loves psalms.

I thought I'd share one of Phillip's psalms with you.

Psalm 2

I am a field and the Lord is my winter morning.
I am hidden in His whiteness;
beneath His snow my imperfections are covered:
A fallen tree, blackness from a summer fire,
thickets of deep-rooted weeds and thorns.
In Him I find a new beginning
For though I appear empty,
He is growing in me a green heart—
He is preparing me for spring.

lives in Springfield.

If I were a Simpson's character, I might look something like this:

And just for fun, I think Phillip would look like this:


I think we're made for each other.

wrote her essay.

Here's a draft of the essay I was whining about before:

Life and Love at BYU

This is the last official essay of my undergraduate career, so I wanted to say a few things about what I’ve learned here at BYU, and of course, most of them have to do with love. In 2002 I came here as a transfer student from Clackamas Community College in Oregon after having opted not to take the SAT. I was going to be a painter and I refused to give in to standardized testing. I’d bravely endured nudity for figure drawing during community college art classes and I was on to BYU where they had the models wear swimsuits, to my relief. I was reformed from my rebellious years in high school and I wanted to go to a college with good Mormon kids where I might find a husband, truthfully. My first two terms at BYU seemed like practice. I spent most of my time huffing up and down the stairs south of campus, doing watercolors in my living room, taking piano lessons from a teacher who practically smacked my knuckles and made me cry, and feeling very alone. I saw all the beautiful, talented students here and felt out of place, like a sweaty cow from Oregon who wasn’t used to the altitude or the summer heat. I left after that summer term and went on a mission to Ukraine. Then I came back, no longer a painter, no longer a cow, but lost nonetheless. I didn’t know what I was supposed to be and I didn’t know what to do with myself at all. All I knew was I had a goal, I had to get married.

For the first year after my mission I almost believed that my singular purpose in school was to get married. I hastily started going on dates with just about anyone who would agree or ask me. One of my favorite stories to tell is about a particularly bad first date I went on during that frantic first semester back at school. I don’t remember what his name was, I think I blocked it, but he called me up after finding me on ldsmingles.com (that was a mistake) and asked if I wanted to go on a motorcycle ride. I agreed even though I was in the middle of painting my toenails. I hopped on the back of his Honda and found out mid-ride that we were on our way to Lehi. I imagined we would be going on a leisurely ride through Provo, but I was mistaken. When we got to our amazing destination, he dropped off a folder of work-related papers at some customer’s house and we turned right back around. By the time we got back to my apartment I was chilled to the bone, sore from holding on so tightly out of fear, and hungry. We then had quesadillas, which I provided against Elder Oaks’ counsel. A little while later he was sprawled on my couch with his feet up. When I asked him if he was bored and if he might like to go do something rather than sit in the apartment, he actually said, “You know, I’d better go because I am about to go out with a lot of other girls soon and I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.” I am disappointed in myself that I did not ask him what this impression might be, but I excused him saying that he was free to leave anytime. And by that I meant, please leave now. There were other dates that almost rivaled that incident, but I’ll stop here and just let the story speak for itself.

I learned quickly that finding “the one” was going to take some time and so I forged ahead with my education, testing out majors and finally settling on one after a year or so. I chose Russian. People always ask me, “Why Russian?” I can never come up with a very direct answer, but they always seem comforted by my choice in editing as a minor. “Oh, thank goodness. You can do something with that” they respond and pat me on the arm. From my experience, I haven’t met too many people who actually go directly into their desired vocation, even if they know what it is. Regardless, it was my choice and I still feel good about it. Then I tell them I want to go to graduate school and get a degree in English. More questions follow this statement, most of them hedging on why I chose Russian for my bachelor’s if I am just going to get my master’s in English. To this I say, “Russian’s just like English, it’s just in Russian.” Think about it for a little bit. The literature’s better, that’s partly why I chose it. Maybe the other reason was just to challenge myself.

The following semester, that fall, I went to live in the Foreign Language Student Housing amongst other Russian speaking students. It worked out great with my plan because I would be working in the Missionary Training Center and it was right across the street. It was a wonderful place to live and I met many of my closes friends there. I also met John. When I first saw him he was a brand new return missionary. John was the reclusive, nerdy type that never really got out and just sat in his room getting paler every day staring at his computer screen and reading Wikipedia for fun. In my naïveté, I thought he just needed to get out and socialize. And what better for socializing than hot tubbing? I promptly invited him to come along with me and my roommates that night. At the first mention of such an activity, he backed into the hallway (which was off-limits to girls) and looked like he was about to run back into his room. I assumed the look of panic on his face was post-mission weirdness. But I don’t give up easily. I was going to get to know him. I continued coming over uninvited, hanging out in his living room, and calling a little too frequently. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him. And he seemed not to mind me too much. His innocence was endearing, and he was very patient with my determined efforts to get him to notice me. We even dated for a brief three weeks while I waited patiently to be kissed. It ended in the car as he was taking me to the airport to fly home for Christmas.

He began awkwardly, clearing his throat when his voice cracked, “I need to talk to you about something.”

I patted his knee and gave it a squeeze. “Just say it. It’s all right.” I couldn’t think of anything that required this kind of serious phrase besides a stronger declaration of his feelings. I pushed all my doubts away because I believed he was mine.

My happy train of thought was interrupted as he continued, “I don’t know how you’re going to take this.” I stopped patting his knee and gripped it, causing him to flinch.

He said, “I deal with SSA.” I looked confused. He clarified, “Same-sex attraction.”

I felt the shock go through me like diving into a cold pool. But I wasn’t surprised by what he said. Everything finally made sense. At that moment I thought my life was caving in. Luckily it was just the illusion that I thought was my life. The truth is, everything was actually fine and still is. Even though my boyfriend turned out to be gay.

That was when I stopped looking. I stopped going to ward activities hoping my future husband would be there. I stopped checking out guys in my classes. I definitely cancelled my LDS dating website memberships. But I didn’t stop hoping. I stopped trying and everything went much better from there on out. I had settled comfortably into my major at that point. I never excelled in my Russian grammar classes, but I learned to love the language even more and soon found one of the loves of my life—poetry.

I had never liked poetry. I thought it was overly sentimental and I didn’t understand its form. I loved prose and read voraciously, but for some reason poetry didn’t touch my heart until I heard it in Russian. I memorized a poem by Alexander Pushkin—the father of Russian poetry, akin to our Shakespeare—that went like this:

I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain.
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.

I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness—though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.

It pierced through all the pain that I’d felt in the previous year and I felt like my heart had finally shed its thick, protective layer. I knew that what had happened with John was not anyone’s fault and nothing had actually gone wrong. It went the way it was supposed to because I had to understand some things and so did he. Poetry gave me a way to convey my realizations, even though my poems were unfortunate.

Love seemed as though a cruel joke
I nodded numbly as you spoke
And told me that your heart was true
But there was nothing you could do

Desire is a razor's edge
A heart is not enough to pledge
I begged for you to let me stay
You sighed and wiped the blood away

The keen blade glinted, never fading
A vision blurred, my eyes evading
The truth before me stark and cold
Am I the only one you've told?

It’s not a good poem, and most of my poems aren’t good, but they had an important purpose. They helped me meet Phillip. I felt like I needed to seek him out at our mutual friend’s cabin to ask him about his poetry, even though we were barely acquaintances. I knew I had to do it, just like I knew I had to try and pull John out of his shell. I grabbed his hand and led him over to the leather sofa in front of the fireplace and we sat there for most of the night, sharing our poetry with one another and talking about everything from Celine Dion to Crime and Punishment. We stayed in close contact and after about a week we were sitting on my porch in the unseasonably cold weather, and he was asking me if I would write him on his mission. I was aware that he was going on a mission and I knew I wasn’t an overly-excitable freshman girl who could wait for a missionary or two. But I agreed to write him and we dated until he went into the MTC. There was no question about it by the time he left; I knew I would wait for him.

So, I’m graduating from BYU. I’m 26 years old and I’m waiting for a missionary. When I was 21 and I was running up those concrete stairs by the duck pond I wouldn’t have imagined being where I am right now. I might have thrown myself into the pond if I knew what was coming. But that’s how most things go, in my experience. I never know how hard they are going to be until they are over and all the work’s already been done. I made it through all those agonizing first dates and through my boyfriend telling me he’s gay. I scraped through entire semesters, sleeping in between (and during) classes and living off of pizza bagels from the Twilight Zone. I chose my major and I finished it. I even decided upon a sensible minor, which I don’t regret. Seven months later I am still writing Phillip and I plan on writing him for the next 17. I think I know what to do now. I know who I am. I am not worried about the future even though so much is still undecided. I’m going to keep walking toward the horizon.

“The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.”—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

needs motivation.

This picture has nothing to do with my post. I just took it in Seattle last year and I liked it. I wish I could get another one of those giant, vegan snickerdoodles again. They made vegan seem alright for once.

So I'll get down to business. I'm on here whining about writing again. It started this way and I'm still going on about it. I am in the middle of an essay about my life or something and I think it sucks. I always end up writing about the same stuff. I just need a little advice from the three readers I have. What do you like to hear about from me? Judging by the fact that I have three readers on this blog, maybe you can't even tell me. Either way, here's what I've got so far and I need three more pages by tomorrow night.

A brief explanation of my life up to this point

“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.”—Lord Byron

Someone said to me not too long ago, “your life is strange enough to be made into a movie.” I disagree. The plot elements aren’t clever enough and the happy ending hasn’t even been worked out yet. I’m technically in the middle of a montage, waiting for the climax of the film to happen when I get proposed to or my life falls to pieces and then, suddenly, the man of my dreams shows up on the horizon to pick up the pieces. Now would be the time when a few months or even years are portrayed with a couple brief scenes showing the main character crying to herself, thumbing through the classifieds, meandering thoughtfully through crowded streets, chewing on her pencil in class, walking arm in arm with friends, and neurotically checking the mailbox. I now see that life does not pass by in a musical blur. I actually have to go through the process of living day by day not scene by scene. In a way, I’m also waiting. I am doing what so many anxious and naïve 18-year-old girls do. I am waiting for a missionary and I’m 26 years old. Don’t worry, he’s not 19. I always feel like I need to clear that up.

Aside from dating a missionary, or rather, writing him, there are a few other things that make my life unusual, at least for Provo. I’ve been home from my mission for three years, almost three and a half now, and I’m finally graduating with my degree in Russian. People always ask me, “Why Russian?” I can never come up with a very direct answer, but they always seem comforted by my choice in editing as a minor. “Oh, thank goodness. You can do something with that.” From my experience, I haven’t met too many people who actually go directly into their desired vocation, even if they know what it is, so why are they giving me so much grief? Regardless, it was my choice and I still feel good about it. I even want to go to grad school and get a degree in English. More questions follow this statement, most of them hedging on why I chose Russian for my undergraduate if I was just going to get my master’s in English. To this I say, “Russian’s just like English, it’s just in Russian.” Think about it for a little bit. The literature’s better, that’s partly why I chose it. Maybe the other part was just to challenge myself. I can never just take the easiest path. I always have to pick something or someone challenging.

I will just bring this up now since I already started by saying I choose challenging people. I don’t necessarily like challenging relationships. I’m not that aggressive. I dislike the whole game of Provo tag when girls go from apartment to apartment, chasing guys and toting cookies along with them, trying to snag some lonely RM’s heart. I don’t do that. Usually. I only did it once and the result was both disastrous and revealing. It was more than two years ago. We lived in the same apartment complex and he was definitely not my type, but I couldn’t see that at the time. When I first met John he was a brand new return missionary. He was especially shiny and new. Like a new toy. I just had to get to know him and he presented a unique challenge. He was the reclusive, nerdy type that never really got out and just sat in his room getting paler every day staring at his computer screen and reading Wikipedia for fun. In my naïveté, I thought he needed to get out and socialize. What better for socializing than hot tubbing? I promptly invited him to come along with me and my roommates that night. At the first mention of entering what would certainly prove to be a den of iniquity, he backed into the hallway (which was off-limits to girls), protecting his still shirted chest with his trembling, pasty hands. I assumed the look of panic on his face was post-mission weirdness and I let it go. But alas, I don’t give up easily. I continued calling daily, coming over uninvited, hanging out in his living room, and basically letting him know that I wasn’t going anywhere until he accepted that I was a part of his life. The more I got to know him, the more I liked him. His innocence was endearing, and he was very patient with my continuous efforts to get him to notice me. We even dated, for a brief three weeks. That montage of my waiting patiently to be kissed was shattered in the car on the way to the airport for Christmas break. It went something like this:

“Sooo, I need to talk to you about something.” I patted his knee and gave it a squeeze.

“Say what you need to say, sweetie.” I couldn’t think of anything that required this phrase besides a stronger declaration of his feelings. I pushed all my doubtful thoughts away because I believed he was mine. My happy train of thought was interrupted as he continued. “I don’t know how you’re going to take this.” I continued patting his knee while my heart sank.

“I deal with SSA, same-sex attraction. I have known about it since I was in high school.” Despite my shock, I wasn’t surprised by this fact. It all finally made sense. But his declaration sounded like he was telling me that he was terminally ill, so I assumed the worst about the situation.

At that moment I thought my life was caving in. Luckily it was just the illusion that I thought was my life. The truth was, everything was actually fine and still is. Even though my boyfriend turned out to be gay.

The first gay boyfriend was just the tip of the iceberg, or the beginning to the fiasco of my life as a “fruit fly.” I did not choose this title and at this point I have settled back into life as a normal girl, even though I am going to go get a manicure and pedicure with one of my boys this weekend.

Blah blah blah...

On a happier note, my essay got accepted into Segullah! I'm in the process of revising right now. So yeah, sorry I keep posting such inane crap. Maybe someday I'll be a real writer.

is fortunate.

Today I ate a bagful of fortune cookies. Here's what they said:

1. You are a classic
2. Don't allow yourself to dream away time-be productive
3.Your charm is quite irresistable
4. People find it difficult to resist your persuasive manner
5. Children will play an important role in your life
6. Your senior years will be happy and fulfilling
7. Good fortune is coming to you
8. Soon you will be getting the recognition you deserve
9. Your mind is filled with new ideas. Make use of them
10. Someone's kindness will surprise and delight you

I can't wait for them to come true!

is having deja vu.

Imagine that the person you are in love with is far away from you. You can't see him or speak to him. The days start piling up and they turn into years and you still miss him. You can't imagine yourself with anyone else. One day you meet someone who looks exactly like him, but who isn't him. It completely messes with your mind because you want to be with the person you love so much.

This sounds like a case of mistaken identity or deja vu, but it's my reality. My missionary has a twin brother, an identical twin brother. I knew this about him before he left, but I did not anticipate to have the kind of reaction that I had meeting his twin brother. I didn't know how much he would remind me of my missionary. I guess it was naive of me to think that I wouldn't be affected by this meeting. It's not that I'm attracted to his brother and it's difficult for me to be around him. The truth is, he just reminds me so much of my missionary that I almost had an anxiety attack. I was so acutely reminded of my missionary that I found myself panicking. I don't know what to do about this except not spent very much time with his brother. I feel silly that I didn't realize beforehand what this situation would do to me.

What would you do if this happened to you?

wishes she were a mother.

I'm having an intense bout of saudade here. It's Mother's Day and I recognize all the wonderful women around me who are mothers. I have one of the best mothers I'm aware of. I am also longing to be a mother myself. It's not an uncommon desire, I know. My roommates have witnessed me stuffing pillows up my shirt as if I were a five-year-old playing. But I'm not playing anymore. I really want to be a mother. I don't know how long I might have to wait. I believe it will happen, though. I don't think the Lord would give me such a promise and the desires that I have and then leave me wanting. I believe him.

"And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat."
Gen. 3:6

I think I know what made Eve reach beyond herself and partake of the fruit. She knew that she needed knowledge that she didn't have to fulfill the Lord's commandment to "be fruitful and multiply." She knew that God's plan was greater than herself. I am grateful to her for her wisdom and courage.

I love this poem about Adam and Eve, written by Lance Larsen:

This World, Not the Next

True, God dreamed our first parents out
of a chaos of firmament and longing.
And true, he pled with them to return
to a savory Forever of his making.

But it was this world, with its tides and
machinery of sweet decay, they learned to love.
He touched their hair, then covered their sleeping
mouths with His and declared breath
holy, but forced them to draw another
and another. He commanded that they eat
not of that dazzling tree of awe and penumbra,
but knew its fruit would eat at them.

And when it did, and when they fell
into knowing. God folded the garden and hid it
deep inside the woman, but commanded
the man to tend it. And in due season the man
Eved, and the woman Adamed back
and the song of radiance they keened was pure

darkness by morning. And God blessed
Their bounty to be infinite, but left them
ten crooked fingers to count with.
And buried His echo inside their bodies,
a delicious lapping that answered yes and yes
to a question neither could recall.

Here's one more poem about Eve by Ranier Maria Rilke:

Eve

Look how she stands, high on the steep facade
of the cathedral, near the window-rose,
simply, holding in her hand the apple,
judged for all time as the guiltless-guilty

for the growing fruit her body held
which she gave birth to after parting from
the circle of eternities. She left
to face the strange New Earth, so young in years.

Oh, how she would have loved to stay a little
longer in that enchanted garden, where
the peaceful gentle beasts grazed side by side.

But Adam was resolved to leave, to go
out into this New Earth, and facing death
she followed him. God she had hardly known.

Right now I can't comprehend the difficulty of being a mother, I only know this desire that is in me. I hope that my love will be deep enough to help me assume this most-important role someday.

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers. You inspire me.

remembers Britty.

My dad sent me some memoirs of our dog Britty. I will post them here and add some of my own. Even now I am saddened to think of his loss. He was a loyal companion and a good dog. He was never mean or temperamental. He loved everyone who was gentle and kind to him. He was always excited to meet new people or animals. At the mention of specific words ("cat", "puppy", "spider", "squirrel", "treat", "ride", "walk", etc.) he would wag his tail like crazy in anticipation. I turned to him many times in my life for comfort, for a friend, for an understanding look. He was always willing to sit with me and let me pet him for as long as I needed to. I always told him that I wished he were a "real boy" because he was so good to me. Now that he is gone, I can hardly imagine what it will be like at home. There was never a time in my current house when we didn't have him. We brought him to that house when we moved there ten years ago. So much has changed in those ten years, but he never did. His health declined, but he remained faithful and good. I agree with my dad, I believe that we will get to see him again in the resurrection. I believe that he will want to be with us and I long to see him in his perfected form.

Here is what my dad wrote about Britty:

"Our dog Britain is terminally ill. Today he was diagnosed with intestinal cancer. It progressed rapidly. He cannot eat or rest peacefully. He is weak and anemic. Yet, Britain is still kind, good natured, and wants to be close to us. We have all shed many tears at this prognosis. I can hardly stand the thought of Britain not being around. Yet, we have many happy memories in his behalf. We have gone jogging, walking, and hiking on the beach and in the mountains. Britain never strayed far, for he wanted to be with us. However, he loved to chase the birds on the beach. He ventured into the surf, but not far, for he did not have a liking for deep water. Britain went jogging with me early on in his life until we realized it was not good for his hips. He loves Paula, Jerry, and Joy Swertfeger, who raised him. He loves other dogs, who were not always friendly. He loves his mom Cally, his dad Indy, and cousin Rosie. Britain loved to smell my hands and clothes after I touched a puppy. Britain loved to eat his dog food and whatever table scraps he could beg for, but he rarely stole food, even if it was in reach. On his birthdays we made him wear a party hat and gave him carrot cake to eat. At Christmas we stuck bows to him that covered his body. On Halloween, we put a costume of a cat on him and took him trick-or-treating. We photographed him, loved him, and snuggled with him, and Britain endured all that. Britain learned many tricks, how to shake, roll-over, play dead, pray, say "mama" and "hello", and choose the ball under a cup. Our friends were amazed. Britty loved to play chase games until he could not do it any longer. It is almost too painful for me to contemplate that he will not be here, but I have hope in a resurrection of all things and that Britain will somehow be with us in the next life. There in his perfected state, he will be able to jump, run and play free from pain. He will be with Cally, Indy, and his siblings who have passed beyond the veil. Britain is one dog in a mission, and we will miss him so much. Even our dog Molly will miss him. She senses that something is amiss, and she has not eaten much since Britain's condition go worse. I am grateful that the sting of death is swallowed up in the hope of Christ. "

"'The soul shall be restored to the body, and the body to the soul; yea, and every limb and joint shall be restored to its body; yea, even a hair of the head shall not be lost; but all things shall be restored to their proper and perfect frame.' Alma 40:23. This is my hope. "

May 2, 2008

"Today, our beloved Britain (Britty) was euthanized. As much as we loved him, and it was because we loved him, we had him put out of his misery. Britain had cancer of his intestines, which left him starving. As we looked into his big, loving eyes, we could see that he was in pain. Could we cause Britain to suffer just so we could scratch his fuzzy ears? No, we could not. So, we took him to the veterinary clinic , all of us but Nichole who is at BYU. Paul James and I gave him a Priesthood blessing, during which I had a hard time speaking. Then, we gently carried him to the car and drove to the clinic. There, the veterinary doctor explained the procedure, we signed some forms, and we all bid a tearful goodbye to our beloved friend. I held Britain, and as I did so, he shook a little, perhaps in fear of the unknown (as he did before he went to be groomed) or perhaps in excitement of knowing he would soon be free from pain and with his loved ones (Cally and Indy). We tried to assure him by our touch that there was nothing to fear. Then, as we held him, the doctor injected Britty with a drug that would put him to sleep and stop his heart. Katie felt his last breath. The veterinary doctor confirmed that his heart was silent. Katie was sobbing, Jenna was sobbing, Paul was sobbing, and Andrew couldn't hold back the tears. Our little dog lay still, just a few involuntary twitches of his nose remained. His eyes rolled back. He was in peace now, his body just a receptacle lying on the floor, but his spirit had gone home to Heavenly Father, the creator of all creatures, and his son the source of the resurrection and the restorer of all things. Britain's body would be respectfully cremated and then placed in a box so that we can remember him. I will never forget this sweet, sweet dog. He was truly one of a kind, and I look forward to seeing him in the resurrection."


Be good Britty. We'll see you soon.

will miss her dog.

Tomorrow they are going to put down my dog Brittain. I love him so much. I will miss him so much. He was my first dog; we got him when I was 16. Now, ten years later, he is dying of cancer. I won't get to see him before he goes. Home just won't be the same without him barking at anything that moved. I won't have to step over him on the stairs anymore. I won't feel his nose on my knees when I am eating dinner and he wants some too. But he won't have to suffer anymore. I love you Britty. In your memory, here are two poems:

Percy

Your friend is coming I say
to Percy, and name a name

and he turns to the door, his
wide mouth in its laugh-shape,

and waves, since he has one, his tail.
Emerson, I am trying to live,

as you said we must, the examined life.
But there are days I wish

there was less in my head to examine,
not to speak of the busy heart. How

would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not
thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

Mary Oliver

Dharma

The way the dog trots out the front door
every morning
without a hat or an umbrella,
without any money
or the keys to her doghouse
never fails to fill the saucer of my heart
with milky admiration.

Who provides a finer example
of a life without encumbrance—
Thoreau in his curtainless hut
with a single plate, a single spoon?
Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

Off she goes into the material world
with nothing but her brown coat
and her modest blue collar,
following only her wet nose,
the twin portals of her steady breathing,
followed only by the plume of her tail.

If only she did not shove the cat aside
every morning
and eat all his food
what a model of self-containment she
would be,
what a paragon of earthly detachment.
If only she were not so eager
for a rub behind the ears,
so acrobatic in her welcomes,
if only I were not her god.

Billy Collins

Brittain Duke of Chessington
January 13, 1998-May, 2 2008