notes from the underground--grad school edition, volume 10.

last weekend i took a weekend trip with gradschoolbffallyson to her home in vernal.
we laughed, talked, and slept.
played games and took walks.
boated and roasted s'mores.
oh, and we studied.
a lot.

that whole big-exam-on-a-monday-in-the-summertime thing can be a real bleen, you know?
(motorspeechisarealkillerrrrrrr.)

people laughed when i told them.
ha. right. vacation. boating. like you're actually going to study.

ha, is right.
joke's on you.
exam aced.

also, turns out vernal is a hidden gem.
and i'm obsessed with their balconies, sunrises, and sunsets.

kremilyferightnow in a nutshell:

i stay up late and get up early.
i write a lot of soap notes. (when i die, you could bury me in all the documentation.)
i work play with a lot of preschoolers. (literally 70% of my grad school client tx hours.)
i fall asleep accidentally. (#noregrets)
i complete a lot of online additional requirements. (whatisupwiththissemesterandonlineadditives??)
i spend a lot (a looooooot) of time on i-15.
i take sanity breaks. (like aforementioned spontaneous trip to vernal.)
i worry about the future. (don't even get me started.)
i try not to think too far ahead.

whether or not i'm actually learning anything or growing in my abilities as a clinician?
to be determined. #workingonit

you really must be tired.
what you wrote was completely lacking
any of your usual flowery language.
--my m.

^^this is actually where we're at in america (and krem's grad schooling) today.
#realtalk
[and for the record, i don't one bit regret today's accidental almost-two-hour nap.]

also, in july we can start saying that there's only 10 months left until graduation.
and in august we're in the single digits.
not that anyone's counting.
(we're totally counting. and trying to avoid drowning along the way.)

learn to journey and return.

i've been feeling nostalgic about my alma mater this week. and then i saw that they made this new video about the byu experience, and it sent my byulove right over the edge.

i loved byu when i was there, though i certainly had my moments when i wanted out. nevertheless, byu taught me so much both inside and outside of the classroom. and because of that, i'll be forever grateful for that spirit of the Y.

i'd always intended to write a farewell to provo kind of something. or at least a farewell to byu, kind of like megs did. i'd always intended to, but it never seemed to solidify in my soul until now--one week into graduate education at another university. and something about that marks my undergraduate education as officially and completely behind me.

there's a certain kind of charm in that provo air--especially in the summertime. even more especially in the evening as the sun sets. there's a certain glow of golden breath that distills upon the city in the summer: everyone becomes a bit more calm, walks a bit slower, and breathes a bit more often. furthermore, what's not to love about a city that loves their hot air balloons? the hot air balloon festival as part of the freedom festival. but sometimes on random saturdays those balloons have also been known to float their way through the sky. seriously--how can you not be charmed by the sight of hotairballoons?

i can't deny that i was ready to move on by the time april 2015 rolled around. really ready. even with my few jaunts to eastern europe inside of it in 2011 and then again from 2012-2013, 2009-2015 was plenty of time in ptown for me. in that time, though, provo really was good to me. and just as i predicted over a year ago, provo had more for me before i was through, and she wouldn't have been quite complete without those final months. but i was ready. really ready. and it's taken me until now for it to sink in what it really means to be a #byugrad. because it comes in little pockets--pieces at a time, little bits and then waves all at once.

i think one of my favorite things about byu was their motto, the world is our campus. they had many unofficial mottos, but there's something about this one that i loved the most. the way everything you do should be something that both teaches and edifies. and some of the most profound higher education i ever received, was in being a part of the world--getting outside of my own world both mentally and geographically. because everyone you ever meet knows something you don't, and there's something to be learned from them. i think the same is true of places and spaces as well as the people who fill those spaces.

and also. (i can't even believe i'm saying this.) but. i miss harold. maybe not the inordinate amount of time spent there. that place has good study vibes, man. reeeaallll good. i miss my cubicles to confine myself. or tables to spread. or softer chairs for reading. or basements without service for only the strongofheart.

i spent all my semesters at byu finding favorite unknown corners of campus. and every semester finding new favorite places to study. and every semester loving the cubicles because they were so helpful to me for gettinginthezone. i loved those cubicles, despite the painfully uncomfortable chairs that came with them. those cubicles witnessed and fueled my study vibes, my writing vibes, my thinking vibes, my decisioning vibes. they were good to me.

there's something special about the utah sky. and from all my time walkingandrunninganddriving those streets of provo, i became ever more aware of the sun, sky, and stars. the sun as it rose, the sun as it set, the moon that lit my path as i left home far too early and returned far too late.

and. the campus itself is stunning. did you know? byu grounds crew doesn't mess around. byu does so much to make the campus aesthetically pleasing and they are quite literally always under construction somewhere. the new buildings are delightful, and the old ones are filled with history and hilarity. walking through campus--there's always something beautiful to see from this campus nestled at the base of the mountains. beauty is all around.

university is never just about the courses you take, but they certainly are a powerful influence. this is the place so many of my views and perspectives on the world were formed and solidified. this is the place where my intellect was enlarged and my soul enriched. i read more pages than i thought possible in the short time frame in which they were read. i didn't read other pages that maybe i should have--because that's a part of university too. learning how you study. learning how you learn. and learning the hard way when you didn't do enough because you're young and living life. and most of all--learning what you care about most. learning where your passions truly find themselves.

most influential of all, though, were the people. friends, roommates, classmates, professors. even people that had none of the above affiliations. people are like that, you know? they can't help but be influential in some way. i'll be forever changed and made better for the courses i took, the discussions i heard and participated in, or the lectures presented. for doing things that are hard and sitting through things i never want to hear about again because it was so painfully boring to me. for the classes that challenged, but were the most rewarding of all. and the ones that seemed to be the worst, but developed in me the greatest progress both academically and in my character. and then there are those other people. the simple moments of shared smiles of commiseration with strangers when you're both on campus at an ungodly hour and everyone else is snug in their beds, or at least doing something more desirable than trudge through the cold.

these are the roads and paths i walked too many times to count. these are the streets i loved to love and loved to hate after passing through them so many times. the trees i sat under and the glorious beauty to which i became desensitized. because all these roads and pathways are only a fraction of the distance my soul covered in these years i was graced with the spirit of the Y--becoming a part of the legacy that makes brigham young university the prestigious institution that it is.

i went through every season a number of times at byu. fall, winter, spring, summer. fall and winter and spring and summer again. i can't even count all the photos i know i've snapped of the trees at every phase. the sunrises, the sunsets, the budding leaves, the changing autumn colors. the snowy blankets that cover campus and the melting heat of the dry summer sun. seasons come and seasons go, and i suppose that in itself was a lesson too: nothing ever stays the same. life always moved on and forward. and even the most similar-looking of circumstances always turn out a little bit different one from the other. because that's the way life goes, you know? it keeps on changing. it keeps on moving. it keeps on leading you through so that at the end of the day, you can look back and say, i lived. i really truly lived.

 there's this place i used to love to study inside the hbll--one of my most-frequented locations. it was on the fourth floor in the asian section. if you wound past all the tables, there were cubicles that lined the pathway along the wall that had windows looking out to a small courtyard and another side of the library. on the wall between two windows, there was a painting of an old chinese man who seemed to be the picture of wisdom. i liked to look up at him in my breaks in studying, as if he were imparting wisdom to me. a good luck charm of sorts. one of my last finals of my undergraduate career was a take-home final of essays that i typed from the library. i typed from beneath the watchful eye of this chinese man. because that place was always so good to me. and it was always to there that i went to study for the gre and take practice tests on saturdays last summer. because it was a little piece of charm that seemed all my own, hidden inside that byu life.

those were the days. those were the years. it was hardly ever easy, but it was enriching. despite all this, though. here, now, today? it's time. пора, мой друг, пора. as pushkin says. it's time to move on and forward. the sun has set on my byu time. onward and upward we're marching on. because life is measured by new experiences. 

here's to discovering a new campus, even if i'll be spending a grand deal less time here on campus or in classes. nevertheless, i've still got this hankering that maybe. perhaps. it might be possible. that utah will be good to me too. and so i say, here's to new. here's to this crimson U.

song of the day: all i can see, brendan james.

holiness: holy lands, holy people.

And the Lord God said, 

It is not good that the man should be alone;

I will make him an help meet for him.

Genesis 2:18

whenever we hear this phrase (myself included) i think we always think of the literal and obvious implications: adam and eve, husbands and wives. and particularly the term 'help meet.' i love that term. and i love the idea, as expressed in this article here that a friend shared with me. the concept of man and wife as perfect complements to one another. but a few weeks ago, i was struck with a thought. struck with realizing that this phrase can mean much more than we think it means.

It is not good that the man [or woman] should be alone.

the thing about graduation, is that it defines relationships by default--separating relationships of people with whom you stay in regular contact from those who, though they may be important to you and have once played a regular role in your life, cease to play a part when your regular routines of daily living are no longer in sync. and i'm sure i wouldn't be the first to tell you: the lapse of time following graduation while in transition into new jobs, routines, and before starting into whatever comes next--well, those moments can be filled with incredible loneliness and isolation. because all those people who once were a part of your daily everything, are now gone. in a blink, all that once was ceases to be--at least in the form you've grown accustomed to.

for the first time in years, there's time to catch up on the hours upon hours of sleep you've been missing. to write and write and write some more in unorganized streams. to delve into the depths of life's mysteries and spiritual insights that you haven't previously had time to explore and study.
all of these are incredible and noble things. and ought to be given time. i'm the first who will laud the benefits of solitude--time spent alone in order to be introspective or to spend time alone with the father. to be alone with. but. at the end of that introspection, you must come out. and when you come back out, where do you go home to? to whom do you go back home?

i once read somewhere that the moment of truth about the life you live comes when asked for these two little words: emergency contacts. this is where the truth about the people of your life comes out. the truth about what truly matters amidst all the other bustlings. with whom do you find refuge?

because people need people.
it's in our very nature--this tendency to make connections and yearning for understanding.
(for more about connections and people, here is an excellent essay on the subject.)
because people--it is the people who bring lingering holiness to a place.
people together with God.

my first sabbath in israel--that was the day that i was gifted an enlarged understanding about this phrase we throw around and what it really means: the holy land. by typical definition, this name comes from the following facts: this is where jesus lived and died. this is where he served his mission, and his presence made that land sacred ground.
now. i love jesus. i adore who he is and all that he stands for. but when he stood on this earth as a mortal being, it was 2000 years ago. as a small piece of perspective: these united states have only been an independent country for around five percent of that time.

therefore, where does that holiness linger after 2000 years? what form does that take? people from around the world gather to the holy land in droves every single year to worship their god and to feel of the holiness of the holy land, particularly the holy city (jerusalem). and, skeptic that i tend to be, i am more of the opinion that was expressed in october's general conference by thomas s. monson:

Physically walking where Jesus walked is less important than walking as He walked.

Emulating His actions and following His example are far more important

than trying to retrace the remnants of the trails He traversed in mortality.

thomas s. monson, ponder the path of thy feet.

i'm skeptical of those who cling to flashy sites where events in history occurred. not because it's wrong to see the world. by all means, see the world. i adore traveling. but. to see it just to say you've been there? to see it because there's a feeling in this land of closeness to jesus that can't be found anywhere else? well, that i disagree with. to see it just to feel of the spirit of the holy land? well, that i disagree with too. there are those who really do say--there's a certain peace and comfort that you can't feel anyplace else than to walk where jesus walked. but this statement specific to israel is one i disagree with most of all. i don't think you have to be in the holy land to find that comfort or peace. you don't have to be in the holy land to find god, come to jesus, and begin to become more like him.

nevertheless, i love the holy land.

i think everyone should go to israel.

but not for the reasons you'd think.

the best way to get to know a city is to walk along its streets. talking to people. walking down the side-streets. when a guide tells you to look one way, look the opposite way: this is where some of the most beautiful glimpses will be found. and this. this is what travel is truly about. not just the place, but especially the people within the place. that's why i love to travel.

and jesus? jesus is in the people. he is in these experiences.

in running into an old russian couple and walking along the street talking to them. in these streets of people gathered together in a handful, speaking a handful of languages. in sacrament prayers in hebrew. in being able to crack a cranky 22-year-old taxi driver. in the art of people living.

because nothing brings the whole world together the way jesus does. it's because of him that i can communicate with these people such as the ukrainian couple that pointed us in the right direction to the branch or befriend a handful of other russian speakers who also found themselves in israel at that time. it's because of him that i know their souls as i do. 

so, when going to the holy land, where is jesus really?

on these streets and inside these people.

in the people who are brought together.

in who jesus is--today and every day.

because where he is and we are and we all come gathered together in his name?

that is what makes a land to be holy.

in the living. in that art of living.

if you go to the holy land to find jesus, you won't.

over and over again, everywhere we went, these are the lines that ran through my head:

he is not here: for he is risen.

 matthew 28:6

and at first, i admit that i was a little chagrined by that. chagrined that in that place of all places there was not more given to jesus. but before long i realized and personally experienced: it's because he lives. he is living. he is anywhere we allow him to be. the gates are open wide. and while there is a tranquility about so many of the places, it's no different than other holy buildings around the world. they are made holy by the spirit present there. they are made holy by the spirit that is carried inside people. people choosing to feel. because. jesus can be everywhere and his light infiltrates all things.

this is holiness.

these are my holy lands.

made holy by jesus and what he means in my life or your life today.

by people who are brought together and striving.

by people building connections one with another, taking glimpses into each other's souls.

using love as a means to see the face of god.

that face of love is the face of holiness.

the holiness born of connections.

so if someone were to ask for the moments in which i truly felt the spirit of the holy land?

well, i'd tell you of the people i met and the magic in the air due to their presence.

the moments that brought them to me, the moments when i felt of god's presence, regardless of what we did.

because a land without people?
well, that's just an empty space on a map.

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. 

late: of grief and loss.

(this is one of those things that i started writing two months ago. literally.
it was the sixth of march when i first began trying to put my words together.

one of those things that has been in process for even longer than that.

and it hasn't been time yet. it hasn't created a circle yet. until now.)

it was a sunday evening in january.
late into sunday evening.
late into january.

my phone started to ring, and up came a photo of my mother.
earlier that evening it had struck me that i hadn't talked to her in quite some time.
maybe i should probably call her?
but i didn't.
i was exhausted. swamped.
january, you see. especially this january. this late january.
mothers always know, though.
therefore. here we are: phone ringing.
i made my way outside--six roommates plus a small apartment, you know?
and it was cold. really cold, albeit an unseasonably warm january overall.
a snowless winter evening late in january.
i paced outside our door, in the midst of the four apartments that share our third floor.
eventually i sat on the top of the chilled steps.

and in this place i stayed for the next 90 minutes.

- - -

i've been on a grief kick this semester.
probably because of my senior seminar in which we're reading various plays by chekhov.
i'm not sure who's more to blame--my professor or chekhov.
probably both.
suffice it to say, i've been on a grief kick this semester.

near the beginning of the semester, meg sent me an article she found in the nytimes about getting grief right. i adored it, and sent it to my professor who very much liked it too because it described quite well some themes we'd already discussed in chekhov's plays. i referenced the idea a little bit here, but it comes down to the fact that there is no real script for grief. every grief wears a different face, though there are similar patterns to be seen. similar classifications that can be made, yes. but even then. it's a spectrum. furthermore, there are some things that you may never get over, because it's just that significant. we as people so easily get impatient with those who are mourning, not knowing how to react, and after a certain allotted time, expect them to just get over it. as if with a flip of a switch, it ends. but. it's never so simple. though you move forward, that grief is always present. even if it is replaced by something later, there's still always a space where that mourning once was. mentally, you can go back to that place, either voluntarily or involuntarily. that's the thing about the human experience: these pieces of our stories are always a part of us. because it isn't just about loss. even an absence can be a presence. and that's what chekhov explores: loss and grief. more specifically, how people are defined by or define themselves by the losses they experience. not only losses, but also lacks--those things they feel they're being denied. because of the absence being an overwhelming presence.

- - -

Nature’s first green is gold, 

Her hardest hue to hold. 

Her early leaf’s a flower; 

But only so an hour. 

Then leaf subsides to leaf. 

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost

- - -

january is always a hard month for me, though i'm fully aware that most of it is mental. but this january turned to be especially rough. however. not because of anything definable. that was the problem. there was just this certain kind of emptiness. a space--but nothing was filling it. and yet, i had no time or place for anything to fit. no wiggle room whatsoever. nevertheless, there was an emptiness in my soul, like a space had been carved out and left there. a space without space for space. it's just as illogical as it sounds.

i knew there were absences present in my life. january was an enormously lonely month for me. despite enormously busy schedules for everyone, there were a few main people that had played a part in my life and in keeping me sane during fall semester. even if that meant a short excursion on an evening walk, going together to neighboring cubicles in the library and returning home late together, or a five minute debriefing before collapsing at the end of the night. in january, though, all those things ceased to be a part of my routine. they were gone. and because these past two semesters were defined by constant drowning, there was no wiggle room for anything else or other people. i had no room for seeking out anything outside of that which was already taking place. there were those i crossed paths with in my daily routines, and there was very little time for things outside of that, especially in the month of january. but in january, those people that had at least crossed through more frequently, were gone. and i was left alone. everything stripped down to only that which was most essential.

it wasn't supposed to be like this. that was the hardest part. that was the fate i mourned to my mother on that late sunday evening. this semester wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be easier. i was supposed to be able to breathe in my last semester as i neared the finish, especially once grad apps were in. it wasn't supposed to be like this. i wasn't supposed to get even less sleep this semester than last--which is in itself an impressive feat. i wake up almost every day before everyone else in my apartment, and often am gone still before any arise. i stay at the library or am up reading until midnight, and go home to more reading. where i used to at least have time for little things at work when i first started and it was slow, i've had none whatsoever in these months. it wasn't supposed to be like this. because it wasn't. i legitimately thought my last semester would be simpler than the one preceding it. last fall was awful. it was chaos and long hours every single week that never really calmed down until the semester ended completely. drowning. and i expected the next semester--my last semester--to be simpler. more concise. not so insane and scattered. being able to breathe. to sleep. to be. but late in january is when this discrepancy between expected and actual caught up with me. disappointment.

- - -

colm toibin wrote an article on the literature of grief--a recommendation my professor made on one of the first days of class. a description of what we don't always fully realize--none of us really know how to respond to those mourning. not really. because there is no one correct answer. and there is no one correct response. and sometimes. a lack of feeling is in itself feeling. as toibin says about his own loss, What is strange is that I have no memory of feeling anything; there was no drama, no obvious grief, just a blankness. and so it goes.

furthermore. when authors write of grief--when anyone writes of grief--it always comes from real experience. yes, novels may have fabricated details. but the sensation itself--streams from the original sea of grief.

- - -

while i suppose you could say january--and by extension, this last semester as a whole--was more concise and not so scattered in subject matter, there most certainly was no breathing, sleeping, or being. not much of it, anyway. just. blankness. surviving. some days, only by a hair, but surviving nonetheless. and learning how to drown without drowning. after january, learning how to get by and find mini pieces of sanity-keeping along the way. 

do you think you're grieving? i think maybe you're grieving. that was my mother's suggestion. a well-intentioned attempt at getting to the roots of my frustrations. but what could i possibly be grieving? my people were not gone, they just no longer played the direct role for a time that they once did. a change. temporary shifts. i hadn't suffered any losses. what could i possibly be grieving?

i never became fully rested again after my mission. when i came home from ukraine, i was completely exhausted. deflated. and the transition time was minimal, which meant going straight into extra-busyness. (what i naively thought would be the busiest semester aside from maybe fall '14. joke's on me.) the summer helped, i relaxed. but never enough. never really truly resting. gre and classes and work only allow for so much wiggle room. and then january came in all her fury, and i was pummeled. a weariness that sank into my bones.

i think maybe you're mourning the loss of the time you thought you'd have.
lost, without ever even having it.
the loss of expectation--what you expected to be.
and there it is. weird as it sounds, in the past four months, i've gone through cycles of a grieving process. because. it wasn't supposed to be like this. and my heartsoul grieved that, even when i myself didn't fully see all that i had accumulated in the way of what i legitimately thought i saw my story would be. not even foolishly unreasonable thoughts. just. these pieces that come in the course of living. and most of all. because. this isn't a thing like i thought the story of my life was going to be. where does life get off, not following the perfectlymadeplans i had?

not only that, but time specifically. silly as it may sound, having time to sit in the sunshine and just be is an important part of my revitalization process when life is crushing me, even if its only for a short time. that is my sanity-keeper. being able to sit in a sunbeam for a minute. sitting to the side of a cafe or any place just people watching. and all through january, i didn't do one bit of that. i couldn't let myself enjoy anything, because how do you enjoy anything else when you're drowning? but to survive. i had to come up for air. soak in the world by choice, rather than drowning with lack of those things that make me human. at the very least, give myself a minute for admiring the rays of light bending through the water that was swallowing me. (also. yes. i have a probablyunhealthy reliance upon all things light-related. take that for what you will. if you come to the bottom of that, you'll come to the depths of my psyche as a whole.)

- - -

i'm reading the year of magical thinking, by joan didion right now. (yet another recommendation thrown out in class by this same professor.) and aside from the fact that i think the writing style is refreshing in its incredible honesty, it is overall a beautiful chronicle of her grieving process. and the way. it just seemed so logical, her entire thought process. that year of magical thinking. and she makes a solid argument for the fact that so many are hesitant to admit: there are some people or things in life so significant, that maybe we never truly get over them. it's not just a night of grieving that ends and never returns. why is that so hard to admit, when i would venture that it's something that resonates powerfully with a majority of people?

the most important aspect of these experiences most significant that are lacking or lost? that's okay. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected when thinking of those you've loved and lost. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by lacks of experience or opportunity. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by what you never had. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by a lack that has since been filled. regardless of when that originally took place. maybe it was last week, maybe it was fifteen years ago. does it really matter? when it's something truly significant--something that has left its mark on your soul, some days it's going to feel like it was just yesterday, whether it actually was yesterday, or instead there's an indeterminate number of yesterdays that rest between you and the event itself-or lack thereof.

- - -

because of what i've seen in chekhov's works, i've been so much more aware of my own impatience with those who are grieving--an impatience ingrained in me. because there is this assumption in society, especially in western culture, that after a certain point in time, you should move on, regardless of the grief. just get over it. but it's never so simple as that. in turn, that awareness has given me increased patience and empathy. an enlarged understanding of what it really means to grieve. and therefore, finding that sometimes the answer is whatever gets you through the day. day after day, letting yourself spend fifteen minutes when the sun is out in february and shouldn't be before returning to everything else. letting yourself take part of a day for being with people and soaking them in. because somehow, someway. it all always works out and it all gets done. if it doesn't? well, you're still breathing aren't you? the sun still comes up. let it go. let yourself be exactly as you are--let yourself feel exactly as you feel, whatever that may look like.

maybe one of the most important things i've learned about grief, loss, and mourning, is that it's never too late to learn. there have been very few deaths of close relatives in my family during my lifetimes, and therefore i'm not well acquainted with the topic of grief and loss. but these months have showed me that grief isn't reserved for physical death of loved ones. it also includes that which you never had: something that will never be yours or something that may be in the future, but isn't yet. that's still a loss to be mourned. grief includes experience as well as people. it includes roles played in your life, regardless of the specific figures who play those roles. the presence leading to loss or complete absence thereof. these all dip their hand in the basin of grief, to say nothing of mourning that which could have been, but will never be--be they experiences, relationships, or the attainment of goals. i'm not saying all hope is lost and if you didn't accomplish something once you're doomed to never do so, but disappointment dips its hand in too.

- - -

most of all: grief is everywhere and is evaded by no man. no one ever escapes mourning, loss, or tragedy of some sort. no one. there isn't a monopoly on grief--reserved only for the most profound and most visible suffering, tragedy, or loss. the seemingly smallest of grief follows a similar pattern as the largest, for they are of the same blood. objectively speaking, i always knew this. we all have our trials, hardships, tribulations. however you want to phrase it, no one passes through mortal life unscathed. but i'd never attributed grief to anything but death.

until now.

israel fully deserves its claim on the title of the holy land, but the most incredibly interesting part of my experience there wasn't the places themselves, but the people within them. in being pulled out of my world, i saw people from every sort of place brought together. a random sampling, if you will. people who all had a mark of grief somewhere on their souls. all of them. i didn't always know what it was, especially not at first. but even from those in our touring group alone, if i gave it enough time and truly listened and gathered pieces of their souls, there was always something.

- - -

what i'm saying is. though i'm late to come to fuller understanding of this. maybe there is no late. because. from an eternal perspective, nothing is ever lost. so maybe loss and grief aren't so much about what we've lost and are mourning, but instead what the loss or absence creates inside out souls by nature of its presence. the change that comes in our hearts and souls because of what we experience and the way our souls are carved out and made more whole. the experiences that teach us a little bit (or a lot) more about what it truly means to be human. 

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.)

no waters can swallow.

Master, the tempest is raging!
the billows are tossing high!
the sky is o'ershadowed with blackness.
no shelter or help is nigh.
carest thou not that we perish?
how canst thou lie asleep
when each moment so madly is threat'ning
a grave in the angry deep?
- - - - - - -
Master, with anguish of spirit
i bow in my grief today.
the depths of my sad heart are troubled.
oh, waken and save, i pray!
torrents of sin and of anguish
sweep o'er my sinking soul,
and i perish! i perish! dear Master.
oh, hasten and take control!
- - - - - - -
Master, the terror is over.
the elements sweetly rest.
earth's sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
and heaven's within my breast.
linger, o blessed Redeemer!
leave me alone no more,
and with joy i shall make the blest harbor
and rest on the blissful shore.
- - - - - - -
the winds and the waves shall obey thy will:
peace, be still.
whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
or demons or men or whatever it be,
no waters can swallow the ship where lies
the Master of ocean and earth and skies.
they all shall sweetly obey thy will:
peace, be still; peace, be still.
they all shall sweetly obey thy will:
peace, peace, be still.
mary ann baker, master, the tempest is raging.

i never used to like this song. well, i guess you could say i was indifferent to it. then in the mtc, a sister from one of the older districts (six whole weeks! we thought they knew everything. until that became us.) said she mistakenly chose that as their hymn on one of their first weeks in the mtc. and in russian, it's real, real hard. especially if you've been learning russian for fewer days than years that you've been alive. and so, i didn't really like it one bit. in fact, it annoyed me and i alittlebit hated it.

but then. then my indifference was shattered. you see, while in ukraine, megs and i (sister armknecht, back then.) exchanged notes. because, if you only know one thing about megan beth armknecht, you ought to know that she has a way with words. and that she's really good at words of affirmation. and that she's really good at loving. and she's really good at expressing inspiring and needed things by the means of beautiful words. and on the 10th of june, 2013, she wrote a note that she gave me a few weeks later at mission conference. and in the midst of it, she quoted the second verse of master, the tempest is raging.

she was weeks--practically days--shy of finishing her mission. i was training and in the process of being healed by the summer sun. and this note. it was different than most the others. because in it, among other things, she outlined an answer she received to a question she'd long been carrying. why does god let his children serve missions--especially in eastern europe? his daughters, especially. why does he send us there and allow for us to stay, fully knowing all that we will (and did) have to experience and the darkness we see, despite the goodness that can ultimately be found?

because it was a choice. it was our choice, just as much as eve chose to partake of the forbidden fruit. (see mba's phenomenal poems about eve here.) he lets us go, not in a letting go way, but in an allowing way. because we chose this. we chose this life--the tempests, billows, griefs, sad hearts, and terrors in order that we may know of the power jesus has to say: peace, be still. because that's what actually matters about this sea of galilee. understanding the power jesus has. so that we may come to understand that the waves and winds still know His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below. the voice of jesus.

(my favorite arrangements of this song here and here.

the first is one with vocals, the second is only instrumental.)

for the mysterious to become bright at last, we must first dig into that which is mysterious and let it become a part of us. and by looking into all things--we are made vulnerable, yes--but we are also given depth. understanding. wisdom. because we're all just trying to get to jesus. we're all coming to him. and. at the core of our beings is a yearning towards something grander than ourselves. a yearning to be again a part of that. a yearning to return to god.

but as a part of gaining that perspective and experience, the depths of [our] sad heart[s] are troubled. in anguish and grief for not only our own experience, but i'd say perhaps more frequently, the sorrows we see in the lives of others, we plead for him to waken and save.

and so we return to this sea of galilee. because this is where the Master of ocean, and earth, and skies first commanded the winds and waves to obey His will. but, do you remember? it was in the fourth watch of the night that he came. (the full story here.) which is to say, the final watch. after the apostles had already spent most of the night with the contrary winds. and, you see. this delay. the wait. it didn't mean jesus wasn't coming. it just meant he wasn't there yet. but that delay doesn't mean a denial. he still came to them. he still calmed the seas. he still consoled the sad hearts. a delay does not mean a denial, for god is always awake.

while i was serving with sister bull, we were once discussing this story of galilee and the story of peter walking on water. and she shared with me an insight quinny had shared with her:

when peter walked on water, he wasn't trying to experience a miracle. he was just trying to get to jesus.

because we're all just trying to get to jesus. to get past the skies of blackness and grief. (i've more to write about grief. coming soon [or not soon. no promises. writing does not come so easily as of late.] to a bloggity near you.) and then one day, we rest on the blissful shore. the blissful shores of galilee.



do you know what's found on the shores of galilee? the charming city of tiberias with a branch that looks out onto galilee. on another side, the valley of doves. and on another, a church to commemorate when jesus came to peter on the shore and said, feed my sheep. and there's also the citytown of capernaum--jesus's homeown. and my personal favorite: in magdala, a synagogue built recently that contains a domed area near the entrance with pillars all around--pillars engraved with the names of women from the new testament. the women! leading towards a chapel overflowing with natural light and a large fishing boat at the front, with golden wall-height icons of each of the twelve apostles lining the sides. which is to say, one of the most beautiful religious establishments i've ever been in. (what can i say? i'm a sucker for large windows and natural light.)

and, you see. this is why the photos i cherished most and share most from israel, are those taken on galilee. a phenomenon i didn't even consciously realize until meg pointed it out. but. there's this connection i have with galilee. something about this sea that i'm drawn to. that i could never really get enough of. because of my love of master, the tempest is raging. and. for these waters that stand as a remaining witness of the miracles that took place--the miracles that came in not looking for miracles. these waters sanctified by history. because. you don't need big places for big things to happen there.

тишь, мир, покой.

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