this old world must still be spinning 'round.

man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn't calculate his happiness.
fyodor mikhailovich dostoevsky, notes from the underground.

i saw this quote once about how talking about our troubles and problems is our habit. instead we should break the cycle. talk about our joys. focus on the positive, you could say. express gratitude for what is working and going right. calculate the happiness instead of tallying the troubles.

i'm just as guilty as anyone of getting caught in this cycle.
frustration with the constant deluge of stresses, particularly in grad school.
it's hard. it's frustrating. it's exhausting. it just is.
but.
i wish.
i wish to not get so caught in those troubles.

there's a beautiful bright future ahead.
personally and professionally.
there's so much that i've learned.
personally and professionally.

and.
i'm trying to be more conscious of
the good
here and now and always.
to soak it in and revel in it.
to calculate it up and forget the tally of troubles.

- - -

i really love walking in the cold. last december, i once walked to and from a homecoming down in provo that was a 15-20 minute walk down a hill (and back up the hill to return) and winding through the streets of provo. my grandma was horrified when she found out i walked. it snowed on the way there. it snowed even harder on the way back. but something in that grey cold on the day that marked two years since i'd returned from ukraine, a walk in the cold just felt so right.

i mean. let's not get carried away. i don't love being cold. i don't love when shivers dig deep into your bones and it feels impossible to ever be warm again.

but there's something about walking city streets (or abandoned streets) with a chill on my face in the dark that just. feels so nostalgic and cathartic.

it simultaneously kills me and thrills me.

#justukrainethings

- - -

i've been listening (#thiscommutinglyfethough) to a book lately about trauma and the effect on mind and body. it's fascinating and horrifying and inspiring all at the same time. a beautiful perspective on the human experience and mindfulness. and especially valuable in context of experiences i've had in the past working with people (particularly children) from rougher backgrounds.

in addition to that, though. even more now i see.

i had a mild case of ptsd upon returning from ukraine.
(which is a very large can of worms on its own.)

but it's just interesting.
to hear and see.
to reflect upon and recognize
just how far i've come
in these almost-three (!!!) years.

there's so much to ukraine that often i can hardly even let myself think about it. but other days it bubbles over and i remember her in all her beautifully sincere, suffering, frigid glory. don't cry for me, Украина. the truth is--i'll always love you. i can't help it. though it took some ice-chipping to reach and see, you are a land of gold. and i'd be remiss if i didn't credit those joys.

i've hardly ever loved so deeply as i did then.
i've hardly ever suffered so deeply as i did then.
isn't it funny how those two experiences so often come hand-in-hand?

it's a deep, inexplicable experience in a deep, inexplicable place.
there's something about that eastern land.
something that can't be expressed,
but only felt and experienced personally.

pain and suffering are always inevitable 
for a large intelligence and a deep heart.
the really great men must, i think, 
have great sadness on earth.
fyodor mikhailovich dostoevsky, crime and punishment.

the darkness that hangs--
it's not a myth.
there's a literal different heaviness in the air there,
as mystical as that may sound.
in a literal and figurative sense.
there's a vibe that can't be spoken,
but is shared in knowing eyes by those who have been there.
though anyone who truly digs inside finds,
a land and people of pure gold.
the kind that could only come of
knowing sadness in a way that cultivates the deepest kindness.

she was harsh, but so good to me.
as, i think, so many others would say, too.

with so much distance now,
i've been trying to remember again.
what was it that made it traumatic?
what was it that made it so hard?
what spurred the need for that recovery period upon returning for nearly all who were there?
many things.
combinations of things.
but.
i'm remembering.
i'm grateful to have experienced it.
i'm grateful to be home.

anyway. i guess i just am saying.
i've been thinking about my ukraine more than usual lately.
there i experienced some of the most
magnified horrifying and magnified goodness
that i've ever known.
and i'm also saying that i like to walk in the cold.
something about it stirs up something deep in my soul.
and also that--
i don't care who you are or what your background is--
this book is fascinating and insightful.

- - -

i'm getting married in 77 days.
7 is one of my favorite numbers.
(7 and 8, if you wanted to know.)
there's a lot i want to write about it.
(let's be honest, there's a lot i want to write about a lot of things.)
some days it feels like a blur of time that will never come.
other days it feels like it's only a week away.
i suppose that's how it goes, isn't it?

most of life feels like a blur these days.

you know what doesn't?
the fact that i picked up my wedding dress yesterday.
despite nightmares that i would hate it,
it's fine because it's the most beautiful thing.
erryone can just take a deep breath and breathe easy now.

- - -

i'm exhausted.
deep-in-my-bones exhausted.
thank heavens grad school is winding down.
are we done yet?
it's not even that it's hard at this point.
i just. it's just so draining.
i'm excited for externships.
terrified.
but excited to experience more fully this profession.
it's a beautiful one, you know?
a hidden gem, this speech-language pathology business.

but also.
sometimes i feel like i'm losing neurons, not strengthening them.
like. maybe i'm actually getting stupider, not smarter?
maybe.

- - -

i'm behind on pretty much everything in my life.
top of that list is probably in writing the heart and soul of life.
i feel like i've lost the ability to write anymore in general,
but also about myself, my heart, and my life.

okay, so it's a tie at the top of the list for
how behind i feel on all the school-related things
i need to accomplish in the next 10 days.
including things i've barely started.
woof.

- - -

thus begins the end of one of the fastest years of my life.

i do love twinkle lights and twinkle season.
happy december.

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

let it go – the

e.e. cummings


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

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

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

so comes love

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.

my slc. | nine and nine.

a new country lay open before me: there were no fences in those days,

and i could choose my own way over the grass uplands, trusting the pony to get me home again.

sometimes i followed the sunflower-bordered roads.

fuchs told me that the sunflowers were introduced into that country by the mormons;

that at the time of the persecution when they left missouri and struck out

into the wilderness to find a place where they could worship God in their own way,

the members of the first exploring party, crossing the plains to utah,

scattered sunflower seeds as they went. the next summer,

when the long trains of wagons came through with all the women and children,

they had a sunflower trail to follow.

i believe that botanists do not confirm jake's story but,

insist that the sunflower was native to those plains.

nevertheless, that legend has stuck in my mind,

and sunflower-bordered roads always seem to me the roads to freedom.

( some people have a thing for ferry boats. 

i have a thing for quaint and charming homes. somanyhearteyes. )

i was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins,

and i did not want to be anything more. i was entirely happy.

perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire,

whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge.

at any rate, that is happiness;

to be dissolved into something complete and great.

when it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.

willa cather, my ántonia (both quotes.)

inspired by this lovely space.

with time to spare.

i have a complete intolerance for ever feeling useless.

do you ever get words or phrases trapped in your head? i do. maybe it's the writer in me, maybe it's that i think too much. on the day i was born the rain came down. that's one of those phrases that has its own track in my brain. i'm not sure what it means. just something.

i don't have many thoughts these days. or i have too many. and my words are stuck inside me. not necessarily trapped. i think some of them feel safer inside. but. they are stuck.

i just finished listening to a tree grows in brooklyn. (whilst commuting. i don't even want to know what that computes as for the amount of time i've spent driving to and from work this summer.) never read it? stop. right this very second. read it. a beautiful coming-of-age novel. a masterpiece on the art of living.

i've moved on to my next listeningwhilecommuting book--extremely loud and incredibly close. i wasn't in love with it at first, but at the same time. i can't stop. it is incredibly thought-provoking. i am in love with some of the passages.

i wondered if he knew. this is one of those thought-provokers. because it can mean much. and. in any situation, we may wonder about what the other can tell. what if we could always know how others perceive?

sometimes, i tend to do this thing where i assume everyone i know should know each other in addition to knowing me. and. obviously, sometimes this is true. but. not always. the other day at work, i saw the mother of a friend from high school. and after work i almost told someone from my ukraine-ing days about it, but realized they have absolutely no idea who these people are. why doesn't everyone know everyone? life's real questions.

if your life's biography were reduced to one word, what would that be? in extremely loud and incredibly close, there's this old man and a little boy. the little boy finds a card with a famous person's name on it and one other word. the old man says it's his biography--reduced to one word. this little boy, surprised that this is all he wrote, asks him if he couldn't write more. and the old man says, novels and novels could be written. but he chose one word. for cards and cards of people, he chose one word. and it made me to wonder two things: if i were one word, what would my word be? and. could there be novels and novels written about me and my life?

my to-do lists lately consist of things like this:
books i want to finish reading soon // observation hours for grad school to finish before orientation // temple. (it's sad how many times i moved this on my calendar before finally going. #workingonit.) // getting myself to write. really write. // getting myself to sleep. really sleep. (why is this so hard for me?)
not your average to-do list. but. it'll do, won't it? #summer? i realized today while chittering with someone about it, that this is one of the things i do when boredinclass, so to speak. i write my thinkerings in the margins of notebooks. or i write to-do lists in a planner. normal? don't answer that.

i'm just living for the little things these days. hold onto hope, love.

while i like change, i don't like extended periods of transition. i'm over it. i'm ready to belong for more than five minutes in some aspect of my life.

i'm in search of the remedy for when boots become heavy. them heavy boots. for all the heavy boots in the world. what is to be done? what even can be done?

i don't think there's an even distribution of recorded life events. most of that which has actually happened in my life--or even just in this summer--is nowhere to be found. most would never know one event or another, were they not involved. that's the other thing i realized in chittering today. so many things. no one ever knows. all those pieces of my biography. when it comes down to it, i prefer it that way. the many layers of krem.

and also. in other news. three years. THREE. i can't even. (more about this later. potentially.)



odd hodge podge of stream of consciousness going nowhere, anyone?

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. 

e.e. cummings always knows.

you are tired,
(i think)
of the always puzzle of living and doing;
and so am i.

come with me, then,
and we'll leave it far and far away--
(only you and i, understand!)

you have played, 
(i think)
and broke the toys you were fondest of,
and are a little tired now;
tired of things that break, and--
just tired.
so am i.

but i come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
and i knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart--
open to me!
for i will show you the places Nobody knows,
and, if you like,
the perfect places of sleep.

ah, come with me!
i'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
that floats forever and a day;
i'll sing you the jacinth song
of the probable stars;
i will attempt the unstartled steppes of a dream,
until i find the Only Flower,
which shall keep (i think) your little heart
while the moon comes out to the sea.

--e.e. cummings

courtesy of megan beth,

the one who always seems to find

the words that say it best.

это она.

ps. the twinkle light photos probably aren't getting old anytime soon. #sorrynotsorry

a free act of love.

"Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust,

a free act of love-but sometimes it was so hard to love."
yann martel, life of pi
  

i like to claim eastern europe as my own.

because there's something about her, that i just know.

about the way her heart seems to tick. her people living and breathing,

with so much goodness in their hearts, it almost seems impossible to believe.

there's something about her that is just so easily understood to me.

i'm not done. i don't know exactly what that means.

i just know: my work is not done there.

it neither began in romania nor ended in ukraine.

there is a reason for everything,

but also a time and season for everything.

he knows all the times.

i love eastern europeans with a fiery kind of love--

sometimes it burns, sometimes it flickers, but it still never goes out,

despite its opposing anger or joy, hurt or comfort.

and that burning and fire itself is a refining one.

a sanctification that makes any burns worth it.

a fire that gives scars and heals them simultaneously.

there's something special about different cultures.

the different humor, even the character found within the language itself.

« это наш. »

i don't talk about romania much anymore.

maybe because i got to know ukraine in a way so much more her own than i did romania.

and yet, romania is my love too.

they are alike, yet different.

i forget sometimes how much she means to me.

and then it comes back with waves and waves of memories.

my babies there. my experiences there.

the simplicity of sunshine and sweat.

the work of salvation in a different way.

both romania and ukraine taught me everything i know about faith.

everything i ever need to know about faith, can be pulled in some way from one or the other.

because that's what eastern europe teaches me above all: faith.

the kind of faith described by pi in life of pi.

that's what romania and ukraine are to me, if put into a phrase:

'an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love.'

including, almost most importantly, the end: 'but sometimes it [is] so hard to love.'

if you look to the right, there's a link to my blog from while i was in romania.

i went to romania and learned of love.

i learned there what love really means, though love never came hard in romania.

it came easily and processed from general love to personalized love. 

but then i went to ukraine.

i was all filled up with love and light,

ready to ignite every heart and soul with that love.

but as experience progressed,

that light of love flickered.

that fire either burnt towards ashes, or raged in violent fury.

violent and harmful flames, sparked by love.

and then.

sometimes it was so hard to love. a very real struggle to love.

however, by this means i learned of love again.

i learned what love means in a different way.

learned that there are many kinds of love.

learned that charity is meant to be so much more all-encompassing than we readily acknowledge.

faith is love. love builds faith.

by this means comes about that opening up, that letting go, that deep trust.

all of such lessons, which are best learned through interactions with people.

relationships with people of all kinds, both fleeting and lasting.

because that is how i learned when to open up, when to let go, and how to trust.

and that. that is what eastern europe taught me.

of people. of hearts. of souls.

to learn of people, is to learn of love.

therefore. above all. in the end.

romania and ukraine taught me this.

that which matters most is that which i knew from the beginning:

everybody wants to love, everybody wants to be loved, and everybody heals with love.

because it's about people. it's always about people.

they roll upon their wings.

He comprehendeth all things, and all things are before him, and all things are round about him;

and he is above all things, and in all things, and is through all things, and is round about all things;

and all things are by him, and of him, even God, forever and ever. 

and again, verily i say unto you, he hath given a law unto all things,

by which they move in their times and their seasons;

and their courses are fixed, even the courses of the heavens and the earth,

which comprehend the earth and all the planets.

and they give light to each other in their times and in their seasons,

in their minutes, in their hours, in their days, in their weeks, in their months, in their years--

all these are one year with god, but not with man.

the earth rolls upon her wings, and the sun giveth his light by day,

and the moon giveth her light by night, and the stars also give their light,

as they roll upon their wings in their glory, in the midst of the power of God.

behold, all these are kingdoms, and any man who hath seen

any or the least of these hath seen God moving in His majesty and power.

d&c 88:41-47

first and foremost.

"Time's not what matters - it's you that does.

Become a sun, and then everyone will see you.

A sun must first and foremost be a sun."

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

when i first got home, there wasn't a particular restaurant i just had to go to first thing.

there wasn't a song i needed to listen to, or a movie i was dying to watch.

sixty-seven.
now, eighty-five.
i've been home for eighty-five days.
at sixty-seven. that's when i started to know. that's when hope was born within me again.
hope dawning bright as i looked into the setting sun.
that's when i really knew.

i'm okay. it'll all work out. it really all will.

i am a sun. in cold mountain was the first time a woman on the street called me солнышка. (solnichka.) sunshine. a woman with black hair that we talked to briefly before she hopped on a passing marshrutka (similar to a bus) on an absolutely frigid winter morning, made even colder by the rare clear sky that appeared and morning sunshine that was utterly without warmth. from then on. i delighted when people would call me sun. sunshine. any derivative. and then. someone started specially calling sister andrade solnichka. daughters leave legacies. especially in ukraine. all of my trainees are weird combinations of parts of me, peculiar things that set them apart as mine and carrying the legacy of the line we're in. and that was one of hers: solnichka.
but. a sun. first and foremost, you must let yourself be a sun. then everyone will see or understand.
this probably doesn't make sense in words the way it does in my soul.

i don't know what personalities of recently returned missionaries mean. the things that are hard for you or aren't hard for you. the things that make for big adjustments vs. the things that seem like no big deal at all. and the thing is. in most cases, they are absolutely no indicator of the kind of missionary someone was. it's just. some things phase some, others get phased by other things. in the midst of it you think:
i'm dying to go to cafe rio. i just can't wait to have american ice cream. zupas. that's what i'll eat first. this place. take me there first straight from the airport. i'm dying to see this movie that came out just after i left. i can't wait to hear about this and this.
that's how missionaries think. but then. when the real moment comes? it's nothing like that. nothing like what you imagine in your head. by the time you really get there, you've long since forgotten about those things. they've long ago turned relatively unimportant. for me, anyway. they all became spare change. unimportant.
instead. i was ready to collapse from exhaustion and trauma.
instead. i was left emptied out and unsure of what to make of the place i ended up in.
instead. i was left, figuratively speaking, staring blankly in a mirror as the world span madly on.
that's what coming home meant. for me.

i don't feel like a 'return missionary.' i feel like i served a mission. in ukraine.
and now i am not in ukraine.
i feel like there are millions of secrets in my soul. millions of pieces, that have no place to be let out. millions of portions that few can understand, or even have patience for caring about. millions that don't have a way to be explained. they just. are as they are. pieces of me that result from millions of combined moments.
starting with. i don't miss my mission. my mission was over and was supposed to be over. i miss moments. i miss people. i miss the essence of what ukraine is. the essence of people. (i miss music mondays of cold mountain in which the ukrainian national anthem interrupted our studies from the military training ground across the street from our apartment.) i miss little things like lessons with people i love. first lessons that go well. teaching, in general. good, meaningful conversations with strangers. moments of light, moments of change. companions (i wish i could go back to being companions with some people even though it's real life this time. because i just miss their presence. strange? probably.) i miss the special kind of friendship that is created and for some reason can exist only in that foreign and isolated intensified arena of living.
to name a few.
and. i won't talk about the other aspects. not now, anyway.

i don't know what i'm trying to say exactly.
but maybe that's just it. i'm not trying to say anything specifically.

just that. a sun must always first and foremost be a sun.
time does not matter. normalcy comes to each in their own time and way.
i love spring. spring is mine.
if you were to describe me within the bonds of weather condition,
it would be a sunny spring day with a wind blowing in various strengths throughout the day.
warm, but a slight chill within the refreshing breeze.
a day that everyone would deem as wonderful, refreshed after the grey of winter.
something like that.

russian literature. the russian soul.
far too underestimated in this world for their brilliance.
(especially dostoevsky and tolstoy. i'm obsessed with them as of late.)
god bless them. every one. especially today.

just a little stream of consciousness.

i need to write more.

but i wouldn't know where to begin.

i have collections of words gathered all over many different venues.

nothing concrete or consolidated.

a metaphor for my life.

hashtag.

shared dessert.

#married

so glad jilly bean has come back home.

"what a dull place the world would be if there were no fools. here we are, two intelligent men, who know you can argue eternally about everything under the sun, so we don't argue. we know practically all the other's innermost thoughts. with us a single word speaks volumes. we see through the triple outer husk to the kernel of our emotions. we find sad things funny and funny things sad, though in fact we're pretty indifferent to everything except ourselves. "

mikhail lermontov, a hero of our time

so, i mean. it's a little bit true.

raven and fire.

i have good roommates.

they (we) are going places.

something good is in the air.

on wings of spring, weakly threatened by a day of snow.

i love spring.

it makes everything feel possible.

hello there, spring.

stop and stay awhile.

the shift. the unexpected.

i love crime and punishment because of the unexpected epilogue. a true miracle, just like the raising of lazarus. there is still suffering to be paid, but there is also hope in that suffering. the ability of love to truly change a person. call it love, call it Christ, call it the love of God. every kind of love ultimately leads back to Christ, and therefore also the Father. because God is love. what does the Savior look like? He looks like love. above all, His chief and defining characteristic is charity. i always did say charity was the most important Christlike attribute. because it leads to and supports everything else.

i love the shift in crime and punishment because it gives hope to even the most hopeless and allows for expectation in the utterly unexpected. in the silly children’s movie, “mr. magorium’s wonder emporium,” the eccentric mr. magorium is won over and hires the accountant when he offers a timidly firm, “anything is possible, sir.” then mr. magorium truly knows: “you’re just the man we need.” anything is possible. “with God, all things are possible” (luke 1:37). sometimes i think we too-frequently forget the power of God - myself included. we forget about His ability to give manna in the wilderness, give sight to the blind, voice to the mute, and life to the lifeless. the power of God unto salvation. does the power of God in our lives disappear because He refuses and steps away from us, or because we cease to recognize and invite that influence and power into our lives? i would venture the latter.

love is what truly redeems raskolnikov because it provides him with a safe place to lay down his heavy heart. the love is there waiting for him long before he chooses to recognize it, let alone accept it in place of being baffled and annoyed by it. love gives an infinite place to rest his weary head - an infinite source of life.

“this is the story of a bird with no wings, certain that it could fly.

sailing on love into the headwinds, forcing its way by and by.

what do we name it? HOPE is the right word.

HOPE is the greatest, most beautiful bird in the sky.”

idina menzel, hope

even the farthest man from light can always make it back from the darkness, but only if he allows himself that. peace is a choice, as is the acceptance of love and the reception of spiritual power. and so, in the end, it always seems to come back to choice: agency, that ladder to the stars.

the raising of lazarus, carl bloch.

only a path. enchanted paths.

"At concerts, for me, the orchestra was like a painter. It flooded me with all the colors of the rainbow. If the violin came in by itself, i was suddenly filled with gold and fire, and with red so bright that i could not remember having seen it on any object. When it was the oboe's turn, a clear green ran all through me, so cool that I seemed to feel the breath of night. I visited the land of music. I rested my eyes on every one of its scenes. I loved it till it caught my breath. But I saw music too much to be able to speak its language. My own language was the language of shapes.

Strange chemistry, the chemistry which changed a symphony into moral purpose, an adagio into a poem, a concerto into a walk, attaching words to pictures and pictures to words, daubing the world with colors, and finally making the human voice into the most beautiful of all instruments!

With Jean, who was more of a musician than I, I had long arguments on this subject.  All of them ended with an exciting discovery, and it was always the same one: that there is nothing in the world which cannot be replaced with something else; that sounds and colors are being exchanged endlessly, like the air we breathe and the life it gives us; that nothing is ever isolated or lost; that everything comes from God and returns to God along all the roadways of the world; and that the most beautiful music is still only a path. Yet there are enchanted paths, and those which bear the names of Vivaldi, Beethoven and Ravel went further, I knew, than any roads on earth."

Jacques Lusseyran, And There Was Light

timshel.

because thou mayest.

" 'Don't you see?' he cried. 'The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in, "Thou shalt," meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel--"Thou mayest"--that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if "Thou mayest"--it is also true that "Thou mayest not." Don't you see?

(...)

Any writing which has influenced the thinking and the lives of innumerable people is important. Now, there are many millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, "Do thou," and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in "Thou shalt." Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But "Thou mayest"! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of this brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.' Lee's voice was a chant of triumph.

Adam said, 'Do you believe that, Lee?'

'Yes, I do. Yes, I do. It is easy out of laziness, out of weakness, to throw oneself into the lap of deity, saying, "I couldn't help it; the way was set." But think of the glory of the choice! That makes a man a man. A cat has no choice, a bee must make honey. There's no godliness there.'

(...) 

Lee said, 'These old men believe a true story, and they know a true story when they hear it. They are critics of truth. They know that these sixteen verses are a history of humankind in any age or culture or race. they do not believe a man writes fifteen and three-quarter verses of truth and tells a lie with one verb. Confucius tells men how they should live to have good and successful lives. But this--this is a ladder to climb to the stars.' Lee's eyes shone. 'You can never lose that. It cuts the feet from under weakness and cowardliness and laziness.

(...)

I feel that a man is a very important thing--maybe more important than a star. This is not theology. I have no bent toward gods. But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed-- because "Thou mayest." ' "

John Steinbeck, East of Eden

to be good and loved.

photo via.

 "In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.

 We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in the world is."

John Steinback, East of Eden

things not known.

"As with many people, Charles,

who could not talk, wrote with fullness.

He set down his loneliness and his perplexities,

and he put on paper many things he did not know about himself."

John Steinback, East of Eden

twenty-one.

just me again over here. guess who is princess of this day right here?

LAUREN CELESTE (wertz burnett).

she is princess of every day in my opinion, but today it's actually official.

and ms.laursykins is turning twenty-one.

yep, old.

and this year, she has a husband and in-laws to celebrate with!

can life get any better? probs not.

so one time i went through all the old pictures we've taken together, and made a collage of just a few.

just a few, i say, because there are many many more.

don't worry, i was kind.

i passed up this beautiful blackmail opportunity.

blackmailing myself, that is.

baha. cause she's adorable in ever single peekcha.

amiright or amiright?

(and yes we basically look the same in almost every picture. it's like whatever.)

 the thing is, i don't really believe in coincidences. (and you probably shouldn't either. just a suggestion.) i've said it before and i'll say it forever, this girl and i are meant for each other, in a completely normal and best friendy sisterly kind of way. we just are.
 i love thinking about the origins of our friendship. i love thinking about how much i needed her then, and how much of a saving grace she was for me at that time. she is my saving grace. and she taught me what a true friend is, and what a true friendship should be like. (someday i think i'll name a daughter of mine lauren grace. so happening.) i love thinking about all the silly moments we've shared, and all of the more serious ones too. i love thinking about how many different experiences we've helped each other through, knowing full well that every one of these experiences would be incomplete without the other. i love thinking about the way our friendship has molded throughout these past 4+ years through each phase of our lives as our own lives are molding themselves. i love thinking about this girl and her family at any time, because it always means a smile is right around the corner if its not already on my face (which it probably is).

"I no longer needed to question Jean to know the answers he would give, or talk to him to have him follow my train of thought. He was my friend, first and foremost among all the others. He was the mirror to which I returned to find the best side of myself. Absent or present, he was my witness." -jacques lusseyran, and there was light

 while we're talking about coincidences--or the lack thereof--i see it as no coincidence that i came across the above quote while reading today. this is where true friendship is found, when you know a reaction or thought of the other, before it has even been spoken. because even in little things, i can predict what she'd say or how she'd say it. and i really love that.
 so the point of everything i've said is this: lauren celeste is my souls shrub, and will be forever. she is so bright, happy, and filled with joy and kindness. i adore her and can't wait to see where the next few april 26ths may find us. cause i honestly can't believe it's been an entire year since last year.

happy happy birthday, laurssss!

i love you all the way to eastern europe and back. a kajillion and one times.
i like this whole you being born business.