The trees are green and water falls in sheets.
I'm minutes from everywhere.
But.
My feet are cold and my arms are empty.
I miss you.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sunday, July 03, 2011
Who Says?
Women are so hard on themselves. To be honest, others are hard on us too.
Time for positive reinforcement. I give you: cheesy but true words, courtesy of Disney's and Justin Bieber's favorite, Selena Gomez!
Selena Gomez, "Who Says?"
Time for positive reinforcement. I give you: cheesy but true words, courtesy of Disney's and Justin Bieber's favorite, Selena Gomez!
Selena Gomez, "Who Says?"
Monday, February 21, 2011
Disregarding Miss Manners
If I were in a band, I would want to make a video just like this:
I love the disdainful grimacing. I love the sea life in motion. I love the bleached faux-hawk. It makes me happy.
Anyone up for a dinner party?
Anyone up for a dinner party?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The rising generation: pioneers in their own lands
I debated whether or not to share this here, because for reasons I can't entirely explain and despite my Utah background, discussing my religious beliefs in a public forum is difficult for me. I just tend to keep those things private. But I was so thrilled and moved by this video that I have to share it. Besides, my religious views are probably not much of a mystery to the people who know about and might possibly still be checking this blog (which probably began to seem like a hopeless exercise long, long ago).
To preface: It has been nearly 10 years since I spent the summer in St. Petersburg, Russia. I returned in August 2001, a mere month before the September 11 attacks.
There must have been a point when I was very young that I became aware of Russia and decided it was "my place," but I don't remember what or when that was. It really has just always been. I daydreamed, fantasized, prayed and hardly dared to hope that I would someday spend a significant amount of time there, speaking Russian with Russians. That it actually happened is what made me believe in God, individual miracles and joy.
Now, it's difficult to believe it's been so long ago, but somehow it has. Spring still reminds me of the time I spent preparing to go -- delivering checks to BYU and travel agents, getting electric converters and taking hilarious classes about how to say no to gypsies (yell "Nyet!" repeatedly and keep walking) and "roll" into a crowded subway train. I was 22 then, and I felt so old.
I'll save most of my impressions of Russia for another day (or, perhaps, forever), but one thing I felt distinctly was concern for the church's growth in Russia. I had several Russian and Ukrainian friends at BYU, and when I considered my interactions with them and with the young people I met in Russia, I wondered if any young adults who joined the church would remain in their homeland. Despite family ties and national loyalty, most young church members seemed to want to attend BYU and explore the world.
When I thought about this in conjunction with some very deeply-rooted cultural differences that would present obstacles to church standards adherence, I didn't feel very hopeful about the prospects of a large church presence in Russia. I knew about the announcement of the Kiev, Ukraine, temple and became more hopeful after several talks were given by general authorities about being a missionary in one's own country.
It took so long for the church to be allowed into the former Soviet Union -- what could be better than seeing it thrive?
I should not have doubted. The Kiev temple was dedicated in August of last year, and this clip is proof that the church is in good hands. Enjoy.
To preface: It has been nearly 10 years since I spent the summer in St. Petersburg, Russia. I returned in August 2001, a mere month before the September 11 attacks.
There must have been a point when I was very young that I became aware of Russia and decided it was "my place," but I don't remember what or when that was. It really has just always been. I daydreamed, fantasized, prayed and hardly dared to hope that I would someday spend a significant amount of time there, speaking Russian with Russians. That it actually happened is what made me believe in God, individual miracles and joy.
Now, it's difficult to believe it's been so long ago, but somehow it has. Spring still reminds me of the time I spent preparing to go -- delivering checks to BYU and travel agents, getting electric converters and taking hilarious classes about how to say no to gypsies (yell "Nyet!" repeatedly and keep walking) and "roll" into a crowded subway train. I was 22 then, and I felt so old.
I'll save most of my impressions of Russia for another day (or, perhaps, forever), but one thing I felt distinctly was concern for the church's growth in Russia. I had several Russian and Ukrainian friends at BYU, and when I considered my interactions with them and with the young people I met in Russia, I wondered if any young adults who joined the church would remain in their homeland. Despite family ties and national loyalty, most young church members seemed to want to attend BYU and explore the world.
When I thought about this in conjunction with some very deeply-rooted cultural differences that would present obstacles to church standards adherence, I didn't feel very hopeful about the prospects of a large church presence in Russia. I knew about the announcement of the Kiev, Ukraine, temple and became more hopeful after several talks were given by general authorities about being a missionary in one's own country.
It took so long for the church to be allowed into the former Soviet Union -- what could be better than seeing it thrive?
I should not have doubted. The Kiev temple was dedicated in August of last year, and this clip is proof that the church is in good hands. Enjoy.
Finishing an unfinished post about an unfinished life
I started a new post and realized that I began this one on November 18, 2009. I suppose I meant to go into detail about the ceremony on the flight line, the massive groups of volunteers the Army sent and our own Airmen provided, and my thoughts on it all, but didn't have the strength. Please indulge me: I wanted to finish it, even if it was only for my own benefit.
Those mornings at the flight line were short, but very emotional. They are among the most special moments of my life. Though I did nothing but stand and sniffle (I totally admit it), I felt like I was giving back something to families who had paid a very high price for something their loved ones believed in. Watching them suffer, I found it necessary to believe, too.
Each time we met there and put out chairs and bottled waters to keep family members comfortable, every time we directed to their places service members who had volunteered to stand in formation in freezing cold or blistering heat (once it was so hot, an Airman actually fainted) to salute the casket, and every time we lined the streets, I thought about life's and love's preciousness. I thought a lot about the poem "Dulce et Decorum est," by Wilford Owen and wondered what, exactly, we are fighting for in Afghanistan and Iraq.
We have said for years that these vibrant men and women are fighting and dying for our freedoms, but with each flag-draped casket, I couldn't help thinking that this person could have lived to get married or to see their first-born child, and I could probably still be free. The sacrifices being made by our service members mean everything to me; I don't know if I would be strong enough to make them. But I have to be honest -- every time I saw a mother's, father's, spouse's, sibling's or grandparent's face, I would not have been able to tell them why this separation was necessary. However, I miss being able to support them during these heartbreaking reunions. Even now, I'm conflicted.
Anyway, what I began to say in November 2009, but never finished, was this:
I spent my morning honoring a fallen Army paratrooper. He was Specialist Benjamin Sherman. He was 21 years old, and he was married to the woman he fell in love with in 8th grade. Their first child will be born in March.
Watching Spc. Sherman's pregnant widow, I thought of my maternal grandparents, who also fell in love in 8th grade, married and were separated for a time during war. But my grandpa returned. They had 4 children and were married more than 50 years before death parted them. If only I could rewrite history, give the Shermans a similar ending.
There have been nearly 20 mornings like this since early 2007, when the fallen began returning to their loved ones in Massachusetts through our care. They are the most uplifting and most heartbreaking mornings of my life.
Those mornings at the flight line were short, but very emotional. They are among the most special moments of my life. Though I did nothing but stand and sniffle (I totally admit it), I felt like I was giving back something to families who had paid a very high price for something their loved ones believed in. Watching them suffer, I found it necessary to believe, too.
Each time we met there and put out chairs and bottled waters to keep family members comfortable, every time we directed to their places service members who had volunteered to stand in formation in freezing cold or blistering heat (once it was so hot, an Airman actually fainted) to salute the casket, and every time we lined the streets, I thought about life's and love's preciousness. I thought a lot about the poem "Dulce et Decorum est," by Wilford Owen and wondered what, exactly, we are fighting for in Afghanistan and Iraq.
We have said for years that these vibrant men and women are fighting and dying for our freedoms, but with each flag-draped casket, I couldn't help thinking that this person could have lived to get married or to see their first-born child, and I could probably still be free. The sacrifices being made by our service members mean everything to me; I don't know if I would be strong enough to make them. But I have to be honest -- every time I saw a mother's, father's, spouse's, sibling's or grandparent's face, I would not have been able to tell them why this separation was necessary. However, I miss being able to support them during these heartbreaking reunions. Even now, I'm conflicted.
Anyway, what I began to say in November 2009, but never finished, was this:
I spent my morning honoring a fallen Army paratrooper. He was Specialist Benjamin Sherman. He was 21 years old, and he was married to the woman he fell in love with in 8th grade. Their first child will be born in March.
Watching Spc. Sherman's pregnant widow, I thought of my maternal grandparents, who also fell in love in 8th grade, married and were separated for a time during war. But my grandpa returned. They had 4 children and were married more than 50 years before death parted them. If only I could rewrite history, give the Shermans a similar ending.
There have been nearly 20 mornings like this since early 2007, when the fallen began returning to their loved ones in Massachusetts through our care. They are the most uplifting and most heartbreaking mornings of my life.
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