something not quite right about that house and me. something that just wasn't taking. (not even for me, the queen of cracking things open.) all my attempts at integration were rejected, like a transplant that wouldn't take.

i spent two months thinking about moving, having it perpetually in the back of my mind. and for a time, i felt i must stay. now, though. many things have changed in my life over the course of these past few months. and many things have changed in me. additionally, with all these changes allatonce [i can't even begin.], came so many answers in quick succession showing me so many explanations--socially, academically, spiritually. including one of the clearest answers and directions i've ever in my life received.

and so i moved again.

i don't know why. not really. not yet. i have a list of potential-why's, of course. a long one, really. why i was there, why i left. all the lessons in between that i've learned about myself, others, living, and God. (this included.) but also a lot of reasons why i could have stayed and been okay because of the life i built. just as i experienced over and over again in ukraine--as soon as things got going and the area i had whitewashed into was starting to bud into thriving blossoms, in that very moment--i moved onward.

here we are again. i listen to the wind on my soul. i always tell people to follow their hearts. wouldn't i be the worst kind of hypocrite if i myself didn't do the exact same thing? i did the work i was sent there to do, and now it's time to move on. it was right when i entered, it's right as i leave. it's time for me to go. more than twenty-four years of heart following hasn't failed me yet. and so, here we go.

if we're being honest, though--

i'm content to be passed around the world. i really am. my restless soul has become used to it.

but. sometimes. in quiet moments. 

my restless soul wishes she could just be for a moment.

because one of the deepest desires of my soul will forever be stability, at least in some small part.

finding and creating and holding tightly.

here's to hoping on the pieces of all the words i'll never dare say, but want so badly to trust.
(though, let's be honest. i dare to say things i probably shouldn't express so openly all the time.)

faith and reliance on greater spiritual stability than i've known in quite some time,

despite the whirlwinds of ambiguity that reign.

here's to hoping against hope.

head up, eyes open. (because we are members of the human race.)

after awhile you learn 

the subtle difference 

between holding a hand and chaining a soul,

and you learn that love doesn't mean leaning

and company doesn't mean security.

and you begin to learn

that kisses aren't contracts

and presents aren't promises,

and you begin to accept your defeats

with your head up and your eyes open

with the grace of a woman, 

not the grief of a child.

and you learn

to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is

too uncertain for plans

and futures have a way

of falling down in mid-flight.

after awhile you learn

that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

so you plant your own garden

and decorate your own soul,

instead of waiting

for someone to bring you flowers.

and you learn

that you really can endure.

that you really are strong.

and you really do have worth.

and you learn and learn.

with every goodbye you learn.

jorge luis borges.

- - -

this poem has been stuck in my head the last few days. for a myriad of reasons.

(literally. the other night i woke up at 3:30 in the morning

with a few lines from it running through my head. #whatislyfe)

megs discovered it and shared with me while i was still in ukraine, after she no longer was.

ever since reading it that very first time from a jank little internet club in ukraine--i've loved it.

and so we plant our own garden and build all our roads on today, 

decorating our own souls and learning those subtle differences that give the grace of a woman.

because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain--why wait for someone else to bring you flowers?

binding.

dear hublet of the future,

(do people even still write letters like this anymore?

it used to be all the rage to write dearfuturehublet letters.

because there's something endearing and sweet in that, right?

no? just me? i'm probably behind the times.

oh. right. seeing as i'm one of the few remaining in my peer group--

not yet married or about-to-be-married.

got it. moving on.)

- - - - - - -

i have this thought about one little thing in relation to our wedding day.
(aside from the sunflowers, lace dress, and classy suit on you, obviously.)

i want us to have a ring ceremony.

because i want any and everyone to be able to celebrate with us.
to partake of light and love and joy.
we'll be sealed in the temple, of course.
and i'm not undermining the importance of that.
but i'd like to have a civil ceremony as well.

because isn't that the point of weddings--
the way people are brought together in love and unity?
the way i see it, love and unity means everyone should get to be a part.

ergo, i want us to have some kind of a ceremony outside of the temple as well.
and then we'll get on with our charming garden party.
somehow, in some way.

just a little thing.

see you later, see you never.
love you byyeeeeee.

ems.

i can't move the mountains for you.

disclaimer: this is incredibly personal, and yet oddly important.

loneliness and all,

i was stuck to the spot without a friend.
alone again.
and i hunger and i thirst, 
for some shiver, for some whispered words.
and the promise to come.
and you saw me low, 
alone again.
didn't they say that only love will win in the end?
only love, mumford and sons.

- - -

there are different kinds of loneliness, you know.
there's the loneliness that comes when you have people, but you are disconnected from them for a time.
there's the loneliness that comes with separation and gradual distancing of people.
there's the loneliness when trapped inside your own head, with no place to release your impressions.
there's the loneliness of being isolated, even when surrounded by people.
there's the loneliness of facing a circumstance so odd and unique to you.
and then.
there's the loneliness of the people you've never known, or don't know yet.

because, though they say you can't miss what you never had--

i, for one, disagree with that.

longing for dreams you've not yet known means a certain loneliness without them.

to be alone--alone with loneliness included.

sometimes trapped, sometimes isolated.

sometimes just alone.

because i don't think being alone always entails loneliness.

by no means. 

but it does sometimes.

and, you know?

i'm starting to learn and think perhaps that it's supposed to.

i think we're all meant to pass through a bout of loneliness here and there.

because loneliness shows us how much we long for connection.

because loneliness drives us to God, in whom we see that (grâce à jésus) we never walk alone.

i've been thinking about--and experiencing--all these different shades of loneliness lately.

perhaps even since graduating and my soul started to have time to catch up with me and be heard.

i'd be lying if i denied it.
my boots have been heavy with fears and loneliness.

with all the pieces of former gold that cannot stay.

the changes in which nothing changed.

all the strivings that are brought to naught.

most of all--with people of all kinds.

the men, the women, the girls, the boys.

not always, but sometimes.

i won't expound--not here, not now. perhaps not ever.

suffice it to say, it's been an odd few months.

perhaps some of the strangest of my entire life.

(WEIRD, i tell you.)

for a variety of reasons, only an insignificant portion of which that i have answers for.

isn't that faith, though?

belief in that which isn't seen,

in the incomprehensible,

in receiving guidance one step at a time.

the other day i was talking with greer,

wise woman that she is.

she said she's found an eight month pattern in her life--

it's often eight months after something occurs, 

that it will all come together and make sense.

when she'll know why she is where she is, doing what she's doing.

i can't claim any sort of regular pattern,

but i'd like to believe there will be answers someday to why.

for now, though.

i'm satisfied without why.

marching on.

doing as i must, when i must--no sooner.

letting my hands do their work where they're needed,

here a little, there a little, before retreating again into myself.

even when that means tracking back and forth through every corner of the sherwood forest.

because nothing gold can stay.

nothing sticks, nothing stays.

only here a little, there a little.

passing myself around.

because my restless soul (in every sense) never stays.

back in september, jillian sent me a brilliant email about jesus and loneliness.

don't you think jesus was lonely?

i think he was. not always. but sometimes.

in order to fully understand his full destiny--

i think that meant loneliness sometimes, let alone when on the cross.

there's a certain level of loneliness required to wrap your mind around the weight of your role.

there's a place for sorrow and heavy boots.

and the longer i live, the more i experience, and the more i see--

the more i understand how life itself serves to enhance our capacity.

our capacity to understand, our capacity to grieve.

and most of all?

our capacity to love. to see as God sees and feel as He feels.

to truly know His mind and heart.

in my moments of solitude--and even loneliness,

i've learned much about myself, of course.

but, perhaps, i'd dare say i've learned more about people.

the character of the souls around me, as well as humans at large.

especially, though--

i've learned especially much about young adults, single and married.

we're all scared.

we're all climbing mountains.

we're all striving to create something and find stable foundation holding our lives.

we're all struggling in some way or another, practically constantly.

in the business of life, we forget.

going here, going there.

this school pile of readings, this school exam.

this work project, this work training.

this church assignment, this church call.

going, going,

gone.

we're trapped in our own lives, really.

perhaps intertwined to some degree with those closest to us.

generally, though, we're trained to be selfish.

get through school.

push yourself and apply yourself in advancing in your career.

only in those quiet nighttime, morningtime moments, are we brought for a moment face-to-face.

waiting for the bus, sitting outside during lunch hour, the hazy moment before falling asleep.

or even in the midst of school or work, looking up for a split second, to see ourselves in our own respective life.

i think the most profound acquisition of eternal truth and understanding comes often in those very moments.

more than that.

these are the moments that remind of reality: things as they really are.

and in many aspects, that realization is one of dread or horror.

has struggle, loneliness, and sadness always been so prevalent?

i'd like to hope, on one hand, that it has.

but i fear, it hasn't.

this mental struggle in striving to stay afloat in the process of becoming--

it can be suffocating.

so many striving, 

so many alone.

so many climbing their own respective mountains.

the best and worst thing about my soul is my ability to see. 

it's magical, really. i know.

but it's heavy too--a double-edged sword.

i think, sometimes, i see too much.

but these eyes of mine don't ever close, though i wish sometimes they would.

and sometimes. lately, especially.

i see the grasp of satan all around.

all his attempts to crush me and all of us.

because no one ever talks about how satan knows us too.

and so he persists.

suffocating. squelching.

people i know, people i don't.

their life ambitions, their self-esteem, their marriages, their hopes.

filling with fear, blocking vision, and leaving in the dark.

in a time of such radical uncertainty,

it's a wonder we don't fall more in all our attempts to fly.

you know what one of my favorite scriptures is concerning the nature of God?

(aside from moses 7. obviously.)

james 1:17--

every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,

and cometh down from the Father of lights,

with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

the Father of lights, you know?

because there's reason to look up, despite the abyss below.

in lev nikolaevich tolstoy's chronicle of his own faith crisis, a confession,

he concludes with retelling a dream, a beautiful dream that says this is it--

he's lying on a bed, but begins to fall towards an abyss below:

I could not even make out whether I saw anything there below, in that bottomless abyss over which I was hanging and whiter I was being drawn. My heart contracted, and I experienced horror. To look thither was terrible. If I looked thither I felt that I should at once slip from the last support and perish. And I did not look. But not to look was still worse, for I thought of what would happen to me directly I fell from the last support. And I felt that from fear I was losing my last supports, and that my back was slowly slipping lower and lower. Another moment and I should drop off. And then it occurred to me that this cannot be real. It is a dream. Wake up! I try to arouse myself but cannot do so. What am I to do? What am I to do? I ask myself, and look upwards. Above, there is also an infinite space. I look into the immensity of sky and try to forget about the immensity below, and I really do forget it. The immensity below repels and frightens me; the immensity above attracts and strengthens me. I am still supported above the abyss by the last supports that have not yet slipped from under me; I know that I am hanging, but I look only upwards and my fear passes.

there's always an abyss.

there's always loneliness.

there's always mountains to climb.

what way do we look?

above, there is an infinite space.

i look into the immensity of sky

and try to forget about the immensity below,

and i really do forget it.

the immensity below repels and frightens me;

the immensity above attracts and strengthens me.

look up. it's always better to look up.

only then will fear pass.

- - -

cold is the water--

it freezes your already cold mind.

and death is at your doorstep.

and it will steal your innocence,

but it will not steal your substance.

but you are not alone in this.

and you are not alone in this.

as brothers [and sisters] we will stand,

and we'll hold your hand. 

timshel, mumford and sons.

- - -

because in that true loneliness that we all must pass through--

the kind that gnaws and rips through your soul--

what more can we do, than simply be?

i can't move the mountains for you,

but i will stand and hold your hand.

as you climb your ladder to the stars.*

*reference to mumford's timshel, which is actually a reference to john steinbeck's east of eden.

out of my stony griefs, Bethel i'll raise.

i've been thinking a lot about mountains lately: cold mountain, mountain walks, mountain drives, mountain tops. high on a mountain top. mountains tend to be used symbolically as temples. going up to the mountain to be alone with God. mountains and temples, after all, are intended to bring us to God--or perhaps to allow us to bring ourselves to Him.

cold mountain is the name of the region on the west end of the city of kharkov. (quite literally, the name of the area is холодная гора.) i served there twice while in ukraine. once on one side of the шлях (a large boulevard, of sorts.), then later on the other side. once near the beginning of my mission, once at the very end. and being sent back to that mountain--going back up the mountain? it was one of the hardest things i've ever done in my entire life.

i went up to the mountain because you asked me to.*

i never expected to have to go back to the mountain. the first time there was one of the darkest, emptiest, most desperation-filled experiences. and just the thought of the place and time consumed me (and the companion with whom i shared the bulk of it) with a trapped and paralyzing horror. the kind that accompanies when looking straight into various corners of hell that took turns opening around us. stuck. like skating round a tiny piece of ice without ever actually moving. but we did it. learned some powerful lessons. and we moved forward, leaving the mountain as a mostly-dark piece of the past. a piece we fully intended to remain forever in the past, though it took months to recover.

 

until i was called to go back.

i was asked to go back up the mountain.

and so i did.

i wish i had concise words to describe the mountain or why it was filled with such hopelessness and sorrow. what it was that made the days so dark, God seem so far, or the sensation of being trapped in mud while chipping away at a thick block of ice. two and almost three years since my cold mountains, and i'm still sorting through that small box inside my soul--the smallest box that weighs the heaviest. only in compiling all her pieces and all my experiences with her, can the mountain ever be fully understood. all this time, and i'm still learning what the mountain taught me, what she's teaching me, and what she was supposed to teach me. 

it was among the hardest things i've ever had to do. but i did it. and in doing so, i'd like to believe that my character was lifted. my second mountain was different than the first in a million ways, but it still required me to look those former demons in the face and defeat them. i came to know God and His nature in the mountain. and found that just because you go to the mountain, doesn't mean God is there. i've never felt farther from God or seen so much of satan and his grip than i did in that place. but as God came and i saw Him, i've never been closer to heaven. we must swing low before He lifts us higher.

and isn't it the same with our relationship with God? He can't be restricted to our understanding of a singular moment in time. He is the sum total of every experience we've ever had with Him or without Him, including those we hardly remember. He's infinitely more than we give Him credit for, His omniscience and omnipotence much more profound and capable than perhaps we truly realize.

we go to the mountain, that we may see. to look out upon the valley and the winding path of the canyon roads. each and every curve is purposeful, wrapping around the mountain grandeur. inside the curve, though, we don't see the whole canyon and the way she leads to the top of the mountain or opens into the plentiful valley. we can't see unless we keep going. and when we reach the top, light penetrates all that waits below.

i drove to the top of a mountain today, looking out from one mountain peak to another in curves without patterns that never seem to end. here i sit--to listen to the wind on my soul. a wide variety of nature's admirers have come and gone, though rarely do they stay. most park their car, truck, motorcycle, or bike and swiftly pull out their phone to snatch their glimpse of this glorious vista. some take a few selfies, or ask me to take photos of them together, then jump back in their car and keep driving.

i'm still here. only two individuals have been here longer than me: an old man and woman in a golden truck. at first, he stayed in the car and she sat for awhile on a nearby bench. then she came for him, coaxing him out of the warmth of the car for a small spell on that lovely bench. they're both back in the car now, but they're still here. me and this older couple at the top of a mountain. it's getting colder now. but we're still here.

seek and ye shall find, we're told over and over again. but in our seekings, do we even allow for anything more than a quick snapshot before hopping back onto the road of life, without even giving second thought to that very view we leave in the hands of a camera to capture? have you truly found, if you haven't actually seen what you've found?

i know i usually don't, and i daresay i'm not the only one. i seek and strive and struggle towards that mountain top, hardly leaving space for God to get a word in and show me what i'm seeing. i wish i was better at stopping to feel the glory of the wind itself--autumn chill and all. to listen to the wind on my soul, the tune of which only God really knows.**

go up to the mountain, because He asked you to. and when you get there, stop and stay awhile. let Him show you around--show you your own land of flowing milk and honey.*** even if it's cold, it's still worth the view. i promise.

we go up to the mountain in order to find God. but in order to truly find Him, we first have to let Him be found. we find God when we bring ourselves to Him, when we arrive at His temple with open hands and hearts.

high on a mountain top--this is where i see.

and that older couple? they're still here. 

still see(k)ing.

(but while you're there, who's to say taking a moment for a shamelessselfie is a bad idea? certainly not me.)

*up to the mountain, patty griffin.

**the wind, cat stevens.

***cast not away therefore your confidence, jeffrey r. holland.

notes from the underground--grad school edition, volume 2.

worst day of grad school > worst day of undergrad.
funny how that works, eh?
not that grad school isn't a lot--it is.
but. it's not so all-consuming as my last year of speechpathrussiangradapps was.
(cause that was just insanity. let's never do that again, yeah?)
this isn't rocket science, after all.
and, considering there's so much we don't know, there's a lot of ambiguity.

you know what the things is about grad school?
they don't actually force you to do anything.
not really.
it's expected.
and not doing these things punishes no one but yourself.
there's glory in that--
it's all your own.

- - -

i get a weird joy out of being lost in basements of libraries.
not lost, but lost to the world. at least for a time.
though sometimes it also makes me feel like i'm losing my humanity.
also. truth universally acknowledged?
it's always cold in the dungeons of the library.
always. why is that?

- - -

i like the different research findings we talk about,
but i don't like the research process itself or academia.
still, i'm frustrated by the desperate need for more research.
when humans are involved, though, research only goes so far.
that's something i kind of love about this field: ambiguity.
because sometimes there's not going to be an answer. it's okay not to know.

ease with ambiguity.
comfort with complexity.
confidence tempered by humility.

- - -

in one of my classes a few weeks ago, we were talking about biases.
researcher bias, examiner bias, all the possible bias in all things.
if you believe something in your head, you might find that.
agreed.

but. you know?
i also think.
sometimes. you must know what you're looking for in order to find.
not in all cases, of course.
in life, though.
with people.
perhaps you need a general idea of what you're aiming for if you ever hope to get there.

- - -

what do i really want out of life?
what do i really want it to look like?
these are the things i think about and scribble in the margins of notebooks during long lectures.
or when i've finished exams or quizzes before everyone else.
(i'm almost concerned at this trend--this finishing so soon when i receive last.)
i think too much, really.
that's my problem.
and yet i can't stop thinking and wondering.
what do i reallytrulyactually want out of life?
how do i truly want my life to look?
more than that--how do i get there?
most days i know, some days it all seems farfetched.

i wonder more often than i probably should why i am where i am.
not in my university, of course. in other things.

- - -

despite all these things we study and talk about,
even with the medical interests i have--
i still keep coming back to autism and languages/bilingual issues.
what does this mean? does it mean?
the other day one of my professors was talking about her research and her history.
how as a graduate student, she was bored with the typical, and so she got involved with some other research.
it was the part of my days i was most looking forward to.
and that's where i needed to go. that's what i needed to do.
[she studied complex syntax, and i thought it was fascinating.]
i'm not saying i'm interested in complex syntax. (i'm really not.)
but i am saying.
i'm bored.
my time is consumed, but i am bored.
and so i think too much.
and my mind wanders from every topic to what influence that may have on autism.
and i'm all filled up with all these pieces of different languages.
i mean, it's mostly russian anymore.
but there are still all those other pieces.
that must be for something. it's something cultivatable.

in my developmental language disorders class the other day,
we were talking about preschools for a minute.
and. you know?
an autism preschool.
a language-based preschool for individuals with autism.
that wouldn't be so bad.

(speaking of preschools.
when my children someday go to preschool.
i'd like their teacher to have a college degree.
and preferably, i'd like it to be a language-focused curriculum.
too much? right. okay. we'll cross that bridge later.)

- - -

i'm perplexed sometimes by the mix of people and personalities that end up in this field.

perhaps even more perplexed by the way there's not as much variation as you'd think.

- - -

if you don't like people, if you can't have empathy--
you shouldn't be in this field.

did you know they've done studies?
in the end.
if you're a good clinician, you'll see results--regardless of what you do.
these things we're learning, they're tools.
but sometimes.
even when the work is good, the research results are not inspiring.
and there is no one-way ticket to minimizing negative effects of language and speech disorders.
individuals, you see.
there's something in that, though.
the fact that, if you're a good clinician, you'll see results.
because it's about being a human being.
who believes. cultivates. empowers.

- - -

all of my personal experiences prior to graduate school--
well, they don't all relate. not really.
people say things--with astonishment, of course--like,
oh, you know russian?? look at you. that's so great. i'm sure it will be useful.
i'm sure it will. because it's useful in life. kind of.
but the offering in this field from russian-speaking countries is meager.
speech-language pathology isn't a very large field outside of the united states,
especially outside of english-speaking countries.
in ukraine i'd tell people what i was studying,
and often they had no idea what it was.
i had to describe the field to them, just as i frequently do in english.

my russian, particularly as a double major,
honestly has very little to do with the things i study now.
and yet.
all these languages i've studied.
all the literature that has seeped into my soul.
the experiences i've shared with so many different kinds of human beings.
they've sharpened me.

a sharpening a bit like a pencil in a pencil sharpener, you could say.
not one of those pretty electric ones that flooded into classrooms in my later elementary years--
rather, the metal manual sharpeners.
the ones you have to crank with your hand, and listen to the grinding.
you know?
everyone secretly despised the person who got up in the middle of a spelling test to sharpen their pencil.
despised that painful grinding that pierced through the room.
it's not pretty, that process.
the shavings discarded in all shapes and sizes.
sometimes you think the pencil's sharpened,
when really there's a hunk of wood on one side blocking the lead.
and so you shove that pencil back in and twirl the crank around,
pushing the pencil towards the circulating blades.
and then when you pull the pencil out--she's sharp as an arrow.
oh boy, is she sharp.

so it is.

these experiences from every kind of place and time.

these interactions with people of every kind.

they sharpen my perspective.

they sharpen the way i approach and categorize new information with the old.

they sharpen. me.

sharp.

- - -

p.s. first fall break i've ever had in college?

joke's on me. there's still several things scheduled for clinic throughout the week.

in addition to a ridiculous amount of things to be done.

#happyfallbreaktoyoutoo

then again. today i slept in.

did a bunch of laundry.

(washed my sheets for the first time in youdon'twanttoknow how long.)

ran through these beautiful streets.

worked on some readings.

did some researching trying to find article upon article.

worked on these bigger projects.

and made pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies while watching parenthood. 

(aka mynewfavoriteguiltypleasureshow.)

i'm nowhere near done.

but. you know. this breakandbreathe lyfe ain't so bad.

my slc. | october's gold.

when i am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness.

i would almost say that they save me, and daily.

i am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which i have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, "stay awhile."

the light flows from their branches.

and they call again, "it's simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

when i am among the trees, mary oliver.

poorly acquainted.

i've seen a lot of sorrow in my life.

glimpsed into corners of hell that i'll never forget--

and i sincerely don't know that i would want to forget, even if i could.

there's value in those corners, even if they--quite literally--scare the hell out of me.

i've witnessed, empathized with, and personally experienced great sorrows, 

and even mourning in that infamous and inescapable experience of grief.

nevertheless?
i am poorly acquainted with death.

i've always been intrigued by this little mystery in my corner of existence--

the seemingly commonplace and even universal pieces that are missing,

despite so many atypical pieces that perhaps i may wish were missing. 

i am poorly acquainted with death.

my grandpa hales died before steve or i were born.

all through childhood, grandparents were customary and frequent.

great grandparents and extended relatives were too distant for our direct notice.

the summer after fourth grade, one of my classmates passed away.

eric. his name was eric.

we were in the same class every year,

the same ward and the same age in school.

always in the same primary classes. 

he was smart and precocious--

i would dare say the best kind of little boys.

he was trying to help someone else.

that's how it happened.

i remember very little more.

but i do remember his parents' grief.

i remember the way it was so puzzling to my innocent, childlike mind.

he was an only child, you know.

their pride and joy, of course.

and at the ripening age of ten, 

he left his canyon corner of this beautiful earth.

ten that were incredibly round and full of life.

his middle name was orion. 

a few years later, my grandma died.
but she had been sick for years,
alzheimer's being arguably the cruelest disease.
furthermore, she lived always in california.
i was out of town on a school trip when time came for the funeral.
i still wonder sometimes if i should have stayed home.

despite all the sorrows, struggles, disappointments, and heartbreaks.
despite all i myself have seen and the grieving of those whom i love.
there remains this one gapingly large piece of the puzzle,
this piece that i have somehow mostly escaped:
i am poorly acquainted with death.

sunday evenings, you know?

He RELISHES your potential.

that future comes alive when you do more than just exist.

divine nature ignites--discover the depth.

rosemary m. wixom.

sense the sacred.

these trials are the very things that qualify us.

keep the vision of our Father's promised rewards in front of us.

linda s. reeves.

see in one another the beauty of the soul.

in partnership with the Almighty.

in the work of salvation, there's no room for comparison.

shine with the beauty of holiness.

God delights.

carol f. mcconkie.

dearest, God is near.

embrace truths. not only with mind, but also with heart.

the sound of her laughter filled the house.

eva herself was happier, whenever [great aunt rose] was around.

moving forward and upward, focus on the wonders and miracles of life.

God didn't design us to be sad. He created us to have joy.

eventually there was something that turned my whole life around:

FAITH. and faith led to HOPE. and faith and hope gave me confidence.

now is part of eternity.

faith gave me the hope i needed to live joyfully now, filling my life with meaningful things.

dieter f. uchtdorf.

(women's conference + sunday glows from the front porch.)