to be alive at all.

to be alive at all is to have scars.

(john steinbeck, the winter of our discontent.)

it's as saturday morning session is in its final quarter.

that's when the boots come.

it hasn't always been this way.

i wish i knew how, what, or why.

but heaviness comes and stays awhile on the saturday of general conference.

this, the loveliest of all days.

last october is when it happened the first time.

i tried to push the struggle and worry away.

it worked for a few hours.

and then i wept my way through saturday afternoon.

i never cry.

hardly ever.

i can practically count on one hand

the occasions in which i wept throughout the past five years.

these baby blues don't cry.

when i was approaching the end of my mission, 

there was a day.

i was serving in saltovka, 

and we were supposed to have a meeting with a man named nikolai after district meeting.

on a bench across from the branch--

we were going to meet him there.

then we discovered that our scheduled meeting with nikolai,

was really a meeting with the nikolai in my soul.

(if i were a ukrainian man, my name would be nikolai.

a story of name stereotypes for another day.)

anyone who serves a mission can tell you:

though there are many experiences of light, love, and joy,

there are incredibly heavy things that are a part, as well.

particularly in a land that has faced--and continues to face--so much sorrow.

i'd become quite good at holding those sorrows for a moment.

bearing them without letting them weigh me down.

i had to learn, and so i did.

but every once in awhile.

they'd accumulate.

my heart swelled wide as eternity 

with a simultaneous love and grief for the whole human race.

so many people.

so many trials.

so many fiery paths to walk through.

so much heartbreak.

so much hopelessness.

how could we ever help anyone?

how could we ever pass God's light to all of them?

how could we ever ease their burdens by showing them how to give it to Jesus?

how could we ever figure out ourselves how to let go of control?

how could we ever breach through the darkness?

it was cloudy that day.

a cloudy, muddy day in late september.

i remember looking up to the clouds and seeing flecks of light.

a small space where the clouds were a little less thick.

my heart swelled wide, thinking of all the people who have ever lived.

it was heavy, and i wept.

(my darling little companions at the time were молодцы about this.

letting me release my overwhelming grief.)

i cried my tears, and then i got back up and kept walking.

sharing a little light here, a little light there.

helping to peel scars from someone's back and letting them blow away.

here a scar, there another scar.

because that's how.

that's how we help someone.

that's how we pass on God's light.

that's how we ease burdens and show how to give it away to Jesus.

that's how we let go of control.

that's how we breach through the darkness.

one moment at a time.

here a little, there a little.

здесь немного и там немного.

that's the answer, really.

but every so often, 

the heavy in my boots accumulates.

every so often,

i need to spend some time on a bench with the nikolai in my soul.

every so often.

my boots overflowed today.

instead of weeping through saturday afternoon, though,

this time, i slept.

why must people kneel down to pray?

if i really wanted to pray, i'll tell you what i'd do.

i'd go out into a great big field all alone,

or in the deep, deep woods

and i'd look up into the sky--

up--up--up--

into that lovely blue sky 

that looks as if there was no end to its blueness.

and then i'd just feel a prayer.

(l.m. montgomery, anne of green gables.)

peel the scars from off my back.

one moment at a time.

look at the sun and sky, and feel a prayer.

this is how we stay alive.

song of the day: welcome home, radical face.

i took off my worried shoes.

my fatal flaw is worry.

i'm always trying to look too far ahead--

further than needed, though need is relative.

worrying about knowing what will be

or how it will be, for me and for others.

always trying to create a perfectly-considered plan.
i mean, i even have a playlist that i aptly labeled for this purpose:
when i need to worry.
(i know. i really do have a problem.)

worry and concern.

taking control to keep myself from ever being trapped.

trying to see too much, though i already see so much.

therein lies my fatal flaw.

a sinner like me, caitlin connolly.

i once made a miniature study of worry. did you know that if you look up worry in the scriptures, you'll be directed instead to fear? "worry, see fearful." and that pretty much says it all, doesn't it? to be worried is to be filled with fear, not faith. with worry, faith is left hanging out to dry in the bitter winds of winter.

i wish i could say that experience taught me once and for all--that i have mastered any worries or attempts to know or see or plan too much. i wish i had gained mastery over this concept that to have worry is an antithesis of faith. that if fear and faith cannot coexist, then neither can worry and faith. that now i always choose faith. but. honestly speaking, i'm still learning.

the last few months, i feel like i've been lacking in the soul-enlarging cosmic insights that used to be a part of me in greater abundance. a lack at first unnoticed that grew to concerning. mostly because my soul hasn't had much time for processing, or even pauses for thinking and writing together. and because--sometimes the words just won't come, you know? sometimes they just won't come and we are simply left in a rut.

last year, i had a roommate write a beautiful collection of thoughts about a decision she made for lent: for forty days, asking nothing in prayer. that last semester of our undergraduate studies was particularly rough on all of us, and for her, she decided something must be done to regroup her soul, so to speak. as i read about it, i remember admiring her, but thinking little more of it after that moment. that is, until now.

january and february of this year initiated some lessons in faith and trust--in letting go. january, especially, was nearing on the point of excruciating. and by mid-february as things calmed again, i knew i needed something. i knew i needed to re-center my soul. to regroup. to figure out how to really let go and calm my soul down from what was nearing on frenzied. during that time, i couldn't stop thinking about greer's experience from last year. not always consciously, but always present. just this little thing in the background. thirty-eight days ago i decided i should probably try it, which was, at the time, an uncommitted idea that i hadn't yet planned. in a clear confirmation of what i needed to do, though, thirty-seven days ago i unintentionally stumbled into a particularly poignant study about gratitude and the lilies. about not asking, but thanking in all things. that to truly come unto christ and thereby be filled with love, grace, and power--to really grow like the lilies--first and foremost i must give thanks.

and so i did. until easter i concluded that i wouldn't request or demand anything of God.
for just under six weeks. thirty-eight days, to be exact. that's how long i went.

looking for light, caitlin connolly.

here i must insert an important proviso, of sorts: i'm not ignoring the importance of asking. i'm not discrediting the ever-present charge to seek, and ye shall find. there's most certainly a place for asking. in fact, we're asked to do so over and over again. but for this short time. for me. i needed to not. i needed to approach my relationship with heavenly father in a different way.

when we ask, we are first to study it out. we ought to ask consciously with intent to discover and act accordingly. whatever our questions, it's about so much more than just asking. how many times do we let out a short, please bless so-and-so, before swiftly moving on and hardly giving it a thought again before we pray again, letting out that same short phrase? for me--i needed this time to step back from just asking. from living life in rote, learned phrases like an echolalic child. i forced myself to think consciously about the words i uttered in prayer--about what i was really asking for when making a request for heavenly father to bless someone i love.

now i must also insert my caveats. first, i included several exceptions: placing the names of others on the temple prayer roll, requests made in repentance as a maintenance part of life, and asking for the Spirit to be with me. oh, and also praying for the sisters we visit when visiting teaching in their homes. i allowed that, too. but. everything else was statements only.

i don't want this to sound self-righteous. it's anything but. and though sometimes i wondered for a moment if anyone would even notice when i offered prayers in group settings, over meals and the like. would anyone notice that i never said, please bless this food to nourish and strengthen our bodies? i'll tell you what--they didn't. well, if they did, no one ever verbally acknowledged it.

and if we're being honest, while there was much i learned in this time, it wasn't all berries and cream, either. sometimes it was frustrating, and i felt left in the dark so desperate for light and insight that i felt i had no place to request during this time. sometimes, i must admit, i was less inclined to pray at all. because it took so much effort and thought when my soul was already drained. sometimes i felt it wasn't worth it and God became even more silent during this time (i'll return to this concept). because if my options were limited to expressions of gratitude, there were some days i felt i had little--if anything--to say. (i know, i'm a terribly ungrateful and feisty child sometimes.) but i pressed on, and i am glad.

the most important thing you can do is to learn to talk to God. (harold b. lee)

i know there are places in which we should ask. i know there are blessings contingent upon our asking for them. that asking questions and seeking insight into the mysteries of the universe and the smallest of our daily inquiries are all important things. that's why i chose to do this for a limited time frame. but you know what happened as i gave up the asking? prayers became conversations in greater frequency than ever before. it was about a discussion, not just providing a list of helpless requests to accompany a handful of thanks.

as if right on cue, a few short days after i made this decision, i kept being made aware of circumstances that requested the need for prayers on behalf of others. real, earnest requests for incredibly serious difficulties and uncertainties. if ever there were a time to pray--this would be it. i won't go into specifics, because specifics don't matter. that was just it--there was more than one person on more than one occasion with more than one circumstance. all at this same time. and this burst showed me even more reason why i ought to press on anyway with my decision not to ask. and so i didn't. and this--this was the most profound lesson i learned.

i prayed. because sometimes you just need to pray. but. i couldn't say please bless so-and-so. instead i was left pondering what i'd even be asking for on their behalf. i was left pondering what i could do to be the means by which that person received the blessing i would have requested on their behalf. i made no requests, but instead discussed the situation or person with heavenly father. instead of saying, i'm grateful for so-and-so, i told heavenly father all the specific reasons why i was grateful for that person.

she became herself with tears, caitlin connolly.

i took my lucky break and i broke it in two, put on my worried shoes.

took me so many miles, and they never wore out--my worried shoes.

i march further and further away in my worried shoes.

my shoes took me down a crooked path, away from all welcome mats.

i looked all around and saw the sun shining down,

took off my worried shoes.

(worried shoes, daniel johnston--though i prefer karen o's cover.)

in a true extinction burst, there were moments that i worried even more than before. remember that fatal flaw? when we pray for others, so often it's because we're unsure of what else we even could do. it's an act that makes us feel like there's some semblance of control amidst complete helplessness. after my burst of worries, though, in the next moment, upon realizing there was nothing i could do to change what would or wouldn't be--i let go. i considered the lilies who grew and thrived without a thought for the morrow or toiling over worries.

me. emily janette. emilyj. em. krem. i let go.
i took off my worried shoes--and that has made all the difference.

if there was something i could do to help myself or others, i did it. and otherwise? i let it go. i couldn't do anything about it anyway. you can't change the circumstances of others. you can't take away the agency of others. my worry and concern wasn't actually going to change what would or wouldn't happen. and so i left to God to order and provide. and you know what? He did. He always does. just like those lilies of the field, He will provide. and in some circumstances, it was as soon as i let go of what i was trying so hard to clasp onto, that real growth was able to take place. in gratitude, i am filled with His love and grace. in gratitude, i can obtain new insight. in gratitude, i can speak with Him. the most honest of conversations.

however. you know what else? sometimes He was silent. a purposeful, though admittedly frustrating, silence. but then i realized--in worry, anger, or fretting, would it really help if we were granted exactly what we're requesting? maybe. but i know that for me, it's often not about what i would or wouldn't ask for. often i don't know what i want--i'm just frustrated. often, i just need to let it out. to sit inside that emotion and let it take its course. and heavenly father--He can take it. my most profound conversations with Him often come after i've been in a tizzy and worked through it. after He simply listens to my frustrations. He's there, of course, just as He is now. He is here, but sometimes chooses to be silent. because He can see better than we, that, after all, perhaps silence is the best response.

she awoke from a bad dream and realized a sudden feeling of hope, caitlin connolly.

i wanted to lift the tiredness up out of mama with my thinking.

i wanted powers like that.

if i could walk through the world and just touch people,

and lift their pains right out of their bodies,

i'd never stop walking.

(feathers, jacqueline woodson)

it's hard to let go, did you know? i wish so badly that i could take control of every situation i've ever been involved in and make it right. that i could ease the burdens of those who surround me daily. it was so hard for me in ukraine, and still is to this day, when confronted with so many sorrows that people live with and being without power to do much more than love. unfortunately, i can't solve everything. but i can love. i can serve. i can throw words of affirmation all around and validate people in their earnest efforts. but. if i want to do so. my worried shoes won't take me there. to really, truly love and serve, i must put on my sunshine shoes instead.

i'm all for planning and taking control, where possible. there's hardly a member of the hales family who doesn't--unconsciously at the very least--have a tentative five-year plan. but sometimes, i think it is better to bask in a tolstoyan ideal of perfect presentness. consider the lilies. the sustenance and light that our photosynthesis necessitates will always be delivered. there is no need to toil upon tomorrow when there's nothing to be done about it, anyway. where love is, there God is also. and with gratitude, we find love. with love, we find God. we become more like Him. and with everything else, we do what we may and leave the rest to God to order and provide. and God? well, He takes care--much care--over the rest.

i don't know that i've ever been so conscious of the sanctity and reality of God's presence and light--that presence and light has been adopting new meaning these days. the privilege and gravity of temples. a hopeful heavenly father and a loving elder brother. as was quoted at the provo city center temple dedication last week, some people believe in jesus, some people don't believe in jesus. i believe in jesus.

because of that reality, i can look ahead and see light. i can hold a vision and perspective without needing to know the details. there are still worries. (oh, how the worries still exist.) i still have my moments of getting frenzied and trying to look too far ahead into the future to figure everything out (three+ years before i need to do so). but i really am trying to be better. and at the end of the day, it's all about where you look, you know? i am (striving to) always look up. to look into the light, soak in a deep breath and say, hi, jesus.

it's real. it's true. all of it.
what more can i say?

happy easter. христос воскрес.



ps. aren't caitlin connolly's paintings stunning? i am completely obsessed these days with her work.

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.

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.)

there never was a happier time.

i consider the summer i turned twenty to be the happiest time of my life so far.

and i dare say that summer will always remain near the top of that list.

there never was a happier time.

i've been thinking a lot lately about that summer.

when this place was my place, these people were my people.

that time when my entire existence consisted of a life of sweat, labor, and love.

my summer in romania. 

i've never been so satisfied, so fulfilled. a life of the purest simplicity and the purest of souls surrounding me. and there never was a happier time. never before have i been somewhere that i never wanted to leave, somewhere that--by the end especially--had become not only a home, but a lifestyle that i could have easily and happily lived forever.

because it's there i fell in love with that musty scent of old paint and incense and books so unique to the inside of old churches. the thrill of a language not native to you becoming your own. the odd, but wonderful thrill of sweat and hills to climb. the delight in walking everywhere and being in the city. (this is where the change began in me--when i began to be a citylovinggirl.) and much, much more.



most of all. that eastern european heart and soul, different even in some ways from those purely russian, and especially from western europe. because there's something different about these people in those places that no one else knows. everyone's heard of moscow, or at least the country of russia. everyone's heard of paris, london, and berlin. but what about românia, let alone iași? what about ukraine, let alone donetsk or kharkov?

what is it, you ask? what's different about them? that's just it. it can't be pinpointed to any one thing. but there's something in them that i came to understand. something in their history that lingers in every part of who they are, because it is a history that isn't so distant. a history of events barely older than me. a history that wasn't history, but a story lived. and in these people that most the world doesn't know or even care to know, there is the most profound beauty i've ever known.

i wish everyone could walk those streets and look into their eyes. see past their faces and into their hearts. not only those on the streets, but also become acquainted with those who were mine in section 2 and at the hospital. i wish you could see each of their faces, see them as i do. watch them as i say, hai la mine. я жду. i wait until the day i can call to them again. longing. for hills and endless stairs to climb, skin that's never been tanner, stuffy, sweaty rooms, eyes that have never been brighter, and perspective that's never been clearer. because all these things to me came as i threw myself into that which was my call--to the work in each day, which could be better described as full commitment to the souls that came my way each day. a predictable set in section 2, as well as the unpredictable passing ships in the hospital. those children i gave names to call them by, because they hadn't been given one. and so i chose one that seemed fitting, and this is who i know them as, even if they didn't stay long. there was an esmerelda and a felicity, an eliza and a robby. i wish that you could see them too. the babies, and those who are mine. i wish you could glimpse into even just a day with them--a glimpse into a day from the way things were that summer.

today marks three years since i opened my mission call to ukraine. three. ( i have a thing for the number three, you see. ) it probably seems odd that on a day such as this, i'm thinking and talking more about romania than ukraine--much, much more. there's a reason, though. these nations. these cities. these people. they are irreversibly connected in my mind, permanently connected in my life.



the thing about my call to ukraine, is this: my very first thought while reading that letter--after moving the envelope that was blocking that line down and seeing the capital U and then reading ukraine--my first thought? i'm going back to eastern europe! regardless of what else ever happens in my life, march seventh will forever be a day that i can look to in order to remember the tender mercies of god. a day that is direct evidence of the way god directs and guides a life--the way we are led and carried, directed exactly to where we need to be.

march seventh is the day that shows me god knows me. it shows me that this thing, this thing that started out as a feeling, and then grew into a hope. which then turned into a quiet thought, which then turned into a quiet word. (thanks, regina.) this hope of returning to eastern europe--perhaps romania, perhaps not. this love of a place because of the understanding i came to have of the depth of these souls. march seventh is the day that answered that prayer and yearning. march seventh is the day that shows me not only is god aware of us, but answers the desires of our hearts--those known and unknown. march seventh is the day that serves to say: 'oh hey, em. i've got your back, remember? there's a plan. just you wait and see. and this is the day i show you. this is the day you glimpse into the glory.'
[have we talked about this? when speaking to me, tatăl ceresc (heavenlyfather/romanian) most frequently addresses me as em. in a phrasing and intonation that is particularly tender and distinctive. weird? sorrynotsorry.]

because you don't just end up in romania or ukraine. they're not everyday places. and in those years especially, everything felt particularly guided. did you know that i made my way and ended up in romania because of not getting a job that i was about to get? a very good job that all indicators pointed to me being given. it was because of not getting that job that my entire schedule and plan was able to be adjusted. and suddenly i was going summer. and suddenly i had it all planned out to be going to romania a year later. which all started from not getting a job.

i found romania while looking at france. but france was geared more towards students in their first and second year of french courses, much less being offered for the level i was at. and i stumbled into romania and that's when my life truly changed. guided. because if it wasn't for not getting that job, i wouldn't have gone to romania. if i hadn't gone to romania, i'm almost certain i possibly wouldn't have gone on a mission. and had i not chosen to serve a mission, i wouldn't have ever gone to ukraine. and without these pieces, i'd be missing so much of who i am. because i was always meant to go to romania and ukraine. it was always a part of me, even when i didn't consciously realize it. it was still there. still waiting to be found. not that it wasn't there before, but that i couldn't quite see.



i don't mean to undermine ukraine and my experience there in any way. if anything, i hope this magnifies it. because they shared many similarities. at the core of which is what i learned of real, genuine love and faith. that said, there were differences too. in fact, that's something that was hard for me to grasp while in ukraine--the differences from the beauty of what romania had been. not necessarily in the people, but in the experience. because love and fulfillment came so easy in romania. the people were already there awaiting me. those babes of mine. but in ukraine, it was fewer and farther between. it took more faith and more trials of that love. and that. that's why i'll always love românia. because god is so good to me.



i consider myself by the end of my time in romania to be among the prettiest i've ever felt. because of that which was awakened in my soul. because of the color to my skin that came from europe and came from labor. because of the grime in my hair and the perfect ringlets that formed at the nape of my neck, particularly on extra sweaty days. because of the way my eyes were opened, and there i learned to truly see that which is most essential--which is to say, that which is invisible to the eyes. because there never was a happier time.



as mumford says so well, now my heart stumbles on things i don't know. to say life at this stage is marked by radical uncertainty is the greatest of all understatements. if you're wondering what the twilight of uncertainty looks like, this is it. i really don't know what the future will bring. i really don't know what's in store for my life or how it will come to be. but because of march seventh, i know it will be. i know it will be something grand and glorious, something specific to who i am and who i'm becoming.

because of march seventh, i can take another step.

one step enough for me.

it's time to begin, isn't it?

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.

as beautiful as truth. hold onto hope, love.

lay your head down tonight, take a rest from the fight. don't try to figure it out.
just listen to what i'm whispering to your heart. 
because i know this is not anything like you thought the story of your life was going to be.
glorious unfolding, steven curtis chapman.

there have been a lot of heartaches and heartbreaks and struggles and uncertainties and decisions to be made in my apartment and general sphere lately. a lot of struggling and hearts that have no healing but for the healing that comes with time. because some wounds, some griefs, some things in our lives--they're so important that maybe we're not meant to get over them completely, especially not right away.

"greer and i made up a new hashtag for whenever things are going horribly: #apartment210." --abby.

it's not just heartbreaks. it's not just misunderstandings or wishingweunderstoods about men--though there is plenty of that to go around too. it's the uncertainty. the decisions. the attempts to make something of ourselves and our lives and feeling stopped or foiled at every turn. it's trying to become, but feeling stalled and stunted. it's our hearts and who they beat for, and the way they ache for one another's sorrows in addition to our own. it's our hearts and the beatings they've taken, leaving to wonder if it's ever really worth it to open them up again.

because sometimes life is just hard. and there is no real explanation for how or why.
at least not an explanation for right now.

this is a song for anyone with a broken heart.
blue skies are calling, but i know that it's hard.
blue skies, noah and the whale.

tonight we gathered together for our own apartment sort of familyhomeevening. to talk about hearts, and burn them. (just keep reading.) we always know there's cause for concern when i'm the most optimistic one among us. and right now, i am. we had exactly six paper hearts left over from a ward fhe activity. two remained whole. two were cut in jagged lines down the middle, though in themselves even those, although similar, were different in what they define. another heart cut into pieces. another with a hole through the center, then cut to strips, then cut to pieces.

love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken.
if you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal.
wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements.
lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.
but in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change.
it will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.
to love at all is to be vulnerable.
the four loves, c.s. lewis.

this sounds dramatic, but i promise it wasn't. mostly an incredibly beautiful, though almost disturbingly accurate metaphor. because it's not just about love for other people both male and female and our attempts to work towards progress and finding something real. but it's also about love for our dreams, love for our aspirations, and love for the hopes and expectations we hold. and that love itself, is incredibly susceptible to being broken and makes us incredibly vulnerable. because to lose even pieces of any of those things we love, is to have our heart wrung and possibly broken. and in those terms, we are all living with hearts in various stages of wrung and broken, aren't we?

and my head told my heart, 'let love grow.'
but my heart told my head, 'this time no.'
and if your strife strikes at your sleep, remember swing swaps snow for leaves.
you'll be happy and wholesome again, when the city clears and sun ascends.
winter winds, mumford and sons.

and so we all sat together, spread in an uneven circle around our living room and part of our kitchen on couches, chairs, and the floor. in silence, occasional words, laughs-to-keep-from-crying, and listening to songs that keep us sane. (including some mentioned here.) and. despite my own disenchantments, disillusionments, or uncertainties, especially in this past month, yesterday something changed--despite the timing being incredibly juxtaposed against the current position of other roommates. because yesterday i received an answer i've been waiting to discover for quite some time. and the answer's name is hope. because as my favorite chapter in pmg so clearly states,

"hope is an abiding trust that the Lord will fulfill His promises to you. (...) it is believing and expecting that something will occur. when you have hope, you work through trials and difficulties with the confidence and assurance that all things will work together for your good."

[emphasis added by what i found most poignant.]

trust. believing, expecting all good. because it's not presumptuous to expect goodness. it's encouraged, in fact. because that's what hope is. it doesn't mean that everything will work out the way we want it to at all times, but it does mean that it will work out for our good--whatever that means. it means that to really trust and to really have hope, is to believe and expect. and though i can be so good at faith and charity, i realized that i'm actually not so good at all with having real hope, which is to say, hope that infiltrates every day and the here and now, not just hope for a better world in the distant future.

this is the story of a bird with no wings, but certain that it can fly.
sailing on love, into the head winds, forcing its way by and by.
if only we were as strong as this bird, our spirit would never die.
what do we name it? 'hope' is the right word.
hope is the bravest, most beautiful bird in the sky.
hope is a bird, flies higher than others and keeps all our dreams alive.
free of all doubt, perfectly fearless, fed by its will to survive.
hope, idina menzel.

there was a consensus made to attempt to burn these aforementioned paper hearts--to continue with the symbolism, of course. (don't worry, all was done in a very safe, enclosed, small-scale environment.) but our attempts to burn them proved fruitless. the paper wouldn't catch the flame. a slight spark would begin, and the paper we attempted to use as tinder turned quickly to ash surrounding these little red hearts. because they wouldn't burn, and could never be destroyed--although they be so fervently attacked. because that's the tenacity of the heart and of the human spirit. we aren't beings with a destiny of being destroyed. rather, there is a glorious unfolding ahead. the story is so far from over.

'hope' is the thing with feathers - 
that perches in the soul - 
and sings the tune without the words - 
and never stops - at all - 
'hope' is the thing with feathers, emily dickinson.

and so in the midst of our uncertainty and doubt and wondering, the answer is and forever will be: HOPE. hope, our anchor--the anchor of the soul. and on the days when your hope is faltering and you think you just can't any more, we suggest going up to the mountain. go to the mountains, and they will make you free. because our hearts? they can take so much more than we think. so hold onto hope, love. let your heart keep beating, because there will always be someone for that heart to keep beating for. always. and so, in the dawning of sunshine, i have hope.