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.

notes from the underground--grad school edition, volume 1.

all through my aphasia class today we were talking about neuroscience.

all i know is that i kept thinking about brains. and autism. and aphasia.

in my other class, i kept thinking about autism therapy.

we were talking about phonological theories and articulation,

but i kept thinking about autism.

this is the thing about individuals with autism--

they see more than they get credit for seeing.

they see more.

- - -

the brain is so malleable, but damage is damage.

at church on sunday i was talking to someone.

and when i talked about my course of study, he had a real-live response and discussion.

(not just the usual coolokaybye. that means idon'tknowwhatthatmeansbutgoteamokaybye.)

because there was a woman in his ward or somewhere who was brilliant and bright and sharp.

and then she had a stroke and lost her words.

him: you can just tell. the words are right there. it's all still there, but she can't--

me: --yes! it's there, but she just can't get it out.

him: exactly. and now you can tell she's so reliant on her husband for everything.

aphasia is so fascinating, but tragic to me.

because even if you didn't lose your life from the stroke,

you've lost the words that give you life.

in therapy and intervention prognosis, they always talk about influencing factors.

things like age and site and severity of lesion.

family support, previous skills prior to the event.

and motivation.

because with acquired language disorders, so often the motivation comes so hard sometimes.

no one can understand you, or you can't understand yourself.

and so individuals become depressed sometimes and unmotivated to work on treatments.

as if a little part of them knows--

no matter how intensive the therapy,

their gains may never reach again where they once were.

in the beginning of college, i'd always understood that concept--

but only as a concept without really understanding.

then last fall as part of the professional practices course,

we talked about the stages of grief.

for individuals, for loved ones, for caregivers.

and i wonder--

would i lose my motivation and quit trying were i old and lost my words or comprehension?

would i fight?

we all say we would,

but when you've lived most of a life,

your heart and brain worn down--literally--from your battle scars.

would you keep fighting anyway, no matter how small the gains?

i'm not so sure i would.

- - -

there's a linguist in me.

or at least i thought there was.

but now i know.

it's a linguist for other languages, not english linguistics.

i love languages and their rule systems and the way they so eloquently function.

my freshman year i took a french class with this terrifying french woman.

she always used to say, c'est logique, c'est français! [it's logical, it's french!]

russian was more complex, but had all its sound systems and history of morphology.

my professor would put up all these linguistic rules about voicing or softness.

and even the exceptions came together in a beautiful sort of rhythm and rhyme.

not english, though.

i don't care for english linguistics.

we sit and talk of phonological processes and patterns.

language development theories and linguistic constraints.

and in english it all seems so scattered to me,

like groping for some small semblance of explanations.

they haven't found one yet.

because there isn't one.

- - -

that's the thing about graduate school--

it's so much less concrete than you'd think.

the statements of fact handed you as an undergraduate,

are taken away and returned to you as a collection of possibilities.

because everything's an option when it comes to pathologies in the brain and language.

everything's an option when it comes to disorder.

analyze what the child is doing.

figure out the puzzle.

this is what keeps our job so interesting.

because there is no one rule to follow.

they give you pieces of all they know,

they go through the process of solving puzzles with you,

and then they send you off to solve the puzzles yourself,

equipped not with answers, but with the resources to find the answers.

to keep researching until you find information that might work.

might. hopefully.

do the same thing with two seemingly identical individuals--

do you get the same result?

not necessarily.

and so you're left to create an answer yourself.

that's all it is--

a collection of answers for interventions that could work,

some are even likely to work.

but when human heads and hearts are involved, you just never know.

even when it seems they should--

sometimes they just might not.

granted.

but also.

even when it seems they shouldn't--

sometimes?

sometimes they just might.

the words.

i have a russian dictionary app on my phone.

and until recently, it was easily and by far the most frequently used app.

it resides in that place at the bottom of the screen--

that place for the most-used of all.

phone, messages, gmail.

and my slovoed dictionary.

i can't bring myself to demote it to another location.

because doing so means i'm demoting russian in my life.

which.

turns out.

i am.

because.

#emsgoingtogradschool

my focus for most of the past year and a half has been russian.

for the past three years, really.

except for applying to grad school and a couple things here and there.

mostly it's been all russian.

especially in the past year.

russian has been all-consuming.

but for the next two years?

my shift is focusing, my focus is shifting.

and my focus will be all things speech-language pathology.

because.

#emsgoingtogradschool

a good grad school.

a good program.

really good, actually.

and i love speech pathology.

it's dandy and great and i get excited about it too.

and yet.

i still can't get myself to move the russian dictionary.

in the sea.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea 

ee cummings.

i saw the sea of galilee for the first time one month ago today.
in the evening after dinner we took a walk down the road along the shoreline.
i was most contented there and in jerusalem's city.
for whatever i may have lost--like a you or a me.
on this sea i was found.
- - - - - - -

on the first sabbath in israel, we ditched our group to do our own thing.  

and the first order of business, was going to the branch. 

shabbat shalom.

the galilean branch--that building that looks out over the sea of galilee. 

the branch. that alone.
there were around 20 people in sacrament meeting.

5 of whom were us. 

- - - - - - -
on the way there, i walked with mike and mindee. 

we might have gotten lostish. 

because the road wound up and up and up. 

the name kept changing, but not into the one we were looking for. 

as the road curved over and back towards the sea after going up for so long, 
we curved over.

mike knew the branch looked out onto galilee,

so we turned down a road that turned back towards the direction of galilee. 

- - - - - - -
across the street on this little road, going the way opposite was a couple. 
in their 60s or 70s. 

a couple with that lilt in their speech,

the lilt in the way they walked,
the way their hands moved as they talked. 

and i just knew. 

my finely honed sense was right. 

миша and his wife. 

a ded and baba from ukraine. 

odessa, to be exact. 

ukraine. 
i just knew.

- - - - - - -
missions never truly end. 

i said the road name and as they tried to respond something in hebrew,

he said something to her in russian.

and at first i wasn't conscious. 

i just knew i understood what he was saying to her.

and we found the common language of us all.
this is their seventeenth year here. 

these two beautiful humans from ukraine. 

leading us along.

these people. 

russian. 

speaking russian as i walked down the street with them. 
as if i was still walking down the streets of ukraine.

they thought i was from ukraine. 

(the women from moscow the day before told me i looked it.)

- - - - - - -
we never would have found the branch without meeting this couple. 

maybe we would. 

but they were there for me. 

so that i may take the streets and be among the people. 

my russian.  

without that, i wouldn't be able to know them. 

what a privilege.  

and this. well, this is why missions never truly end. 

because of this ability to connect. 

because of the enlarged world i have been endowed with. 

missions perpetuate themselves. 
they teach us who we are.

- - - - - - -

whenever i am lost,
with russian 
(and russians by the sea of galilee)
i am always found.
- - - - - - -
count your many blessings, we sang in the branch that day. 

сочти благословения. 

сочту.

их много. 

because. 

jesus is everywhere. 

he is on the streets inside these people. 

inside of them, inside of me, inside of the connection we made. 

God is awake. 

believing, if only for its sake.

this one's for the lonely,
the ones that seek and find
only to be let down time after time.
this one's for the torn down,
the experts at the fall.
come on friends, get up now.
you're not alone at all.
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.
this is for the ones who stand.
for the ones who try again.
it comes and goes in waves.

--comes and goes, greg laswell.

   with an imperceptible and sudden transition, all that once was ceased to be. all the drowning in books, papers, and classes came to an abrupt halt, and the very next second i moved out completely and found myself on the way to israel for the next twelve days--all while most everyone else i knew walked across a stage and listened to a commencement speaker marking the significance of this event in their lives.

   i'm grateful for israel. not only because i adore traveling, but also because it gave a transition to transitioning--a slight distraction. for better or for worse, because life still always catches up, even though it takes your soul a few weeks to catch up when you move--it always does. personally, though. i prefer that way. the transition to a transition. being pulled outside. relearning how to breathe from outside my own world. figuring out anew this thing called air. and now, the air is almost suffocating. for i had learned to live without it--to be drowning without drowning.

   my language certificate came in the mail the other day. my degree has officially posted to my byu transcript--degrees awarded april 2015: BS. major: communication disorders. additional major: russian. then a memorandum area with my russian proficiency. 9 semesters, 3 terms, and an international internship later (plus a mission in between). that's what comes of it. that, and acceptances into grad schools that are conditional upon completing the degree. this is college--the university experience. college is over.

   i remarked at a gathering with friends the other day (friends who one month ago i could have called roommates. #we'reindenial), i don't feel old enough to be saying things that happened in college as a past tense. because i don't, even though all indicators point to being more than ready to be done and move forward. a few months ago when asked for something i was hoping for at the time, my answer was simple. i still have the sticky note inside the case that covers my phone with my doodle of a kite, tree, and sun to the side of it: change and moving forward. (grad admissions.) but mostly. moving forward. because while change is scary, lack of change is straight up terrifying. and these past months until now have been acutely defined by an overall lack of change. that's what happens at the end of something--when one thing is ending, and the others haven't quite begun yet. and at that time, especially, i hadn't yet heard back from any of the schools i'd applied to, despite being surrounded by others receiving admissions offers and declaring decisions. and there's nothing more terrifying than the prospect of being left a fool.

   the month of march will always be a favorite of mine. right behind may, perhaps even surpassing june. march seventh and sixteenth and twenty-third, to be most specific. though the whole month is quite fine. because those are days that mean something. days of pivotal moments. moments that adjust the tracks toward where the train of life is going as it moves forward.

   i still haven't written about march sixteenth and all that it means. i still haven't written about grief and loss and all that i learned and how much it infiltrated and informed this past semester. (blame chekhov, blame dr. purves. i'm not sure who's more to blame.) i still haven't written about the holy land, and what i found that phrase to truly mean. i still haven't written about writing itself--why we write. i still haven't written about that magic atmosphere that surrounds foreign languages and the doors and windows it opens. i still haven't written about lessons learned from contacting and the crossover into real life. are you catching on? these are just some of the things i've intentions to write. but i just don't quite have words.

   there are (at least) three russian authors who had time periods in which they stopped writing. they just. stopped. couldn't. поэтому, перестали писать. and. that's the zone i've been living in. because in the midst of fighting, there's no room for processing. and now here i am. with what seems to be nothing but time. but my words--my words come slow.
   while i was in israel, i had nothing but time to think. there were other things going on, of course. but nothing so engaging as to distract from thinking. in fact, most experiences seemed to encourage thinking. and with all left unprocessed from my mission onwards, i began slowly to piece things apart from these past three years, but then began overloading with any new things that came. i'm not sure how much i really took in, given the timing of going and all in my life yet to be sorted through and made sense of. in being on the other side of the globe, though, i was in a position of complete and total presentness. day to day, i didn't know what we'd be doing until the day of. i didn't make any decisions. i didn't do much of anything, it seems. i think everyone in our group in israel was unsure of what to make of me and my strange state of being--the pure exhaustion, constant writing of notes and musings in my journal-just streams of consciousness, endless thinking, and suddenly getting more sleep than i had in months. i woke up often before six in the morning, and would sit on hotel room floors, looking out to sunrises over the sea of galilee or listening to the morning call to prayer in jerusalem. (plus a number of later-mentioned emails exchanged with jilly or megs.) i hardly knew my own name or who i was supposed to be, because there's no script for settings like that.
   i love israel. i think everyone should go to israel. but in the timing of when i went to israel, i never had time to fully process that i was there until i was actually there, and even more so now that i'm home. the places we went, the things we talked of. some were meaningful in the moment, but the places themselves are more meaningful in retrospect than they could ever be at the present. because i hit overload. because i stopped taking things in. i was just.there. and with such a saturation of things left unresolved, more often than you'd think, i didn't really think about much of anything. maybe that's why i wrote streams of what i heard or thought so frequently, because i myself didn't take it in--it bypassed me and went straight to pen and paper taking it in for me instead.
   because i was in israel, i didn't begin to evaluate anything about what had occurred in my life in america until returning. with graduating, i never had a ceremony to bring closure and mark the end. i was just.gone. i think everyone else went through the adjustment and grieving process, and i was two weeks behind. it seems silly, you may say, to call it a grieving process. but. i don't think it's in the slightest bit silly. because, with such an abrupt change and moving forward like completely finishing college, there is a loss. there comes an absence of something that was once a very large part of your life. for a very long time, it was a very large part of your life, the people included. and then. it's just.done. you no longer live with those whom you've grown so accustomed to. you no longer have the same routine. you're not going back next semester. because. you're done. it's gone. and we are moving on.
   change and moving forward. but mostly. moving forward. that's what i hoped for, isn't it? and here it is. but just like anything. the process of moving forward has a few kicks from the exhaust pipe as it gets going to wherever it's going--as it makes its way into a new rhythm. and the reality of those kicks didn't start coming until now: three weeks late to the party.
   graduating feels kind of like finishing a mission. it's as if you've been shoved into a cannon, and then spit out in some given direction. but when you're flying through the air in a given direction, you're not always so sure of what direction that is, because there's a whole lot of spinning that accompanies the flying. you're shoved out of everything that was once your own life and left flying through the air to deal with it. there are things that ease the fall, but a fall is still a fall. you're moving forward, moving on. everyone is. in different directions. and while life really is moving, sometimes it's hard to be sure that it's moving in ways that are actually desirable.
   i haven't written so vulnerably in quite some time. funny, considering that the importance of vulnerability has been at the forefront of so many conversations as of late, especially in these past five months. maybe it's a little bit because i haven't written much recently--in the past nine months especially. and maybe because there are some topics that i've realized i'm hardly ever vulnerable about. because it's too risky. and because. i hold sacred that interior zone where half-formed thoughts and delicate emotions can grow and evolve, without being exposed to the harsh glare of public judgment. (from this op-ed piece by david brooks written for the nytimes. i'm a real big fan of david brooks's writing.) and maybe because, vulnerability should always reign in interpersonal relationships and communication with those whom we love, not necessarily in a public domain. heaven knows, my cluttered inbox is filled with emails exchanged primarily with jillian and meg, filled with insights and discussions as we go about navigating this thing called life. (and really, some of those emails are gold and probably should be published somewhere. but alas.)
   what i'm saying is, i'm not really sure quite where i am or where i'm going. the long term is there, of course. but defining what it means for me to be a human that isn't a student and is as-of-yet unmarried--well that's the golden question. in high school and as i entered college, i was all about that student life. but then i went to romania, and realized that i'm much more suited to actually doing things than to sitting in a classroom discussing it all. and then i went to ukraine. and that tendency became even more pronounced. i can do it. i did do it. the reading, discussing, writing essays, philosophizing. not only that, but i did it in russian. and yet. as valuable as those experiences were in the pursuit of more fully understanding this human experience, what good is that knowledge if it isn't put to use somewhere? and, when it really comes down to it, both the humanities and definitive parts of my soul must have place to reign.
   because this is why we live. this is why we spend all those hours and semesters and years reading and studying. we do it for the people our lives are filled with. in order to go forth to serve. and my branch of service--well, that is why #emily'sgoingtogradschool. and when it comes to being there, succeeding there, and everything else about life outside of that, well, that's where believing comes in. getting up and standing. because, everything related to any kind of love in our life--it's something we make. we actively take part in creating the lives that we lead. stand and try again, because it comes and goes in waves. come on, friends. love is to be made.

(the night we left israel, on the way to the airport there was a full moon.^^ and because it was a full moon, we experienced the somewhat-rare phenomenon of watching this full moon rise as the sun was still setting on the other side of the sky. it seemed such a symbol: sun and moon, day and night. this is where they meet.)

alone with//turning stone.

no one ever wants to be alone.
when people say they do, they're lying.
they don't want to be alone.

they want to be alone with themselves.
they want to be alone with their thoughts.
they want to be alone with nature.
they want to be alone with god.
they want to be alone with.

* * * * * * *

   one of the most important things for anyone to ever know about me, is my obsession with moses 7. i adore this chapter. and i believe within it you can find everything you'd ever need to know about God, His nature, and His plan.
   i first discovered this chapter in the midst of the winter of my mission, and subsequently gushed over it to every companion, at the very least. and everything i did and was, was influenced either directly or indirectly by that which i learned therein. then as my mission was approaching its close, sister lochhead (my mission president's wife) brought a love of moses 7 with her. at my last zone conference, she gave a presentation on it--a presentation i would entitle: "this is the God we worship."
   i discovered this treasure not from a study of enoch, the new jerusalem, or zion, but from that which follows the famous declaration of joseph smith and sidney rigdon's witness of the savior standing on the right hand of God--the witness that He lives. most people tend to stop there after the proclamation that by him, and through him, and of him, the worlds are and were created, and the inhabitants thereof are begotten sons and daughters unto God. (d&c 76:22-24)
   these verses are beautiful, they are stunning. in fact, i'll come back to their statement later. because after the many testimonies given of jesus, the testimony that He lives, the resurrection that gives him life--this is 'the most glorious of all messages to mankind.' but what about the verses that come directly after that?

and this we saw also, and bear record,

that an angel of God who was in authority in the presence of God,

who rebelled against the Only Begotten Son

whom the Father loved and was in the bosom of the Father,

was thrust down from the presence of God and the Son, and was called Perdition,

for the heavens wept over him-

he was Lucifer, a son of the morning.

and we beheld, and lo, he is fallen!

is fallen, even a son of the morning!

(d&c 76:25-27)

the heavens wept. with the fall of satan, the heavens wept. at this time in my mission, there was a woman we were teaching who would sometimes say: «мне жаль за дьявола.» ["i feel sorry for the devil."] and the thing is, i do too. even the devil himself was once good--all beings are inherently good. darkness doesn't exist, but is only the absence of light--light that has been lost. and so i made a slight study of satan. and found these verses. and these verses led me to moses 7. and from the first reading, i fell in love. and the more i read and studied, the more my eyes were opened. and so, just as is said inside moses 7: look.
   the thing that really changed everything in this was when i stopped reading the verses and saw the story i was reading in the verses instead. the words in themselves are beautiful and good of their own accord, but there's so much more when they're coupled with context.

birth of christ, carl bloch

   zion is taken up into heaven, and enoch is high and lifted up, beholding all the nations of the earth. as enoch looks upon the remainder of the earth, he also sees the power of satan, holding a chain in his hand that veils the earth with darkness, with him there rejoicing in the suffering of all humanity.
   from this stems an interaction between enoch and the God of heaven--a dialogue, if you will. and the most stunning part is the shift that takes place. as enoch and the God of heaven look down from this high place, God weeps. He wept; and Enoch bore record of it. and from his zionistic existence, from a place that is not so much arrogance as it is ignorance and lack of full understanding, enoch turns to God and in astonishment at his tears asks,

how is it that the heavens weep, and shed forth their tears as the rain upon the mountains?

(moses 7:23-28)

   in slightly different words, enoch essentially then says, why are you weeping? you are the most glorious and omnipotent being in the universe. the earth is a speck of dust in comparison with the total collection of all your creations. furthermore, you've taken our little united zion of the righteous up into heaven--we're here and safe with you. you are infinite truth, justice, and mercy. with an existence like this, why on earth are you crying at a time like this? (moses 7:29-31)
   with patient tenderness and gentle understanding, the Lord begins to open not only enoch's eyes, but also his heart. the Lord helps enoch to come to understand his grief.

behold these thy brethren; they are the workmanship of mine own hands,

and i gave unto them their knowledge in the day i created them;

and in the Garden of Eden, gave i unto man his agency.

(moses 7:32)

He gave a commandment to love one another, but in human frailty, the stories of history prove the lack of affection--the refusal to choose God. and so He weeps over that which is the workmanship of His hands as he looks upon them with His piercing eyes.
   in His omniscience, God knows there must be order. the prices of justice must be paid, and there are consequences for wickedness. with the gift of the Savior is redemption and mercy, but until that day, they are in torment. and so the heavens weep. (moses 7:33-37)

   this passage: verses 28-40 alone, these 13 verses of moses seven--they teach more about the true nature of God and His plan than almost any other place, especially in such a concise manner. because our God is compassionate and loving, tender and wise. this is the God we worship: the God who weeps.

* * * * * * *

   there's more, though. He doesn't just explain to enoch why He weeps--He teaches enoch what it means to mourn with those that mourn. He tells enoch of all the works of the children of men. the Lord leads enoch to see, and He leads enoch to know.

wherefore enoch knew, and he looked upon their wickedness and their misery,

and wept and stretched forth his arms, and his heart swelled wide as eternity.

(moses 7:41)

He sees the salvation through noah's ark, but now he's also seeing the residue of the people--that part of the story that often remains in obscurity. lost in the excitement of arks, floods, and rainbows is what that flood actually meant: the destruction of their wicked brethren.

and as enoch saw this, he had bitterness of soul, and wept over his brethren,

and said unto the heavens: i will refuse to be comforted;

but the Lord said unto enoch:

lift up your heart, and be glad; and look.

(moses 7:44)

what does He do? God tells him His plan--He talks to enoch about Jesus. enoch hears the grief in the voice of the personified earth and pleads with the father to have compassion on the earth. so the father continues on, telling of the coming of Jesus to the earth, and as He shares the crucifixion of the Savior, enoch weeps all over again, crying unto the Lord in the middle of this story he's being told--pleading for a happy ending, pleading for the earth to be given rest. (moses 7:45-58)

   at the start of it all, enoch is a little bit haughty, a little bit removed. now, though. now he's kneeling directly at the Father's feet, watching with rapt attention on baited breath. because now he sees, now he knows, now he cares.

   enoch sees our day too, leading to the second coming, the new jerusalem, a fullness of redemption, and a fullness of joy. and only now with seeing the happy conclusion does enoch receive a fullness of joy. (moses 7:67)

the descent from the cross, brian kershisnik

   in the tenth poem of her requiem, anna akhmatova wrote of the crucifixion of Jesus--but more specifically she described that part of the story that often remains in obscurity: the people left behind on earth when Jesus gives up the ghost. (in its native russian is better, but the translation will have to do.)

CRUCIFIXION

‘Do not weep for me, Mother, having seen in the grave.’

I

Angelic choirs praise the mighty hour,

And heaven confused in the fiery deep.

To the Father: ‘Why hast thou forsaken me!’

But to the Mother: ‘O, do not weep…’

II

Magdalene beat her breast and wept,

The beloved disciple turned to stone,

But there, no one looked, no one dared

Where the Mother stood, still, and alone.

(Anna Akhmatova, Requiem)

   there was weeping and grieving. but brother, how we must atone before we turn to stone. (ingrid michaelson, turn to stone) and following the moment of grief, there is a plan. a sunday to follow that dark friday of crucifixion. of all the things we know, of all the messages brought by the restoration of the fullness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, it is the resurrection that is named the most glorious of all messages to mankind.

garden tomb, j. kirk richards

   because the resurrection of Jesus is the ultimate foundation of hope. a revival and dawn that came following one of the darkest moments the earth has ever witness--a moment that caused enoch to weep and cry out. but because of Jesus, because of the Savior, because of the resurrection--hold onto hope. because He lives, there is always a foundation for hope. as rosemary wixom said in conference last week, when everything had become like a pile of ashes, [when] it had all burned down. all that remained was Jesus.

   and because of Him, we'll never be alone. and though our hearts at times may swell wide as eternity, there will always be reason to lift up your heart, and be glad; and look. because He lives.

little talks.

(inspired by megs.)

my favorite russian professor calls we with meg and shariska and greer "the fab four."

i'm sorry, is that condescending?
have one of the fab four look into this.
and in addition to already being my favorite,
he becomes even more so when he tells me why i'm the bee's knees.

my other favorite calls us a power house.

him: wow. the four of you in one apartment? that's what you call a power house.
me: or a house of terror.
(#theyloveus #russianmajors)

in fact, pretty much the entire russian department is my favorite.

(theylovemeandilovethemandsometimestheyvalidatemeanditmakesmywholelife.
like that time they told me the department is disappointed i'm graduating
because that they wanted to give me their russian scholarship.)
i love them all. and the only one i've never had as a professor?

well, last weekend we rode the horses of one of our russian professors.

belonging to this one professor i hadn't yet become acquainted with.

fudgyperfectbrownieswithmegwithit while discussing anna karenina exams.

spending almost four hours writing. by hand. today.

two hours was in english. 90 minutes was in russian.

jlln comes home in 8almost7 days. a couple days ago this is the photo i sent her of thisishowifeelaboutit:

(our jokesnotjokes about being married never stop being funny. or true.)

megs and i just now did a rousing rendition of the indiana jones theme song.
we'relosingourmindssssss.

senioritis is a different kind of lost motivation.

the issue with the exam we had to go take today wasn't the subject matter.

it was getting ourselves to go to the testing center to take the time to think and take it.

the soundtrack to the secret life of walter mitty is excellenceofallexcellence.
(i've never seen the movie, but i do recommend the soundtrack.)

we went to a wedding reception of an elder from my mission on saturday. #makayley

which included seeing some of the people in this world that i love most.

and this weekend there's a mission reunion.

(that i go back and forth on even wanting to go to, почему-то.)
all these loves of mine.

this weather, though. and also. i have an obscene number of photos of the blossoms on my phone.

and also, there's nothing like waking up to blossoms by your bedside.

a few mornings ago when i went running, there was a hot air balloon veryveryclose to our house.

and i love provo hot air balloons.

her name is pearl.

she was the calmest and my favorite.

from all the pretty little horses i got my first sunburn of the season. #worthit

if it seems like all i really talk about is

russian literature, russian professors,

jillian, my roommates, a handful of other people i love,

flowers, and the weather,

well--

you'd be right.

i get lost in my mind.

la langue. limbă. язык.

bună dimineața.

te iubesc. fiecare zi.

"je fais souvent ce rêve,

étrange et pénétrant."

однажды. было время. 

этим языкам выучила.

j'oubliais. всё это я знала. 

j'oublie. c'est du passant. 

забываю

и забыла.

il était un fois. 

ce n'est le fin.

ce mai faci?

hai să mergem. 

mergem pe jos. 

today in my russian phonetics class i counted to ten in all the languages i know.

сегодня на занятие по русской фонетике я сосчитала до десяти на все те языки, которые знаю. 

aujourd'hui pendant ma classe de la phonétique russe j'ai comptée à dix dans toutes les langues que je sais. 

astăzi _______ eu am numărat în ______ pe care știu. 

* * * *

k n e w.

what a woman.

of ukrainian and russian women.
of the moments i've shared with the russian woman's soul this week.

- - -

i wrote the following for my mother's birthday (8 september) while i was still away in ukraine:

my mother could be a ukrainian woman.

   the ways my mother could be a ukrainian woman? countless, really. people always tell me i look more like a ukrainian than anything else, disbelieving when i tell them there's not a drop of ukrainian blood that i'm aware of within me. but maybe i was wrong all along. maybe it's the product of my mother--a genuine ukrainian woman.
   what exactly is a ukrainian woman, then? who is she? she is one who gives everything away. her own dreams or desires are laid aside as she gives all that she is to holding together all that she holds dear in any way she knows how. she's the woman that rises early, marching through snow and ice to work. working all the day, because somehow they must live. she's the woman who turns with kindness to others, though always keeping a guard. the woman whose thoughts are forever preoccupied with everyone but herself. she's the woman who returns home late in the evening--feet, body, and mind exhausted from the long day that makes up every day--and yet on the path homeward she still stops at the store to pick up the things her family needs. she's the woman who frequently has little to no support and hardly anything for herself. her children love, but in childhood are oblivious to all that she does. and her husband? i suppose you could say there's a little variety in them--if he's present at all. though even then. rarely is he in between-usually hot or cold. a loving and soft-hearted family man or one who spends his time with a bottle of vodka--stumbling home eventually in the condition of a needy child, though claiming power still as the scientifically speaking man of the house. the woman, though. she carries everything on her back. it's the women that keep this country alive. any strength this country has is founded in the strong shoulders and weary legs of the babushkas that spot this land. they do the dirty work, they keep the faith alive. all the while, taking care of and dutifully defending all loved ones. these women epitomize strength: tough, and yet sensitive. the rock of a nation.
   who is my mother? she peacefully bears all burdens placed upon her. she gives every part of herself to the welfare of those she loves. rarely, if ever, does she have any moment that is her own--only in small, occasional pockets. despite exhaustion, she trudges forward. despite having nothing left to give, she gives a little bit more. just to see her children smile. to bring them peace and shelter them to whatever possible extent from the darkness or hardships that exist. my mother gives her whole heart--keeping faith and teaching by the means of love unfeigned.
   my mother could be a ukrainian woman: the strongest woman there is.

(written august 2013.)

- - -

in one of my russian literature classes, we're reading works from the 20th century. just recently we finished the revolutionary works and are moving into the works written during and about the great terror and purges of the 1930s. just this week, the first works in either this semester or last semester (19th or 20th century) written by a woman: anna akhmatova. and then. nadezhda mandelstam.

these women, though.

they suffered so profoundly and yet carried on.

i am in awe of them.

complete awe.

speechless with lack of words to describe them or my experience with them.

anna akhmatova.

she and i had a moment the other day. 

i was reading her requiem.

(i'll write even more on this soon, in honor of upcoming eastertime.)

and.

words don't exist to express the depth of soul within her words.

the raw emotion--depth of grief together with numbness of frozen feeling.

giving voice, no matter how hard they tried to hush her.

everything was taken from her, one by one loved ones arrested, sentenced, killed.

but she remained with her country, refusing to run away.

not only that, but maintained a certain hope--a hope in resurrection, a hope in new life.

and so she wrote of truth and wrote in rawness.

she wrote her story, and the story of so many women.

she wrote of the unintended friends--these women standing together.

standing in lines outside prisons, seeking any sort of news, though often being told nothing at all.

(like unto what is described also by lidia chukovskaya in sofia petrovna.)

these women who held onto hope, because there was nothing else to hold.

she wrote the story of the grief of a nation, 

ripping through every family in some form or another.

and nadya. oh, nadya.

nadezhda mandelshtam.

she and i had a moment tonight.

this feisty, snarky, beautiful woman.

her husband, the poet osip mandelshtam, died in transit to the camps in 1938.

fearing putting pen to paper, she memorized his poems.

and she lived.

writing of hope, and hope abandoned.

it's only fitting, isn't it, that her name itself means hope? 

надежда. // nadezhda.

in her memoirs, she tells the story of a bull.

a bull being led to a slaughterhouse versus a man submissive to the inevitable.

it goes like this: 

When a bull is being lead to the slaughter, it still hopes to break loose and trample its butchers. Other bulls have not been able to pass on the knowledge that this never happens and that from the slaughterhouse there is no way back to the herd. But in human society there is a continuous exchange of experience. I have never heard of a man who broke away and fled while being led to his execution. It is even thought to be a special form of courage if a man about to be executed refuses to be blindfolded and dies with his eyes open. But I would rather have the bull with his blind rage, the stubborn beast who doesn't weigh his chances of survival with the prudent dull-wittedness of man, and doesn't know the despicable feeling of despair.

(the word in russian used here for despicable more directly means dirty, filthy, or grimy.

and the word for despair more directly translates to hopelessness.

the filthy feeling of hopelessness.) 

and so she wonders--is it needful to howl, when being beaten and stomped down?

or is it better to stiffen in pride?

she decides, it is better to scream.

because even if you don't know where that scream will go,

even from soundproof cells,

by that cry, a person leaves a trace and sends a message of how he/she lived and died.

even if nothing else remains, one must scream.

I decided it is better to scream. (...) Silence is the real crime against humanity.

and the translation of any of their words doesn't nearly do justice the depth of feeling.

but these works.

something different in these from what we have heretofore read--the works of the men.

don't get me wrong, we have read some stunning pieces. 

the men have talent as well and write stunning things.

but these women.

there's a certain spirit within them--a character that oozes from between each line.

these words written not only to declare the raw truth of what they have seen,

but for all those who suffered similarly across their innocent trampled nation.

for the women they represent.

for who they are.

i am in awe.

in awe of the soul of the russian/ukrainian woman.

(for they are of the same blood.)

something different in these women--the women of the last wagon.

women who are not praised enough.

these people--men and women alike--there's something different in them.

an indescribable something in their character, this special kind of strength.

as evgeni zamyatin said (rough translation),

the russian person has needed and must have especially strong ribs and thick skin

in order to not be crushed by the heaviness of that unprecedented load,

which history has thrown upon his/her shoulders.

there's something special in their souls.

something important and impenetrable.

these people who are not praised enough.

i for one, will be praising them forever.

not because they are perfect,

but because they are imperfect.

because of their tenacity.

because of the way they are never disingenuine,

but rather unabashedly sincere at all times.

a people to be praised.

- - -

for past additional thoughts on women//ukrainian women:

можно зайтй сюда.

your glass is empty, i'll pour some more.

(written 22 january 2015. still mostly applicable.)

i learned how to say 'speak of the devil' in russian.

it was in a play i read for class today.

легка на помине.

i'm ultra insecuresensitive about my russian lately.

i'm not sure why.
i'm not sure what triggered it.
i just am.
yesterday i was chittering with shariska about it,
and she made the point.
the point that the people who are in these classes,
aren't just the average russian speaking missionary.
these are the people who are pursuing it.
the ones who are more gung-ho.
the ones who to start with were already real good.
we talked about the havinganativecompanion difference.
i don't share this often,
but before i went on a mission--
even before knowing that i was going--
i always dreamwanted a native companion.
because i know that's one of those things.
one of those things that can really make a difference.
i was young and naïve, not realizing the intricacies that a mission contains.
the way everything about my mission played out was for a reason.
i know that.
i'm grateful every day to god for the beauty of my ukraine.
but sometimes.
sometimes it's hard for me.
because my russian was good. really really good.
from the start.
and i do have a gift.
but because of that,
i know what i am capable of or what it could have become,
had the opportunity existed.

it never did.

or maybe i didn't work hard enough at it.
no.
i won't even say that.
because i know.
the focus i placed on my mission was right.
i was right to let there be humanity.
i was right to give the reins to my daughters when training those last seven months.
i was right to focus on their progress and development rather than mine.
but.
because of that.
my linguistic progress stalled.
had i done a moscow internship,
i know it would have gotten there by that means too.
i considered going last year.
i never told hardly anyone, but i did.
i legitimately really actually did.
for a minute i factored it, tried to imagine if it could be.
and it was something i considered more seriously than anyone would ever know.
but money.
but i already went to romania.
but--this above all--it just wasn't right.
i needed to be here last summer and have the summer i had.
and i know that.
i know.
до мозга костей--я знаю.

but sometimes.
sometimes it's hard for me.

this language--these languages i've studied.
what has it been for?
french gave me much both culturally and linguistically.
and it taught me to learn a language.
romanian gave me communication--a vision of what it is to become really good in a language not my own.
because at the end, i was really quite quite good.
and i would be asked if i was romanian.
but then i was called away from that.
i went back to french, and it never could groove with me the way it once did.
and then ukraine.
and i was scared from the start. but deep down knew i could.
i set lofty language goals.
and.
i know my russian is good.
i know i picked up on it faster than most at the start.
but.
somewhere, sometime.
it slowed, and sometimes even halted.
and never came to fruition in the way i thought it would, or the way i know i'm capable of.
but why?
doesn't god want me to have that strong ability?
maybe i'd have been too proud.
maybe it's not about attaining in the way i think it is.

in analyzing my patriarchal blessing recently, i had a realization about mine.
it is filled with people.
many people.
influence.
but not with roots, at least not in a long term sense with people.
rather, the roots are spread and stretching widely.
my муж will be a root. our family will make its own.
but i think. i think just like now, we won't have a set place.
maybe literally, but for now i mean figuratively.
we'll stretch our wings and circles.
ebbing and flowing in and out of circles of people, not necessarily tied to any particular one.
and maybe that's what my pursuit of doublemajor is for.
for a stronger foundation in order to communicate when i need to.
for a stronger foundation to be returned to later, so that it can be returned to later.
for communication.
like that russian call i took at work last semester.
that i could functionally communicate with the father of a student po telefonu.
i know the language in order to connect with the people.

i know.

but i am so good with phonetics and grammar.
i don't always love it, but i am good at it.
i was once good at all those little language things.

i know.

just. sometimes.
уязвляет моё самолюбие.
my pride is stung.