My Journey

Sometime ago, I felt overcome with hopelessness.  The days were rolling by and each felt as though I was surviving it rather than thriving from it.  Try as I may, I didn’t think I could struggle out from under the weight of my duties.  And that was how everything felt.  I was bound by obligation rather than participating in something greater than myself.  Participating in choice.  Participating with purpose. 

Purpose is a large part of how I find fulfillment and I was missing it in my Big 3.  Work.  Life.  Spirituality.  Without a sense of contribution, a donation to something bigger than me, something better than me, I was sinking in the everyday mundane routine.

My prayers increased in frequency and fervency.  I petitioned my Maker for help.  I offered the most earnest, sincere prayers of my life.  And each time I received the same answer.  “Leap!  I will catch you and you will fly.”  Though I understood the miracle of any answered prayer, much less one answered with such clarity and such reassurance, my mind seemed too bogged down in hopelessness to clearly understand the offering I was being extended.

Though starving without purposefulness, I was managing to get a meal here or there through pop-culture or some current event.  This year I couldn’t keep my eyes off of Scotland.  I was recommended a historical fiction book which took place in 18^th century Scotland.  I sat in a hotel room in Johannesburg, South Africa watching the Commonwealth Games taking place in Scotland.  The Scottish Independence Referendum was all over the news.  It was a country I was consistently aware of.

Specifically, The Indy Ref made Scotland the boy I didn’t have a crush on but couldn’t stop noticing every time I was in the same room with him.  I was energized by witnessing Scotland’s passion.

I AM energized by witnessing passion in humanity.

Since graduating from university, I many times stated to whoever listened if I had any sort of insight into my 18 year old self, I would have majored in Anthropology.  

I communicated this frequently to friends or to my office-mate.  She mentioned it wasn’t the first time she heard me announce this and that I should just go back to school.  For whatever reason, I never received it well.  I quickly brushed it aside with little consideration or attention.

A month ago, on a day just like every other, I was in a meeting which was boring me to tears.  At the end, the facilitator asked if there was any additional agenda items we needed to address.

I felt myself, against my better judgment, speaking up.  In a whimsical way, I lightened the mood by mentioning the iOS update from the day before and how even though it crashed my phone, I recommended it.  I also informed the room of the Scottish Indy Ref vote taking place and I explained briefly the importance of what was happening in another part of the world while we discussed business strategies.  My heart was invested in that boy after all and certainly more than my own present affairs.

My fellow peers knew little about what it all meant exactly and asked questions.  I did my best to comprehensively and succinctly field those questions.  I explained the pros and cons surrounding English/ Scottish historical events, current UK government & economy, trade & commerce, and perhaps most importantly, how all of that was affecting the people of England and Scotland.

Afterward, one of my colleagues frankly declared, “You need to be a professor.  I now feel educated and emotionally invested.”  I don’t know why but for some reason, every cell of my body lit on fire and it felt easy for me to accept right then.

I never made any plans to attend graduate school and long since feared going back.  I did not academically prepare for it.  And with each passing year, I felt more and more insecure.  Amid thirteen years of work experience under my belt and with a complete lack of confidence, I decided there was no harm to apply to a graduate program.

The before mentioned office-mate and I scoured the internet for programs and schools.  It took me little time to realize there was a UK specific program approach in the field of anthropology.  It had less to do with America's classic cultural curriculum most think of and more to do with a social/ societal take on the field.  I noticed I was interested in this type of program rather than the good old fashioned archeologically based curriculums in the States. 

The more I dug through the internet, I noticed the Europeans' ownership of this type of program beyond that here in the States.  As we investigated, I wondered, “Could I actually attend a graduate program as an international student?”  There were so many other facets of going back to school which nearly launched me into a panic attack.  Certainly, I wasn’t going to engage in the unknown beyond my backyard.

But the programs excited me.  And the fact I was feeling excitement was absolutely intoxicating.  I came back day 2 and started to explore potential programs again.  I couldn’t stop.  That’s when I decided I was going to try.  I found a website where you could enter the program you wished to study and it would populate a list of schools who offered your program.  I put in my desired coursework and the search yielded a list in the high eighties.

I thought English programs would be limited however it became apparent most graduate programs in Europe are taught in English.  I started to click on schools in Austria and Norway as though any dream was possible.  In the end, if I was going to do this, for real do this, I wanted to attend a “good school.”

I was back to looking at the UK mostly because the thought of living there for a year only left me in a half conscious state rather than fully paralyzed.

When I pulled up the University of Edinburgh’s website, searched social anthropology, and watched the video front and center on the page, my soul quieted.

I found what felt like home.  It seemed as though some entity had walked me straight to the school and delivered me directly to the program to which I was betrothed.

What happened afterwards is something which can only be described as divine intervention.  Nephi described it as being “led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.”  (1 Nephi 4:6)  I found myself clicking on links to apply but discovered the application process was not yet opened.

I formed a plan.  In the past two years, I tried many times unsuccessfully to develop an exit strategy and subsequent plan for myself.  I confided in two friends of my newly created plan and allowed them to champion me into action.

I spoke to a judicious man who I esteem greatly who counseled me through a few of my concerns.  We discussed the possibilities and he expanded upon my vision.  He encouraged me to think bigger and to consider more.  We shaped a strategy for procuring a letter of recommendation from my current CEO.  We discussed the set-up and conversation surrounding the news and subsequent request.  He boosted my confidence.  He bolstered my dream.  He discerned my great value and told me so.

Two days later, I appeared outside of my Chief Executive Officer’s office a little nervous.  Here is a man who I respect greatly.  This is a man whose character I appreciate so much it seems only natural to seek reciprocated approval.  A man who for every time we talked & I left feeling inspired was matched with ten more instances of watching him from afar in similar awe & inspiration.  His assistant notified him of my arrival whereupon he stated, “if she is here to tell me she’s leaving, I won’t meet with her.”

Immediately I smiled because of the fondness I felt then and felt many times before for him.  Still, the nerves kicked up as I was about to notify him of my potential plans to eventually move on.  I bashfully entered and took my seat across from him.  He smiled warmly and greeted me with joy.  He offered me a cookie and therein commenced our conversation.

I informed him I was not yet leaving.  I told him I was merely examining possibilities surrounding my future path.  I notified him that higher education was definitely something I was considering since it seemed so obviously necessary for me to continue contributing to this world utilizing my particular talents and skills.

What followed was a rigorous barrage of questions surrounding my decision.  He asked me why I considered this option.  He asked what my major would be and then asked me to defend that decision.  He asked what institutions I intended to apply to as well as what I thought my chances of getting in would be.  He inquired what I believed the weakest part of my application was.  He asked how I intended to pay for it all and if I had even included my additional living expenses along with my tuition costs.

Though the discussion was unexpectedly thorough, I realized afterwards I spoke with more decisiveness (though without eloquence) than I ever managed at any other time in my life.  As each question was presented, and unfortunately I admit I had given little thought to most of them, I experienced again what I had experienced on a number occasions in the days previous.

My usually indecisive nature was experiencing moments of acute clarity.  It felt as though my mind and heart cracked open and I knew easily what I wanted and how I would tackle getting it - answers which on any other day of my life would have felt lost in the muddled mass of my brain.

The program opened three days after I found it.  My name, email, and social security number later, I commenced the application process.  I wanted to click submit as quickly as I could.

But with each step, some unknown resistance pushed against me.  Filled with fear and insecurities, I wondered if I would even submit it.

Elder Holland stated, “It is the plain and very sobering truth that before great moments, certainly before great spiritual moments, there can come adversity, opposition, and darkness. Life has some of those moments for us, and occasionally they come just as we are approaching an important decision or a significant step in our life.”

I found bravery to do what on my own I would not have been capable to do from a materializing circle of supporters.

Ten days later, I did submit.  Somehow I obtained the recommendations, tracked down the transcripts & diploma, and hammered out the essays.  I created a CV and expansively summarized my life beyond my test scores and body of work.  My accomplishments.  My interests.  My future aspirations.

Were there other schools?  Not initially but I was persuaded to consider two more schools – Oxford and Cambridge.  Ultimately, I knew if I was accepted to the University of Edinburgh, I would easily surrender to Scotland.

To say I felt unexpectedly though clearly taken by the hand and led to both program and school is an understatement.  I know my truth.  Never before have I felt so compelled to go somewhere and to do something so specific.  I assume others have had this experience with regards to missions or marriage.  But I suspect few times in my life will I be able to pinpoint with certainty a time when the Spirit led and I doubtlessly followed.

I am better because of the experience.  More resolved.  More faithful.   I feel aid from both sides of the veil rallying around my decision – a decision years in the making which I see clearly now.

The WHEN

It’s usually a reaction.  A spike of emotion.

Sometimes it’s when I walk outside on a cold crisp night and smell chimney smoke.  Sometimes it’s when I climb into my fresh laundered sheets.  Sometimes it’s when I hear a song.

When thunder claps.

When tears are falling.

When he smells good.

When I’m sunburnt.

When no one is around but God.

But it’s usually a reaction.  A spike of emotion.

The HOW

I write… old school… with gel pens… in leather bound notebooks.

The WHY and the REAL WHY

THE WHY.

I write.

A lot.

But most of my words are scribbled on pages and pages of strewn about journals… in my house… where I live alone.

Last Sunday I sat in my friend’s living room with her husband while their two kids danced and played around us until there was a knock at the door.

The neighbor from a few doors down entered with her daughter and a Sabbath day treat.  She joined us, a friend of my friend but a stranger to me. 

The group of us conversed there together and I felt happy.  And when I’m happy, I sometimes sing.

Stranger: Do you sing? You have a good voice.

Me: ((Dumbfounded in that “I used to sing but don’t anymore” way.))

My Friend:  Yeah, she has a really good voice.

Me:  ((Dumbfounded in that “my friend has a better voice” way.))

Stranger: Yeah, you can tell you are a good singer.

I know, right?  A self-esteem booster for any of us.

I’m a creative.  Emo as my sister will readily confess to you on my more private behalf.

Music is my language.  Still, I write because in all honesty, I can’t sing.

THE REAL WHY

I am aware many in the world write much better than I do.

And though I have put my pen to paper for many reasons, not the least of all to earn some extra cash, I have one main reason for doing so.

I write for clarity.

Because when I write down the experience, record the emotion, and plow through the details, nearly always, the wisdom manifests.

I have been marked many times by my superiors as being “wise beyond my years.”

I value this compliment more than being labeled as a great writer.

I’m a good writer at best. 

But I’m a quick study and my major is life.  Fortunately for me, my curriculum is not multiple choice, rather in essay form.  And my passing grade is a badge I wear with honor as others take notice.

A Different Way

There once was a little brown haired girl who loved to roar.  Each morning she would rub the sleep out of her eyes and roar.

“Good Morning,” greeted her dad.

“Rawr,” shouted the little girl until she felt it rumble in her heart.  She smiled and then skipped off to play.

Sitting quietly in the grass, the girl concentrated on the activity she labored on.

Up walked a freckled faced boy who asked, “whatcha doing?”

“Rawr,” yelled the brown haired girl as she happily held out her project.  The boy was unphased by her undertaking and walked away.

Later the girl saw a group of giggly youngsters gathered around in a circle laughing.  She strolled up to the assembly, edged her way in, and listened as they all chatted.

“What do you think?” asked a girl in yellow and white polka dots.

“Rawr,” hollered the brown haired girl as she laughed.  Some snickered while the rest of the group looked at her in mild confusion.  But she just hopped away while her hair bounced behind her.

Day in and day out, the roaring continued.  Some wondered if she was angry.  Some wondered if she was silly.  But most didn’t care to stick around to understand the roar.  Until one day she was approached by a curly headed boy.

His shaggy hair covered the tops of his ears as he marched up to the girl in fascination.  He opened his mouth and barely whispered the words, “hello, brown haired girl.”

“Rawr,” screamed the girl in uneasy retort to the squeaky boy she could hardly hear.

“Why do you always roar?” softly questioned the fluffy mass of curls.

“Because all of my favorite things roar,” answered the girl.  “The ocean.  The thunder.  Even the sound of laughter.  Why are you so silent?” countered the spunky girl to the hushed little boy.

“Because all of my favorite things are quiet,” responded the boy.  “A breeze.  The snow.   The warm feeling I feel in my heart.”

The brown haired girl reflected upon the things the boy told her.  For the first time, she meditated on this new way of exchange.  She closed her eyes tight and held her breath nervously.  Then when she was ready to speak, she opened her mouth and almost inaudibly declared, “I like you and your curls.”

“Rawr,” bellowed the boy.

And they both skipped off together.

All the Best I Could Be

I’m in love with a married man.

Stick with me.

Twelve years ago, I kept steady company with a male friend I made in college. He was an insane musical talent. I spent hours in his presence while a guitar surrendered under his fingers and the masses submitted to his smooth velvety voice. His charm was unparalleled. And his mind… He had the most beautiful and discriminating intellect. To say I was in love with his mind is a vast understatement.

He was from Georgia and though we met at university while in Utah, he had some best friends from home whom he remained in contact. I had a few opportunities to speak with and even meet a few. But there was this one.

He was above average handsome. Though he appeared in a few acting gigs in college, his handsomeness wasn’t overwhelming. It was less intimidating and more inviting. Charm seeped from his being. He had shiny happy blue eyes. He had warm brown hair, the kind that looked like it may have been blond in younger days.

He greeted me with all the earnestness of a southern gentleman. His kindness was sincere. He was engaging and benevolent. He was one of the most tenderhearted spirits I ever had the privilege of meeting in this world. And all of his honor was apparent in one breath of his essence.

He was Good.

I spent two worthy days with this man. He was the kind of nobleman who silently crept in, intoxicated you with his virtue, amazed you with his integrity, and left you forever changed by his morality.

He too was musically talented and incredibly sharp. He was a purer version of my friend. 

Upon his departure, we became MySpace (yes) friends. This has since included Facebook and Instagram.

For twelve years, I watched from afar as he bettered his mind with graduate school in Scotland. I watched him travel and observed as he broadened his sophistication. I watched his natural love of people immerse him while he surrounded and absorbed himself in the best of civilization. His exposure to all of this only increased his optimism in humanity and his faith in God.

His ethical convictions are rooted in an open love of God. Of all things about him, I love this most. He studies the writings of honorable philosophers, principled men, and clearly anchores himself in holy scripture.

I believe this lends to his most attractive and most admired quality, his gift of perspective. He is the voice of reason. The antithesis of rash. The embodiment of brilliance.

He is grounded when others would float away. He is quick to differentiate what is now and what is good for now with regards to the future. He frequently reminds me what it actually means to be good and to do good. It has little to do with crappy bosses, material possessions, or fleeting trials.

I held my breath as he found love, lost love, and spoke of the restoration and healing powers of love. Propinquity is the only thing which for so long kept me from declaring my undying love for him. He is my soul mate. Or rather the soul mate of a girl who existed twelve years ago.

The truth is, time has passed. While he continues each day to become more and more the person I was supposed to be, I fear I have gone off track.

Still, there he is. 2000 miles away and without discrimination, he reminds me of who I used to be. Without judgment, he urges me to be a better person.

Tell Me A Story Pt.2

With every hypnotizing tale, there exists good and evil.  There is a building struggle, rallying around a side, a rising provocation, a moment of unquenchable and immutable conflict, and a resolution.  From all of this is delivered a purpose.  A lecture.  A message or a moral.

In this lies MY discovery.  For years, I loved the happily ever after.

Until I realized, every tale has a villain. Every legend meets a monster.  And every hero must conquer a demon.  In that lies my new curiosity.

There are great individuals in this world and the identification of them can be flagged by the hallmarks of a grand crusade.  You show me a man & tell me his story and I will glean most of what I care to know about him by how he handles his devils.

I look around me and see most fighting their evildoers by discounting the very existence of that which would define his journey, refine his nature, and bare a discerning harvest to all he has sown.

Most ignore this beast.  Most are afraid of him and cope often by hiding from him.

But a hero cannot hide from his villain and would not choose to do so if the noble god of perspective had imparted any of his wisdom on him.

His fate lies in the face of his demons and his triumph is predicated on his admittance of this.  His outcome depends on confession and acceptance of this fiend whose sole function is his opponent’s demise.

We do not speak often of our dark terrorist.  We would rather conceal his existence and feign an impossible purity in ourselves.

Except, no man is wholly pure.  This universe requires an opposition in all things.  Every survivor of humanity will disclose he has battled a foe, escaped, and barely lived to tell his story about it.

And from this, our inspiration comes from his conflicts.  His wars were not the immediate slaughter of his oppressor rather the grappling combat which spilt his blood and left him for dead in the trenches.

A hero is defined not by a single victory but by a repeated manifestation of his willingness to continually overcome his villain spanning many battles on multiple battlefields.

A hero will lose.  And we cannot be afraid to acknowledge our enemy for fear of a fight or worse, a loss.  We will fight and we will lose.

But strength lies in resurrection.  Our strength is rooted from our ability to lose and to rise above the loss... to wrestle our demons again in different scenery but with the same conviction.

“I will prevail.”

A hero may admit to not only having lost to a dark sovereign before but to having been seduced by him, conceded to him, and subjugated by him.

However, a story’s companion is time.  For no story is a moment but a collection of elements aged under perspective’s discerning eye.

So when in attack you feel your demise or you sense your imminent mortality, think only to respond, “how does it end?”

In this question there is choice.  There is freedom.  There is your story.

Tell Me A Story Pt.1

When I was a senior in high school, I would leave the noisy chatter of study hall and quietly tuck myself into a seat of our spacious silent auditorium.  The sanctuary built for nearly a thousand would house me in one chair and my then male friend next to me.

He loved reading and I loved being read to.  His baritone voice would lull me into a fantasy world of spells and magic.  A story of wizards before Harry Potter existed.  I vanished into a world of the supernatural and its mysterious far off places.

While the calm warm words dripped from his swarthy voice, a voice I was yieldingly mesmerized by, I found a piece of my soul in that auditorium which would drive my being forever more in this world.

I was unapologetically addicted to storytelling.

I am a slave to a good story.  Compliant.  Submissive.  Inclined to give in to an author who would hush my mind, captain my emotions, and silence my own raging journey to experience another’s.

The Long Road

Like millions, I used to watch Oprah when I came home from school.

I’m not saying she absolutely was but she was the first person I ever heard reference growing into your skin.  She spoke of getting older and feeling more comfortable in your body.

I was young but I could sparsely glean her meaning.  I mean, 17 felt a lot better than 12.  That was plain awkward.

I am not only 30 but am well into my 30s.  For so long I have felt ashamed of this.

I expected more from myself.  I thought I would have accomplished more by now.  I thought my achievements would have been splashed about for my family and friends to witness.  I expected my lifestyle would have borne the badges of acquired skill and outstanding talent.

I always felt incredibly gifted.  Naturally endowed.

I have always been passionately drawn to pop-culture and it has taken me many years to identify MY why. 

Because these were the outliers.  His movie moved me to tears.  Her voice moved me to tears.  And his book moved me to tears.  These were the extraordinary stories and abilities in an ordinary world.

And… I have always felt I too am an outlier.  Extra ordinary.

It has taken me many years to realize my skill is people and my talent is relationships.  These badges rarely payout in monetary rewards or in notorious awards.

These successes take place on a Saturday evening in a car parked in the driveway.  They occur with a well thought out and a well-placed comment in the classroom setting.  My feats of triumph are quietly hidden from the masses and are appreciated by an audience of few.

I’ve wanted so desperately to provide credentials for this trait of mine.  A great love story to a fabulous companion.  A home filled with laughter and love.  A family.

But I can't.  And I’m learning to reconcile my life to that.

Because the older I get, the more comfortable I feel in my skin.

I am loving.  I am cheerful.  I frequently bring joy where I go.  I laugh.  I navigate in tenderness.  I operate with passion.  I’m slow to warm in any new situation.  I’m open to many opinions.  I think.  I assess and I derive.  I stand firm in my convictions.

It’s been penned, “I believe in the sun when it’s not shining.  I believe in love when I’m alone.  And I believe in God when He is silent.”*

It’s been sung, “let me love you, and I will love you, until you learn to love yourself.”**

It’s been taught, “experience is that most brutal of teachers.  But you learn, my God do you learn.”***

These things are all me.  And I am learning to be more comfortable with who I am.  I am learning not everyone will esteem you.  Not everyone will appreciate you or value you.  You will always face opposition.  You will always have someone carelessly cast off that which is sacred to you.

Then again, the more you love your decisions, the less you need others to love them.

That’s the beauty of time.  You fall more in love with yourself and your decisions when they are good.  And there is peace in that.

*A Jewish Refugee   **Ne-Yo   ***C.S. Lewis

My Essence

There is one thing I do well in this world.

LOVE.

This I have always known.

Weathering The Storm

When you are in high school, everything feels big.

Your tests.  Your after school practices.  The nation’s political climate.  Your enemies.  Your love.  Your dreams.

I was a junior in high school with a hip English teacher who we all liked.  He was young-ish with an affinity towards the movies we all were watching and the music we all were listening.  He let us call him by his first name which earned him extra ‘street cred’ in our adolescent minds.

I had two best friends who I spent the bulk of my time with.  We talked about boys, school, and our jobs.  But mostly we talked about boys.  We would divide and share our chemistry and our physics homework in an effort to be done quickly with school work and get to the chatting about boys.

One spring, we had group English projects due.  My partners were my two best friends and we would meet during study halls to work on our project.  However, as is inevitable with 16 year olds, our conversation included more about our crushes than the Canterbury Tales.

It was a sunny Sunday after church and our project was due tomorrow.  My thoughts had been on the project all day and its need for completion.  My family and parents who were very religious held Sundays sacred.  We didn’t eat out, shop, or really play with our friends.  We kept close to home and observed a low-key, conservative Sabbath day.

It wasn’t long before the phone call came and we were to all meet at K’s house to pound out this project.  Only my permission was quickly declined when I presented this before my parents.

In hindsight, perhaps I could have given it a better sell.  But honestly, my shame was strong going into it.  I knew the rules.  I knew I failed to timely manage my business.  Mostly, I knew I was asking for a pardon from a paradigm I knew was deeply ingrained in my parents and our family lifestyle.

That night, my mind raced at the thought of my two friends working on it without me.  I was hyperaware I had placed myself in a position where my hands were wholly tied.  And I felt sick.

The next morning, I greeted them before homeroom with the same enthusiasm I had hundreds of times over but was met with chilly dispositions.

By the time our second period English class came, we were asked to all turn in our projects.  I watched as my friend turned in our project and my mind raced how I could make it better.

Class was nauseatingly terrible.

As the bell rang to let us out, I heard our teacher speak my name and ask me to stay behind.  He explained how my friends informed him of my lack of contribution.  He told me I would receive an ‘F’ and our next group project starting the follow week would be a project I would do alone.

My disgrace knew no bounds.  I was humiliated.  I was embarrassed.  I was angry with my friends.  I knew even then it was a harsh sentence for the crime. 

Now, if I had a dime for every work project or task coworkers failed to pull their weight on, I would be a rich girl.  If we fired each coworker who failed to perform his part, we’d all have an instance when we earned termination at some point.

The social implications in society and government to leave everyone callously to his own demise, whether of his making from mistakes or life circumstances, would be destructive to our greater good.

I didn’t speak to either one the entire week.  Every class we shared and each moment we would have shared was sheer torture.  I didn’t eat.  I didn’t sleep.

I ached.

I remember thinking one day I would look back on all of this and see it wasn’t as big of a deal as it felt.

The fact of the matter is, if we are the character make-up of some sum of striking life events, this is one of mine.

To know me is to know I value my relationships above all.  I hurt most when my relationships hurt.

There are many reasons for ailing relationships.  Some are a derivative of malnourishment.  Others are from a lack of nourishment entirely.  Perhaps the most painful are the expiring relationships from personal growth spurts.

Everything in my life is in a state of drastic transition right now.  When describing all of the change I’m experiencing to my dear friends last night, my one friend pointedly declared, “I think it’s YOU who is changing.”

He quickly detected what I was oblivious to connect.

My momentarily rapid evolution has strained some of my relationships.  Today I felt similar to that 16 year old girl many years ago.

And I ache.

Another Five

My previous entry was completed 5 months ago. How appropriate since the timing is entirely accurate. Short story: Broken heart. Pray for a new boy. Get him the day after the prayer. Date him for five months. Break up. Pull up my blog. 5 months later.

As you may be able to tell, everything is going as I planned. (Sense the sarcasm for it has been laid on thick.)

There are days I feel no different from the 14 year old I once was. Will I ever be smart enough or pretty enough? Will I ever get the boy? Will I get the job of my dreams? Will I ever be gut-wrenchingly happy? Just a painful sort of” stomachache, post-Easter sugar gluttony coma” happy?

Alright. Just a “I feel peace” happy?

And still, I feel extremely blessed. Because thirty something could be a whole lot worse.

My Recent Heart Doctor

I’d be completely ungrateful if I didn’t take time to share a well earned shout-out.

My mama doesn’t read this blog. But this entry is dedicated to her.

My mother bore MANY children. I have mixed feelings about this fact mostly because of this one subsequent fact.

I feel she could only lend herself out so much. And usually the recipient of her uh-may-zing maternal care-giving skills was whoever needed it the most. With a few “more-needy” children, I feel like I frequently got lost in the shuffle.

But this isn’t to commentary on what I didn’t get. Rather my mom pulled through like a champ for me this past couple of weeks.

I had my heart broken as badly as I ever have save one other time and the pain was acute. I thought I would explode and I didn’t know who to turn to. My mind would throw out my mother as an option and many times I batted away the thought.

Until one day when I was driving home from work and could shoulder the burden no longer, I phoned the woman whom I NEVER speak with about any of my relationships and broke down in complete bedlam.

Luckily she had visited in February and whatever miniscule insight it gave her into the situation was the perfect starting point from there until now. I gave her all of the good, the bad, and the ugly of the relationship.

I cried. I cried. And I cried.

Every day for 5 days straight. And she soothed every day for 5 days straight. Then I weaned myself to every other day. Then every couple of days.

So mama (even though I know you are NOT reading this), thank you for being everything I needed anyone to be for me in that situation.

You were my light in the middle of a very dark moment and I’m grateful for that.

Who Hasn't Said It?

I love listening to music pretty much any time of day. I listen to it when I get ready in the morning. I listen to it when I’m working. I listen to it when I want to rev it up. I listen to it when I want to chill it out. I listen to it before a date. I listen to it while I write in my journal.

Needless to say, I do a lot of collecting.

Every now and again, I will hear a song on the radio or in a movie and think, “I NEED that song. How do I not have it yet?” Inevitably, I’ll go home to download it and upon adding it to my library, I’ll discover it’s already there.

I loathe this feeling so much in a way I have a hard time articulating. Often times it comes down to this thought. “You mean I've had it all the time? I could have been enjoying it this entire time? It’s been right here?”

The metaphor, my friends, closely follows what I've discovered of late.

My life is good. Still my life is hard.

I've discovered a difference between those who succeed and those who fall short. Those who succeed dig in and hold on through the storm. I don’t mean merely wade through the storm. Rather, they look around and find some useful tools to help them best weather that storm.

In these storms I’ll frequently look around to acquire some useful tool to help me and frequently when I go to add it to my ‘character traits library,’ I’ll discover it’s already there.

“You mean I’ve had it all the time? I could have been enjoying it this entire time? It’s been right here?”

I once had a wise man pronounce to me, ‘trials are for defining your character to you.’ I suppose this is one of life’s best kept secrets … or most cliché phrases. You are stronger than you think you are.

And me… I’m a rock.

When One Moment Came That Stopped Me On A Dime

Day 30: Listen to some words of wisdom.

My next thirty years I’m gonna settle all the scores,
Cry a little less, laugh a little more.
Find a world of happiness without the hate and fear,
Figure out just what I’m doing here. – Tim McGraw

So Fresh and So Clean

Day 29: Clean house.

This was no figure of speech. To have a happy mind is to have an uncluttered mind. To have an uncluttered mind is to have a clean home.

I started with the abyss better known as my bedroom, moved to the living room, opened up a window in every room of the house to air it out, my roommate came home and jumped right in with the kitchen, and I completed six loads of laundry.

The vacuum was emptied three times, all of my hangers are being used, and there really is a desk in my bedroom.

C’mon. What more is there to recount? Happy? Check.

Ain't Gotta Rush (I Just Want To Take It Nice & Slow)

Day 28: Go slow.

My eyes sleepily parted. The sun was shining through my window and I just wanted to sleep in. I pulled my cell from the night stand and looked at the time. 7:30AM.

If it had been any other day than Friday, I would have been up and moving by now. As it was, I placed the phone back, pulled the covers tighter around me, and rolled over for one more hour.

8:30AM. This time I needed to get up. I went to the bathroom and put in my contacts on the way back to my room. I climbed into bed and was easily reminded I am my mother’s daughter. Our family can sleep like champs.

I didn’t sleep though. I just needed a break from routine. I pulled open my laptop and watched an episode of Bones from the previous night.

9:55AM. After a text from my brother, a call to my sister, and an episode later, I showered and got ready for the day. Against the business casual normal, I pulled on a pair of jeans, a clean white shirt, and a black leather jacket.

11:20AM. I emerged downstairs. “It’s so nice being home all by myself. I wish I had so much more of this so much more often.”

11:45AM. I started the car to drive to work. As soon as it the engine came to life, the radio did too. It took me two seconds to realize it was too much for my slow morning. I immediately turned it off.

11:55AM. I logged in to my computer. I pulled up my email. There was one. I had been working on them all morning from my phone as they were coming in. Yet the truth of the matter was the morning was slow and I had dealt with a total of four emails in four hours.

12:00PM. “Well there you are. Are you coming?” one coworker of three asked as they were walking from our department towards the lobby.

“Where are you guys heading?” I inquired back.

“To the cafeteria. Are you coming?” he invited again.

“You guys go ahead. I have to return this one phone call and then I’ll be over.”

12:25PM. I strolled over to the corporate cafeteria. The place was empty. I easily spotted my friends tucked away in a corner of the seating area, placed my water bottle on the table, and proceeded to stand in line behind the only other person there. Our CEO.

1:15PM. I had just completed one of the most incredible conversations of my life and was still surprised to realize it involved the chief of our company. My head was reeling at the man and at the tender moments we shared getting to know one another better.

I disclosed more than I would usually find comfortable and he displayed remarkable interest in my stories. I am still astounded as I sit here and recall the incident.

2:00PM. We meandered back to our desk because someone had mentioned we ought to. It took us each five minutes to realize there was no work to be done. The day was uncannily slow.

2:07PM. Me and the coworker from the entry before last engaged in another conversation mostly comprised of a “return and report” nature.

4:00PM. “I’m going home,” I declared. This is nonsensical to stay any longer.

If ever there was a tolerable day to be employed by the man, today was it. It felt so nice to take everything back a notch and to move at a pace so contrary to everyday living.

Mental note: take one slow day per month. It’s good to refresh your inner clock every now and again.

To Kids From 20 To 92

Day 27: Spa treatment!

Two weeks ago, my friend, S, walked into my living room, sat down, and started telling me a story. I was mesmerized. S’s face was glowing and my entire focus rested upon her skin.

I immediately stopped her and asked her why she looked so dang good. I knew I needed her secret. “Microdermabrasion,” she replied as simply as I queried.

So tonight I made my first appearance to receive a magical counteragent treatment to aging. The aesthetician asked me to take off my shoes, undress from the waist up, and climb onto the massage table under the sheet. This astonished me.

I’m no stranger to exhibition. Now I’m not like my sister, M, who seems to always be looking for a good reason to strip down and usually finds it in as simple an excuse as “it’s evening”. Yet, I’m not shy. Who knew the procedure would take an element of nudity to execute?

I climbed into the bed and that aspect alone brought about a level of peace. Me and massage tables have a quiet and satisfying relationship.

The aesthetician proceeded to cleanse my face via a hot white towel draped over my skin. It felt soothing. Relaxing. Calming. Amazing.

Then she continued to micro blast my skin from my forehead to my chest through my cleavage. It was so cool. I could feel the crystals sanding my skin in the most fragile way. Another hot white towel.

She continued to place the most deliciously scented mask all over the newly polished area. As she allowed it to completely saturate my skin, she commenced with a neck massage. Then a scalp massage. Then a back massage (while I faced up.) Ending with a foot massage. Again, another hot white towel.

All I know is I walked out of her wassail smelling establishment with an additional appointment for next Thursday.

And my face, it’s glowing!!

Maybe We'll Find Better Days

Day 26: Be Surprised

Folks, I’ve officially evolved from recording something I did to evoke the sentiment of happiness to recording moments of happiness. What’s entirely cool about the experience is finding joy in things which have been present all along however placing myself in a mind frame to be able to recognize them.

I have often times mentioned my employment with a sour taste in my mouth. It is a place I feel so much consternation towards. Yet I work with some of the most wonderful people. Some of my coworkers have become some of my valued friends.

A male coworker of mine and I had been discussing on end lately a topic in our lives we both wish to improve. It has been incredible to find support in a place where improvement will be the most difficult to execute. The workplace.

Still it’s been fun to notice each other taking a stab at this betterment and being able to silently rejoice in the success with nothing more than an insider’s glance at one another upon our minimal victories.

Today I was tried to the nth degree in a situation anyone would have been justified in losing this battle to. Yet I prevailed.

Up jumped my male coworker who immediately and in the presence of anyone watching in our department embraced me in triumph.

Straightforward, unfiltered, affection in the face of elation. I was surprised but I was happy.

A Silver Lining

Day 25: Hot tub in a snow storm.

The great state of Utah continues to flex its muscles.

Is it Spring you ask? Well apparently at home in Pennsylvania it’s summer. Meanwhile I had my wipers on high battling the frozen precipitation this state boasts of in the winter… in April.

SKI UTAH. Sure. I’m all for it. However... in April? I urge you to put your snow away.

Tonight at my friends' house, we rigged the television into the window sill and watched two hours worth of shows such as the Colbert Report while sitting in the sizzling, silky, ph balanced water which is the common hot tub.

Life is stinking good sometimes.

Follow the Leader?

Day 24: Resolve to lead the troupe… next time.

I think it’s fair to say I’m a natural leader. This has been a luxury I have long since enjoyed.

But I remember a dynamic a little more than a decade ago where I was not so confident of this trait within me. In high school, it seemed there was a fine balance between influencing and being influenced. At least there was for me.

You wanted to speak up and be heard; it’s what made you a leader and what gave you voice.

Surprisingly, half of being a leader was just having the guts to grab the mic and say something. I believe people are generally listening and watching for someone to do or say something so they can more easily and also more passively agree or disagree.

As an adult, I have become comfortable in life securing that mic and giving my opinion freely from it. Sometimes it is well received. Sometimes it is not.

There is a group with which I associate on a regular basis. I am surprised to have seen our dynamic shift many times in the course of the relationship.

Today I sat at lunch in the throes of conversation and in an effort to influence them kept finding myself being influenced by them. I clearly could discern this fact and yet could find little sway over the matter.

I walked away from it disappointed. I felt stripped of my maturity and witnessed the return of a fifteen year old girl within me desperately wanting approval, desperately seeking to fit in and be cool.

While putting myself through the ringer, I remembered, half of being a leader is losing a fight. After all, people want to feel like they elected you rather than feel ruled by you.

Don’t seek to control others. Seek to influence them.

I Know The Answers Lie Far From This World

Day 23: Free write.

For the past two weeks, I’ve had the most atypical and quite frankly anomalous song in my head. The composers. Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice. The song. Any Dream Will Do.

And not the prologue version. The finale. The Any Dream Will Do completed by the final vindicated lyrics of “give me my colored coat.”

You’re singing it, huh? “May I return, to the beginning, the light is dimming, and the dream is too. The world and I, we are still waiting, still hesitating, ANY DREAM WILL DO… (dut dut dut dut duh)… give me my colored coat, my amazing colored coat.”

What if the bohemian writers of Happy Feet were right and we all have a “heartsong” inside of us? Only it can and does change with your standing in life?

Why is my suppressed soul singing Sir Webber and what does it all mean right now?

Yeah. You’ve all just witnessed one of many random musings I entertain in my psyche at any given time.

But The World Is Sleeping

Day 22: Embrace your spiritual side.

Four years ago, I was approached by an older man at a luncheon I was attending. Our conversation started light but rapidly grew intense as he made a comment about the peculiar nature of my aura. Yep, you heard me.

Caught off guard, I sought clarification. What color was it? What did it mean? What was peculiar about it?

I didn’t ask one question as he merely answered them as though he were picking thoughts out of my head. It was two colors, which wasn’t as uncommon as the mixture of the two colors I was sporting at that time.

I was fascinated with him. My desire to dive into my unconscious was strong and despite what I had been taught, to steer clear of psychics and the likes, I was captivated. However, I didn’t have it in me to blatantly seek out anything more about me.

I allowed him to speak about my aura and decided that would be it. So we pressed forward in another vein as soon as he had completed his elaboration on the aforementioned subject. We spoke of my job and my family and frankly little else.

Our encounter lasted under 5 minutes. Yet as I was departing from him, he pulled me aside and in an intimate fashion barely whispered towards my ear and candidly declared, “You are one of the most spiritual creatures I have ever met.”

I looked at him for a second entirely disarmed. I fumbled for the only retort I could offer in explanation.

“Well you know how orthodox our religion…”

He promptly cut me off. “I didn’t say religious. I said spiritual.”

I stared in disbelief. I knew, as certain as I breathe now, how accurate this statement was regarding me. I have always known it. It was one of the very first things I had ever come to learn about myself.

He expounded, “Should you never have been religious, you still would have been highly spiritual.” He finished with a prediction, the second of two made by him in our short visit.

The first was entirely flawed and erroneous. Yet the second I’ve never shared with anyone and am loosely waiting to see what happens.

I try to be a religious girl. It is not something which comes easily to me and my way of life. A single gal of my age should be out painting the town red every weekend and occasionally weeknight.

Yet I feel extremely anchored to a higher being. Bound by morals I feel would exist with or without religion. So I lead a rather conservative standard of living.

Today I listened intently as men from severely traditional times past counseled those within the sound of their voice. Those who are presently apart of a chaotic contemporary existence removed from the era of the speakers' maturation.

I’m not here to claim one generation superior or enlightened to another. I believe there is no better, only different. Nonetheless I discerned, truth now was truth then and I expect truth as it has always been so long as it has existed.

This much I know. Any honest seeker of truth can find it. You only need look as far as your spiritual self will allow and the rest, the rest will all shake out in the wash.

A Weekend Off

Day 21: Forget it’s a Friday night.

As a single girl, my social life has a lot to do with what evening of the week it is. Fridays are big. Saturdays are bigger. I decided to forfeit my social self for one evening to see what it would yield.

I listened as my peers discussed their weekend plans. I declined invitations to join them. I was surprised to feel as much anxiety as I did while my uneventful evening crept nearer to reality.

I reiterate again my “go go go” approach to my social life. I never slow down and I have a feeling this has been a detriment to me in some way. I can’t pinpoint it. The notion or the reasoning behind it. It just felt important to do this.

Slowing down through all of this has been good. I’ve had to slow down to think of and execute as well as record these happenings. I don’t honestly know yet what I will harvest from this.

I left work and meandered to my friend, A’s, home. She’s been like a sister to me for as long as I’ve known her, which has been the better part of ten years. So I had to laugh when upon entering her living room at 2:30pm, she asked, “Again?”

This last month of emotional turmoil for me has generated quite a few of these half-workday tearful afternoons.

Thankfully, this was not like that. I smiled at her and sat on her couch talking to a girl I have stayed up with late on many nights. Even though our late nights have evolved into afternoons with her kids, she is family to me and I knew how I wanted to spend my Friday evening.

I left A and went home to my apartment. This place produces mixed emotions for me. I ascended the stairs to my room, closed the door, slipped into bed and pulled up my laptop.

Chapter one of the evening. Catch up on an episode, any missed episode.

Chapter two. Take a nap. While everyone else in the city is getting gussied up, sleep off the anxiety.

Chapter three. Wake up and smile at the daylight.

Chapter four. Contact the brother who wanted the New Moon dvd the previous night and see if he and the wife still want to borrow it.

Chapter five. Score an invite to the only place in the valley you want to be on your technical evening off. With family.

I decided to forfeit my social self for one evening to see what it would yield. I imagine I’m not surprised to see it involved the people who usually are around to see you fall and still regularly are the ones to help you back up.

Set You Free

Day 20: Speak the truth.

“Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.” – Thomas Jefferson

It’s hard not to notice my blogs degrading in content and quality. The truth is, no one can write about happiness for thirty days and be able to say something entertaining and eloquent consistently.

The truth is, in the beginning it was about a list of things I wanted to do to proactively encourage a smile in others which would provoke one from me.

The truth is, there has been so much happening behind the scenes than I wish to share with an audience anymore. This project has long since migrated away from a checklist and metamorphosed into a feeling which I am happy to report more easily penetrates my life.

My mother used to say the people who need the most love are the most unlovable. Tragic, huh?

When I started this gig, I needed a little love. I had just come away from something leaving me feeling rejected and unlovable. The fates are funny like that. It feels as though the emotionally rich get richer and the emotionally poor get poorer.

Luckily, there are ways to find that much needed validation and it usually comes from forgetting about yourself.

Last week, I received a text from a person I least expected and honestly from someone who has been instrumental of late in creating an environment in which I feel unloved. We’ve been sharing little bits and pieces back and forth. However, I am truly guarded.

Today is felt nice to have a moment when I could look him in the eye and while tears streamed from mine, tell him how much he hurt me.

Speak the truth.

I’m glad I did it. I don’t think it changed anything. I certainly don’t think most boys, especially this boy, are emotionally capable enough of understanding the emotional journey of a woman, much less a woman like me.

Nevertheless, I would not have been able to speak this truth twenty days ago and I have every reason to believe it is because I have built for myself a world where I am happy outside of him or any other.