Grey.

My eyes are tired. Sunken.

I'm cold.

My over-sized scarf is wrapped around my face. It covers my mouth. I wish it covered my eyes.... the over-sized scarf is now catching the warm tears rolling down my cold face.

I watch. That has been my role lately... a silent observer, and sometimes comforter.. but... mostly, I watch.

The casket is beautiful. She would have thought it beautiful. Maybe she is watching from somewhere unseen, and she notices its fine wood and carved detail.

The flowers. They are bright against the grey, rainy winter day. Isn't that such a metaphor for her? She was always the bright against the grey, no matter what life threw her way.



Why? I think. I stop myself immediately. I had already asked that question too many times. That question is starting to hurt.

........


The gravestone is finally up. It is simple, stunning.

The ground it wet. It just rained. The sun is peeking out just the right amount. It warms my skin as I take it all in.

I watch my husband of five months kneel down next to it. He gently touches the engraved name. I want to ask why again, but that hurts. Instead, I watch. I take pictures. I observe.

He just kneels on the wet ground and he reads the words... or thinks about something.. I am not sure which.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.

He doesn't reply for a moment. I wonder if he's heard me.

"Yeah," he finally replies, very matter-of-factly. "I'm fine."

He doesn't move. He doesn't glance back at me. He stays alone in his thoughts, and I let him stay there.

.......

A few months ago, I had a mother-in-law. The only mother-in-law I have ever had. She was beautiful, kind and hilarious. She intimidated me, not because she was intimidating, but because she was amazing.. and because I loved her son. I knew how much she loved her son, and I wanted her to love me, too, and trust me to take care of him in a way only a wife can.

........

The week she died, my husband and I received a call to come immediately. We dropped everything and drove to Boise in the middle of the night.

We came to see her that morning. She was different. She was weak. This wasn't her, though, and I know she would not like to be remembered as she looked that last week in November, so I will not waste a moment describing her outward appearance.

Her body was weak, but her soul had not changed. She was so focused on loving others, even when it took every ounce of her last bits of energy to do so.

When I greeted her, she spoke my name happily and hugged me and kissed me. She insisted I pick out a hat she had knitted in the previous months when her movement had been restricted.

I only rummaged a moment before I found a stunning pink piece.

I pulled that bright pink hat on over my messy, I-drove-all-night hair to show her how it looked.

"It's beautiful. I love it," I told her.

"Oh, you're just saying that!" she teased.

"No, it really is beautiful," I smiled. (For the record, I meant it. It is the most beautiful hat I've ever owned.) Others in the room chorused their agreements.

"Well, okay," she settled with and closed her eyes to rest. The room revolved around her, and each of us stayed quiet. Her sister softly rubbed her back. My husband sat next to her bed and held her hand.

I left the small room and I sat in the front room. Each piece of furniture and photo or clock on the wall was arranged perfectly. In any other circumstance, it would have felt inviting and warm. At one point, it was invited and warm. Today it felt cold. It felt empty.

A single tear snuck out of one of my tired eyes, and with that one tear, fell my entire "it's going to be okay" facade.

I cried alone in my mother-in-law's family room, wearing a dark grey dress and a bright, pink hat.


........


It's been months now.

The muted, monotone of Winter is changing to a bright, happy and colorful Spring.


....but it's a different Spring. It is a Spring with a gaping whole in my heart for a person I only met last Spring. It's the first Spring my husband blows out his birthday candles without his mother. It's a Spring that beautiful babies she would have melted to meet and hold come into a world without their grandmother. It's a Spring in which Mother's Day will feel a lot different.

It's a Spring that the woman who always brought brightness to grey is gone.

a sinking & yet hopeful feeling; my inner monologue

Finding inner peace is my constant struggle.

..because it is not a check list type event.

I may have everything I [think I] want --

a small, but cozy home that I love,

a happy and healthy relationship,

a great job -- a job I thought was my dream job,

a funny and terrific and supportive family,

friends who would do anything for me...

Sometimes everything is going well -- sometimes everything is going seemingly perfectly -- and I still do not feel at peace with myself.

I am constantly learning who I am deep in my heart and how to align my life with my inner desires and dreams.

I saw a therapist once. His focus was on an idea proposed by the great Mahatma Ghandi: "Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony."

Some days I wake up, and I feel that my current life's journey is taking me on a road to reach this blissful consistency of character...

Other days, I wake up and wonder how in the world I ever thought I was even close to the right path.

This is a little of an abstract idea, but I strive to accept and remember that perfect harmony in what I think, what I say and what I do is quite honestly impossible.

It is impossible because I am a human being meant to adapt and grow and change for the better and sometimes worse and if I ever was content with being the same forever, I would be stuck in my development as a human being. (Maybe this is where the "Ignorance is bliss" quote plays in.)

That being said, I believe working toward the goal of harmony in my thoughts and words and actions is the best way to be true to myself and to keep moving forward on those days when I just don't want to keep moving forward. Being aware of the inner desire my soul has for this special kind of consistency has forced me to constantly reevaluate what I want and need on a deeper level than just checking items off of a life to-do list.

These are all rantings of a day full of self-reflection and Dr. Pepper.

writing confession..

I am not a very good writer when I am happy!


As odd as it is, pain inspires me. It pushes me. It teaches me.


I am trying to learn how to be a happy writer, and it's an odd journey..

Masks.

alone.

sometimes

i have to drive 45 minutes

to an open field

to be alone with the mountains and the air.

because sometimes I begin to think that my life is defined by

       my job

           or

         how many people I hung out with this week

or

how many college credits I have

               or

        how many likes my Facebook or Twitter or Instagram photo has gotten

                          or

             the places I've traveled

or 

how many views my blog has

                                                            or

                   what I'm wearing today

Sometimes I need to be alone

in an open field

away from the world

to remember that all of those things are simply things.

They aren't me.

Alone in an open field I can't hide.

Alone in an open field without my cell phone is when I truly feel free from the pushing and pressure of society and culture and expectations and people.

Alone in an open field is where I remember who I truly am.

a real love story.

I like a good chick flick from time to time...

[okay.. I'm understating things here..

I love a good chick flick]

One of my favorite chick flicks is The Notebook.

Did you know it's completely made up?
The Notebook taught me that real love is passionate and pain comes with the territory. It taught me that real love sweeps you off your feet and you can never recover from  it.

......

I also adore Pride and Prejudice.

That's made up too!

Pride and Prejudice taught me that if I wait long enough a rich, attractive, socially awkward but ridiculously sweet Mr. Darcy will come into my life.

.......

..and, something more modern and less chick-flicky.. I love the Hunger Games as well!

...and guess what..

The Hunger Games taught me that even if you tell him to go away fifty million times, if he really loves you he will love you until you love him back.

........

I love a good chick flick, but sometimes I get really tired of fake "true love" stories.

From watching Cinderella find her Prince Charming in grade school to seeing the latest pop-culture movie as a twenty-one-year-old, I have been bombarded with what "real love" is really like.




The other day I read an article, written from a husband's perspective of his wife's struggle with mental illness.

It's called:

"My Lovely Wife in the Psych Ward"
by Mark Lukach

"Giulia and I fell in love effortlessly, in our carefree teens. We’ve now loved each other desperately, through psychosis. At our wedding we promised this to each other: to love each other and stick together in good times and in bad. In hindsight, we also should have promised to love each other when life is normal. It’s those normal days, now transformed by crisis, that have strained our marriage most. I realize no mad map is going to keep Giulia out of the hospital, nor prevent us from fighting over her care. But the faith required to try to plan a life together feels good and grounding. I’m still willing to do almost anything to make Giulia smile."

Thank you, Mark and Guiliana Lukach, for telling a real love story.

today is the last day of 2014 [lavender scarf]

i own a lavender scarf.

it is my favorite scarf, because i made it myself.

it took a few months and lots of patience.

patience to continue knitting line after line

and keep knitting,

even when i made a mistake.

i made a lot of mistakes...

sometimes i could track back and fix the knitting misstep, but a lot of those missteps were not easy fixes and they are now permanently etched into the rows of my favorite scarf.

my best friend, betty, and i learned to knit at the same time. she was really bad at it (haha -- she would agree with that statement), because she always restarted her piece each time she made an error. she restarted her scarf tens, if not hundreds, of times. in the end, she became frustrated and quit. she couldn't accept the flaws as a natural part of the process and it stopped her progress completely.

i finished my scarf. it is far from perfect.

yet it is my favorite scarf,

because 

i made it with my own hands.

i worked for every stitch of that lavender scarf.

2014 has unraveled a lot differently than i expected.

[get it.. unraveled.. knitting..]

there are many knits in my life that others may look at and see as flaws.

there are many knits in my life that others do look at and see as flaws.

there are many knits in my life that are flaws.

..and that is okay.

..that is absolutely okay.

and the countdown gets real.

In two days, my family moves to Russia.

In six days, I have my last day of work.

In eight days, I get my endowments at the Nauvoo temple.

In nine days, I go to Russia.

In 17 days I get home from Russia.

In 33 days I arrive at the MTC.

In 47 days I arrive in the mission field.




Let me just take a deep breath here.

thinking about it....

(Sorrrrrrrrrry, I lost the source of this photo.)

because long hair is getting old.

a story by sydni, hardcopy edition (journaling)

Today I finished my tenth journal.

Writing is my favorite.

I started journaling in 2009 and fell in love with it.

My favorite thing about it is being able to look back and remember little pieces of my life, 

like when I first decided to get my CNA ,

souvenirs from sweet kids,

and events that happened on this date years ago.

Onto the Next Adventure: Journal Number Eleven.

stateside missionary disappointment.

Once upon a time, I had a tiny fear of being called to serve my mission "stateside".

And then I was called stateside!

And it was actually okay. The more I learned about my mission, the more excited I became.

Most people are wonderful and SO EXCITED for me!

But sometimes people say dumb things like 

"Well that's disappointing.."

"I would've thought you'd go somewhere like blank or blank." 

[insert generic 'it'll be okay'/giving-condolences type statement]

Once one of my friends told me she theorized only weird sisters serve stateside. (Ouch, right!) (And very wrong, to be clear.)

Sometimes I get pouty and feel sad I am going to the at-one-time-dreaded stateside mission. 

And then I feel guilty and wonder if I'm a bad person because I feel that way. 

I kind of feel exactly like this...

 It's okay to feel disappointed. 

It's okay to cry.

It's okay to pray to Heavenly Father and tell Him exactly how you feel.

Just remember, though, that there's a much bigger picture to your mission than the state and city you read in your letter. Also remember that someday you will feel foolish for crying over it.

But we all need a good pity party sometimes.

Jacob 4:8 Behold, great and marvelous are the works of the Lord. How unsearchable are the depths of the mysteries of him; and it is impossible that man should find out all his ways. And no man knoweth of his ways save it be revealed unto him; wherefore, brethren, despise not the revelations of God.

Helaman 5:47 Peace, peace be unto you, because of your faith in My Beloved, who was from the foundation of the world.

I'll Go Where You Want Me to Go

1. 1. It may not be on the mountain height
   Or over the stormy sea,
   It may not be at the battle's front
   My Lord will have need of me.
   But if, by a still, small voice he calls
   To paths that I do not know,
   I'll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
   I'll go where you want me to go.
2. (Chorus)
   I'll go where you want me to go, dear Lord,
   Over mountain or plain or sea;
   I'll say what you want me to say, dear Lord;
   I'll be what you want me to be.

But, really, I AM SO EXCITED TO GO TO THE CALIFORNIA L.A. MISSION!

ADDED 4/24: FLIPSIDE // STATESIDE MISSIONARY DISAPPOINTMENT 

may i rant a moment?

I greatly dislike it when female missionaries are referred to as "sister missionaries".

It would be okay if the male missionaries are referred to as "elder missionaries", but in my experience they're usually not.

Often times it seems to be the missionaries and the sister missionaries.

No.

It makes me a little sick to be "the other".

When I am working in the ER, I would never say "Your woman doctor is going to see you in a few minutes."

No.

Am I explaining myself well?

Here. 

Look:

    ♀                         ♂     

 Doctor                          Doctor

 Artist                          Artist

Teacher                     Teacher

Lawyer                      Lawyer

Nurse                       Nurse 

Soldier                       Soldier

Astronaut                  Astronaut

Missionary                 Missionary

Do whatever you want. 

Say whatever you want. 

Being referred to as a "sister missionary" instead of a "missionary" will not hurt my feelings.

I am just throwing my ideas out into the world 

and letting you know that as a woman preparing to serve a mission, I feel a great deal more of respect being referred to as a missionary.

"WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH MY LIFE?!" -liz lemon

http://www.buzzfeed.com/krystieyandoli/times-liz-lemon-said-what-youre-actually-thinkin

(Twenty-three Times Liz Lemon Said What You're Actually Thinking)

“I pretty much just do whatever Oprah tells me to.”

Strength (poem)

This is the first poem I have ever written. I dedicate it to my mom, who is the strongest person I know.

10,000 Hours

Yesterday in institute we learned that it only takes three things to be great at things:

1. Sufficient Ability

2. Opportunity

3. 10,000 Hours

Today, I sat down and drew the first thing in front of me: my purse. I didn't over think my drawing; just drew.

The result was a very mediocre drawing. 

When I was finished, I forwent criticizing myself or criticizing the so-so drawing. Instead I thought "I could be good at this after 10,000 hours."

(Side note: is "forwent" a real word? If so, it is my new favorite word.)

I think I will draw more.