hallelujah--you're home.

songs of the day: the light, regina spektor / supermarket flowers, ed sheeran / shake it out, florence + the machine / the wind, cat stevens / the first days of spring, noah and the whale.
[see also, these playlists: one and two.]

i went for a jog in my new neighborhood for the first time tonight. i've meant to do so on multiple occasions, but amidst the chaos of externship, the wedding, being newly married, new externship, and getting sick (among other things), it hadn't happened yet. not on my own, anyway. [not that i don't love my hubbers, obvsi. just that i also need/love my occasional alone time.] i made a little round towards a park near where we live--the park we walked to once on a lovely autumn sunday afternoon while engaged, the park we played tennis at with trey and johnnie a few weeks ago, the park we played tennis at together a couple mondays ago, the park just a part of a mile away. the park with pieces of this new home and life of mine.

i used to go swinging fairly frequently while i was still living in provo after my mission. i'd go with jillian. i'd go with megs. i'd go with others. i'd go alone. more often than not, when i went for a jog, somehow i always ended up stumbling into swings as my destination before turning around again. i love swings. i love the way they center my soul. i love feeling the wind course through me. i love soaring towards the sky.

there's been a fair amount of upheaval in the past few years. in ukraine alone, i hardly ever stayed places more than a couple of months. semesters to semesters. graduating from college. moving on to graduate school. amidst all of this living in a few different places. a time of transition, i know--these tumultuous twenties. and with that comes the constant restlessness and unsettled nature of seeking with all your might to find a home for your heart--wondering at times if it would ever be possible to find someone. does anybody know how to hold my heart? sara b was always such an important voice for those years.

on this night, though, as i swung through the wind in the quiet of a monday evening, i felt my soul starting to catch up with my body. when discussing chekhov and grief, i had a russian professor a couple of years ago who referenced the suggestion that it takes around 6 weeks for your soul to catch up with your body. it's been just over 6 weeks since the day i became a wife and my husband became mine forever. and as i rounded the corner with some ed sheeran in my ears, my soul catching up turned to a conscious realization: i'm home. my heart and my soul have a home in this place with this person. and on this, the first chance i've really had to be on my own and let my life seep into me, i was overwhelmed with the purest, most satisfying contentment that exists--the contentment that has reigned much since dating nate, but especially since getting engaged. because my heart can finally rest for a time as school winds down (and therefore life calms down), enough to let me look around to see and smell the blossoms of this life of love.


i think i'll go shnuggle my husband now.
because as i listen to the wind on my soul,
this is what i hear:
hallelujah--
i'm home.

love and air.

i believe in love. 

love that's real, love that's strong,

love that loves on and on.

yes, i believe in love. 

(i believe in love, dixie chicks.)

if you were to gently press two fingers to the wrist of love, i believe you'd feel a gentle, steady pulse. a consistent beating matched with harmonious inhalations and exhalations, all of which together universally signify one very important attribute: life. 

i was in romania when i learned for the first time in my adult life what it truly means to love. to see the face of love and know what love really means. since that time, it's only become magnified and expanded upon. anything i had ever known about love up to that point converged into one, distinct moment: when i saw, for the first time, the face of love. 

most mornings at the orphanage, i purposefully went upstairs first, even though i knew my other kids were already outside playing on the swings. there were three who could walk, and a few others who were invigorated by means of a wheelchair carrying their restricted bodies.

the rest? they remained quietly upstairs, consigned to cribs or beds due to their physical state. three, especially--let's call them felicity, danny, and amelia. three precious beings with cerebral palsy stretching from their brains through their bent limbs and down to their toes. they were always in bed. felicity and danny were side-by-side in two beds smashed together, a special, silent kinship between them, amelia in a crib near the foot of their bed. 

on all those days i spent with them, i sought to discover this one thing: what keeps their heart beating. what does the beat of their love sound like? so i rested my fingers on their souls and took a listen, allowing it to seep into my soul.

one sweltering morning, i made my way up to them to massage their under-used muscles, sing to them, and talk to them. sometimes it was in romanian, sometimes it was in english. i don't think they minded. and as i spent a bit of time concentrating on amelia, i looked deep into her eyes and was surprised with the love i felt inside myself. that was the moment that i realized my love for them, not as a collective unit, but as individuals. i loved the way amelia always perked up with a certain song i'd sometimes sing. i loved the connection between felicity and danny. i loved danny's ever-present smile and cheerful disposition. i loved felicity's gentle sweetness. to say nothing of all the other kids and all the other moments--all those moments that have since become memories to show me my love for them.

and not a single one of those three ever uttered a single word. without a single word exchanged, a door of love opened. inside that door? i came to know their individual identities, trapped within bodies left wanting for a bit of anything. nevertheless, they were content with the breaths they had. invigorated even more by such willingness to give and partake of the breath of fresh love.

i've never had my heart so fully filled as it was then. in reaching into their souls.
i've never seen so directly the influence of love on a human soul as i did then.
my heart swelled wide with love that i gave so freely, and received more than i ever could have anticipated.

there's something about little humans--
they way they love so easily, openly, and willingly.
the sound of the beats and breaths of their love is almost deafening, 

invigorating everything it touches.

love breathes like a filter,
dissolving anything that once was toxic.
with love we breathe.

(this little rough draft of words written late june 2016.)

don't you worry, there are stars up above.

put your dreams away for now,

i won't see you for sometime.

i am lost in my mind.

i get lost in my mind.

momma once told me,

you're already home where you feel loved,

i am lost in my mind.

i get lost in my mind.

don't you worry.

don't you worry about me.

cause there are stars up above.

(lost in my mind, the head and the heart.)

there's this article i read for my counseling class earlier this summer. there was a chart that went through different feelings that are experienced as a part of the reaction to having a child with a communication disorder. (or grief in general.) shock, anxiety, depression, anger, among others. and guilt. it defined the symptom of the feeling, a definition, the risk associated, and the potential value of the feeling itself. almost all of the feelings resulted in at least some kind of value. some kind of relief, release, comfort. all except for one: guilt.

Friehe, Bloedow, & Hesse (2003)*

i have a complicated relationship with guilt. starting with the fact that i hardly had experienced it prior to the age of 21. then whatever little boy had his finger in the dike to hold the sea of guilt back got distracted for a time, and thus ensued the deluge.

in some parts of ukraine, it nearly consumed me. nothing feeling enough. the weight of the world on our shoulders. the impossibility of it all. and who else could there be to blame than our own efforts? there wasn't a contingency plan for all the things that are entirely outside of anyone's control. what if we weren't doing enough? what if our best was still yet to be attained? how do you even define your best?

i've greatly improved over the past almost-four (ahhhh!) years. often i even forget altogether, really. but every once in awhile. it comes back. the immensity of imperfection within strivings. the immensity of the weight of trying to do the best possible thing in every circumstance.

quite frankly, it's been quite awhile since i've wrestled with this guilt in my bones. but earlier this week someone asked me to substitute for their sunday school class. i was asked on a thursday, which is always a rough day during summer. i'm always worn down and feeling like everything is impossible by that point in the week, but still having more to do before the week is complete. taking accidental naps like it's my day job, and buried in reading and planning and writing.

i know it's a seemingly little thing, but that one request triggered a string of guilt. you're supposed to say yes to opportunities to serve, right? it's supposed to be a wonderful opportunity to learn and grow, right? don't they always tell stories about the person who went the extra mile when they were already stretched too thin and now that's the moment that changed their life? like knocking on one more door as a missionary.

i'm not discrediting this principle. i'm really not. i saw the value time and time again, as a missionary choosing to talk to one more person or knock one more door, as well as in quotidian aspects of being alive, like choosing to do one more thing before hanging up your hat even though you're already exhausted. but you know what? sometimes that one more contact was someone who said things like, go home, yankee. sometimes that idea of one more article, part of a chart note, or whatever it may be, is enough to make you want to vomit. sometimes, you have to know your own limits and set your own boundaries.

and that's okay.
it's okay to say no.

it took me quite a reckoning (and a six hour delay in responding) to figure out how to say no when i didn't have a reason aside from: this-is-one-more-thing-that-will-break-my-back-if-i-try-to-say-yes. to reckon with the demons i crafted, though any of these ideas were never explicitly taught, in the culture in which i was raised that encouraged the virtue of compliance and helpfulness. but, i did it: i said no.

in the new testament there's a story of a woman with jesus in the midst of a crowd. this woman with an issue of blood sees jesus in a crowd and is filled with the hope and belief that if only she could touch even the smallest corner of his clothing, she could be healed. he was in the midst of a throng of people, on his way to heal the daughter of jairus, when this woman came through seeking healing and wholeness. it was jesus who noticed that she had touched his clothing. they were in the midst of a throng, and when jesus stopped and asked who touched him, peter gives a slightly dumbfounded response to comment on the crowd around them. but as recorded in the gospel of luke, Jesus said, Somebody hath touched me: for I perceive that virtue is gone out of me. (the account can be read in luke or in mark.) while there is much that can be gathered from the story of this woman and her faith, i love this story for a different reason: because of how jesus becomes aware. to perceive that virtue has gone out of him, doesn't that imply his own sense of self-awareness? to know oneself in order to recognize the fluctuations of energy and virtue going in and out? 

Healing a bleeding woman, the Catacombs of Rome

i think there's a valuable lesson in that. in the importance of knowing oneself. the importance of seeking to care for those around you, but also recognizing that everyone needs time and place to refresh and rejuvinate. even jesus had his moments in which he went up to a mountain to be alone, such as after feeding the five-thousand (see here or here).

and as we go through the process of all that being alive entails, there is solace in knowing, there's a place for taking time. there's a place for figuring out experiences by digging inside and walking around for awhile in them. and while going through life, there's great solace in knowing: there's little, if any, value in guilt.

"With the gift of the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the strength of heaven to help us, we can improve, and the great thing about the gospel is we get credit for trying, even if we don’t always succeed. (...) We take some solace in the fact that if God were to reward only the perfectly faithful, He wouldn’t have much of a distribution list. Please remember tomorrow, and all the days after that, that the Lord blesses those who want to improve, who accept the need for commandments and try to keep them, who cherish Christlike virtues and strive to the best of their ability to acquire them. If you stumble in that pursuit, so does everyone; the Savior is there to help you keep going. If you fall, summon His strength."
--jeffrey r. holland, tomorrow the lord will do wonders among you.

rome never was built in a day, now was it? to each their own threshold of what can be handled at any given moment. and. you know what else? there's nothing wrong with saying no and giving no excuse whatsoever. because there's something to be said for knowing oneself. for being aware of where you are and what you can or want to do. and what i can do today may be different from what i can do tomorrow. because that's just life, you know?

all in the name of each having their own path,
and each knowing that path for themselves.
recognizing one's own abilities.
setting your own boundaries.
and knowing when to say no.

oh, and. it's okay. i won't judge if you say no to some social engagements simply because the 'being around people' quota for a day has been reached. me, too. (totally a real thing, amiright?)

give yourself a minute to get lost in your mind.
the stars of all your dreams will still be waiting for you.




* Friehe, M., Bloedow, A., & Hesse, S. (2003). Counseling Families of Children with Communication Disorders. Communication Disorders Quarterly, 24(4), 211-220. http://dx.doi.org/10.1177/15257401030240040701

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?

the due time.

a few months ago, 

when i discovered it could be done online,

i went through and requested the patriarchal blessings of my direct ancestors.

just up to my great-grandparents, for the ones who received one.

i requested them, and then, quite frankly, forgot about it.

a few weeks ago my maternal grandfather and paternal grandmother's arrived.

yesterday my maternal great-grandmother's arrived. 

you know what?

the more blessings i read,

the more my perspective shifts.

at first they felt like nothing grand.

they're all unique, i suppose,

though carry many similarities, as could be expected.

at first that irked me.

where's the personalization in that?

today, though.

i realized that i love the overlapping language. 

that it is personal.

these blessings are laced with similarities,

though no two are alike.

(with one another as well as with the blessings of 

living individuals--those that i have had the privilege to read.)

a couple share a couple things, a couple nothing at all.

but there's an overarching similarity in all of them.

as if they're all different branches of the same tree,

sprouting up in a myriad of individual combinations.

take three branches.

one may share similarities with both of the others.

one with only one of the others.

but they all somewhere have a mutual link--

the trunk from which they all emerged.

the one i read today is hard to read.

(literally--it's a copy of a page from an old book, written in abysmal handwriting.)

but there's a line that reminds me of another patriarchal blessing i've read,

and a line that reminds me of mine.

three different blessings for three different people at three different times in three different places.

and here they share wording almost identical in parts, 

though not in a place where you'd expect identical wording.

and something about all that inspires in me their divinity.

not because they're all different,

but because they're all woven from the same cloth.

it's the same God speaking to us all,

regardless of who or when. 

at first that seemed impersonal to me, but now it's what i cherish.

the constancy of God across time and space.

because when it all comes down to it,

regardless of how we visualize it

or by what means He personally manifests Himself to us,

it all comes and goes from the same God.

we all turn back to that God who breathes into us life.

to be alive at all.

to be alive at all is to have scars.

(john steinbeck, the winter of our discontent.)

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

that's when the boots come.

it hasn't always been this way.

i wish i knew how, what, or why.

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

this, the loveliest of all days.

last october is when it happened the first time.

i tried to push the struggle and worry away.

it worked for a few hours.

and then i wept my way through saturday afternoon.

i never cry.

hardly ever.

i can practically count on one hand

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

these baby blues don't cry.

when i was approaching the end of my mission, 

there was a day.

i was serving in saltovka, 

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

on a bench across from the branch--

we were going to meet him there.

then we discovered that our scheduled meeting with nikolai,

was really a meeting with the nikolai in my soul.

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

a story of name stereotypes for another day.)

anyone who serves a mission can tell you:

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

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

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

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

bearing them without letting them weigh me down.

i had to learn, and so i did.

but every once in awhile.

they'd accumulate.

my heart swelled wide as eternity 

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

so many people.

so many trials.

so many fiery paths to walk through.

so much heartbreak.

so much hopelessness.

how could we ever help anyone?

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

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

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

how could we ever breach through the darkness?

it was cloudy that day.

a cloudy, muddy day in late september.

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

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

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

it was heavy, and i wept.

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

letting me release my overwhelming grief.)

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

sharing a little light here, a little light there.

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

here a scar, there another scar.

because that's how.

that's how we help someone.

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

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

that's how we let go of control.

that's how we breach through the darkness.

one moment at a time.

here a little, there a little.

здесь немного и там немного.

that's the answer, really.

but every so often, 

the heavy in my boots accumulates.

every so often,

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

every so often.

my boots overflowed today.

instead of weeping through saturday afternoon, though,

this time, i slept.

why must people kneel down to pray?

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

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

or in the deep, deep woods

and i'd look up into the sky--

up--up--up--

into that lovely blue sky 

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

and then i'd just feel a prayer.

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

peel the scars from off my back.

one moment at a time.

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

this is how we stay alive.

song of the day: welcome home, radical face.

i took off my worried shoes.

my fatal flaw is worry.

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

further than needed, though need is relative.

worrying about knowing what will be

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

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

worry and concern.

taking control to keep myself from ever being trapped.

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

therein lies my fatal flaw.

a sinner like me, caitlin connolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

looking for light, caitlin connolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she became herself with tears, caitlin connolly.

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

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

i march further and further away in my worried shoes.

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

i looked all around and saw the sun shining down,

took off my worried shoes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i wanted powers like that.

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

and lift their pains right out of their bodies,

i'd never stop walking.

(feathers, jacqueline woodson)

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

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

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

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

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

happy easter. христос воскрес.



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

to ring and to wring.

if i were to describe 2015 in one word, it would be this:

upheaval.

i know it's common trend for everyone to be saying how great 2015 was, and look at the new year with hope and excitement for even more good to come. that's what you do at new years, right? but if we're being honest, 2015 was a reeeal doozy. getting to the end of it and greeting 2016 has felt more like crawling to the finish line than actually arriving with glory and thrill. survival has been only with the packets of light that provide a second wind, that's really more like an incredibly needed two-hundredth wind. forgive me, therefore, if my approach to 2016 is a bit more apprehensive.

ring out the grief that saps the mind

for those that here we see no more;

ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

ring in redress to all mankind.

(ring out, wild bells, alfred, lord tennyson.)

these are the words with which bean welcomed me into the new year. and perhaps that has been the true purpose of this year of 2015: ring out the grief that saps the mind. because. without consciously realizing it, over the past few years i've been accumulating griefs of all kinds--old ones returning and new ones added upon. and this year as a whole? well. over the course of these months the year has taught what it is to ring out the grief by the means of its very own homonym: wringing. by wringing it out, bells rang through my soul--first quietly, then more strikingly, to teach me the importance of feeling. not only feelings themselves, but also the value and purpose in the process itself. the process of allowing oneself to feel. not only to feel, but to feel together with others.



in the first third of 2015, while living a life of allrussianallthetime, i was consumed with a study of grief and loss, spurred by various pieces of russian literature and enriched by life's own experiences. my eyes were opened to the effects that ripple through us and those whom we love--or conversely, don't love--as a result. i won't go into it any further here, not specifically. heaven knows i've already written more than enough words on the subject. (if you've the desire for a larger part of them, here you are.) i simply must first acknowledge the value of that process. the way it redefined how i interacted with others. the way it taught me to look at the whole of a person's experience, not only who they are inside of the messy middle, and to receive their stories with greater understanding. with greater depth.

throughout this year, i've lived inside the very manifestations of some of my greatest fears in varying degrees. i always thought i understood loneliness. that i'd had enough emptiness to see and understand the importance of human connection. but it was only when living for a time in an even more extreme lack of connection that my understanding of people, empathy, and the importance of connection became even deeper. people need people, you know? to share our memories. to share our souls.

in the transition between that first and second third of 2015, i found myself in israel. while there, i made a profound realization about myself (many, actually). this certain one, though, was made manifest in a perfectly blended piece of metaphor from real life. and it all comes back to bags. the bags we carry. i never allow others to help carry my bags. i never want to burden them, and i'm not used to having someone else to take care. i have a finely honed, it's okay, i've got it. and i march on my way, not wanting others to have to bother with these bags of my stories that can be rather heavy. i'm terrible at sharing my life and my story with others. i'm terrible at trusting others with these pieces that are mine. and i'm not used to having anyone persistent enough to ask with sincere desire for the answer. there's frequently the courtesy request, of course, without knowing exactly what they're asking. but when it comes down to it, often it's simply a courtesy. because no one knows what to do with these griefs. no one knows what to do with the heavy, broken pieces. the very pieces that give of that greater depth. that depth again.


the light eyes were not only a rarity but gave the one who had them a certain look--what was it?
depth, he decided;
as if one were looking into the clear water of the river, 
down to the bottom, where things might lurk which hadn't been discovered yet.
(the giver, lois lowry.)


as our russian capstone project, we performed a dramatic adaptation of a portion of chekov's чайка. (the seagull.) and one of our added pieces was an emphasis on these bags people carry, filled with their griefs, fears, and the experiences that have defined them with their presence or absence. the way people so often cling to these pieces. and israel. well, it was like an extension of that russian capstone. these bags we cling to and never let go. these griefs i've been holding, unsure of how to let them go.

2015, though. he rebelled. (sorry. russian gender of nouns. sorrynotsorry.) forced me to learn to give up some of my pieces. to share my bags in varying degrees at varying times. he started by showing me and giving me these things to be mourned, while also showing me what it means to feel. to allow feelings to be as they are. to allow experience to be whatever it is meant to be. more than that, i learned the importance of trusting myself. trusting my own instincts. trusting my own life. trusting my own story. and further trusting God with it all in addition to trusting others. not that the broken pieces of the pottery of your heart should be passed around willy-nilly. by no means. but when you've carefully found and selected someone who can be trusted. well. the sharing itself is a relief, you know? and a beautiful connection unlike anything that can be described. because there's something to be said for the sharing of souls in all human relationships. small pieces exchanged with people you meet only once. moments shared with longtime friends that delve into an unexpectedly deeper level. connections established by the sharing of the deep. these people with whom we share our souls.

the second third of 2015 was a beginning of the emptying--a loss in many respects of the connections i'd built up to that point. the final third of the year then constituted both a climax and a denouement as the emptiness and fear in my soul reached heights i'd hardly realized were possible. only in the final two months has a denouement finally come in pieces. release, relief, and resolution flooding in, even if only for a time. until the next story begins. despite my snarky impatience that comes of a soul being weary, i fully acknowledge the end being perfectly appropriate timing for a denouement. and these final few months? a culmination of all this moving and upheaval? well. they have been showing me what it means to feel. to trust God, myself, and others. and to learn to hope again.

at the beginning of 2015, in a review of the year behind and a look at the year ahead,

i made a declaration in the name of choosing hope, love, and joy.

choosing to let anything be possible.

choosing sunshine.

in short, i asked 2015 to be good to me.

well, if these twelve months were what it looks like for a year to be good to me,

he certainly has a funny way of showing it.

(or perhaps a different definition for good than i have?)

either way.
it's been a long year.

this coming year, as can be expected, i'm simplifying even further.

happy new year.

2015, it's been real--but let's never do this again.

welcome, 2016.

be as you are.
ну и всё.

coming and choosing.

this one's for the faithless, the ones that are surprised

they're only where they are now--regardless of their fight.

this one's for believing, if only for its sake.

come on, friends, get up now--love is to be made.

(comes and goes, greg laswell.)

belief builds from scratch. i'm realizing that the true power of faith is not only the faith itself, though, of course, that's also important. the true power of faith is the choice--choosing to believe, if only for the sake of believing itself. because choosing to believe? well, this is how all love is made. faith and love are both actions, the action being the school for belief.

(a watercolor painted and gifted by a member in saltovka, ukraine.)

believe in God; believe that he is, and that he created all things, both in heaven and in earth;

believe that he has all wisdom, and all power, both in heaven and in earth;

believe that man doth not comprehend all things which the Lord can comprehend.

(mosiah 4:9)

believing. even when you don't. believing. even when you feel you can't. that's true faith--one step enough for me. walking on faith feels sometimes more like walking on eggshells than it does a solid foundation. little do we realize, though. as we go forth--believing we will receive--all those eggshells become a stunningly colorful mosaic. those eggshells become fired into shining ceramic within that refiner's fire. and then? only then are the spaces between each tile filled with the strongest and thickest of bonding paste. the kind that becomes unbreakable stone.

brother, how we must atone, before we turn to stone. 

the true atoning is already done.

and so we must believe.

some days that belief is simultaneously neat and wild like a mosaic, 

some days simple and clear-cut like a stained-glass window,

some days messy and running together at the borders like a watercolor.

all colorful. all art. all beautiful. all needed.

and so we must believe.

if only for its sake.

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.

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.