the flour, the rain, and the mouse.

i made brownies the other night.

it was just after 9 pm by that point, the evening winding down.
but then suddenly--i made brownies.

it's what i do when my life starts to get chaotic and feels like it's spinning too fast.
it's what i do when my stress levels start to rise, be it conscious or not.

because something about stirring brownies together brings a little bit of control back to me.

summer 2013 i made a lot of brownies.
i was in ukraine. (ha. member that? me neither.)
in abedinyoni, in an area that hadn't had missionaries for a long while.
and also i had two companions.
both of whom were new and six weeks apart.

not relevant right now, really.
just.
i made brownies.

because i love to watch the transition of the batter--
the way things change and thicken as you add the dry ingredients.
the way things swirl and spin,
all before they combine
with the addition of flour.

i went to the grocery store the other day.
husband is out of town,
(which on some trips is sometimes harder for me than i care to honestly admit.
when my shame and pride get talking.)
i went to the grocery store, and wandered for longer than i should have needed to.
is it possible to forget how to grocery shop?
i forgot where to even find certain things.

does growing up mean you learn how to grocery shop more effectively?
did i miss that class in adulting?
or does it mean you pay a little more for things you know are worth it--
without feeling bad for the cost being more?
even with consciously knowing it's worth it,
still being bothered because of habit to scour for the cheapest price possible?

i like my job.
i do.
i may not be good at a lot of aspects of adulthood,
our new space may be a chaotic mess with boxes and piles everywhere still.
but i like my job.
i like the community itself while still having the autonomy of my position.
i like the variety of older 5th graders mixed with preschoolers.

i'm good at it--most parts at least, considering how new i am.
i'm good at being organized and making sure things get done.
i'm good at writing and usually fairly good with people.
i'm good with kids and can usually charm even the most skeptical of littles.

the weather is turning.
the first cold days always throw me around like a leaf in the wind.
but tonight the rain keeps coming down.
and there's something soothing and grounding in that.

there's nothing quite like a cold, rainy night as the season first starts to turn,
to engulf you with the most perplexing warmth and stability.

then again, i think i just saw a mouse scurry out of the corner of my eye.
(i'm not quite ready for this adulting.)

she pours a daydream in a cup, 

a spoon of sugar sweetens up.

and she fights for her life as she puts on her coat,

and she fights for her life on the train.

she looks at the rain as it pours.

she fights for her life as she goes in a store

with a thought she has caught by a thread,

she pays for the bread

and she goes.

nobody knows.

sun been down for days,

a winter melody she plays.

song of the day: 

her morning elegance, oren lavie.

wishes kept.

i feel the need to write tonight,

but i couldn't quite tell you why.

perhaps a continuation of what i started writing months ago on love.

maybe on clients and graduate school. 

maybe on things closer to the heart.

however.

i'm in the midst of one of those phases of chaos 

in which exhaustion is perpetual, 

and processing life never gets put into concrete words.

i wish i had words more.

i wish i didn't say that so much.

but i do.

i know myself.

i know i have to write.

and often--

writing, 

in some form or another, 

is the answer.

it's how i come to understand 

and muster through 

this thing called life.

i want to write a whole post dedicated to the experience of 

being involved in the intensive stuttering clinic.

i want to write about life and love and people and connection.

i want to write about the hand of God.

i want to write about families and those connections.

i want to write about my whole first year of graduate school,

now that it's almost the beginning of the second year.

i want to write about a lot of things.

i want to change the world, 

instead i sleep.

song of the day: keep breathing, ingrid.

i sleep.

because it's all i can do 

to keep breathing.

using your words.

when we talk about children with language disorders,
it often comes down to a deficit in having the words to verbalize experience.
sometimes it's a comprehension difficulty.
sometimes it's an expressive difficulty.
sometimes it's both.
but it always comes back to having words.

i have a supervisor who can't stand when people tell kids to use your words.
quite frankly, i don't really like it either.
it's so trite.
and doesn't really solve the problem,
particularly when someone doesn't have the words they need.
that's often the real problem.

sometimes i feel a little bit like i have expressive language deficits.
sometimes i feel a little bit like i don't have the right words.
oh, i have plenty of words that rest inside me.
but getting them to come out in the right way and the right time?
nothing these days ever seems quite like it comes out in the way i intend for them.

use your words, so many say to children around the world.
use your words so that we as humans may better understand one another.
use all these words to communicate.
use all these words to build connections.

but how can i use my words if i myself am not so sure what patterns or connections to create?
there's so much to say these days that i can't figure out the proper way to say much of anything at all.
and so here i am saying nothing really at all.
it's a start, right?

let go and know.

i'm wide awake and so alive, ringing like a bell.
tell me this is paradise and not some place i fell.
cause i keep on falling down.

just push me till i have to fly--i've shed my skin, my scars.
take me deep out past the lights where nothing dims these stars.
nothing dims these stars.

i want to let go and know that i'll be alright.
(car crash, matt nathanson.)

- - - -

a couple of weeks ago, i kept having dreams of being in car accidents. 

unexpected crashes.

another car pulling out in front of me much too quickly for me to be able to stop. 

being t-boned by a trax train that sent me spinning.

the car door caved towards me, but didn't touch me. 

i am always left uninjured. 

i decided it was born of so many things spinning in my life--

so many spinning arrows. 

that, and a fear of an unexpected, crushing fall. 

and yet. even in the crash. i always turned out just fine. 

last night i had a dream that i was going on another mission. 

this time to iceland. 

i think it was born of a subconscious desire to escape my current life. 

there are so many good things going, though, you see. 

and yet. the utter uncertainty of it all still gets to me.

the tolstoyan radical uncertainty, only manageable in perfect presentness. 

i am unsettled. about practically everything.

pick nearly any aspect of being alive inside my life,

and i am varying levels of unsettled.

somebody please promise me this is not a foreshadowing for the whole new year?
because dreams be putting a funk on the first few hours of a day.

but don't you worry. 

i also went back to sleep.and had a dream filled with sunshine and goodness.

so, you know.

dreams are weird things.

and everything really is (probably) going to be just fine.

the latter portion of long holiday breaks always makes me antsy.

Д В А. [T W O.]

уже два года прошли.

уже?

два года. же.

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

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

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

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

because you just can't send those things home.

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

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

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

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

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

but the truth is, sometimes i can't. 

because sometimes it is too much to go back there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lessons from the orchid.

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

a little something about my orchid.

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

and yet.

i never wrote it.

it never came out into tangible words,

and i think that in and of itself means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and so i moved again.

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

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

if we're being honest, though--

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

but. sometimes. in quiet moments. 

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

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

finding and creating and holding tightly.

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

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

despite the whirlwinds of ambiguity that reign.

here's to hoping against hope.

sunday evenings, you know?

He RELISHES your potential.

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

divine nature ignites--discover the depth.

rosemary m. wixom.

sense the sacred.

these trials are the very things that qualify us.

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

linda s. reeves.

see in one another the beauty of the soul.

in partnership with the Almighty.

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

shine with the beauty of holiness.

God delights.

carol f. mcconkie.

dearest, God is near.

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

the sound of her laughter filled the house.

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

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

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

eventually there was something that turned my whole life around:

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

now is part of eternity.

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

dieter f. uchtdorf.

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

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?

la langue. limbă. язык.

bună dimineața.

te iubesc. fiecare zi.

"je fais souvent ce rêve,

étrange et pénétrant."

однажды. было время. 

этим языкам выучила.

j'oubliais. всё это я знала. 

j'oublie. c'est du passant. 

забываю

и забыла.

il était un fois. 

ce n'est le fin.

ce mai faci?

hai să mergem. 

mergem pe jos. 

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

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

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

astăzi _______ eu am numărat în ______ pe care știu. 

* * * *

k n e w.

as beautiful as truth. hold onto hope, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[emphasis added by what i found most poignant.]

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

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

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

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

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

i should know. the record stands.

i have a (growing) collection of drafts of things that i need to write.

seven, at the given moment.

things about significant experiences.

things about thoughts i've had or reactions to articles.

mostly just. recording life.

those significant things that tap on your soul as if to say,

remember this moment. remember this truth. remember this life.

but for now it's a growing collection.

the started that hasn't yet found place or time for becoming the finished.

i had a dream last night.

i've had a lot of weird dreams lately, so let's just stick with last night.

because it was one of those tapping moments.

screaming the need for recognition and acknowledgement.

screaming significance.

i've been thinking a lot lately about the perspectives and attitudes of people within my major.

especially now, in the final semester courses.

and. frankly.

the variation in levels of dedication somewhat surprises me.

but so it is.

it's a field that requires further education and training, though not everyone does.

then i've been thinking about myself and how my perspective has changed through the course of university.

in my dream, i was in an interview for grad school at a certain school.

which is weird because they don't even do interviews for my program,

and also because it was a very atypical interview.

but, the point was that it was saying this:

i'm going to grad school. for all the right and most important reasons.

(more about this later. that is. if i ever get around to it.)

before my mission, i knew that this was what i was supposed to do.

on top of which, i was also nearly done with my undergraduate career.

plus that i've planned to go to grad school since around sixth grade.

(though, at that time i had no idea what i would be pursuing,

nor did i realize what i'd be getting myself into.

life seemed much simpler then.)

the difference between before and after?

i long ago knew it was right, but now i know why.

romania began the process and showed me pieces.

ukraine delivered the rest and solidified the answers.

because i can see. because i can listen.

so that i may facilitate the process of a human soul,

so that i may enable others to become all they're capable of, and be connected in that process.

whether that becoming is from the beginning parts of life,

or returning after a hiccup along the way that necessitates a new path in the same direction.

the record stands.

because i'm becoming too.

and this is my path right now. this is my life.

this is my focus. it's supposed to be.

and as jilly and i always used to say while on the mountain:

всё будет.

a letter? to me.

if i were to write a letter to me. this, the 27th day of september, 2014.

and if i sent it to myself one year ago, it would go a little something like this.

hey sister self,

it's a rainy saturday today.
i'm wearing a skirt, no tights, and sandals, plus a cardigan too.
because it's 27 september.
but. no tights. and sandals. because i can. even though now my feet are wet.
by ukraine standards that would be outrageous, even if the temperature might be nearly the same.
rainy rain.

where you are. you're days away from being thrown a blow of shock.
from finding out a fate you'd never expect to be given.
i wouldn't want you to know more than you need to too far in advance.
it will be a downpour of shock when you do find out as it is.
but. it is given. it was a gift, though the strangest kind of gift there is.
[meaning: the return to the mountain.]

tonight is the night you meet valentina the poet when you stop by after english.
три молитвы is still the best one.
last night, that moment after stopping by karina's?
don't forget that, sister.
treasure that moment when it sunk in and you said to yourself:
i do. i really do. i like being a missionary. getting to know people in a way you never otherwise would.
the odd stop-bys to see people. a role unlike any other.
this is real.
this is rare.

i know what you're wondering what the universe looks like now.
from me, here in 2014 (already!) compared to your 2013.
what could one year from now possibly look like?
because i know you can't even imagine.
i don't know what to tell you. and i don't know how you'd react anyway.

maybe you'd be shocked.
maybe you'd spend the night thinking as you stare out that window into the night from your bed.
(cause who can actually sleep as a missionary slash in ukraine? you sure didn't.)
maybe in a split second while chitter chatting with someone on the street it will cross your mind.
maybe you'd just look up for a minute, then keep on going through the september puddles and staying in that moment.

probably the latter.

that end was a thick time: thick sometimes like kasha and other times like molasses.
because so many circles are being brought back to their beginning.
but those moments have their own kind of beauty.
and kharkov is just so lovely in the fall, even on year two.
it never ceases to take your breath away.

time passes, love.
keep moving, shaking, and hoping.
because today does come. that one year from where you are now.
it continually does in a life that keeps moving restlessly on.
and life looks a lot different than it once did,
even though so much is the same too.

university. is so much the same, and yet different than it once was.
turns out, you really will double major in russian.
(though some days you still question your judgment.)
and just you wait until you get into russian literature.
it saves souls with its piercing kind of beauty.

dates happen. school happens. work happens.
and somewhere in the midst of all that you remember:
(because for a few months you forget.)
there are good people in this world.
and you have a beautiful brightness ahead as well as in the now.

and just like ukraine has already taught:
it'll all work out.

for now.
love what you love.
enjoy the september downpours.
dream of days gone by, days not yet, and days that are.

when in doubt, follow victor hugo's advice:
have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones;
and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace.
god is awake.

he is awake. and you are too.
don't fret, little bird.
there's thrill in learning to fly again.
learning to fly as an individual in the real world.
because life is just a series of new beginnings.

с любовью.
em.
(because it's your name once again.)

ps. the returned sister life has plenty of perks. this time of life. the freedom, the thrill, the potentials, the learning, the possibilities, the becoming. endless flight. there is much to be enjoyed.

one man's eden.

Eden is that old-fashioned House

We dwell in every day,

Without suspecting our abode

Until we drive away.

Emily Dickinson, Eden is that old-fashioned House

there's this painting i stumbled upon a few months ago in an obscure hallway in the library. one that looks like many others: a landscape of a small town in what looks like rural utah. there's some cows and what looks like a barn, some modest cottages and a steeple in the distance. all of which sits comfortably at the base of some blueish and green rocky mountains. it doesn't have to be utah. it could be the scene from a train of romanian countryside. maybe ukrainian. or perhaps it is just right nearby, just outside of park city, or maybe the path to idaho. we've likely seen such a scene a million times, really. each with its own variation.

i've seen such paintings time and time again and while they are beautiful, most would typically be passed by without great fanfare. without even a second glance. but here i am, telling you all about this one painting, patterned after so many others.

because. i can't get the title out of my head.

One Man's Eden

i've been thinking about the concept of eden a lot lately. which also could be termed as, thinking of the concept of home. it's this obsession of sorts that i have with this idea.

this is a place where i don't feel alone.

this is a place where i feel at home.

song of the day: to build a home, the cinematic orchestra.

a few years ago, google had this ad when they first came out with google plus and the new idea of video chatroom hangouts. a commercial featuring snippets of conversations among people connecting with loved ones from afar via video. connections. the fostering of relationships, the reinforcement of relationships. each was just a small snapshot into a home. (and sometimes it made me want to almost think about shedding a tear.)

home: a place of residence / social unit formed by a family living together / a familiar or usual setting / congenial environment / place of origin.

at home: relaxed and comfortable / at ease / in harmony with the surroundings / on familiar ground

home is a place where people know the intricacies of one another, even if time and distance mean that they don't know the daily details anymore. home means being together, regardless of what you may be doing. it means talking about a little of everything, just because you can--including a small pause while the almost-two-year-old screams out a few words, or even just a pause to watch them nibble at a potato wedge and observe you. being together just to be, sometimes sitting around in occasionally-interrupted silence. home is built around people related and people that love, or maybe just people related by love. home is the place and people that are still there as you come and go from your wanderings.

because i have in me a restlessness. a need to wander.

i don't have a home right now--i haven't for quite sometime. i have pieces of homes where i can temporarily visit, yes. but none to call my own. none that belong to me. sometimes it's hard to feel like this transitory student/apartment/single living isn't temporary. i often feel as though it's all i've ever known.

is this home? is this what i must learn to believe in? (home, beauty and the beast)

you see, honey, i saw love. you see, it came to me. it put its face up to my face so i could see.

see, honey, i am not some broken thing. i do not lay here in the dark waiting for thee.

no, my heart is gold. my feet are light. and i am racing out on the desert plains all night. (song for zula, phosphorescent)

sometimes i see home. sometimes life experiences bring edenhomelove to my face so that i may see. and sometimes i get homesick for a home that once was or one that doesn't exist yet. home is a feeling, not a place. home is where one is most at harmony. home is where one finds the purest contentment on familiar ground. home can be anywhere. home is something you build.

this is home, to build a home.

often the purest forms of our own eden that we ever find, we never notice until we've already driven away.

eden. being still within the presence of god. home.

to a certain extent, we each define our own old-fashioned house. being still within the presence of god, in harmony with surroundings, and at ease--that looks different on everyone. one man's eden is not another's. and yet. finding a similar eden is how we build connections. this is how we build a home.

what does your edenhome look like?

a children's tale.

the past few days, i've had an extra amount of tender mercy moments.

which is to say, an extra number of things that have god's signature in them as a note to me.

personal reminders, if you will.

a note of his goodness, a note of his love.

but most of all, a note of his awareness of my life and its intricacies.

over a week ago, i lost my keychain. my little украинская матрёшка.^^

i was a little bit saddish like a radish, but it was the end of the day when i noticed, so it could be anywhere.

yesterday when i came home for lunch, i parked in a random spot in my complex.

there at the end, poised just as photographed, stood my украинская матрёшка.

there she was, a whole lot worse for wear.

but there she was.

it seemed a metaphor.

yesterday one of my ukraine daughters told me that i'm like her little void.

where she can keep all her thoughts and feelings and worries and dreams.

( like in you've got mail the way joe fox serves as a void for kathleen kelly. "goodnight, dear void." )

another sent me a beautiful message about the value of choosing to feel.

the value in continuing to ponder and explore--the way i always do.

imploring that i never let the sappy hippie inside me die.

i don't believe in coincidence--in chance encounters.

logistically, maybe it seems small and inevitable, but i still don't believe they are chance.

there have been several in the last little while.

nothing earth-shattering. just little things at significant moments.

little things that mean something.

because. life is allowed to be significant.

god finds himself in the details--even, or perhaps more especially, within the temporal.

his awareness and care covers every aspect, not only our faith or spiritual welfare.

ask, and ye shall receive.

the sun goes down, the stars come out.

together we glide through the blue-velvet dark and stars.

all it takes is a little faith, and a lot of heart, sweetheart.

stars, the weepies

звёзды. (zvyozdi.)
i guess i never really talk about it much, but stars. stars were my thing. in the darkness of a ukrainian night, especially in areas that were rarely well-lit. the stars would shine. on the noncloudy nights, i looked to the stars. walking along the streets, i'd take a moment sometimes to stop in wonder and say audibly to my companion, 'look at the stars.' always. but especially throughout my mission. especially in the wintertime when darkness spends more time with the day than light. because the stars shine around the world, and seemed even brighter in ukraine.

(ukrainian night snow stars. some nights in lieu of stars. it's a thing.)

orion. he's my favorite. the wintertime constellation. he puts everything into alignment. because at least there's orion. at least there's that consistency between all the homeland and the foreign. you could be anyone, anywhere. because nothing ever stops happening. that's the thing about stars: they're always there. sometimes hiding, yes. but always there in everlasting number. wherever you are in the world, the stars remain. so many nights i'd look to the stars. sometimes filled with hope, sometimes filled with despair. i always say that god is the sun. (because, he just is.) but the stars? i think they're angels. in all those darkest places (literally and figuratively), i could so clearly and vividly see the stars. the darker the night, the brighter the stars. i think there's something in that. sometimes life necessitates a little darkness in order to see the light.

so, despite my love and need for bigger cities that i've discovered in myself throughout the course of the past five years, there's something to be said for those little towns outside of the city. because from there, you see all the stars. in dense wonder they fill the night with light.

and the way i see it, every kind of night could always use more light.

so if you need me, i'll be basking beneath the stars.

(and probably listening to the weepies while i'm at it.)